by Richard Nell
"Mmm." She sighed. "You were right. Feeling is very pleasant."
They walked on, hand in hand, the cool dew of the night rain leaving slick trails in their wake. Beyond them the high pyramids of the old gods loomed like small mountains, built in a perfect circle, matched to the constellation of the star-ring.
"I come here when I need peace," Yacat explained, as ever in this place both sad and alive, a heightened sense of the ancient, and his own mortality. "The old gods are out of fashion now. My family does not come to them for guidance. The priests do not keep the flame of Tamate lit, nor the pool of tears filled and cleaned. Only the servants come to clean and trim the grass. They are more like tombs than temples."
"Yet you worship? You honor them still?"
"In my way," he said, then thought on it more deeply as he had many times, still unsure of the answer. "I am not a pious man," he said. "But I feel the loss of our…traditions, replaced by beliefs and rituals far more cruel." He shook his head. "I have long seen corruption and incompetence in the administration in my family's kingdom. I've done what I can, and for a time thought any change would be welcome. I was wrong."
Zaya squeezed his hand, and he smiled and walked on. He knew it wasn't right to speak to her of such things. It was weakness and he should be silent, yet it helped.
He took her past rows of lychee trees, their fruit ripe and some already dropped to the grass. He plucked one and ripped it open, handing it to her. Without hesitation she smiled and took a bite, eyes widening, almost teary. Yacat was surprised at the reaction and annoyed to have upset her. "What is it? Is it too sour?"
"No. Is nothing. It's…just. In my homeland, fruit does not grow. There's…nothing like this."
He nodded, unable to imagine a place that didn't grow fruit. He pulled her onward, to the gateway of the gods, built so intentionally low it made them both bow to enter, and beyond to the temple plaza made from pink marble to glow red in the sun. "Dawn will come soon." He took her to wide benches covered with thatched reeds, the strands built tight and smooth, layered until it softened. The fountain of life lay to their left, gurgling with clean water piped from the lakes, the pyramid temples to their right.
"It so beautiful," Zaya stared with open mouthed awe, and Yacat smiled. "Did your father build?"
"No, they were here long before the fortress. It was built around them." He pointed to the temple of the dead, and the symbols written on the gate. "What you are now, we once were. What we are now, you shall be," he read, and Zaya smiled. "This place has stood for a thousand years, perhaps more. Do you understand this? Thousand?"
Her eyes widened in disbelief, and Yacat laughed.
"Do your people not have such things?"
She shook her head. "My people…great warriors, not builders of temples. We make statues of gods and heroes." Here she reddened slightly, which Yacat found most appealing on such a brave woman. "When first saw you," she looked away. "You remind me of one."
Yacat grinned and sat closer, pleased at the thought. "A god, or a hero?"
She took a breath and again met his eyes, forcing a smile. "I shouldn't have said. Tale is tragic, great man whose life was sadness."
"I see." Yacat kept his expression light, but felt the truth of the assessment in his chest. He looked to the top of the pyramid, which glowed slightly now as the sun's rays broke softly over the horizon.
"But I was wrong." Zaya had lifted her hand, and touched Yacat's face. "Now I see strong, good man, too good, he tries to carry whole world. Need you carry so much weight?"
He covered her hand with his, no idea how to answer.
"Is this place not proof?" She gestured with her head. "World goes on, long after you, and me. You have only little time, and few choices. Then gone."
Yacat blinked and watched the green of Zaya's eyes, lit and glowing now from the sun as the world glowed red around them, and he thought if there was a more beautiful sight in all the world, he need not bother seeing it. He noticed raised bumps on Zaya's skin and frowned, realizing he should have thought of the cool, damp air.
"There are blankets in the temples, I think. I can fetch some."
Zaya's smile matched her eyes, indulgent, and something else. "I daughter of ash, prince of paradise. I not cold."
She ran a thumb across his lips, and he kissed it, and came forward until she was in his arms and his lips on hers. He felt his body tremble with desire as he lowered her to the bench, a feeling now so long withheld he had wondered if it died. He stopped and held her hands, closing his eyes with a shudder.
"My son…I should take no comfort with his fate so close, so terrible. What sort of man and father would I be."
Zaya sat up, her long, pale legs on either side of him, their faces so close their noses almost touched. "You not listening," she said, running her hands through his hair. "My people…live with tragedy. Always hunger, war and cold. They learn long ago to take comfort. To live, when it is summer."
The wisdom of these words required no answer. Yacat pulled her to his chest and wrapped her legs around him as he opened her lips with his tongue. Then they were tearing at each other's clothes, groping and exploring. The world froze as Yacat moved inside her, bathed in the red dawn built both by gods and men. It went on forever, it was over too soon, and he lay in her arms with his mouth buried in her neck, breathing in the scent of her.
It did not last, as such things never did, but in that moment at least Yacat felt he might survive the loss of his honor. And even if he didn't, before the world lost all meaning and color, at least he had known beauty, and happiness, and what it was to be alive. It was all the ancient gods had ever offered, before the Devourer and his endless promises. Perhaps it would be enough.
* * *
Zaya clung to Yacat so he wouldn't move, still trembling from the lovemaking. When they could stay still no longer he rose with a sigh, and grinned. "That was satisfactory, honored concubine. Thank you."
She laughed and pushed him back with a knee. "I about to say same."
He would assume, no doubt, she was more experienced in such things, and she did not wish to let on otherwise. His smiled widened and his eyes roamed her near nakedness until she rose. But like the pleasure and brief moment of oblivion, the lightness faded. They dressed and linked hands as they left the temple grounds in the morning light, the cool dew a welcome relief from the heat still lingering in Zaya's body. When the moment felt right she asked, very quietly:
"Can you not ask king? About your son?"
He did not answer right away, and when he did his face had drooped from the earlier joy. "I can only stand at his side, and help him die with dignity. If I am strong enough perhaps he will know himself a hero through my eyes."
The words touched her, and broke her heart, but she knew to speak no more. They walked in silence to the palace entrance, and though there were servants and priests moving to their tasks Yacat stopped her here and kissed her with as much passion as at the temple.
"I may not see you much…before the festival. There are rebellions and much to do. I'll have little time."
Zaya understood and wasn't bothered. She still wondered if she had lain with him for herself or for him, and hoped it could be both.
"Thank you," she said. "For showing me temple, Tekit."
The spirit of a smile returned to his eyes, and he nodded in respect. "If I can spare the time, I will see you."
Zaya let her fingers touch his strong arms and chest and she met his eyes, more certain by the moment her decision had not just been to comfort the man. "You know where room is. Does not need much time."
He grinned and kissed her and left her at the entrance, knowing she wore the feathered band of a warrior and that he needn't escort her back to the harem. She went more slowly, memory flush with the images and sensations of the morning, feeling expanded and changed, as if a new window had opened in her mind. When at last she reached the women's quarters she felt the eyes of Yacat's wife and kin but had never been
less bothered. She found the Godtongue tending a small garden on the grounds, and she leaned against a nearby pillar.
"Do you have a moment, Ruka?"
He nodded and rose, eyes squinted as he inspected the row of shrubs he'd apparently planted. Zaya took a breath, trying to collect her wits and shake off the ever-present anxiousness in the man's presence. She kept her voice low.
"There is little time before the festival of stars. When it's over, I think Yacat will help us. We could ask him for supplies, labor, even the crew needed for a new ship, if you can build it. I thought you should know."
The golden eyes met hers but only for a moment. Then the shaman looked away, gaze as ever almost far into the distance.
"I have told you, Zaya. Eka will come."
"Yes, I know, shaman, but…"
"No, you do not, nor have you listened since the day I warned you not to sail with me." His brow twitched and his hands opened and closed, as if he struggled with emotion. "Captain Eka and I are killers of men, old monsters who goad the other further into chaos. Our doomed crew is as worthy of the noose as the sea, and none will mourn any of our passing. But you, Zaya, are a different creature. You are yet worthy of life and love, and might find both here at this prince's side, as you would in the Ascom or anywhere. Your fate is not bound with mine. It never was."
She found her jaw open and clenched it, her heart falling cruelly from the soft mists of the morning. Before she could speak, Yacat stepped from the gardens with a bundle of cloth in his arms. "Good morning, Ruka," he stepped towards her, eyes soft as they landed on Zaya. "A gift, so you don't get cold again." Here he smiled. "And you forgot your knife." He handed her the weapon with his hand on the blade. "I wouldn't have you unprotected."
"Thank you." Zaya took both in awkward silence, until Yacat looked from her to the shaman and raised a brow.
"Have I interrupted?"
There were servants nearby and maybe women of the harem, and their attention only increased Zaya's feeling of sudden embarrassment. She searched and failed for something to say.
"Yes, prince, but perhaps you belong." The shaman stepped forward, his huge presence suddenly so noticeable and dangerous, eyes boring down like the glare from some ancient lighthouse, revealing all with a pale, sickly light. Yacat's hand went to the hilt of his sword, mouth opened to respond but the shaman ignored him, deep voice commanding attention. "Still I watch you walk this place diminished, as if you are weak and helpless and have no choices. But that is a lie as pathetic as your gloom."
The prince's surprise darkened, his expression hardening. "How dare you, slave. You think you know my troubles but you know nothing. You think I haven't tried? Nor did I ask…"
"Like Zaya you speak when you should listen. You are not weak, Mahala, you are filled with pride. It is that pride that makes you fear mere words—the words of men who will say 'he betrayed his king! He betrayed his people!' Yet in your heart you know instead you choose to betray your son, another sacred duty, a loyalty so deep it rested in the bones of mothers and fathers before there were kings, before there were words. You have chosen, Yacat, which is your right. But do not act as if it's otherwise."
With that the men stared, Yacat's eyes bulging in rage, his hand clenched on his sword. The moment lingered dangerously, then the prince turned away from the garden without a word, and again the shaman stooped to his garden, huge hands so wrongly gentle in the dark soil.
"That was foolish," Zaya hissed, angry at the man's treatment of both her and the prince, noting the women were near enough they might have overheard. "He is our only supporter here, without him…"
"I thought your life was in the hands of the gods," Ruka interrupted, planting another tiny root firmly in the soil. "Is Yacat now a god?"
Zaya clenched her jaw and found any response dried on her tongue. Not wishing to hear another word, she turned to her room, and closed the door.
* * *
Days passed after the temple visit in almost tedious routine. Zaya played her instrument and composed songs, but they never lingered in her mind nor seemed more than cleverness and skill without a shred of meaning. She ate what Temolata brought her, and walked the palace grounds, re-visiting the temple of the dead at least once every day to see the sun rise or fall. The festival of stars loomed closer every moment, but Zaya avoided the shaman. He seemed disinterested and occupied, as if he had no time to think of anything that mattered.
On the third night Yacat came to her door. She took him to her bed without a word and undressed him, straddling him on the huge, foreign cushions until she shivered and collapsed, rising and falling through a fog of lust that matched their breathing and brought a sleep so deep she remembered only her dreams until morning. They did not speak of the shaman's words, or much of anything, instead making love again in the morning more gently, and quietly, until the prince was forced to the tasks of the day.
The palace and harem transformed for the festival. What began as largely plain grey or brown walls of stone or clay were now covered without exception with various paints or dyes. The faces of the valley men's gods stared from every corridor and doorway, welcome mat and ceiling. The nobility, and even the servants, wore special clothing and carried new tattoos or jewelry on their skin or around their necks or arms.
Every night after the third, Yacat came to Zaya's bed. Some nights were tender, but most became urgent ruts, as if they both tried to break down their fears and angers with the other's body. After, they would lie in each other's arms with little to say except tender nothings, an unspoken sense of dread for the future.
Zaya liked to think of herself as brave, but each day she didn't or couldn't face the shaman came as stark and unavoidable proof she had less control over herself than she believed. At first she blamed him, or told herself there was no purpose. She thought again and again on what he'd said—that she could make a life with Yacat, that her fate was her own. At length she agreed that yes, she could—this place was beautiful, she respected him and lusted for him, and surely that was enough clay to build a future. That he had a wife did not sit so easily. To have more than one matron was unheard of in her culture, and only women in the Ascom might ever take more than one mate at a time.
Regardless, she had nothing to do but wait. Days of learning words and boredom passed until the nights with Yacat that turned all to color and reshaped her knowledge of the world. Then it was the last night before the festival, and when Zaya wanted him most Yacat didn't come. She expected he was drowning his pain with drink, buried in some dark room with his demons. She slept little, and woke to the day of the ceremony. The royal women rose before dawn to prepare, painting and dressing themselves and their children with the help of a small army of servants. Temolata prepared Zaya with paints and jewelry and a dress of sheer cloth wrapped with more fabric for her modesty.
"As a childless concubine, you will go to the great square almost last, Mistress—after the royal family and honored guests, but before the servants."
Zaya nodded but said nothing, anxious and distracted. When she was finally ready she stepped outside to watch the others and just to stand without being fussed over. The wives and concubines of the House of Mar looked like birds of paradise, their shawls raised like plumage above their hair, bright clothes wrapped in delicate layers from neck to shin. Some twitched as if they couldn't still, their pupils large and shifting from side to side. Others spoke and laughed too loudly, their movements pronounced in the familiar sway of the drunk. Zaya saw some still drinking from clay cups.
"Sister." The voice of Yacat's wife, Maretzi, came from across the grass without a drop of the warmth the title might imply. Yacat's wife crossed the small distance from her room to Zaya's, and for a moment she wondered if she had heard her husband lying with another woman for the past several nights. From the venom leaking from the woman's eyes, she thought yes. "Love is fleeting, is it not?"
Zaya took a deep breath and nodded in respect. She could see her pupils were large an
d dark with some drug, and didn't want to antagonize the woman. "Yes, sister, for us all."
The hint of a polite smile vanished. "Tomorrow the House of Mar will be emperors, and my son will be the deliverance. Enjoy your time as my husband's whore. When it's over, you'll be nothing." She turned away, as if her victory were complete. Zaya spoke softly to her back.
"I'm sorry for your son, Maretzi. I wish he not die. With or without Prince Yacat, I am still warrior, still Zaya. And I wish you no ill will."
The woman slowed but said nothing, and walked away. Soon the royal family left in a procession of colors and chatter, all the children save Yacat's doomed son in an orderly line along their mothers.
Then there were only a few servants, Zaya and Ruka, and as she stared at his stony calm she took a breath and crossed the garden. She had almost reached him when she heard loud footsteps, then watched at least ten warriors emerge from the harem gate. She recognized none of them, and knew they were not harem guard.
"Your prince's protection has ended for me, I think," said the shaman, his lip curled as if he'd expected some treachery. "Do not interfere."
"Why?" Zaya's heart began pounding in her chest. "What do they want with you?"
The warriors ignored her, four moving to Ruka with rope and shackles while the others stayed back with spears. Their leader looked up at the much larger man, but stayed far out of reach.
"Slave, you come with us. Do not resist. Understand?"
Ruka smiled without pleasure, showing his jagged teeth. "You needn't bother with those, little things," he almost whispered, his voice strange, less articulate.
"Where you taking him?" Zaya demanded, stepping forward to push away the shackles. "He belong to Prince Yacat. Lord General. Mahala. Who are you to take anywhere?"
The soldier's eyes narrowed with contempt, his eyes on Zaya's armband as he gripped his spear. "I am a servant of the King. And by order of my lord, I will take this slave and put him on the altar of Centnaz, so that his evil spirit is cleansed before the coming of the stars. Do you understand now, concubine, I am a servant of the king!"
