Beneath the avatria and seeming to support but never touch it with its sweeping curves and surrounding minarets was the subatria, the ground buildings of the servants and slaves. In ancient times, the subatria was a warrior’s fortification, a curtain wall of defense against enemies while the elven lords sat secure and separate in their avatria stronghold. There still remained many of the features of the warrior’s battlements, though distance from the wars of conquest had long ago softened the lines.
Drakis raised his eyes to the top of the fifteen-foot-tall subatria walls.
A lone human figure stood there, silhouetted against the dawn-lit enormity of the avatria and looked longingly to the west. .
. . Looking for him.
“Mala,” he murmured.
“Drakis!” she called as he came through the Warrior’s Gate.
The high, curving interior of the curtain wall cast shadows onto the packed dirt of the narrow passage within the subatria even during the midpoint of the day. It was known in all elven structures as the chakrilya-the Warrior’s Way-and its path curving around the center of the building led to the cells, mess halls, kitchens, and practice arenas where the Impress Warriors were kept. Drakis had marched out through this canyonlike passage five days before, its breadth filled shoulder to shoulder with his fellow warriors. Now he felt small with so few of them standing in its cavernous expanse.
But the sound of her voice cast all the loss, the pain, and the loneliness from his thoughts.
She was reaching for him through the crossed iron bands of the closed portcullis separating the Centurai wing from the other areas of the subatria. Drakis swung his field pack off his shoulders and tossed it quickly toward the base of the wall where Belag and the others were already setting theirs down. He ran over to her, casting a quick, worried glance down the length of the chakrilya as he took her hand.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.
“And you’ve grown hair.” Mala Shei-Timuran gazed up at him through her large, emerald eyes as Drakis pressed her palm to his cheek. She leaned forward against the bars, the sinque mark of the household easily read on the crown of her shaved head. She was half a foot shorter than he, her waist narrow but her hips full and desirable, achingly beyond his reach.
“Yes,” he laughed. “But no doubt I’ll be properly shaved and cleaned up before long.”
“So you did return to me after all,” she said, turning her face up to look into his eyes again. “I prayed to all the gods each day that they would bring you back to me.”
“All of the gods?” Drakis smiled at her through the squared openings of the portcullis.
“Well,” she admitted, her small mouth twisting mischievously, “perhaps not all of them-but certainly each of the House gods. You pray to all the gods and you’re bound to offend one of them. So. . are we to be paired?”
Drakis choked slightly. “What? I just came through the gate and. .”
“You said before you left that if the campaign was successful, Lord Timuran would look favorably on mating the two of us,” Mala said matter-of-factly, her eyes taking on a look that Drakis always considered dangerous. “The plunder was brought by the caravan porters yesterday, and you’re here before any of the rest of the Cohort so-you must have honored the House, am I right?”
“Mala,” Drakis said, pulling back a little as he spoke. “I don’t think that’s why we’re here.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were?” she said with a gentle smile. “You, honored by Lord Timuran and the two of us paired? Maybe even ascending to the Sixth Estate. We’d no longer be slaves and could contribute to the Imperium on our own!”
“Yes, it would be wonderful, but I don’t think. .”
“I’m not saying that it will happen, you know that, don’t you, Drakis?”
“Of course, beloved, but. .”
“It’s just that it’s such a wonderful dream.”
Drakis held her hand tightly for a few moments, uncertain what to say as he looked into her eyes. She had a lovely heart-shaped face with a small chin. Her cheekbones gave her face a sharp beauty. Everything about her he found desirable, but it was her eyes in which he always lost his thoughts and his heart to her. How could he tell her that things had gone terribly wrong in the campaign. . that he was not even certain whether he had won the prized crown or not.
“Yes, they are wonderful dreams, Mala-and I’m very pleased to hear that the plunder arrived,” Drakis reluctantly let her go. “The Tribune has sent us back here to present the treasures to. .”
“What is that?” Mala interrupted, pointing toward the somewhat worse-for-wear pile of flamboyant clothing shuffling toward her.
“Oh,” Drakis said. “This is a dwarven fool-in more ways than one, I suspect. He’s part of our spoils. We’ll present him tonight for House Devotions.”
“Greetings, good woman,” Jugar said, bowing as deeply as his restraints would allow. “My new companion, Drakis, has given me only the most glowing reports of your beauty and your sagacious and erudite conversational skills, and I see now that he has portrayed them to me with crystalline accuracy! I am charmed and gratified to make your acquaintance.”
Mala stared at the dwarf.
The dwarf answered her with a broad-toothed smile.
“Does he always talk like this?” Mala said to Drakis from the corner of her mouth.
“Only when he’s quiet,” Drakis sighed.
In the distance above them, a chime sounded twice.
“I must go,” Mala said at once, pulling her hands back through the bars and quickly moving down the sweeping curve of the corridor that led from the chakrilya toward the central garden of the subatria. “Will they pair us tonight? After Devotions?”
Drakis smiled and called after her. “If it is the Emperor’s Will.”
“And why should it not be?” Mala said brightly before dashing down the polished stones on her bare feet. “What should the Emperor have against me?”
Drakis smiled and turned, to find the dwarf gazing up at him thoughtfully.
“You have a problem, dwarf?” Drakis was feeling suddenly annoyed with his diminutive trophy.
“Oh, not at all, not at all,” Jugar replied thoughtfully. “She seems like the absolutely perfect woman.”
“She is perfect,” Drakis said with pride.
“Then I’m very sorry for you,” Jugar said.
“What did you say?”
“Ah, well,” the dwarf continued, “you can’t make a country without cracking a few heads, eh? Perhaps you should tell me something about this ceremony tonight. I wouldn’t want to make a mistake and embarrass you. That reminds me, how are you feeling now, Drakis?
“Fine,” the human shrugged and then stopped.
He did feel fine.
The song was completely gone from his head.
CHAPTER 10
Cleansing
“So how long did they say it would take?” Jugar asked nervously through chattering teeth. The naked dwarf squatted with his back wedged into the corner of the dim room, holding a large, brass ladle firmly in front of his manhood and appearing resolved never to move it. An iron grating overhead allowed square columns of light to fall into the room, casting the dwarf and the human in shadows of stark relief.
Drakis stood naked on the stone platform surrounding the circular trough in the center of the room. Clear water constantly overflowed its edges, splashing down over the stones before falling through a metal grating in the floor. He held his own ladle in one hand, scooping water from the trough and, pouring it over his head, cascading it down his powerful body. He then set the ladle down and picked up a pumice stone from the floor, lightly scraping at the dirt on his broad chest and forearms.
“How long for what?” Drakis asked casually.
“You know for what!” the dwarf’s voice almost broke in his nervous exasperation. “How long before that woman brings our clothes back!”
“Oh, that?” Dra
kis smiled to himself. He did not know much about dwarves beyond the easiest way to kill them and how they reacted in battle. He had imagined a great many things about them, but being prudish was not one of them. He was finding this fool of a dwarf to be most entertaining. “Essenia said that she would have them cleaned at once and bring them when they were fit to wear-although she appeared to have her doubts about getting your costume presentable. But, then, she had her doubts about you getting presentable either.”
Jugar glowered back at the human in silence for a time, then his features softened slightly. “Wait! Hold still for a moment.”
Drakis turned toward the dwarf. “What is it?”
“Turn back around. . a little more,” the dwarf murmured, his eyes fixed intently on Drakis. “Now lean forward just a little. . there.”
“What are you up to, dwarf?”
“Hold still, please.”
The sound of the water murmured across the silence.
“May I finish now?” Drakis ask impatiently.
“Yes,” the dwarf responded thoughtfully. Several heartbeats passed before he spoke again. “Those scars on your back. . how did you get those?”
Drakis poured another ladle of water over his head, brushing the remaining grains of pumice from his skin as he spoke. “Which scars?”
“Those rather nasty looking scars on your back,” Jugar replied. “Who gave those to you?”
“I’m an Impress Warrior, dwarf,” Drakis scoffed. “We all have scars.”
“So I have observed,” Jugar continued. “But these are particularly nasty looking. I would venture to say that such scars would be most memorable indeed. So, when did you get them?”
Drakis absently reached his right hand around his side, running his fingers along the ridges of his skin. “Why, I. . isn’t that something? I don’t remember.”
“Have you ever seen them?” Jugar said through his still chattering teeth.
“Seen them? Now how would I see them? They’re on my back.”
“You don’t know your own past, Drakis, my friend.” Jugar’s eyes squinted as he considered them. “So perhaps you’ll believe me if I tell you something about your future. Your beloved Lord Timuran has not called you back to gratefully accept your bountiful conquest but to take out his rage on you.”
Drakis set the ladle down slowly, the features of his face hidden in shadows. “That is no prophecy, dwarf. I could have told you that. I will be shamed before him.”
“You will be more than shamed, Drakis,” the dwarf continued, his gruff voice firm and sure. “He will strike you, lay open your flesh to agonizing pain and all your tears, and protest, and pleadings of your love for him will be soundless in his ears. He will not stop.”
Drakis stalked over toward Jugar, the silhouette of his muscular frame looming over where the dwarf crouched. “The foolish curse of a dwarven fool! My master has never so much as touched me in anger!”
The dwarf looked up, the softened look of his eyes framed in the square of light from above.
“He would kill you if he could, Drakis, this very afternoon. But someone will intervene on your behalf-and will save your life, though in doing so you will wish that you had died.”
“Only gods can know the future,” Drakis said flatly.
The dwarf shrugged. “That which has happened before will happen again. You’ve only forgotten. Remember my words, Drakis, and maybe then, my friend, you will come to me and know the truth.”
Drakis thought for a moment and then shook his head violently, sending particles flying from his shaved head. “So you’re back to that again. Now I’m supposed to have forgotten nearly dying. Well, one thing you should not forget: that Essenia and I will throw you into this trough personally if you don’t get over here and scrape off some of that dwarven stench.”
“Dwarves do not bathe!” Jugar grumbled emphatically.
“That I most certainly believe,” Drakis replied easily, “but in this case you may want to make an exception. We’re being summoned before Lord Timuran himself, and he takes no more delight in the smell of dwarven slaves than any other conquered race.”
Drakis and Jugar stepped into the Warrior’s Courtyard. The Impress Warrior felt renewed after the bath despite the dwarf’s bizarre and gloomy predictions; bathing was a ritual that was so basic among the elves that it made him feel a part of the Empire that he so fervently wished to join. The tunic that he wore was that of a slave, but it was clean, and in that he felt a sort of purity, elevated somehow above the commonplace.
He strode quickly across the packed dirt floor and through the open portcullis with the garishly dressed dwarf struggling to keep up. They passed under the tall archway and onto the darkly stained sands of the small arena floor.
“Our lives to the Imperial Will!” came the echoing call from across the arena floor.
Drakis smiled as he looked to the far side of the arena. “Jerakh! How did you get back so soon?”
“I have you to thank, brother warrior,” the manticore replied as he crossed toward the human. “Our master’s eagerness to see you has left the folds in complete disarray. The Foldmasters in their haste to comply have been moving any units from House Timuran they can find.”
Drakis could see warriors straggling in behind Jerakh. He shook his head. “So the victorious Centurai of House Timuran is home at last, eh?”
“Hardly,” Jerakh said with disdain. “I managed to come through with three Octia, but the rest of the Centurai is spread all through the fold system. It’s a mess that will take days to unravel.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage it,” Drakis said.
“I’m sure the only thing I’m going to manage is a bath,” the manticore returned, a playful edge to his smile as he passed the human. “You can straighten out the Octian. . you’re the Centurai Master now.”
“Well, if that is so, then I’m turning over this dwarf to you,” Drakis said, gesturing toward Jugar.
“Excuse me, Captain Drakis,” the dwarf sputtered, “but I’m. .”
“Drakis, just Drakis,” he sighed. “I’ve not been appointed captain yet, dwarf.”
“But, Drakis, I’ve not been presented to your master as yet! As part of your rightful treasure which you so valiantly liberated from the dwarven realms. .”
“You’ll be presented with the rest of the prize treasure tonight at House Devotions,” Drakis said, interrupting the dwarf. “Before then, Jerakh here is going to see that you get properly shaved and branded for the slave you have become.”
“He’s full of words,” Jerakh said with disdain.
“Which is why I’m turning him over to you,” Drakis said flashing a tight grin. “I’ve been summoned.”
Jerakh gripped Jugar’s shoulder tightly enough to elicit a grunt from the dwarf. “I’ll see it’s done.”
Drakis turned away, taking several steps before he stopped and turned back toward the manticore. “Oh, Jerakh. . I was glad to see you at the Ninth Throne. It was getting a little close up there, and I needed a friendly face in the mob. We’d have never gotten away with the prize without you. You saved our honor.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the manticore replied with a shrug of his great shoulders. “We were stuck on that pillar of rock you left us on for another six hours before a Proxi showed up to get us out. It must have been some other incredibly handsome Warrior you saw at the throne.”
Drakis’ smile waned at the thought. He turned instinctively to look up at the avatria towering above them. He pushed Jugar’s predictions out of his mind and crossed the arena to the chakrilya and his audience with his master.
Sha-Timuran sat upon the elevated throne and glared down through his black, pupilless eyes.
Drakis kept as still as the cold, marble stone on which he knelt. Since he had been ushered into the large, oval room by the house slaves, he had waited on his knees, his head bent over in submission. Even so, he felt the chill stare of his master’s blank, onyx-eyes. No slave spok
e in the presence of his or her master until specifically bidden to do so. No slave looked upon the master until directly addressed.
So he had remained, with increasing pain shooting up his legs as the moments dragged into eternity.
He was keenly aware of his surroundings. The audience hall was situated within the floating avatria, its arching walls rising upward in the shape of wide, alabaster leaves whose tips cradled crystal panes, each casting columns of light from a delicate lattice overhead. Curved stairs led down into the room from two archways situated between the leaves while the throne itself floated at the far end of the oval floor.
Standing still as statues at the perimeter of the room were a number of the elves from the household, paid servants who worked in the avatria or as overseers in the subatria below. These were pressed against the curved walls well away from their master’s position in the hall. One slave, the Lyric, had little choice in the matter. A waiflike human woman clad in a loose fitting, translucent robe, she was chained by a golden collar to the throne of the master. Drakis vaguely remembered seeing her, though if she had a name, he did not know it. The Lyric squatted as far from the throne as the chain would allow. Only Tsi-Timuri, Timuran’s wife, and their daughter, Tsi-Shebin, stood next to the throne with any affectation of desire.
Everyone waited.
At long last, Sha-Timuran spoke.
“Drakissssss,” he said, his grating, high-pitched voice hanging onto the last syllable, drawing it out like the sound of a snake.
“My Master,” Drakis answered, his words sounding too loud in his own ears. He looked up.
Sha-Timuran was tall even by elven standards, making even more pronounced the narrow features of his race. His sharp, narrow chin jutted out from the angular features of his face. The back of his head was elongated compared to the other creatures of the world, a protuberance that the Imperial Will had pronounced at once as unquestioned evidence of both the physical and mental superiority of their race. His elegantly elongated ears framed his face, and the hair that rimmed his protruding crown fell back in long, white strands. He still wore a common lime-colored work tunic beneath the mantle of his House. The mantle was a required sign of his authority whenever formally holding audience, though today it had apparently been hastily donned. He held his long baton restlessly in his hands, the Imperial medallion fixed to its head turning repeatedly, flashing occasionally in the column of light cast down from overhead.
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