Reluctant Concubine

by Dana Marton

This I fought, but he would not budge, no matter what I told him.

  * * *

  The Guardian of the Gate and the Guardian of the Cave returned to the Forgotten City, while the Guardian of the Scrolls stayed at the palace. I stayed up late into the night talking with him. In the morning, Batumar assembled his warriors and their supplies so we could begin our journey to Dahru’s Gate on the other side of the mountain.

  Two long days we traveled on the backs of the manyinga before we reached the high plateau. And for the first time, I saw the Gate of the World.

  The strange structure resembled not a gate at all but rather a ruin, the columns of a Great Hall that had fallen down long ago. Tall stone pillars reached to the sky in pairs, forming a circle, more pillars resting on top of them. Each such formation did resemble a gate of some sort, I suppose, but they led nowhere, only a circle of moss between them.

  The Guardian of the Gate was there, but I hardly recognized him. He wore the clothes of a servant and moved slowly, his back bent with age, his hood covering his face. When he looked at me, he gave no sign of recognition.

  “Why is he like that?” I asked Lord Gilrem who rode his manyinga next to mine.

  “Who?” he asked and looked around as if the old man was invisible to him.

  “The Guardian.” I pointed as the Guardian of the Gate turned from us and leaned heavily on his staff.

  “The old man? He is the groundskeeper, a position passed down in his family. Easy work, I suppose.” He shrugged. “He cannot have much to do around here.”

  All around us, warriors covered the side of the mountain.

  “The number of men guarding the Gate was recently doubled,” Lord Gilrem informed me as he slid off his manyinga and helped me off mine.

  The Guardian of the Scrolls was already waiting.

  “Are you certain you wish to go, grandfather?” I asked him.

  “Like you, I wish for peace.”

  A few steps behind us, Lord Gilrem called out to the Guardian of the Gate. “Which gateway would be best, you think, for Mernor?” And then he walked up to me, saying, “The caretaker has an uncanny ability to find the smoothest journey to the exact place you want to go.”

  The Guardian of the Gate shuffled over to us, bowed, and touched his stick to the boulder next to him. Lord Gilrem and the Guardian of the Scrolls walked through the gate side by side, an old man and a young warrior in his prime.

  Lord Gilrem turned, his gaze fixed on Batumar who had stepped up next to me. “I have not always served you well, brother. This time—”

  They shimmered for a moment before they disappeared.

  I gasped in wonder. Now this was ancient magic.

  “If we still had the knowledge of the First People,” Batumar said after a long moment of silence, “it would aid us greatly in the war.”

  I turned to glare at him, wishing he could focus on peace for once.

  He did not seem to notice my displeasure and soon strode to his warriors who were setting up camp. I stayed by the circle of stones, even ate my meal there, and retired to Batumar’s empty tent only when the two moons rose high in the sky, their night’s journey half completed.

  I fell asleep before he came in to rest, and woke later to the heat of his body next to mine.

  “Did they come back?” I mumbled, still infused with sleep as I turned in his arms, feeling content and safe. He had taken off of his doublet, and his skin was gloriously warm.

  “Not yet.”

  He had put out the lamp before coming to bed, and the smoke hole let in precious little moonlight, but I could see his head move closer.

  “Go back to sleep,” he whispered and briefly touched his lips to mine before pulling away.

  Without thinking, I lifted my head and placed my mouth back against his. A low sound escaped his throat. Did he want to say something? I opened my mouth to ask, but he claimed me then fully, and thought of any conversation flew from my mind.

  I felt as if falling, then floating weightless in the air. I had to hold on to his broad shoulders for support. When he moved his hand to the hem of my short Shahala tunic and pulled it up until his large hand covered my stomach, I did not protest. I soaked up his warmth.

  He caressed my skin with tender fingers that moved up my rib cage. I gasped when his palm cupped my breast. I had not expected it to feel so pleasant, a sweet tingle that spread across my skin.

  He lifted his mouth to pull the tunic over my head, but once I was freed, his lips did not return to mine. He kissed my neck instead, moving down in a straight line between my breasts, which ached for something unknown, something more.

  And then his searching lips found my nipples, one after the other, and gifted them with the pleasure they sought. His hands moved lower to caress my belly once again and then the hollow of my hips as he tugged my thudi lower. As if in a dream, I felt him remove my last piece of clothing, then his, while I floated toward some mysterious delight.

  When he moved over me and brought his lips back to mine at last, I clung to him with need and glided my hands over his well-muscled back. But then I felt his manpart hot and hard between my thighs, and my mind filled with images of the guard by the creek at the House of Tahar, the way he had thrown me to the ground and tore my clothes, how his rough fingers had dug into my flesh as he forced my knees apart, his foul breath on my face, his friends cheering him on, impatient for their turn.

  The memory stole the air from my lungs, and the need to escape came upon me with such strength, I shoved against Batumar and scampered off the cot, to the farthest end of the tent. I sat on the furs that covered the ground, my arms folded around my knees, my heart racing as I stared into the night, its cold touch sprinkling my naked skin with goose bumps.

  I waited for Batumar to shout at me or worse. Tahar would have had any woman who refused to do her duty beaten to death.

  “Has any man hurt you before I found you?” Batumar’s voice, soft and gentle, whispered through the darkness.

  I swallowed, tears welling in my eyes suddenly. “Nay, my lord. The spirits saved me from the worst. But the memory is a weakness within me.”

  I was with Batumar. He would not harm me. I felt foolish for the way I had behaved, but before I could say anything, he rose from the cot.

  If he came to me, I would not have flinched away again. But instead, I heard the rustle of clothes as he dressed. He went to the opening of the tent.

  “Go back to bed, Tera. I need to check the sentries.”

  * * *

  Batumar had not returned by the time I woke in the morning. I donned the thick robe over my clothes, then hurried to the Gate. I tried not to think of Gilrem and the Guardian appearing somber with rejection but pictured them joyous with good news.

  I spent the morning waiting, catching a glimpse of Batumar now and then as he walked among his warriors and talked with them. Although he looked in my direction many times, he did not come over to see me. And I did not go to him, ashamed of my cowardice the night before.

  I was eating my midday meal by the Gate, drawn by its strange stark beauty, when the Guardian of the Gate rose from the rock upon which he had been sitting. He scratched three swirling symbols in the dirt with his staff. Soon the air within the circle began to shimmer, and I saw the dim outlines of the two men before the detail filled in. All wrong—they were lying down. Bloodied.

  I rushed to them, several warriors behind me. They lifted Lord Gilrem and the Guardian of the Scrolls and carried them into one of the larger tents, laid them on cots, then parted so I could work my healing.

  Lord Gilrem lay still, his clothing torn in many places, his face and hands covered with wounds of torture. I set my hands upon him, searching for the pulse of life in his blood. I found nothing. I laid my ear on his chest, hoping to hear at least a faint heartbeat. Not there. I cried out in anguish then, for I knew his spirit had already departed.

  A low sound from Batumar as he entered the tent drew my gaze. He fell to his knees next to his
brother, his face dark as death itself.

  The Guardian of the Scrolls groaned, and I moved quickly to him, happy for that small sign of life. But as I sent my spirit into him to heal his wounds, I found little of his life force left, and even that resisted.

  “Grandfather,” I pleaded. “We need you. Stay with us.”

  He opened his eyes and reached for my hand. He said nothing, but from the way he looked at me, I knew he had already made up his mind. Suddenly, his life force welled up and poured into me as his hand fell away from mine.

  The rush of blood in my ears made me deaf, and soon I could no longer see the tent or anyone in it. A great white light—blinding as grief—and then nothing.

  I woke alone in Batumar’s tent in the middle of the night, my head still buzzing, my soul aching with grief. I squeezed my eyes shut as I thought of the Guardian and Lord Gilrem. I waited, but the great pain in my heart would not abate, so I rose from the cot and gathered my robe around me.

  I walked outside and found the tent where the bodies had been laid. And there I found many of Lord Gilrem’s men and the Guardian of the Gate. He sat on a stool in front of the body of the Guardian of the Scrolls, his face buried in his wrinkled hands.

  “I am sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “If I had known—”

  But he lifted his head and shook it, then whispered under his breath. “He wished to go. He died in the service of peace. None can wish for a more noble death than that.”

  We bowed our heads and offered our prayers to the spirits.

  Some time passed before I broke the silence again. “Where is the High Lord?”

  I was surprised not to see him by his brother’s side.

  “Preparing to go to Mernor,” the Guardian told me. “As Lord Gilrem did not die in battle but was murdered, his body cannot be laid to rest until his death is avenged. Such is the way of the Kadar.”

  I stared at him, disbelieving. How could any people think that the pain of one death could be healed by more murder? And what of Batumar? Did he value his own life so little that he would risk it so? Did he not know he was going to his own demise?

  I stumbled out of the tent and wandered around in search of him. No stars shone above and no moons, the sky covered with dark clouds. I felt lost in the city of tents, tripping on roots, supplies, weapons. My bones filled with cold by the time I returned to the High Lord’s tent.

  Batumar stood alone in the middle of the darkness. “I was about to come look for you.”

  The clouds must have been moving, as moonlight shone through the smoke hole suddenly, and I could at last see his face. His features were riddled with guilt. I knew the feeling well, for it squeezed my chest with every breath. Did he blame himself for the death of his brother and the Guardian?

  If so, then no more than I. And I had better reason for it. “I wanted the treaty. I should have gone. I am the one who should have died.”

  “No,” he said roughly and stepped toward me.

  “You must not leave,” I whispered.

  “It is a question of honor.”

  “You are needed here to lead your men in the war.”

  “I lead only by the confidence the warlords place in me. Should they think that I am too weak to avenge my own blood brother and not honorable enough to do so, their confidence would be quickly withdrawn.”

  Frustration clenched my jaw. Of all the foolish ways of men!

  He took my hand. “If I go, a chance exists that I might return and stand ready to lead our army when the enemy reaches us. If I remain and the warlords withdraw their alliance, our warriors will stand without a leader. A new High Lord cannot be selected so quickly. The warlords might return each to protect his own territory.”

  “And fail separately,” I said as dismay filled me.

  “We must stand together.” His gaze roamed my face, his voice soft, as if he was already saying farewell forever.

  And I found I could not accept that. I pushed the robe off my shoulders and watched as his gaze followed its path to the ground. I grabbed the bottom of my short Shahala tunic and pulled it over my head.

  My skin glowed in the semidarkness like a moonflower. I heard his sharp intake of breath, every other sound drowned out by the loud rush of blood in my ears.

  “Have you come to offer your virginity for good luck?” His voice was as thick as mosan-berry syrup. And then after an eternity, he half turned from me. “We had enough sacrifices already.”

  I swallowed and forced myself to speak before I lost my courage. “I came to offer my heart.”

  He turned back slowly. “Tera.” He whispered my name, then gathered me into his strong arms. And then he kissed me.

  I kissed him back.

  With a soft growl, he carried me to his cot and lowered me onto the pelts. He warmed my body with kisses and caresses, and after he removed his clothes, I returned the favor.

  “Tera?” His whisper was low and urgent.

  “Yes.”

  Then he touched me as he had not touched me before.

  A-hh.

  I touched him too—until I knew his body fully, and he fully knew mine, the two of us becoming one.

  Afterwards, with our bodies and sprits blended, he held me in his arms with such great gentleness that it brought tears to my eyes. He held me like that all night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  (Sorceress)

  Batumar had left for Mernor by the time I awoke. The morning was silent, despite the great number of men on the plateau. I walked into the forest and fell upon the soft shirl moss. I wept for the Guardian of the Scrolls, for Lord Gilrem, but most of all for Batumar. I missed his presence in every way, his warmth, his voice, his rare smiles and the gentleness he showed me when we were alone in the night.

  The Guardian of the Gate found me, and from him I learned that ten of Batumar’s guards had gone after him, despite the direct order that none should do so, knowing that disobeying the High Lord brought with it a punishment of death. Many more would have gone, but they determined that a large group would bring undue attention and be more hindrance than help. The ten had to be chosen by drawing lots in the end, so eager were his men to die for him.

  I left for Karamur under the protection of the Palace Guard that same day, for thus had ordered the High Lord before he left. The two-day journey seemed to last two years. I spent most of it looking back, watching for a herald to catch up with us to let us know that Batumar had returned. But no news came.

  I hoped then that maybe a herald had been sent to the palace and was already there ahead of us, having traveled faster alone through the vast forest. But we were the first to arrive. We had to deliver the sad news of Lord Gilrem’s death, and of Batumar’s journey through the Gate to avenge his brother.

  A dignitary awaited him from the Kingdom of Chebbar, a minor kingdom to the east, sent by Queen Manala to plead for assistance. The invading hordes pushed against their borders. I learned this and more from Leena who, upon hearing of our return, rushed to greet me at the palace gate and would not budge from my side until we were in my chamber in Pleasure Hall. And even then, she left me only to order the other servants around to ensure my comfort.

  She welcomed me with joy, but every time she stepped out, she returned with eyes reddened, so I knew that in private she wept for Batumar. She made certain I ate, bringing all my favorites and a steaming mosan-berry pie, but although she and the other servant women did their best to cheer me, my heart was heavy with grief.

  Days passed without news. Rumors started in the city, servants whispering that the High Lord too had been killed. Lord Gilrem had always ruled in his stead when he had been gone before, and without Lord Gilrem, things were falling into disarray, despite the best efforts of the captain of the Palace Guard.

  One morning, when Leena came to my chamber with breakfast, she brought a servant girl, her arms much bruised, her eyes teary. She curtsied.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mora, my lady.”


  “What happened to you, Mora?”

  She flushed red and would not raise her gaze from her feet.

  Leena nudged her.

  “Men attacked me in the marketplace, my lady,” the girl whispered.

  I reached for my herbs and began mixing up a poultice for her bruises. “Why?” Karamur might have been in upheaval, but it was not yet a lawless place.

  “Tell our lady what you told me,” Leena encouraged her.

  Still, the girl would not speak, so Leena had to speak for her. “People were talking against you in the marketplace, my lady. Shartor’s followers. Mora spoke up in your defense, and they turned on her.”

  I gave Mora the poultice with instructions, thanking her for my defense and urging her not to risk herself again in such a manner; then Leena sent her away.

  “I know you walk outside the palace, my lady. I beg you not to do so again until the High Lord returns,” Leena said when we were alone. “Shartor has gained much power of late. In the absence of a stronger leader, fools listen to him.”

  “The guards will protect us. Shartor holds no power here.”

  As it turned out, however, whatever Shartor’s powers were and wherever they lay, I had greatly underestimated his cunning.

  The following day began with a great uproar. The most valuable tapestry in the palace, one that depicted the Kadar’s arrival to our island, had disappeared from the Great Hall. The Palace Guard searched the entire building and interrogated the servants, thoroughly occupying their time.

  I sat alone in my chamber, praying to the spirits for Batumar, when an unfamiliar servant girl rushed in and begged me to follow her to the kitchen, where some accident had happened and my healing was urgently needed.

  Leena had gone to the washroom for my Shahala clothes, and I had been sitting by the fire wrapped in a blanket. I would need more thudis and tunics prepared, I thought, and dressed once more as a concubine. The girl quickly helped me into a golden gown, the topmost dress in my trunk.

  “Was someone burned?” Burns and cuts were the most frequent injuries in the kitchen.

  “Yes, my lady.” She laced the back with trembling fingers, running for the door as soon as she finished.