The Dawn King (The Moon People, Book Five)

by Claudia King

  —18—

  The Concubines

  Netya had expected to find wide open halls and empty spaces within the temple. It had seemed a boastful place, grand from afar but probably hollow within, for what could men possibly fill such a large house with? Instead she found herself entering an anthill. Workers scurried to and fro, each with some fragment of a task lending urgency to their footsteps. Warriors in their scaled insect shells watched purposefully at the doorways, and the women—those queens dressed in crimson—filled the passageways with murmured conversation and lilting laughter. Priests in woolen gowns not unlike the one Adel had always worn seemed to corral the flow of life throughout the temple. As Netya watched she noticed several of them carrying soft clay tablets in their hands upon which they had inscribed tally marks interspersed with the occasional symbol. She remembered Caspian telling her how he had learned to record knowledge in that way from the Sun People.

  Netya only glimpsed the entrance hall briefly before Eral took her deeper into the temple, up a set of steps to the higher tiers where each long hall was segmented into smaller passages and internal chambers. Many of them appeared to be for sleeping, but others housed shrines and stone-framed hearths that were constructed to guide smoke out through the temple walls and protect the wooden parts of the structure from embers. It was difficult to judge exactly how deep they were within the temple, for she had nothing to compare this man-made warren to, but she guessed they were somewhere within the southern side of the third tier.

  She had given up trying to charm Eral by that point. At first she had been interested to learn more of the Daughter, a spirit of joy who smiled upon the pleasures of tender companionship, but by the time they reached the temple she realised Eral was simply attempting to coax her in with enticing words that held little substance. He, not she, was the one playing the charmer. A younger Netya might have been enamoured with the attention, but she had seen this trick a few too many times by now, and attention was not what she sought that day. Whenever she attempted to ask questions about the temple or engage the high priest in a deeper conversation about the spirits he gave her answers that rolled off his tongue a little too easily. His words were well-rehearsed, and they said precious little. This was all a routine for him, one Netya herself had adopted in her own way over the years whenever she needed to explain matters of the spirits to people who had no true interest in understanding them. Eral did not realise he was speaking with a fellow spirit-talker, but there was something more to it than that. She was asking the sort of questions that should have demonstrated her wisdom, yet the high priest slid around them time and again without ever attempting to engage her. Was he forbidden from speaking about his spirits with outsiders? Or did he simply not think her capable of grasping anything beyond his smoothly-worded platitudes?

  Eral was a truly charismatic man, that much she could not deny, but he was also young and imperious. It was impossible to relax in his company. At any moment Netya expected to see Liliac walking down the passageway toward her, or to glance into one of the chambers and see Adel or Kiren. Her heart beat high in her chest, pounding with an uncomfortable rhythm that outpaced the patter of her feet on the floorstones. She realised she should have been taking careful note of the temple's passageways, planning how she might escape or where she might start searching for her captive companions, but her anxiety and Eral's constant talk distracted her.

  “Here we are, Netya,” the high priest said as they came to a set of crimson drapes at the end of a long passage. Everything save for the roof above them was made of stone in this part of the temple. It seemed newer than the cracked and creaking chambers they had passed through on the way there.

  “Is this your den?” she asked. The sound of trickling water and low voices crept through the drapes.

  “What a strange way you forest folk have of saying some things,” Eral chuckled. “No, that will be later. You've the dirt of a traveller on you, and your clothes are of the laypeople. I must leave you here for now, and when you are washed and clad in crimson, with oil in your hair instead of grease and perfume on your skin instead of sweat, then we may enjoy a ritual to the Daughter all on our own.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Netya realised that she was supposed to show her gratitude for the luxuries he was offering her.

  With a smile and a shy fluttering of her eyelashes she bowed to him. “Thank you, High Priest. You do me a great honour.”

  “Your beauty is worth honouring. Now forgive me, I must bring word of today's trade to the Dawn King.” He lifted one of the drapes and glanced inside, made a gesture to someone within, then ushered Netya on through.

  She was not sure what she had expected. An open part of the temple, perhaps, where she might bathe in a spring on the hillside, or a small domicile in which she could change her clothing and beautify herself. Instead she stepped out into another hall filled with people. Sweet and humid, the air filled her lungs with exotic smells that reminded her of forest flowers and summer rainfall. Everything in this place was red. Drapery decked the walls in crimson. The women occupying the hall wore gowns of the same colour, and even some of the floorstones were stained a russet brown where the moisture in the air had made the dye run from the drapes.

  Most impressive of all was a square pool at the centre being fed by what Netya could only describe as a hand-crafted stream. Water trickled in through another draped opening in the far wall and cascaded down a channel made of segmented clay tiles, each of them the length of a person's arm and curved up at the edges in the shape of a semicircle. Some of the tiles were held up on wooden stilts, pointed downward at a gentle angle that allowed the water to run from one to the next until it reached the floor and poured off into the pool. Netya had seen carved pieces of wood used to redirect waterfalls in similar ways before, but never anything so elaborate as this. There must have been a spring somewhere out on the hillside, and through the use of these clever tiles they had managed to bring its water into the temple without having to muddy it in irrigation ditches.

  As Netya stared at the pool she saw a naked woman carry a hot stone over with a pair of sticks. It sizzled as it fell into a small stone lip at the edge, then the woman slid in after it. Nakedness seemed natural in this place, for the nude sat alongside the clothed quite comfortably. With a tingle of surprise Netya realised that a handful of men were also present, all of whom were engaged in intense lovemaking with the women who had shed their clothes. One pile of bodies writhed atop a cushioned cot, the limbs of three or four partners entangled in the throes of passion. Another man sat upon the lip of the pool while a golden-haired beauty rode his lap, and a third man groaned in ecstasy as his kneeling partner pleasured him with her mouth. The scene took Netya back to the heady celebrations of the summer fires, and she found herself wondering whether there was some magic over this chamber that stirred similar passions within the Sun People.

  “Do not be afraid,” a soft female voice said next to her.

  Netya blinked and looked toward the woman. She was dressed in red like the others, short and pretty, with one bare shoulder exposed by her gown.

  “I am not afraid.” It was only a partial lie. “I have never seen a place like this.”

  “Then enjoy it,” the woman said, taking Netya's hand and leading her toward the pool. “You're fortunate to have been chosen by a high priest. Many of the girls who catch their eye go on to remain here.”

  “Are you all concubines?” Netya asked.

  “Of course. No other women in all the land hold our status.” She began helping Netya remove her gown and moccasins.

  “And I am to join you?”

  The woman paused and pursed her lips, struggling to conceal a look of pride. “You might, if you have the wits for it, or if the high priest finds you truly irresistible. Some girls who try on the red are sent back to their villages once the priests tire of them. If you wish to become a concubine you must speak well and think sharply. Prove yourself a woman worthy of standing alongsid
e the greatest men in all the land.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If you have to ask, you may not know.” The woman's proud look persisted for a moment, then her features softened into kindness again. “If you know a craft then that will help. Not something with your hands, though, we have other people for that. If you can count and tally the priests will find that very valuable. Can you sing? Dance? Convince a man to change his mind with a few soft words? Has a shaman ever taught you how to listen to the spirits or soothe a fever?”

  “Yes, I am a healer,” Netya said.

  The concubine looked surprised. “Another. I hope the spirits are not preparing us for some plague.”

  “Why do you say that?” Netya asked as the woman took off her own gown and laid it beside the pool, then helped her into the water and began to wash her. She almost stopped listening the moment the water touched her skin. It was warmer than a shallow brook on a summer's day. After all the days of hard travel, the exhaustion, the fear, she felt like her body was melting as the water enveloped her. The lapping ripples soothed the soreness from her muscles and licked the dirt from her skin.

  “You are not the only new woman in the temple,” the concubine continued, lowering her voice. As she spoke her refined tone began to slip slightly, revealing an accent that might have once belonged to a girl from one of the farmsteads. “The older concubines are scared of her. She's only been here a few days, and she already talks like she's one of them. The Dawn King welcomed her himself. They say she's a healer, someone the Dawn King brought from a far away land. Now they wonder whether he's dying.”

  “Stop gossiping, Merith,” a slightly older concubine said as she walked by the pool. “You don't want your careless tongue getting you into trouble again.”

  Flushing a deep red, Merith glowered and began scrubbing Netya's shoulders vigorously with a matted pad of wool.

  “Did you hear me?” the other woman said.

  “Yes, Arunae.”

  “Good. Don't rub the girl's skin off now.”

  To Netya's relief Merith's touch eased a little. She did not say anything else about the new guests. Once most of the dirt was gone from Netya's body Merith rubbed her down with pieces of plant root that frothed and tingled, then applied the same process to her hair until it was clean and ready to be untangled. Another concubine assisted in grooming her with a bone-toothed comb while Merith rubbed a fragrant oil into Netya's skin, smothering her in the same sweet smell that permeated the entire chamber. Even though she was still tense, the pampering helped to ease some of the tension she'd been carrying in her shoulders.

  The men enjoying themselves near the pool had long since departed by the time Netya was drying off, but others had arrived to take their place. Only the orgy atop the cot still continued uninterrupted, hands stroking and bodies tensing as climaxes came, went, and then began anew. A few of the priests who arrived to take their pleasure with the concubines gave Netya appraising looks as they passed by, admiring her naked body as Merith's hands roamed over it. The older concubine, Arunae, seemed to be keeping watch from afar, however, and she distracted them before they could approach her.

  Not all of the men came here for pleasure, Netya realised. Some only wanted to speak with the concubines or beckon them away to assist in some other task, though few denied the chance at a little relief when it presented itself.

  “Is it a good life here?” she asked as she watched Arunae expertly coaxing favours from one of the priests while her hand did its own coaxing between his legs. Merith did not answer, but the other girl did.

  “Of course. We have power, you know, and comforts beyond anything in the villages.”

  “But what of love? Are you allowed to make choices like that for yourselves? I was a concubine once before, and it made love difficult.”

  Merith paused and looked up at her sharply. “Whose concubine? You're not sick from it, are you?”

  “Of course she isn't, Merith, look at her,” the other woman said. “We have all the love here that we could ever want. Some of us are even fortunate enough to become the wives of the priests.”

  Netya suspected they had a somewhat different understanding of what love meant, but she was not in the mood to explain it. The looks the men were giving her made her think of Caspian, and she found herself wishing that he was the one the concubines were making her beautiful for. A lump rose in her throat. The brief moment of relaxation had lowered her guard, and now the things she had been trying hard not to think about swept back into her thoughts.

  Caspian.

  Her heart ached for just one night in his arms. Then she could have faced whatever challenges this strange new land had to throw at her. Instead she felt thin and strained, driven on by desperate worry more than anything else. She had been trying not to think about it, but the question refused to be silent now. What if she never returned home? What if Caspian never learned what had become of her? Thinking about it frightened her more than the prospect of her own death. She took a deep breath and looked at the feathered string of beads lying on the bench beside her. Merith had taken it out of her hair before she bathed. If she never returned, she hoped Caspian and Fern would find comfort in each other's arms. Perhaps not as mates, but at least as friends and lovers. It made her happy to think of that. They both deserved such comfort, and they would have her spirit's blessing if it ever found its way back home. She'd watch over them from the spirit world always.

  She reached up quickly to wipe the tear that had begun falling down her cheek.

  “You can ask Eral to let you leave if you want,” Merith said comfortingly. “He never takes unhappy girls.”

  Netya forced a smile and shook her head. “It is not that. I was just thinking of other things.”

  “Then try not to. This isn't the time for it.”

  “Many girls are nervous when they first arrive,” the other woman said.

  Netya nodded, content to let them believe that she was just uneasy. It was not as if she could tell them the truth, anyway. Suddenly she felt very alone, an outsider in this house of intimacy and pleasure. She could speak freely with no one. How had fate led her here, into this strange place so far away from everything she knew and loved? For a moment she was the timid concubine girl again, that lost child who had known so little of the world. Fear and optimism had been the only things that she understood in those days. The fear was still there, but the optimism felt like a tattered garment barely clinging on to her body. More than ever she understood why Adel's loneliness had tainted her kind soul with anger. In times like this a person needed any kind of strength they could draw on.

  She swallowed and blinked back more tears before they could fall. She had given in to despair once before, many years ago, and it had been a mistake. Her hope was what made her strong. Despair was a fissure that would spread through her entire being, a weakness that dragged her down until she could no longer see the light for all the darkness.

  She believed that she would see Caspian again. She would find Adel and Kiren, and they would leave this place together.

  But what if you don't, the nagging doubt said. It would always be there, wiggling its cold fingers through the rents that had been torn in her optimism, but it did not deserve to consume her. It was the voice of a dark spirit, one who wanted only to bring about her ruin.

  Once the concubines had finished brushing her hair they smoothed it with oil and plaited it back behind her neck, leaving a few locks loose to curl down attractively behind her ears. She wove her beads back into the rightmost strand, then Merith took her outside through the drapes at the back of the room. Netya covered herself as the breeze chilled her tender skin. They had stepped out on to a small flat ledge on the southern side of the hill that was covered with more floorstones. In the shade of the eaves an older woman with a pregnant belly sat weaving on a threaded frame, while beside her an assistant was winding an enormous pile of red-dyed wool into thread. Of all the riches Netya had seen in this place, the
wool felt the most real to her. Her mother had woven clothing from wool occasionally using a simple rack of sticks and twine. It was expensive to trade for, and every bundle had been guarded ferociously. The fleecy heap sitting out here in the wind could have easily been traded for a winter's food.

  “We need a small gown for this one,” Merith said.

  The weaver stopped her work and cast and appraising eye over Netya. With a helping hand from Merith she rose to her feet and made Netya hold out her arms, walking around her to judge the size of her body.

  “I have one that should be short enough, though it may be tight. If you end up staying I will make something that fits you like a second skin.”

  “Thank you,” Netya said.

  “Thank the Dawn King for his wool. I only do as his priests command.” The weaver motioned for her assistant to fetch a finished gown that lay draped over a rack beside the wall. Netya raised her arms as Merith slid it over her head. She was surprised to find that it did not itch very much at all. These weavers were skilled at handling wool indeed.

  The crimson garment fell to her calves, leaving one of her shoulders exposed the same way Merith's did. It was light and cool, and she suspected it would be easy to wear despite the summer heat.

  “There,” Merith said. “Now you have the look of a woman who commands respect.”

  “What am I to do now?” Netya asked.

  “Wait for the high priest to send for you. You can stay here in the concubines' domicile until then.”

  “Am I allowed to leave?”

  “That would be unwise. You are not a concubine yet.”

  Netya fidgeted anxiously as they went back inside. She wanted to begin searching the temple for Adel and Kiren, but now it seemed she was a captive until Eral sent for her. Perhaps if she left the high priest satisfied she could slip away and search the temple while its occupants slept. She had the talents and the experience to satisfy a man thoroughly, she knew, though it would be difficult to muster the enthusiasm for it. She worried suddenly that she might become pregnant like the concubine who wove the gowns if she had to stay here. It seemed unlikely, for in six years she had never conceived another child with Caspian after losing her first. That sadness was a strange comfort now, for she did not like the idea of raising any child other than her mate's. Still, she wanted to be sure. While it was not uncommon for Moon People to go many years without bearing children, the tales had always suggested that it became easier when they took Sun People as their lovers.