The Eunuch's Heir (12 page)

His escort shook his fists up at the trees, letting out a string of high-pitched invective. The hail of dates ceased, but the monkeys took up screeching instead. “Many pardons, Highness Wolfram. They are such filthy creatures.”

“Why on earth do you keep them if that’s what you think?”

“Only for holy needs.” He tried a smile.

Wolfram darted a glance his way. “Sacrifice?” he asked. “It’s all right. I lived with a people in my country who sacrifice for their spirits. They use birds, mostly.”

“Birds?” The man brightened. “This is of interest for me! Have you done this?”

“A few times.” He shrugged. “I’m better at adapting than Melody lets on.”

“Yes, yes.” Again the dark head bobbed. “But, many pardons, Highness. I am called Esfandiyar, and I am of the holy men here.” He touched the pendant at his chest. “This is my yard, and here is a room for you. It is not near your sister.” He saddened for a moment, as if in sympathy, then added, “But other things are better than sisters.” He made a grand gesture toward one of the arches that was draped by a curtain. Light came through the swirling pattern of the fabric, and Wolfram pushed it aside.

The chamber held little in the way of furniture. A few painted chests stood near the walls, with mirrors above to reflect the light of lanterns. Dark green silk draped the ceiling, with thick carpet on the floor softening the room. A cushion covered in striped material lay on top, with a pile of pillows and blankets of pale wool. Perched on top was a young woman, completely naked. She rose as they entered, lifting a goblet and carrying it forward, her eyes lowered. Her long, dark hair concealed her breasts and brushed along her hips as she moved.

“I thought men and women slept separately.”

“Yes, yes,” Esfandiyar replied, but his now-familiar fervor was tempered with warmth as he smiled at the woman. “Here is no woman, but my favored slave.”

Turning back to her, Wolfram said, “I can see why.”

She held out the goblet, still not looking at him.

“I think it is the hair that frightens her,” Esfandiyar explained, patting a hand on his own smooth cheek.

“My beard? I’ll shave it.” The last of his headache whispered away, as he took the goblet. “What’s this?” He sniffed its cloying sweetness.

“Rose wine. It is very special here.”

While parts of him were eager to surrender to the local customs, Wolfram held himself in check and offered the goblet to Esfandiyar. “Would you care for a sip?” he asked lightly, studying the other’s face.

The smile fled for a moment, and Esfandiyar made a slight bow. “Of course, Highness Wolfram.” He took a swallow of the drink. “You are indeed more than Highness Melody lets on.”

“It’s very useful to be underestimated.”

“Indeed, Highness Wolfram,” Esfandiyar returned, with a glint of gold. “I shall look forward to learning more of you.”

WOLFRAM AWOKE
in the light of a new dawn, almost sorry he had begged off the attentions of the slave girl. He felt wooed, as much as any bride by a prospective groom, and the thought made him leery of any aspect of their hospitality.

A whisper of movement made him roll over. Two slaves, both men, quietly arranged a basin and a few glinting silver trays on one of the chests by the opposite wall. Sunlight glowed red and purple through the patterned curtains, and he could hear the chatter of the monkeys in the courtyard. The two men bowed in his direction and left as silently as they had entered. A trail of steam rose from the basin, scented with oranges. Beside it lay a new set of clothes identical to those made for him on the ship. A suggestion to rise, evidently.

Wolfram slid to the edge of the bed and got up, steadying himself against a sudden wobble in his knees. He frowned, willing himself back in control. Some aftereffect of the wine, that was all. He crossed to the things laid out for him, and found the tray laden, not with food as he had hoped, but with all manner of combs and brushes, little pots of mysterious cosmetics, and a tall vial of oil. After rinsing his face and splashing his hair with the scented water, Wolfram took a few minutes to shave off his beard, a troublesome process, but with good results. The new clothes fit well, and he wondered if someone had made off with the other set during the night to use them as a pattern. He stretched and shook the sleep from his limbs, then pushed aside the curtain to see what the new day would bring him.

With a splat, a gob of something dark smacked the front of his tunic. Wolfram sprang aside from a second gob, taking cover behind a pair of pillars as the monkeys screeched out their laughter.

Esfandiyar, rising from his elephant-shaped stool, shouted high-pitched curses at the creatures. One landed lightly on the table he’d left and started rooting through the pastries of the breakfast he was evidently sharing with Faedre.

Wolfram started forward, but Faedre grabbed the monkey with one dark hand and gave it a swift shake before casting it aside into the bushes. She shook her hand as if to flick away the touch of it. She looked up to Wolfram, and her scowl eased into a slight smile as she bowed over her hands. “Good morning, Highness, I trust you slept well.”

“Yes, quite.” Wolfram slowed his pace to come up beside her table. A waiting servant hurried to bring over another stool. As Esfandiyar resumed his place, Wolfram realized that the monkeys had fallen silent, grouped in their treetops staring down with dark eyes. He caught the look that passed between the priest and priestess—the latter smiling a little more. The monkey she had cast aside lay at the base of a tree, unmoving.

“Will you have tea, or is there something you prefer?” Esfandiyar asked, offering a tall glass cup decorated with a filigree of silver.

The scented steam reminded Wolfram instantly of his great-grandmother, Duchess Elyn. She drank Terresan tea daily, as had his father. He wrinkled his nose. “Is this where that stuff comes from?” Wolfram eyed the breakfast laid out on the little table. One platter held stiff curls of pink and yellow—sweets, apparently—while another held fritters of shredded vegetables and the last small cakes topped with fruit. Not a piece of cheese in sight, nor any honeyed butter. Hesitantly, he took one of the cakes and took a bite. He quickly downed it and reached for another.

His companions nodded their approval, and began helping themselves again.

“How is Melody this morning?” Wolfram asked.

“I have not seen her yet, Highness.” Faedre laughed lightly. “Her mother, too, liked to lie abed in the mornings.”

“Is the women’s quarter very far from here?”

“Not far.” She sipped her tea, watching him over the rim. “You do not trust us, Prince Wolfram. Or is it simply me that you do not trust?”

“Your customs are strange to me, and it is my duty to look after my sister.”

“Is it now?” She nodded and took another sip. “She is fortunate to have such a good brother.” Her smile gave nothing away.

“Most of her time, of course, has been with Alyn, who is so holy and good that it disgusts both of us. So I do what I can, without becoming that overbearing.” Wolfram popped a pink thing into his mouth and crunched into it.

“I have never met Prince Alyn,” Faedre said, leaning forward in her interest, her breasts pressing the purple fabric of her draped gown. “I gather that he is very different from yourself and his sister.”

“Quite.” Wolfram cleaned his teeth with his tongue, trying to dispel the sticky sweetness of whatever he’d just eaten. “For one thing, he’s pale as a star. He sees visions, speaks to the Lady, and spends his days in contemplation or study. He’s always going off here or there to heed the voices, saving starving peasants or bringing the word of Finistrel to a new land, like he is now.” He took a long, grateful swallow of golden liquid and found it to be a light mead. “Perhaps he should have come here.”

Esfandiyar choked on a swallow of tea and sputtered as the servant fussed around him, but Faedre laughed. She stretched an arm in a long gesture encompassing all the palace and their land beyond. “For six thousand years, we have been here, cultivating this place. The oldest rooms in this palace are older than that race of savages who still run in your forests. We do not seem to be out of favor with our own gods just yet.”

Wolfram’s jaw tightened as he thought of Morra’s face. “What about the war?” Cold claws pricked at his spine.

Her shoulders straightened, and she replied, “There is that, but we do have means to ease our suffering.”

“My—” my mother, he had been about to say, but stopped himself. “My neighbors in Lochalyn do not seem to agree with your assessment.”

“It shall all be handled shortly.” Her slender smile widened a touch. “In fact, I shall cross the sea to that country as a spiritual leader to our people there.”

Something niggled at the back of Wolfram’s memory; some part of one of Lyssa’s stories touching on the subject of her brother’s mistress. Lyssa had never been very forthcoming about Orie’s role in the recapture of the throne of Lochalyn, and it had not struck him before as something he should know. Now, every omission in the history drew his attention. Did it conceal another lie? “Not to keep harping on the subject,” he began with a smile, “but when may I be reunited with my sister?”

“I had thought we were getting to know one another, Prince Wolfram. But as you wish.” She rose, resettling her pendant between her breasts.

Still silent, Esfandiyar rose as well, motioning for the servants to clear their meal. He ushered his guests before him back into the shade of the corridor. As they passed, Wolfram noticed the still form of the monkey Faedre had cast aside. A few flies buzzed around the creature’s open eyes. Esfandiyar jerked his head to call the attention of one of the servants. Catching Wolfram’s eyes, he grinned his golden grin, but the expression was that of a man whose breakfast had not entirely agreed with him.

Once in the halls of the vast palace, Faedre glided alongside Wolfram, leading only by subtle indications of which direction they should turn. “As a foreigner, and a man, you should be always before me.”

“Not very practical for strangers, is it?” Wolfram looked around in quick glances, noting the turnings and openings around him. They passed the courtyard where Faedre’s “pet” tiger lived, revealed by day as a large space of thick vines and trees. Crimson and turquoise birds flitted in the green
ery, calling out to one another. The party turned along a different side of the yard, and Wolfram watched Faedre’s gaze caressing the trees. She would not want to be far from her pet, so the women’s quarter must open off one side of this yard. Smiling to himself, Wolfram eyed the doors across the way.

“It is one of the concessions women must make here, but living apart from men makes certain things easier.” She flicked a glance up to be sure she had his attention. “Certain things, a woman would not reveal about another woman.”

Wolfram felt the warm shiver of her gaze, even as she turned it demurely aside. “I would have thought your taboos would work against you, even there.”

“Do not forget, Prince Wolfram, that I have lived among other people. I may not be so bound as the women who have never left the Quarter.”

“Never?”

“Some girls are born in the birthing chamber and taken to nurses within the Quarter. There, they are raised among other women only. If the Jeshan should desire one of them, she would be brought to a shared chamber. Outside of such rooms, a man may not even touch his wife.”

“You seem to have the run of the place.”

“It is my duty now to be hostess for the Jeshan’s foreign visitors because I have lived among them.” She made a slight gesture to a new passage, and they turned again, climbing a long flight of steps up toward the glaring sun.

“Will we get to meet this Jeshan?”

Again, she laughed. “No, I should not think so. Even for kings, he rarely shows himself. Unless you intend to be a troublesome guest, Prince Wolfram?”

“I’ll try not to be.” He hoped the demon would leave him alone for a long time.

From the dazzling sunlight at the top of the stairs, a voice called out, “Wolfie! Isn’t it marvelous! Is it not the most fantastic place you’ve ever seen?” Melody gave him a swift embrace and pulled away to study him. Today she wore loose-wrapped scarves that barely passed for clothing
and made him long to forsake his fraternal vows to unwrap them.

“Well, yes, I suppose.” He took her hand in his, but she pulled away.

“Oh, no. You’re not to touch me, Wolfie, if we’re to live as our hosts do.”

“Why would I want to do that?” he griped, but trailed along after her as she ran for Faedre’s side, taking her hand instead of his own.

Just as the paving in the courtyards changed with the age of the construction, so, too, the rooftops were a jumble of styles from sharply peaked to domed to low, tiled structures, all of them packed together as if someone had built a city without streets or alleys. Frequent yards punctured the uneven plain. Beyond the palace walls stretched cultivated fields, with herds of goats and plows pulled by huge oxen. More trees sprouted in the courtyards of the palace than outside it, although the hazy distance showed green mountains. He saw neither rivers nor lakes, nor any gleam of water. They must have deep wells, among the trees, perhaps. The road led back through teeming villages, and Wolfram could spy the glint of the distant ocean.

The stairs had brought them out at the base of the only tower—a slender spire rising at least ten stories into the sky. Each level was marked by a frill of decorative carving, and black letters of inlaid stone writhed upon its gleaming white surface. It blossomed into a dome, and Wolfram strained his neck trying to see the highest levels.

He had never been comfortable in high places and the thought of climbing the building made his stomach roll. Fortunately, the tower had no door that he could see, although windows pierced it occasionally after the second level. Placed at intervals around the tower, long lines of inlaid tile radiated out, punctuated by blocks decorated with strange figures.

“We have brought you, Highnesses, to our most holy place,” Esfandiyar told them. “Here before you is the Tower of Ayel.”

“Beneath it,” Faedre said, moving up beside him, “is a cavern of equal size which is the Womb of Jonsha.”

“The tower shall bring us, through His power, up into the skies.”

“The womb shall bring us, through Her mystery, down into the earth.”

Their two voices took on the intonation of holy office suddenly, and the two faced each other. “Only those most holy may enter here,” Faedre said.

“Only those most pure may serve the Two as they would have it,” Esfandiyar replied. Both leaned forward and their lips met in a brief, passionless kiss.

Drawing apart, they faced the tower in silence. Wolfram stepped a little closer to Melody. Faedre was nobody’s idea of a priestess, nor of purity. Her mystery indeed.

Melody took no notice of the irony, if she saw it, but whispered instead, “Doesn’t it make sense? Man and woman together creating the universe.”

Almost of its own accord, Wolfram’s hand made a circle before him, invoking the Goddess. “The power of creation belongs to woman, to the Lady, as it should be.”

“Don’t you know how to make a baby, Wolfram?”

Wolfram flushed, and Melody turned sharply away, her arms slipping to cross beneath her breasts. Shutting his eyes, Wolfram took a deep breath and let it out slow.

Wolfram sighed. He stood watching the still figures of Faedre and Esfandiyar as they performed some silent worship. “Don’t be distant with me, Melody, you’re all I know here.”

“I’m simply not sure how much we know each other, that’s all,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“How will we know anything if we cannot speak freely with each other?”

She turned to peer at him. “There is that, I suppose.” She stroked a palm over her forehead, and Wolfram thought for a moment that she had flamed as tellingly as he. “I do not think I could get used to this sun.”

“Nor I. I prefer the shade, and plenty of trees.”

“Woodman that you are,” she said, stretching and turning as if facing him again were purely accidental.

As if their brief spat had loosed some unknown tension, the two figures before them suddenly relaxed, and they turned, sharing a smile.

“Forgive us,” Faedre said. “This is a private worship we perform twice daily.” She tilted her head to draw them forward. “Come and I shall show you a secret.”

A sliver of the whiteness detached itself by the base of the tower, resolving into a small figure—the strange girl they had seen last night. A servant carrying a huge basket went before her strewing leaves that released a pungent odor when the girl’s feet touched them.

Melody leaned to Wolfram’s ear. “That’s Deishima, Faedre’s acolyte, I guess you’d say. Faedre’s taught her our language, but she hardly speaks, not to the likes of me, anyhow. I think she is a daughter of the Jeshan, and thus above all the rest of us. She’s only been outside the Quarter three times before we came, can you imagine?”