26. Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Caelan
T ravel weary, with sand and dirt in every crevasse of my armor, I entered the Palace of the Suns and received the news that my father desired no private audience with me. Lady Nahome was called to him instead to report on the mission I had commanded. I would be expected at court with the rest of the returning courtiers this afternoon.
With my temper high, I led Eave through the wide halls of white tile, marble and limestone to my suite.
My bedroom was dominated by a large bed with tall posts at each corner and a red velvet coverlet. A wardrobe held my clothes and a stand awaited my armor. The bedroom led into a sitting room with a narrow window that overlooked the walled garden below. On the side, a small chamber for a servant or a companion would now become Eave’s. It offered a small, hard bed.
I could tell from Eave’s reaction that she’d been in richly appointed rooms before. Her eyes weren’t wide and impressed, but steady and calculating, noting, no doubt, the width of the window and wondering about the drop.
“If you jump without a rope, you’ll break your back,” I informed her. “Not that I’ll give you a chance to try it. You won’t ever be in this room alone and unshackled.”
Eave blinked, pretending confusion. Her eyes flitted between the window and me, as if she were trying to guess at what I was talking about.
On the road, it had been easier to avoid thinking about what the actual fuck I was doing in bringing a traitor to court. Now that I was here, there was no denying that I’d made a very dangerous decision.
I should unclaim her. There was nothing stopping me from doing so. I should tell my father of her mark and allow him to torture her for information. For all I knew, she was still working with Tanead.
But I would never unclaim her, even though I sensed that a storm was blowing in from a far-off horizon. It was too far away to see now, but it was building, building, and the moment had already gone by in which I could save myself.
“We’ll be expected at court shortly. We’ll have to wash and dress.”
Eave nodded.
I indicated the small chamber that would be hers. “Go in there, please.”
Father be damned—I loved the little flutter that she made with her eyelashes before she obeyed and the indescribable thrill when she instantly bent to my will. I imagined those moments lengthening and growing in frequency. For now, it was only simple commands. But soon…
“Good girl.” Gooseflesh rose on my arms at the charge that passed through me when I said it. A quiver passed through her, too, which made my cock rise and my thoughts of court fly far away. “This will be your room. I’ll be back shortly.”
She opened her mouth to say something but I pulled the heavy door closed before she could. I locked her in. It would be more efficient to have a servant bathe her while I was gone, but I couldn’t trust Eave with that yet, nor could I trust a servant. At least she wasn’t chained in irons this time. She should thank me.
Would it be gratitude or anger I’d find in her eyes when I returned? Perhaps she’d look up, eager and expectant. Would her eyes beg for her release? Would they beg for something else?
Fuck, I couldn’t go see my mother with a hard cock, and that was my intended destination. I strode down the halls, willing my body to relax. But every time it began to, my mind would return to the image of Eave begging on her knees to be let out of the chamber. I forced my mind to think of something grotesque instead. Like the fact that my companion was a traitor.
Yes, that thought worked quite nicely to soften my arousal. I'd used it every night of the journey to keep myself from taking her. Each day it got more difficult. I didn't trust her and I didn't trust myself, but soon those worries wouldn't be enough to stop me.
My mother’s suite, which adjoined the garden my own balcony overlooked, was not far from my own. I reached her door and nodded at the guard outside. He was young. He lounged against the wall as I approached. Anger rose up, quickly quelled, for what use was it getting angry at something that simply was how it was, and had always been? My father expended little effort to protect my mother. He’d gotten a son off her, and that was enough. As his second wife, she merited even less attention than the first had. He gave most of his attention to his whores.
My mother opened the door herself, though a maid hovered in the background holding the draping silks that would provide her outfit's final layer. The empress was regal and radiant in the bright colors she chose. Silks light as air draped about her body in the style of the natives who’d owned this land long before Calathan the Conqueror took it from them. She wore red and gold—the royal colors, the colors of the suns. She shined as brightly. The deep black of her skin glowed with a healthy golden undertone. Her braided hair was swept up in a tower on top of her head.
“My son. You’re home.” Empress Vasiliki’s voice was husky and quiet. She always spoke slowly, as if she had nowhere to go. The smile she offered me was a ray of genuine sunlight in my father’s court of shadowed corners and falsehoods, but her hands were gnarled masses of scar tissue as they reached out to grasp mine.
“Mother. I’m pleased to be back.” I leaned in to plant a kiss on her cheek, suddenly over-conscious of the scent of the road on my skin.
“No, you’re not,” she teased. “You are a rogue who prefers the roads.”
I grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry to disturb you when you’re readying for court, but I need to borrow some clothes.”
She chuckled. The deep timbre of her laugh had comforted me as a child. As it so often did when I saw her after an absence, a memory surfaced of the night the Traitor’s army had come. Their torches made a sea of light outside our windows, so bright that it might as well have been day. They stretched as far back as the horizon.
I was five cycles old and I was afraid, but my mother was with me. She clutched me to her skirts, her hands pressed tightly to my cheeks. They were scarred already.
“They’re going to take me away!” I said. It was something I’d heard my father shout from his office.
“No,” my mother whispered. She kissed my head and smoothed my curls. “No, he’ll never let us go. He’ll never let us go.”
Her words comforted me that night, but as I grew, they took on new meaning. Had she tried to leave him? Was it for this crime that he’d burned her hands? I never knew.
“I’m not sure we’re the same size, my son.”
“Very funny. They’re for my new companion.”
My mother didn’t even blink at the news that I’d taken a companion. She opened the door wider to invite me inside.
“Leave us,” the empress told her maid. The girl bowed and disappeared into a door hidden behind a tapestry. She likely had a room there, connected to the empress’ chamber, ready to be called back with the slightest tinkling of a bell.
It occurred to me that if she could hear such a bell, she could also likely hear the words we spoke. Our privacy was an illusion.
“Is there a particular style of clothing you need?”
The fashion of the day was to wear many layers of thin silk fabric layered over each other as a display of wealth. But my mother was never one to follow the latest fashion. The dress she wore now featured few layers, had a high neckline and loose, draping silk. A belt at her waist accentuated her generous hips but didn’t draw overt attention to the curves of her aging body.
“Just whatever a companion would be expected to wear. But it must cover her back fully.”
My mother rose an eyebrow and I tried not to shuffle my feet. “She has scars,” I invented. It was almost the truth. The mark of the raven certainly suggested a scarred past. One I intended to discover.
“Of course,” my mother said tonelessly. I’d always admired how easily she seemed to keep her feelings to herself. She swept to her wardrobe and threw open the doors. Another empress might allow her servants to choose her clothes for her, but my mother embraced the few choices she was allowed. “Hmm. What is her coloring?”
“Olive-toned skin and black hair.”
My mother’s hands stilled on her silks. “A southern girl?”
“Her family comes from there,” I said, hoping it wasn’t a lie.
“Really? What’s her family name?”
Shame flooded me at not being sure, along with the sudden realization that my mother would only be the first of many to ask. I cleared my throat deliberately. “Samaras.” It was the name Eave had given me, a peasant's name, and I was sure it was a lie.
My mother pressed on as if she’d never asked her last question. “Some garbs are more traditional than others, of course, but ultimately a companion wears what pleases her master. What would please you, my son?”
It was a loaded question. It would please me to parade Eave around wearing nothing but a collar and a leash. I’d enjoy watching her cheeks flame with embarrassment as the eyes of all the court grazed her body. But none of them would touch her but me. She was mine .
My mother gracefully pretended not to notice my distraction, only nodding when I told her that I wished Eave to be dressed with subtle seduction and class, as befitted a woman on the arm of a prince.
The outfit she chose was perfect. The style was a blend of the traditional garb she preferred and the style more favored at court. Though she passed me many layers of silks, the differences in color between them was slight, so the effect of the layering would be subtle. The deep plum color would perfectly complement Eave's olive skin. The dress offered a collar that encircled the neck—her back would be completely covered—but a clinging skirt that would leave no question as to the purpose her body served in my bed.
“Thank you. I’ll have dresses made for her, of course, and return this to you.” If Eave looked as good in this as I thought she would, I’d model the others off of it.
My mother smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. It only made the lines around them more pronounced. Suddenly I noticed the silver strands that laced her braids, though she was only in her mid-forties. “You are a traditionalist, my son.”
I took the dress from her, careful not to mar it with my dirt-stained hands. “Why do you say that?”
My mother’s words came even more slowly than usual, picked as one might pick berries from a bowl that is mostly under-ripe. “There are several old traditions of your father’s house that have, in recent cycles, become markedly less popular. But you’ve taken to them. Being an austringer, for example. Now, taking a companion. Even her appearance and place of origin, as you describe them, mirror the tendencies of your ancestors.”
I frowned. “It’s traditional to take a southern woman as a companion?”
“It is. When the tradition was alive and well, it was mostly southern women who were chosen as companions by Havardian emperors and princes. Women from House Cythera, to be specific. They looked much like your companion, with dark hair and olive skin.”
“I’ve never heard that.”
“Well, companions aren’t often recorded, are they?” My mother smiled sadly. I wondered how she’d look if she smiled radiantly.
The last time I remembered seeing her wear a bright smile was when I was almost too young to remember at all. I was three cycles old, perhaps. She’d rolled around in the garden dirt with me, crushing herbs until they released their sweet and sharp scents. An action utterly unlike herself, uncaring about appearances or her clothes.
“Why did the Cytherans make such good companions?”
“I believe their temperaments…perhaps I might say proclivities…were a natural match for those of the Havards.”
I felt suddenly cold and pretended not to understand her meaning. “A natural match?”
“Yes. It is said they enjoyed the games Havards like to play in their bedrooms and dungeons. Such preferences run in the blood, it is believed. For many generations, it was said that Cytherans and Havards were made for each other.”
The empress looked at the floor and pressed her hands to smooth her dress. Not for the first time, I wondered why my father had married her. He’d already had his crown prince and heir by the time he wed her. Amon’s mother, my father’s first wife, had been a noblewoman of light-skinned northern blood, like the Havards. She’d died of disease shortly after Amon was born.
My mother was from the far east. Her family, House Hagos, ruled the Waste, a small territory in Vaharilar that was the last survivable place before the Endless Desert. They were a house with little power, but they boasted ancient royal blood. It was said that in the days before Calathan the Conqueror killed the last dragon, they’d ruled the east and battled the Tajawls for power in this land. Their house words were remnants of that time: “We Do Not Burn.”
When I was a child, my mother put me to bed with the old stories she’d grown up with. Tales of knights and brave women who stood against dragonfire and won. “The beasts doused them in flame, but all it did was burn away their clothes,” she’d said. The old tales were a source of pride for her house, though the magic had not been seen in untold generations. She was the only person I'd ever heard tell the tales like she believed in them.
My mother’s hands were proof she had none of such magic herself. But she did have pride—the pride of an empress and a Hagos. My father held little love for her, but she took her place beside his throne and held her head high all the same.
“But of course,” my mother said, “your companion can’t be Cytheran. They’re all dead now.”
Yes, the last Cytheran noblewoman was Cassandra Cythera, wife of Marcus Rosa, the Traitor. She and every member of her traitorous family had been executed alongside her husband.
I leaned forward and kissed my mother lightly on the cheek. “I won’t keep you. Thanks for the dress.”
“Caelan,” the empress called when I reached the door. “She’ll need a maid who can be trusted. I’ll send you someone.”
Gratitude filled me and I felt like a boy again, safe in his mother’s embrace. “Thank you.”
***
I bathed before releasing Eave from her room. When I opened the door, I was still naked and dripping water on the tiles.
Eave was lounging on the bed. On hearing the creak of the hinges, her eyes rose, fierce and glaring. But my nakedness threw her off. She blinked rapidly over those hypnotic green orbs of hers. Her eyes dropped from my face to my cock, which hung free below a tangle of hair.
“Your turn,” I said.
She recovered from her surprise and swept imperiously past me into my chambers. She removed her dirty clothes efficiently and sank with obvious pleasure into the fresh, hot water I had brought for her. Her eyes closed and she let out a deep, pleased sigh. Her knees and the peaks of her breasts were above the surface of the water. Those pink tips called to me. But I turned from them and began to dress in my formal caftan. Gold pants and a golden tunic lay beneath a red coat embroidered with golden thread. The colors marked me a prince. Only royalty was allowed to wear them.
“What’s your house name?” I asked Eave.
“Samaras,” she answered easily.
“Samaras is a laborer’s name. It is a fisherman’s name. I’ve never heard of a laborer or a fisherman who taught his daughter to read.”
“Have you known many laborers and fishermen?”
A long silence.
She sighed. “It was not my father who taught me to read. I was taught to read later, once I became a slave. It is useful for a Touched to read, in case she should ever need to record a prophecy.”
“Best hope the courtiers are more interested in the color of your eyes than in your humble name,” I said. “Get out. Let me see your wound.” My nerves about the imminent audience made me short.
I’d been diligent about cleaning the cut as we traveled, and I had the troop’s surgeon look at it. He’d given Eave a cream to spread on it and it was healing nicely. It would scar, a fact which didn't please me. I hadn't given it to her intentionally. The marks that would come later would be deliberate, and please me greatly.
My fingers fumbled on the clasps of the plum dress when the time came to help Eave with them. It wasn’t until after she was fully clothed, her tattoo hidden, that I called in a maid to dress her hair.
Eave’s eyes tracked me in the mirror as she held still to accept the braiding. I could not stop pacing.
“You’re nervous,” she observed.
I stopped moving.
“She’s ready, my prince,” the servant murmured, bowing as she spoke. She backed away as Eave rose and turned.
My mother’s dress was a little big on Eave, which meant the neckline yearned to dip. She would have to keep her shoulders high or the collar would bunch unattractively. But the color was just right, deep and rich, a perfect complement to her skin. Her hair had been braided tightly in a single braid down the back of her head, but a few tendrils had been left to curl gently around her dramatic cheekbones. She wore no makeup or adornments. Her eyes were bright, too big in her delicate face. The bruises left by Tanead’s fist were fading back to yellow, but they were still noticeable. I hoped they would not invite questions.
“Turn,” I said.
Eave obeyed. The dress was decidedly demure. It covered her whole back and flowed to the ground, but it was tight enough to accent the subtle curves of her body. Short loose sleeves ended above the elbows, revealing the skin of her arms. My mother had given me simple slippers to match, which were much too big.
“You’ll have to walk carefully. You are to stay on my left, not more than two steps away. You are not to leave my side at any time. If you need something, you may whisper in my ear. You are not to speak to anyone unless they ask you a direct question. You will keep your eyes downcast. Do you understand?”
My voice was gruff and commanding, hiding my reaction to her beauty. When I’d met her wearing Losian travel clothes, I’d thought her stunning. But silks and court finery had chiseled her like a diamond until she shined. I’d be surprised if every eye in the court room wasn’t drawn to her, which was the opposite of what I wanted. But there was no way to hide such natural beauty.
“Keep your eyes down,” I growled again. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
“Yes, my prince,” she said, mocking me in that damned husky voice of hers. But she cast her eyes down and followed me out of the room on my left, just a step away and slightly behind. Despite her overlarge slippers, she moved with grace, shuffling along the tiles with her hands clasped humbly before her. Baris took up a position flanking my other side.
“For a peasant, you seem to have an innate grasp of the trappings of nobility,” I said quietly. In the main palace, there were guards everywhere, stationed with even spacing through the hallways and outside important doors.
“I did spend cycles with another royal before you.”
I snorted, not rising to her bait. “Tanead’s not a royal. Did he ever dress you in finery and bring you to court? Does he even have a court?”
“Is such finery what makes a prince a prince? No. You’re more princely in battle than you are in these halls, Caelan.”
I glanced at her sharply. That was almost a compliment, and it sounded like she’d meant it.
***
I arrived at the double doors to the throne room and was announced.
“His honored Prince Caelan Havard, and his companion,” boomed out the announcer, silencing voices and turning heads. Though a companion was technically a slave, the position was still high enough to merit announcement. Meanwhile Baris remained unnamed, only a lowly guardsman.
We were not early, and the throne room was already full. Brilliantly colored silks assaulted the eyes while the blinding light of the suns shone through the vast arched windows. The room smelled already of the sweat that beaded on foreheads. Clusters of people stood in the corners where blessed shadows offered some relief from the glory of the Palace of the Suns.
Eave and I entered the room and a wave of bows greeted us. I wondered if they unsettled her; even after a lifetime, such deference still did not sit easy with me. I allowed the crowd to swallow me, hating the way my heart raced. I never experienced such anxiety with a sword in my hand. I felt suffocated and too hot. Through my slippers, I could feel the heat baked into the tiles.
I struggled to focus on the inane conversation around me. I found myself hoping my father would arrive soon, though I dreaded that, too, in its own way. Outside the vast windows, the city of Havard sprawled. If I looked down, I’d see the detritus of the homes that had collapsed in the quake.
“Master Mirac.” I greeted the minor nobleman with genuine pleasure when he approached, his cane a resounding click on the tiled floor. We'd spent a great deal of time together when I was young and still filled my time in the palace library, which he oversaw.
“Prince Caelan. How very pleased I am that you’re back.” His voice was mild enough but his eyes were alive with curiosity. They scanned Eave, failing to note her eyes, for she kept them downcast as I’d commanded. “Did you see the damage from the quake suffered in your absence?” His hand shook slightly as he raised his arm to point at my father’s throne.
The chair was made of solid gold, cushioned with yellow silk cushions. Historical triumphs had been sculpted into the metal. On the left, a dragon died. On the right, an eagle flew high and proud. But the glorious seat was not in its proper place on the dais. It had been moved to the left because of a crack that ran through the tile. The crack, which was no wider than my hand, descended into the room and disappeared under the feet of the courtiers.
“Is the palace stable?”
“Oh, yes. The Palace of the Suns is strongly built. The city suffered more damage, I’m afraid.”
“I saw on my ride in. I don’t remember a quake hitting us so badly before.” My eyes asked the question of the old librarian.
“Not since pre-Havardian times, I believe,” he answered. “I do hope you were successful in your travels.”
“Not as successful as we might have hoped,” I said, pitching my voice very low, so only the old man and Eave could hear. He was one of the few who knew of our mission, as I'd sought his council before I left.
Mirac’s forehead creased. “I see. It is good you’re back, my prince. Your empire has need of you.”
With that, he bowed his head curtly and clicked away into the crowd.
I took a deep breath and let it out. I enjoyed speaking to the librarian more than most, but I was sorry to have had to tell him I’d failed. I’d have to go see him later, somewhere we could speak more frankly. He might know something about the Ravager and Rider that Junaid had spoken of.
“Prince Caelan,” another voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned towards it, my polite expression ready, but the bearer of the voice sent a shock through me. My face momentarily fell before I corrected it.
Junaid’s son had the same eyes as his father. The irises were slitted, like a demon’s, though generations of intermarrying with humans had turned them blue. I’d never seen any horns—either on Junaid or his son—and I wasn’t close enough to ask if they no longer grew or were filed off in infancy.
Despite these genetic deficiencies, Lord Massriel had reportedly never had any trouble finding himself a woman to warm his bed. He was handsome, his strong jaw cut and his lips full. He wore his brown hair in braids that came to his chest. His roasted almond skin glowed with health and good humor. He executed a perfectly proper bow of his head while I stood before him sweating, trying to regain my equilibrium before the man whose father I’d killed.
“Lord Massriel. What a pleasure.”
“The pleasure and honor is mine, my prince. I am pleased to see you safely home.”
I lowered my eyes and allowed my guilt and sorrow to momentarily show through. “I am sorry your father could not join our party’s safe return.”
I raised my eyes to see Massriel studying me with an almost puzzled look on his face. Was it so unusual for a royal to show genuine remorse?
“As am I, of course. He was very fond of you and your brother.” At the mention of Junaid’s fondness for me, I felt sick. My heart thundered. There was a ringing in my ears and my skin felt overheated. Soon, I’d have to dab at the sweat on my brow.
“He was like an uncle to us.”
“He was a good man. You must come by my manor, Prince Caelan. There’s something he treasured that I’d like to give you.”
I smiled tightly. I had little knowledge of the lord before me. Massriel rarely left the Flesh to come to court. He’d largely been responsible for overseeing the territory while his father stayed in the capital to command the army. Massriel was known as a competent and fair man, if a bit serious. Under his care, the Flesh had become Vaharilar’s most prosperous territory.
But would Massriel remain loyal if he found out I’d killed his father with my own hand? Despite his house words, Junaid had not been loyal in the end. Was there any chance his son knew of his father’s reasons for trying to kill me?
“I’d be honored,” I lied. “The next time I pass by, I’ll be sure to stop.”
Trumpets ended the conversation. The double doors swung open. My father was here.