Ashes to Ashes

by Carrie F. Shepherd

  He was not the only one wandering the streets with an expression of confusion mixed with rage. When he reached the block in the village center, which had been built for the purpose of display and sale, he sought one of his closest companions and stood beside him with arms folded defensively over his chest. “Not one of yours, is it?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” Ach’tmeck replied with a frown. “I hope not. Even my oldest is far too young.”

  “As are my boys.” Jeanir replied, shaking his wings again. “I thought we had a good ten years before Prince Iladrul made his first purchase.”

  “Ta.” Ach’tmeck nodded. “Me too.”

  All of their nerves raw, they watched in silence as the guard who was on duty at the entrance of the village for the day—an angel named Nounak—stepped forward with a scroll in hand. He walked directly to the block, jumped upward, fluttering his wings to catch the air, and landed gracefully in the center. He unrolled the scroll, read it, and then looked swiftly around. His expression bore the same confusion that everyone in the courtyard, waiting to learn the fate of their children, was feeling.

  “By order of King Wisterian, it is here, and thereafter, decreed that the doxy, Jeanir breken Thyman,” to this, Jeanir started; that was his name and the other was his mortal father’s, “relocate his belongings to the castle and report to King Wisterian in his permanent service.”

  “What?” The pure surprise that marked Ach’tmeck’s features was chilling.

  Jeanir set his hand on the block and leaned forward. “Are you certain these are my orders?”

  “Sorry, Jeanir,” Nounak replied with a nervous smile and a shrug. “Looks like your doxy is off the block.”

  “I didn’t realize I was on the block!” Jeanir seethed under his breath.

  He stopped himself as he looked around and saw all of the young faces who would soon receive similar messages. He forced himself to calm his emotions.

  “My lot is my lot.” He hoped his false smile appeared real to the young ones, who were looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “And to be a doxy bought and paid for is an elf’s greatest honor. This is especially true when one is purchased by a King or Prince.”

  Maybe Wisterian knows what he’s doing, he thought as he saw scared faces slightly relax beneath young eyes watching him with deep fascination. Maybe it’s better that it’s one of us first. This way, we can set the tone regarding the appropriate fashion to accept one’s fate.

  He decided his belongings, and his cutting, could wait. He would send one of the castle servants to gather them later and visit one of the physicians in the castle for his vasectomy. It was best, he knew, that he leave and that none of the younglings see him again until they joined him in the castle as doxies, themselves.

  He walked swiftly out of the village but didn’t bother walking the rest of the way. It would be faster if he used his wings and he wanted to find out just what in the name of Loki’s Gods be damned beard this purchase of his flesh was all about.

  He did find his feet when he made it to the courtyard, however. It had ever been courtesy, since Iladrul was born, not to use the gift of flight in the elves’ presence. He walked swiftly through the castle to Wisterian’s apartment, where he pounded, rather than knocked, on the door.

  It was one of the castle servants who opened the door, but this didn’t surprise Jeanir. “Is Wisterian available Mailak?”

  “In his study.” She replied. “Do you want me to announce you?”

  “I am overly certain that he is expecting me.” Jeanir replied tightly. “No need.”

  He stepped past her and made his way through the apartment to the library. The door was open. He had only to step into the door frame and knock on its wood. Wisterian looked upward, at first clearly irritated, and, then, wearing a tepid smile. “Good morn, Jeanir.”

  “Your Highness.” Jeanir wasn’t certain how he managed to hold his tone. He was furious with Wisterian. Yet, he also understood his place. “I’ve just learned I am to be your doxy.”

  “So it would seem.” Wisterian’s eyes trailed over his face as he tried to reconcile Jeanir’s true response to what the angel believed to be an unforgivable insult. He pointed at one of the chairs on the other side of his large desk. “Take a seat. We’ll talk.”

  “If it’s all the same, your Highness,” Jeanir frowned at him, “I’d prefer to stand.”

  “What is publicly done cannot be undone. So sit down.” Wisterian’s voice was somewhat commanding. Because of this, Jeanir did as he was bid and took a seat. “I actually have a different arrangement between you and I planned than what you might expect.”

  “Oh?” Jeanir asked, his brow raising. “My heart is simply breaking. Shall I grab a hanky to catch the tears I’m apt to cry?”

  Wisterian chuckled at that. “Balean came to see me yesterday.”

  Jeanir stiffened. “And?”

  “And,” Wisterian sighed, “my purchase of your doxy was his idea.”

  “Why would he suggest such a thing?” Jeanir, though furious with his brother, somehow managed to hold his affronted tone. “And why, your Highness, did you agree?”

  “Because you trained under both Sir Michael and Sir Metatron.” Wisterian replied, his brow furrowing. “You’re the only one, aside Dame Sappharon, who can make that claim. Leastwise, without other pupils in your class.”

  “Sir Michael saw potential in me.”

  “Which makes you more valuable in the training yard than in a whore’s bed.” Wisterian spun away, finding his feet. “And it makes your children more valuable in the training yard as well.”

  Jeanir froze in his seat. When he spoke, his tone was dripping with discontentment. “What has your purchase of my flesh to do with my children, your Highness?”

  “Gold has been passed, Jeanir.” Wisterian walked around the desk and lowered himself to sit upon it at Jeanir’s left side. “Your oldest boys have been sent to the knife. By Seventh Moon, the four of them, and your eldest daughter, will be gifted to Iladrul.”

  Jeanir flew to his feet. His hand balled into a fist and flew to the desk, pounding it. The purchase of his flesh had been one thing. He could bide that if he had to. Not, however, the sale of his children.

  “They’re too young!”

  “That may be.” Wisterian agreed in dead pan tones. “But the vampires have breached our borders. Titheron has been killed. Drastic measures must be taken.”

  “Then send your Gods be damned son to the knife.” Jeanir growled through his teeth. “And your daughter, when you sire one, to whore herself in one of my sons’ beds.”

  “You pulled the stone.” Wisterian reminded him, his tone terse. “And made your vows.”

  “I made vows for men.” Jeanir stormed. “Not children.”

  “Done is done.” Wisterian snapped. “So make your peace with it.”

  Jeanir’s lips pursed as he shook his head. There would be no making peace with this. “You’ve set the age, then.”

  “The age for what?”

  “The knife is found for every boy my sons’ age.” Jeanir raised his hand and pointed a finger at Wisterian’s chest. Though it was against all custom, he jabbed at his King. “Do you understand me, Wisterian? You’ve set the Gods be damned age.”

  Wisterian glared at him, horrified. “You can’t mean to castrate every boy—”

  “Castrating young boys was your decision.” Jeanir growled. “All boys of the age. Do you hear me? I will not have my sons be soft and womanly unless every male doxy from here forth bears the same Gods be damned curse.” He grit his teeth again. “I will not have them be ridiculed or thought of as fodder for a bronzie carnival.”

  Wisterian considered him with a dark expression for many shifts. Finally, his face pale, he looked, far too swiftly, away. Jeanir was glad to see that he had the sense to be embarrassed by what he had done.

  “Very well.” He muttered. “I’ve set the age.”

  Far from placated, Jeanir pulled his
finger, which was still jabbed toward Wisterian’s chest, away. “Have you told your son that he’s to become a whore master?”

  “Not yet.” Wisterian muttered, returning his gaze to meet Jeanir’s. “He won’t be any more pleased by this than you are.”

  “How unfortunate for him.”

  Wisterian, understanding the position he had put Jeanir in, made no response.

  -20-

  Iladrul, who was sitting across the table from his mother playing a mindless game of storming stones, lifted his gaze to look upon the face of his father. As he did so, he shivered.

  King Wisterian’s expression was hard and unyielding. Even as he stepped behind Iladrul’s mother and grasped her shoulders with his large hands, Iladrul knew that he wasn’t here for pleasantries.

  “Storming stones, eh?” He muttered.

  Iladrul’s mother, a copper haired angel named Helena, raised her gaze to smile at her husband. “Your son is a master.”

  Iladrul looked swiftly away lest either one of them see him roll his eyes. There was no skill required in the game of storming stones. It was a game of fate. The pulling of the stone directed the player’s next move. Iladrul preferred the game of kings’ castles. At the kings’ board, strategy and forethought were the point.

  “I would expect nothing less.” Wisterian replied. “But I must steal him away from the stones.”

  “But it’s Sixth Moon.” Helena sighed. “You get him First through Fifth!”

  “I understand, Mother.” Wisterian leaned forward and kissed the crown of her head. “But politics call when they do.”

  “Very well.” Helena sighed as she flicked her eyes to Iladrul. “You are dismissed, child.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Iladrul reached for her hand across the storming board, raised it to his lips and kissed the back of it. She smiled adoringly at him, pulling her hand away to allow him to follow Wisterian through the courtyard.

  They didn’t speak until they were in his father’s apartment. Once there, Iladrul bowed his head and waited, respectfully, for Wisterian to share his news.

  As Iladrul’s father lowered himself into the chair behind the desk in his library, he gave his son a guarded smile. “How are you, boy?”

  “Well.” Iladrul swallowed. Wisterian watched him with appraising eyes from across the desk. “I’m at the top of all classes.”

  “So you are.” Wisterian muttered.

  His expression was drawn. Watching him, waiting, Iladrul suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. He swallowed and asked, “How might I serve you, Pipa?”

  The term of endearment made Wisterian smile. It was false, and it was tight, but it was a smile all the same. He was pleased with Iladrul because his son wanted to get right to the point.

  “I’ve purchased your first round of doxies.”

  “Your Highness?” Iladrul started. “First round? I thought I was meant only one on the first draw.”

  “Necessity demands that you have five.” He cleared his throat and looked swiftly away. “Four males. One female.”

  Iladrul’s brow furrowed. He didn’t understand why his father would purchase male doxies for him. It has always been his understanding that the males were reserved for the freewomen.

  “The boys are to train with you.” Wisterian, understanding his son’s confusion, explained. “They are to become your personal guards.” Iladrul looked swiftly away. He knew, now, that his father was aware that he had behaved like a coward when the demons had come for him. “As to the female, she will test everything that comes into contact with you.”

  Iladrul felt the blood rush out of his face. “She’s to be my taster?”

  “Ta.” Wisterian agreed. “And she is to clothe you only after having worn the clothes on her own back for the full of a day.”

  “Please, your Highness.” Shaking his head, Iladrul looked away. “I don’t want them.”

  “The gold has passed hands.” Wisterian snapped at him. “What you want is irrelevant. They are your property. And they are, from this day forward, your responsibility.”

  Iladrul lowered his gaze, knowing he would not sway his father. His voice was low and slightly cracked as he asked, “When do I meet them?”

  “The boys are seeing to medical clearance.” Wisterian muttered under his breath. Iladrul’s brow furrowed, his expression mirroring his confusion. “Seventh Moon at latest.”

  “Are they ill?”

  “They are seeing to medical clearance.” Wisterian’s tone was flat as he leveled his gaze irritably upon his son. “The tests of doxies are not your concern.”

  Infuriated by this response, Iladrul looked swiftly away. He was the Prince of his people. Of all of his people. And there were customs that he neither understood nor condoned. He didn’t appreciate learning that there were also customs that were meant to be hidden from his scope of knowledge.

  But he was just a boy, while his father was the King of his lands. A boy who had been taught from the cradle to know his place. “Yes, your Highness.”

  Satisfied, Wisterian nodded at him. “Tomorrow you will have a new Sword Master.”

  “What is wrong with Balean?” Iladrul asked, confused again.

  “Nothing.” Wisterian assured him. “But he is the General of your Kinsgard now. He has no time to train boys. You and your mates will be schooled by Jeanir.”

  “Jeanir, your Highness?” Iladrul blinked at him. He knew every one of the soldiers in his father’s army, but he had never heard that particular name.

  “You may know him not, but he is the finest warrior amongst us.” Wisterian assured him. “He simply pulled the wrong stone.”

  “What are you telling me, Father?” Iladrul asked, confused.

  “Balean might hold the title.” Wisterian returned his gaze to meet Iladrul’s own. “But it is Jeanir who is to become your true General of Arms.”

  Thinking of his dearest friend, a stable boy named Gregor who had been punished for class mixing after the pair of them had been caught playing together, the young Prince shivered at the hypocrisy.

  -21-

  Ishitar beamed at Zamyael as he slipped into the cottage that she and Zadkiel shared. She was sitting by the fire doing needlework, her long, shapely legs tucked under her bottom and her lips curled into a content smile. When she heard the door closing, she looked up at Ishitar and grinned, causing me to shiver.

  “Where have you been, young man?”

  “Staying with a friend.” He walked toward her, bent over her chair and kissed her cheek. “Is Zad about?”

  “He’s in the kitchen.” She replied. “Fair warning, Ishitar. He’s in a mood regarding your absence.”

  “Azrael would have told him if I were in trouble.”

  She gave him a sideways glance that he understood at once. He sometimes forgets that no one but him can see or hear me.

  “Alright.” He conceded. “Fair point.” He kissed her cheek again and pulled away. “I need to speak with all three of you.”

  “Sounds important.” She said, putting her needlework into the small basket beside her chair and rising to her feet. “Does it involve a girl?”

  Chuckling under his breath, he shook his head. “Now where would I ever find a woman who could even remotely compare with you? Be it in beauty or in grace?”

  Pleased by his praise, she wrapped her arm around his and let him lead her to the kitchen. True to her word, Zadkiel stood over the table, rolling out dough. When he looked upward and saw Ishitar standing at Zamyael’s side, he threw the hand not attached to the arm that was supporting his staff to his hip and glared at Ishitar.

  “Where in the name of the Thirty Hells have you been, boy?” He seethed. “I’ve wasted two good pies.”

  Grinning at him, Ishitar released Zamyael’s arm and pulled a chair out for her so that she could sit. “With a friend.”

  “A girl?” Zadkiel beamed at him.

  “What is it with the pair of you and your obsession with my deflowering?” He
asked as he pulled out his own chair to sit at Zamyael’s side. “I was with Loki.”

  “Ware that one.” Zadkiel raised his finger and began wagging it at Ishitar. “He’s always getting himself into trouble. You would do best to keep your distance.”

  “Oh, come now, Zad.” Zamyael flapped her hand at him. “Loki’s born from a good egg.”

  “Yes.” Zadkiel replied as he returned his attention to the dough on the table. “If you like a rotten yolk.”

  “He seems of good morals to me.” Ishitar shrugged. Having played kings’ castles with Zadkiel and Loki, we all knew that my brother didn’t truly mean his admonishment of the oft times troublemaker. “By any road, I intend to stay with him whilst I take my lessons from the Hells bound Gods.”

  Zadkiel’s golden eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” Ishitar reached across the table to pull some of the dough off of the crust Zadkiel was building. This earned him a quick swat from the rolling pin, though he was too fast for Zadkiel to do any real damage. “That’s what I’ve come to talk with the three of you about, actually.”

  Zadkiel snorted and hobbled back to lean against the counter behind him.

  “I’ll come for dinner every Seventh Moon.” Ishitar promised.

  “You raise them, you feed them and you clothe them and all of the thanks they are willing to give you is Seventh Moon dinner.”

  “This isn’t funny, Zam.” Zadkiel snapped at her before turning his golden eyes in Ishitar’s direction. “Lord Loki has a target on his back. Have you thought of that? Your father loathes him.”

  “Living with Loki will allow me the affordability to see my mother.” Ishitar shrugged. “Never mind that almost every God in the Hells bound Realms respects him.”

  “Utter madness.” Zadkiel shook his head.

  “Maybe.” Ishitar grinned at him. “But the selection of my tutors is mine to direct. Not yours. And I’m dead set on my decision in this regard.”

  “If you believe that Loki is the one to best train you, then your Da and I will support you with that choice.” Zamyael flashed Zadkiel a warning glance before turning and giving Ishitar an understanding one. “We worry overly much about you. That’s all. We love you as if it were Zad who planted you and I who gave birth.”