Reluctant Concubine

by Dana Marton

  War approached; everyone said so. When the High Lord and his warriors left the fortress city, I would sneak away and seek a caravan heading south. Maybe they would be willing to take a healer along even if I could not pay the fee.

  And I would find my mother’s grave in the meanwhile and find out how she had died. I would say the Last Blessing over her grave. The more I thought about that, the more certain I became that it was for that very reason the spirits brought me all this way.

  “Sing me the tiger song.”

  Without the tiger, I had some trouble finding the words in my heart. Oh Great Mother—

  How could I call the High Lord my mother and sister? But then new words sprang to life, and I hummed the song, talking to him in the language of spirits.

  Oh Great Lord, I said without words. Hear the plight of your people. Hear the cry of your slaves. Oh great man, set me free.

  He listened for a while. “That stayed the tiger? You said nothing, just made noises?”

  Not words that could be mistaken for a compliment. “The tiger spared me because she had a full belly.”

  I did not think Batumar understood my spirit song. Maybe there could never be such a connection between a Shahala and a Kadar. They did not respect the spirits and worshipped only their god of war.

  “Will she attack us in the night?” he demanded then.

  I sighed. Animals were nobler than men, knowing nothing of revenge, I wanted to say, but then I realized the true meaning of his question. He was asking whether I had told to tiger to attack so that I could escape.

  “No, my lord.”

  “I do not want you to talk to any beasts. I would not have you put fear into my warriors’ hearts.”

  He had nothing to worry about, for truly I could not talk to animals; I merely sang songs in my heart. Perhaps they sensed my spirit’s songs, or perhaps they were calmed by the humming. I could certainly not claim that I had ever made an animal do as I pleased.

  “I shall not talk to any beasts,” I promised.

  “Then you may rest, for you will not come to harm at my hands today.”

  Batumar turned and grabbed the torch, stuck it in the ground upside down, and plunged the tent into darkness. His cot creaked as he lay down upon it.

  * * *

  We traveled north, farther and farther from my people, for seven days and nights through the wild forests. Although the trees broke the wind and it snowed only once, cold seeped inside me until my very heart shivered. I kept my cloak drawn tight and dug my legs into the manyinga’s shaggy fur to soak up the warmth of his body.

  Zordak, the injured man, rode in the cart, and the warrior whose manyinga I rode took the man’s beast. Our days passed very much the same. We could have ridden on the main road that snaked along the towns of the large plains below, but the journey would have taken many more days, and Batumar wanted to hurry.

  On the seventh day, a warrior ran forth to announce our imminent arrival and carry the High Lord’s instructions. On the morning of the eighth, we broke out of the forest, and before us spread Karamur in all its majesty, flying a myriad of gold and red banners, the High Lord’s colors. By then, Zordak had recovered enough to ride his own beast once again.

  The silver dust of frost covered the fields and huts that dotted the road leading to the fortress, the rising sun adding gold speckles as it glinted off the white rocks of the city.

  My new prison.

  And yet I could not deny that the fortress city held some foreign beauty. My mother had been here once and seen these walls. The thought softened my heart a little.

  The High Lord’s seat had been built into the side of the mountain. The back of the palace—the largest building—was carved from the mountain rock itself, with the front walls and towers built on.

  I felt as if the Forgotten City itself had risen up from the myths, and would not have been surprised to see the Guardians coming to greet us. But no round dome of the Forum rose in the midst of the houses. And I did not think the Forgotten City had ever been this closely guarded. That city had been a gathering place of wise men and not armies.

  The moment we pushed into the open, the horns sounded on the walls, and people ran down the road to welcome their High Lord. Warriors, women, and men of all walks of life from merchants to servants, children by the hordes, cheered us along. And I understood at last from whence Batumar’s power came. His people loved him.

  Lord Tahar was respected by his warriors. His men, concubines, and slaves obeyed him without question. But he had never been greeted upon return as Batumar was now, with smiles on every face.

  Yet I could not rejoice at the thought that my new master seemed to be a better man than the previous had been. I wished to belong to no one but my own self. And Batumar would not be the only one under whose authority I now belonged. I scarcely dared think of Batumar’s favorite concubine.

  Instead, I watched the people, some of whom brought out instruments and played feast songs while others broke into dancing right in the street. Yet others had tears of happiness in their eyes. A Shahala elder would have thought they had all lost their minds to so abandon all decorum.

  I understood them a little better now. People who lived from war appreciated the good moments of life more perhaps. They knew the next battle might be lost, their loved ones might never return. They lived in the now, while my people revered times gone so much, I think given a chance, they would have preferred to live in the past.

  We rode up the road to a tunnel-like opening in the outermost stone wall of the fortress itself. Workmen toiled at the foot of the wall, strengthening it with rocks and mortar, but even they stopped as we arrived.

  I looked up at the guards cheering on the walls above us, and saw the strangest of devices suspended above our heads. Metal bars sharpened to points formed a gate that hung from iron chains. I shuddered as we passed under. How could I hope to escape from such a place once they lowered the gate?

  Small, evenly cut holes dotted the ceiling of the stone corridor through which we entered. I could see the wall guard through the gaps. I did not draw a breath until we came out the other side into the town square, where more people surrounded us at once.

  Stone towers dotted with narrow windows rose to the sky in the back, smaller buildings at their feet, the purpose of some of which I recognized, while others I did not. Stables lined the far side of the square. From a small building next to them came the familiar clanging of a smithy.

  Merchant shops lined the streets, offering all manner of food and clothing. More people rushed forth from them to join the crowd that followed us to our destination, the High Lord’s palace.

  At the palace gates, servants led our manyinga away, and the warriors dispersed. Only two guards remained with us. They walked behind me as I followed Batumar through the winding hallways, grateful to be out of the cold and walking on my own two feet.

  At Kaharta Reh, the weather had at last begun to warm up after the long season of snowstorms, but the chill of northern winds still ruled at Karamur. I hoped Yullin would warm these lands too with her breath, by the time I found a way to leave.

  I pushed my fur-trimmed hood back to better see where we headed. I scarcely knew what to look at, so strange the palace seemed with its large chambers that opened into each other, each with a roaring fire, and hangings covering all the walls. But unlike the silk hangings of Tahar’s Pleasure Hall, Karamur’s pictures were made of dyed and woven wool, showing battle scenes.

  A servant woman ran to follow us two steps behind, ready to offer service should we need it.

  Then at last we reached the Great Hall, lined with many tables, servants rushing to and from every direction in their hurry to finish preparations for the feast. Bowls and plates clanged against tankards; great hounds growled in protest against being shooed out of the way.

  The pleasant scents of burning fruitwood and cooking food filled the air, but I wished for nothing save a pile of blankets to rest on, as close to a fireplac
e as possible. Before we passed through the main hall, however, Lord Gilrem strode through a doorway and bowed to his lord brother. He wore simpler clothes than when I had seen him at the House of Tahar. Now he dressed much like one of the warriors, as was Batumar.

  “Your people welcome your return, brother, and none more than I. I hope your journey was swift and successful.” His gaze slid over me, hesitating only for a moment. If he recognized me, he gave no sign.

  “Thank you, Gilrem. The warlords are ready. And how have you fared?”

  “Forgive me, brother, for I fell ill and had to return to Karamur. But once I recovered here, I saw to it that the warriors trained often and hard. They stand ready. Skilled men are strengthening your fortress.”

  “Then you have served me fine well and have my gratitude.” Batumar clapped him on the shoulders.

  He stood half a head taller, heavier built, darker in the color of his hair and eyes, while Gilrem was fair of face and hair, handsome as ever a man was, and as quick on his feet as he was to smile. Batumar reminded me of the silent, dark rock of the hills, Gilrem the creek that ran around it.

  “Let us talk together.” The High Lord strode to a great carved chair near the fire and sank onto it as Gilrem joined him.

  The servant woman who had been shadowing us until now escorted me away.

  “My name is Leena, my lady. I am at your service.”

  She had a strong, honest face, still beautiful despite her age. Her eyes were the shiny black hue of ninga beetles, her hair dark as well, with but a few strands of gray mixed in.

  I followed her uncertainly. I never before had anyone at my service, even temporarily. I expected her to take me to the High Lord’s Maiden Hall—as befitting a woman still untouched—and already dreaded the whip of the favorite concubine. When we reached an enormous door that reached to the height of two men, just the thought of what awaited me behind those doors made me flinch.

  Carved images of flowers and frolicking women decorated the light wood. Around the edges, carefully burned into the wood, stood a row of sacred Kadar symbols, probably for protection. Leena pushed the door open, and before me spread a large round hall, lined by chambers too many to count.

  Dust covered everything, the air stale and cold, as if the fires that burned brightly had been only recently lit. In the middle of the hall, a pond-sized hole gaped in the ground. Servants bustled about, cleaning and lining the benches with furs and silks, but still so abandoned and forgotten the place seemed that I had taken several steps inside by the time I recognized my surroundings.

  Not Maiden Hall, but the High Lord’s Pleasure Hall was this.

  CHAPTER TEN

  (The Summons)

  My gaze darted around, but I could not see a single concubine.

  Kumra’s words—which at the time I had thought born out of meanness—came back to me in a rush. He has killed every woman he had ever chosen. His concubines are all dead.

  My heart trembled with foreboding. I took a quick step back. “I am still a maiden. I do not belong here.”

  “The High Lord’s orders, my lady.”

  Leena respectfully gestured me forward and led me to a chamber larger than Kumra’s. This, unlike the rest of the hall, had been thoroughly cleaned.

  A sprawling bed covered with pelts and satin dominated the room. I had to step over silk pillows that littered the floor and saw more piled high on the giant wooden chest at the end of the bed. Flames danced in the small fireplace. Spending the night by its warmth seemed an unimaginable luxury.

  When I spotted a small alcove with a tub of steaming water, my entire body thrilled, all my worries fading momentarily. I knew I would pay for all this, pay dearly and probably with more than I was willing to give, but for a moment, a shameless joy stole into me at the sight of all that heat.

  I shed the cloak that had protected me from the worst of the long journey and untied my charm belt, careful with the few bunches of herbs that hung from it—my only friends in a strange place.

  The two servant girls who entered after us eyed my treasure with mistrust and even agitation, although I could not fathom why. I fear little of me met with their approval as they looked over my common clothes, soiled from many days of hard travel.

  I undressed myself, to the women’s great consternation, and without assistance stepped into the tub. My eyes closed as my tired body sank into bliss.

  At home, we washed ourselves in the rapid little creek that wound its way down our hill. At the House of Tahar, the maidens rubbed their bodies clean with a wet cloth, using the water left in the jars at the end of the day.

  I had seen a tub before at Tahar’s house, had even assisted Keela with her bath, but never had I dreamed that one day I would be allowed such luxury.

  I sank to my chin and stayed until Leena fussed about the water growing cold. Then at last, to appease her, I let the girls wash my hair, then bundle me in a supple cloth large enough for a cape. They sat me on a silk pillow in front of the fire while they dried my hair. And still they were not finished.

  Soon another woman came in with a dress fit for Kumra. Red and gold glistened in the light of the fire, the High Lord’s colors.

  “If you would hold up your arms, my lady.”

  Leena pulled a long under-tunic of linen as soft as a dream over my head, until the hem tickled my ankles. Then the cloud of crimson satin floated over me and spilled down my body, sweeping the floor as I stepped back.

  Oh, how strange that felt. Enough fabric had gone into the gown to dress ten maidens, at least. The low bodice, drawn tight by braided ribbons in the back, pushed my breasts up until I feared they would spill out of their confines at any moment.

  I tried to tug up the neckline in vain. “If I might have a shawl…”

  The women respectfully shook their heads.

  I had to sit again; then Leena held my dress out of the way while the girls rolled upon my legs a pair of slim silk stockings that ended at mid-thigh. I had seen such things at the House of Tahar when doing the wash for the concubines, although never anything this beautiful.

  I stared at my legs as if they belonged to someone else, my mind scrambling to catch up with all that was happening.

  When the women finished with the stockings, Leena pulled matching satin slippers on my feet, decorated with golden beads. They sparkled like jewels and were daintier than anything I had ever seen.

  “If you would step on this stool, my lady.”

  I was too stunned to do anything but obey.

  The seamstress checked the dress and for the last time adjusted the fit.

  By the time they finished, every gaze that beheld me turned approving. And I did enjoy those few moments of splendor and attention, until I realized for what I was being readied.

  My stomach clenched under the layers of luxurious fabric.

  Upon his return home, Lord Tahar always called for a concubine. And as no others occupied the High Lord’s strange Pleasure Hall, I had little doubt upon whom the honor should fall tonight. The women anticipated his actions, it seemed, as they arranged my hair into elaborate coils despite my protests.

  I worked myself into such a state that when Leena escorted me from my chamber, my knees nearly gave out beneath me as I walked, my legs like saplings rattled by wind. But I held my head high, determined not to show any of that fear, to bear all I had to bear with dignity.

  But she led me into the palace’s Great Hall instead of the High Lord’s bedchamber, and I realized I had forgotten about the feast.

  Relief flooded me so thoroughly at this reprieve, that I did not balk when she led me straight to the High Lord’s table and seated me on the bench next to him. The only place to sit, it seemed, as no concubine pillows covered the ground behind him.

  An equally fierce-looking warrior picked at a roasted fowl on my other side, but I had eyes only for the man on whom my fate depended.

  “I hope the evening finds you well, my lady.” Batumar greeted me as one would a favore
d concubine.

  “Fine well, my lord.” I clamped my hands together on my lap.

  A low murmur spread through the crowded room, but I was barely aware of anything save the High Lord’s obsidian gaze as it traveled the length of my dress. When his gaze at last reached mine, I looked away, unable to bear the scrutiny.

  I could not look up again until he turned his attention to his brother on his other side. Lord Gilrem paid me no mind, but the man behind him examined me openly.

  His face was as lined as the cracked ground at the end of the summer drought. The braided beard that hung to his waist shone with oils in the light of the hundred torches that burned brightly in their sconces. His protruding eyes did not seem to be connected and moved independently of each other.

  When his hand fisted on the table, my breath disappeared suddenly, as if his gnarled fingers were closing around my throat.

  I tore my gaze away, and I could breathe again. After that, I kept my attention on the hall and the people who had gathered there for the feast.

  Warriors sat at the tables with their concubines and ate together. Husbands and wives always sat together among my people, and their children with them, one as families. I did not realize it could be so among the Kadar.

  Although Batumar paid little mind to me, I could enjoy neither the meal nor the talk at the table, my mind drowning with the anxiety of the approaching night. Pain and blood before morning came, I believed. I had seen Onra with Tahar. Morning would see forever erased the hope that I would one day become a healer such as my mother had been.

  To distract my anguished mind, I glanced at the man who sat on my other side, a fearsome warrior but not a Kadar, judging from the exotic lion mane of his hair—locks varying from the color of straw to a brown so dark as to be almost black—and his strange clothes that resembled battle armor.

  He bowed at once and introduced himself as Karnagh, from a distant country the name of which I did not catch in the clamor of the feast.

  A handsome figure he cut, all brawn and thick hair that fell in twisted locks below his waist. And friendly too, not for a moment without a smile upon his face. I tried to remember where I had heard his name before but could not recall.