Chapter 6
The open pools of the Palace of Kemet caught the afternoon light like scattered jewels, their turquoise waters shimmering against white stone. Palm fronds whispered in the hot breeze, and the scent of lotus blossoms hung heavy in the air, sweet and almost oppressive.
Caius Zarnok reclined against the polished edge of the largest pool, his arms spread along the rim, his head tilted back as slender hands massaged oils into his skin.
The women surrounding him were beautiful.
Handpicked from the Great Royal Wife herself—princesses and noble daughters given as gifts, tributes, and bargaining chips.
They draped themselves across the pool's edge and through the water like ornaments, their laughter like tubular bells, their eyes trailing him, their prey.
"Lord Zarnok," one slurred, her fingers tracing the lines of his chest, "you are too still. Are you not enjoying the water?"
"On the contrary." His voice was low, smooth as aged wine. "I am enjoying it immensely."
His hair floated around him in the water—long and impossibly white against his tanned skin. When he opened his eyes, they caught the light and held it—stunning grey with a blue so pale they seemed almost otherworldly.
The youngest princess gasped softly. "My Lord, your eyes are beautiful, like those of a Djinn," she whispered to her companion.
Caius’s lips curved slightly, but he said nothing.
A servant approached the pool's edge, bearing a silver tray. Upon it lay a single folded letter, sealed with wax the colour of dried blood.
Caius lifted one hand from the pool, water sluicing down his arm, and took the letter. He broke the seal with his nail guards and unfolded it.
His eyes moved across the page.
The women watched him, their chatter falling silent. They knew better than to interrupt when a man of high standing read their correspondence.
A moment passed peacefully, chatter from the bustling city below rising.
Caius laughed. An enchanting, rich sound, warm as the sun on the water, yet somehow chilling in its genuine amusement.
"What is it, my Lord?" The princess who had called him a 'Djinn' found her courage first. "What amuses you so?"
He looked at her, and for a moment she forgot to breathe.
"I've heard something interesting," he said. "It seems the Great Khan has intentions of taking another bride."
The women erupted into laughter.
"The Great Khan of the Valthorne?" one echoed, her voice dripping with mockery. "Cursed of Ukhel?"
"Five bodies seemed not to satisfy him after all. They say the last one didn't even make it to the wedding night—she fell from her horse and broke her neck on the journey."
"Perhaps the horse was trying to save her," the youngest princess offered, and the others dissolved into giggles.
Caius watched them, his expression mild, his eyes still warm with amusement. He made no move to stop their mockery. Rather, he seemed to encourage it, his silence a permission slip for their cruelty.
"How long will this one last?" the first woman asked, settling more comfortably against the pool's edge. "I wager she doesn't reach the Steppes."
"A month," another offered. "She'll take one look at that disfigurement and drop dead of fright."
"Generous. I say two weeks."
"Three months if she's clever. Though what clever woman would agree to marry the Punishment of Ukhel?"
They placed their bets like courtiers at a cockfight, each prediction more creative and more vicious than the last.
Caius let them talk. He had learned long ago that women who felt clever were women who felt loyal, and loyal women were useful.
It was best they think his amusement stemmed from the same source as theirs—the absurdity of a cursed warlord seeking yet another bride to add to his collection of corpses.
When the laughter died down, he reached for the letter again, returning it to the silver tray.
"It seems my time in Kemet draws to a close," he said.
The women's faces fell collectively, a garden of wilting flowers.
"My lord~"
"You cannot possibly leave."
They cooed and surrounded him, hands wandering, bodies pressing up against him. Making him more compliant to their whims.
Caius raised one hand, and the protests ceased.
"The Great Khan takes a bride. I must return to the Steppes to welcome the new Khatun." He said it lightly, as though he couldn’t care less who sat beside the Valthorne Khan. "Protocol demands it. The Khanvaaris must be present to receive her."
The women exchanged glances. They knew better than to argue with Caius, seventh of the Khanvaaris, master of trade and information.
The Valthorne were not sentimental people. They did not pass power through bloodlines like the Borjigin or purchase it like the Bacchalians. They simply took it, kept it and proved every day they deserved to abuse it.
Eight seats.
Eight men.
Caius had held his for five years, and he intended to hold it considerably longer.
"When will you return?" the youngest princess asked, her voice small.
"Soon enough." Caius smiled, a charming devil. "The trade route must be established. I will miss you all dearly while I am gone."
Their faces softened, their pouts easing.
He turned his gaze away from them as his eyes drifted across the turquoise water toward the distant palace walls, and the warmth in his gaze cooled.
The Great Khan was taking another wife.
Five women sacrificed to Sisi's endless hunger, to her fear of what a true alliance might bring.
Five brides dead before they could give Ragnar what he truly needed—an heir to solidify his reign.
Though the Valthorne were a strength-based tribe, they were still in their first generation of men, who knew what the future held, especially if the Great Khan began his conquest across the main continent.
Caius's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The women around him, occupied with their own chatter, noticed nothing.
"Why is everywhere so quiet?" Azul asked as Borji walked into her room. She sat up upon hearing his footsteps and rested her back against the wall.
"Obiageli is sick, so no one is visiting the Ugoeze; they're congregating around her," he said as he dragged a wooden stool to sit beside her bedside.
"Who is Obiageli?"
"You wouldn’t have heard her name before; she's the Second Princess."
The Ugoeze's second daughter, a precious pearl in the hands of the Tribe. She had been sickly as a child and so never made public appearances, but every year, it was said that the Oracle of the Udamili would slaughter ten heavy cows and pray to Ani for good health on her behalf.
"Here. Food," Borji said gruffly.
Azul looked up at Borji through her lashes.
He scoffed. "It's from the kitchen; don't worry. You know I wouldn't poison you, right?"
She smiled and took the plate. "I know."
"Then why won't you eat anything I bring you personally?"
Azul shrugged, her shoulders barely moving beneath the heavy shawl. She was bedbound until she had the strength to move, so she planned to recover at leisure.
Or as leisurely as the palace allowed.
"If it's poisoned, it's harder to use it against the Ugoeze if it's from you. At least if the kitchen food is poisoned, it's under her jurisdiction."
Borji's eye twitched. "So it's not because you don't trust me, but because you'd rather die landing a killing blow to Imperial Mother?"
She nodded, stuffing her mouth with porridge.
"Then is it a good time to say it's not from the kitchen? I bought it from the market this morning since I knew you wouldn't eat it if I gave it to you." The words came running out of his mouth like a torrent as he quickly confessed everything at once.
She stopped mid-bite.
"Don’t be angry," he coaxed.
She remained still. For a second it seemed she might throw the plate at him, but instead she continued to chew the food in her mouth.
"It's delicious," she said finally. "Thank you."
Borji let out a breath.
"The market," Azul said, scraping the bowl clean. "Do they have skilled craftsmen there?"
"Some. Why?"
"If I wanted to commission something from a blacksmith, would it be possible? With silver?"
Borji's brow furrowed. "What kind of commission?"
"Just answer the question."
"Yes. There are smiths who take private commissions if the price is right. What are you planning?"
"Well—"
"What is that noise?" Borji asked, finally registering the hissing that seemed to come from beneath the sleeping platform.
Azul's ears perked up as a smile graced her features.
"A snake," Azul said.
Borji went pale. "What?"
"There's a snake under my bed."
"Why—" He stopped. "How did a snake get under your bed?"
"What's the gossip in the palace these days?"
"Don't change the subject—there's a snake close to my feet right now."
"I'm not changing the subject. I'm declining to answer. Now, gossip?"
"... Fine. What kind of gossip?"
"Anything interesting: politics, trade, war." She paused, her golden eyes meeting his.
"Rumours."
He thought for a moment, then something flickered across his face—panic—before he schooled his expression back to its usual charm.
Azul didn't miss it.
"There's news from the northern Steppes," Borji said slowly, as if watching his every word. "A warlord called Orda Naiman has been making quite a ruckus. His actions have displaced a great many people, and it's upsetting the tribes of the Grass Sea. Refugees are flooding west."
Azul's interest sharpened. "How long ago did this happen?"
"Perhaps half a year? Maybe more. News travels slowly from the Main Continent. The trade routes aren't secure enough for regular communication."
Azul mused, trying to recollect the little she knew. A warlord was a strange entity. Technically, they were tribe leaders, but they held no social standing amongst others. They conquered without care and caused great devastation.
Warlords had no allies—only enemies or servants. They enslaved without care and stole their wealth; they had no noble bloodline nor were they part of a large tribal banner by blood. That kind of life often meant an early death.
Warlords wedded slaves, not free women.