Xenium
First published in Elf Love, Pink Narcissus Press, 2011.
In Cardominia, they say many things about my homeland. An arctic wasteland devoid of light, where the kingdoms are made of ice, and where the people are pale and silvery like snow foxes, able to change their skins at will. They call us devils and perhaps there is the truth in those words.
Cardominia: The Immortal City. City of shadows and mirrors. City of whores.
My arrival at the Immortal City was greeted by ink birds whose queer laments mimicked the laughter of children. Cloud-thick flocks threaded through the jutting spires of the palace, dropping oily feathers in the wake of their invisible tapestry, returning to nest as daylight waned. The nests were shallow oval bowls, intricately woven with stolen scraps of yarn, twigs of beech, and long stalks of yellow grass, suspended in the branches of the trees that lined the uphill road of the open market in the heart of the city. They were precious, these bowls constructed by the dargum birds. Within the vulgar flotsam they wove tiny flowers plucked from the highest crags of the white mountains, inaccessible to all but the dargum. Only during the conjunction of the two moons could the bowls be cultivated by the pristine white-gloved hands of children. The resulting rare brew of bird’s nest tea was a powerful aphrodisiac that prolonged the imbiber’s life.
Such was the nonsense believed by the inhabitants of Cardominia.
As we moved like ghosts through the patterned streets under the wafting feather rain towards the palace, my Quirtal guide turned and followed my gaze to the vermillion branches of the trees. It had been difficult finding a guide fluent in both Cardominian and Verhallian, yet a relief to discover that my guide was not the loquacious sort. Only later did I comprehend that the halfbreed’s silence was due to lack of linguistic skill. The Quirtal did indeed speak both languages, but poorly.
Among the branches, brightly colored scraps of paper dangled, creating an effect of festive gaiety. Although I had encountered the dargum nests in my studies, I had found no mention of this particular custom. I gestured at the paper leaves waving in the breeze. “What purpose have they?”
“Cozen write prayer. Celebrate the Saban. The Saban thousand year.”
After near five decads of travel, I had learned to interpret the Quirtal’s peculiar mangling of my native tongue. Cozen – a Quirtal word, which meant unholy, venerable, ancestor and master, all in one. The Cardominians were always cozen. And their ruler, the Saban – if I were to believe the deceptive halfbreed – was a thousand years old.
For the Quirtal, the Verhallians were also cozen.
I adjusted the collar of my robe with my good hand. “The Saban? What know you of the Saban?”
Wrapped bodily in thin silk, only the Quirtal’s eyes were visible, two dark caverns in a patch of sand-colored skin. Confusion flashed in them before the Quirtal spoke again, this time with uncertainty. “Saban cozen.”
The snow fox fur collar prickled against my neck. Adjusting it again, I stifled the urge to cuff the creature. The halfbreed had done no wrong, but the unrelenting heat made me irritable and my temper short. In truth, I would learn all I needed to know about the Saban as soon as we reached the palace.
“Never mind,” I muttered. “Lead on.”
...
Beyond the gate of bleached bone the crystalline turrets of the palace sliced the deepening sky. At the gate I was expected, and relieved of my guide. Without a word, the guards – if that is what they were – collected my baggage and ushered me inside.
I was blinded by an explosion of green in the courtyard, the musky rust of ripened fruit under the relentless sun, trees alive with the twitter of small brightly-hued birds. Among the shadows, small feline creatures prowled, unfurling long tails as we passed. In the distance, the trickle of harp-string water plucked the stones.
The courtyard – like Cardominia itself – blazed and dazzled the senses with a cacophony of colors, scents, and sounds. Even the shadows seemed bursting with life. It was chaos.
A shaded path led through another gate into the palace proper. Corridors twisted, lit with burning oil, smoky and pungent, in suspended shells. Light through windows of colored glass checkered the stone floor worn smooth by centuries of scuffling feet. Cleverly rendered flowered vines uncoiled across the walls, sheltering a menagerie of painted birds. As we turned a corner, blue flowers became crimson, then white.
In the hall of white flowers, I was brought to a cool and opulent room. Bowing, the guards retreated. I barely had time to recognize the Cardominian version of a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk before a bevy of servants swooped to attend.
I assumed they were servants. They may have been slaves. Unlike in Verhall, Cardominian society was based on caste, from royal court down to the slaves. Even worse, unlike the Verhallians, the Cardominians believed that gender determined fate. On such an inconsequential detail as this were half the people of Cardominia subjugated due to the misfortune of being born the wrong sex. And of those, the most infamous were the hakami – pitiful creatures who lived cloistered, whose only purpose was to provide sexual pleasure to the court.
On such an inconsequential detail would Cardominia be destroyed.
Oblivious to their fate, the servants made their offerings of comfort: water for washing, clothing of silk, golden platters of food, and pitchers of drink. Elegant hands danced, weaving conversations in air. To each, I refused politely, but for the drink. A painted goblet offered, with wine fruity, crisp, and pale, shockingly cold against my teeth. Hands covered amused smiles. Until now, I had never seen a Cardominian up close, and I contemplated them as openly as they did me. The last Verhallian to reach the city had come over two hundred Turnings ago. I would be the first Verhallian they had seen. Unless there was truth in the rumor that Cardominians were immortal.
I had barely finished the wine when another silk-clad servant appeared, with a request in my tongue to follow for an audience with the Saban.
A waiting hand took the goblet, another my hat. Smoothing back my hair, I went to fulfill my duty: to speak with, to observe, and to judge the Saban.
...
Sheets of pale citrine glass filtered the light in the throne room. Water from an unseen source bubbled up below a dais. Beyond the dais, upon a throne seemingly cut from a solid block of rose quartz veined with crimson, sat the Saban.
The Saban was similar to the other Cardominians I had seen. Layered silk draped long, delicate limbs. Skin the color of sun-kissed amber. Gossamer strands of ebon hair floated unfettered about a comely, finely-boned face, but for two thin braids woven with ribbons and pearls tucked behind each long, delicately pointed ear. The only difference was that the Saban’s slanting eyes, dark as night, were imbued with cobwebs of ancient intrigue.
At my approach, the Saban raised one thin hand so heavily laden with gold rings that it seemed an effort. This gesture of peace was accompanied by a benevolent greeting. “I welcome you, serah, to the city of Cardominia.”
I could scarcely contain my surprise. “The Saban speaks Verhallian?”
A smile played upon the gold-dusted lips. “It amused Ser Nika to teach me. Like you, serah, Ser Nika came as an ambassador from your lands. Though that was many Turnings ago.” The Saban paused. “I don’t suppose that you, serah, speak our language?”
Verhallian flowed easily past the ruler’s lips, and the usage of the honorific suggested great knowledge of my culture. Impossible to believe, however, that Nika – the last Verhallian to visit the city so many Turnings ago – had taught the Saban personally. Yet I, too, using the writings of Ser Nika, knew much of Cardominian culture, and responded in a befitting manner. “I claim no mastery in Cardominian, Saban.”
The Saban made a small, fluttery gesture. “It is of no importance. It is rare that we have the opportunity to practice our Verhallian.” The Saban indicated the advisers flanking the throne, each garbed in elaborate robes of plum and white. “Counselor Cadhla and Counselor Ailin are both familiar with your tongue, and are at your disposal.”
“The Saban is too kind.”
The one named Ailin spoke in a Verhallian no less eloquent than the ruler’s own. “No doubt you are tired from your long journey, ambassador. We have no wish to tire you further, however we have two questions.”
I nodded.
“The letter was unclear about your intentions, ambassador. In order to arrange the appropriate entertainments, we wish to know the length of your stay.”
“I will only impose on the hospitality of the Saban for a decad.”
Ailin spoke with surprise. “Only a decad? It seems little time after such a journey.”
“I must return before the season turns,” I said, and it was true, for winter travel through my homeland was – at best – a dangerous affair. Unfortunately, reaching Cardominia had taken longer than anticipated. But then, I couldn’t have anticipated the difficulty of traversing the desert. The ubiquitous sand had ground the gears of the carriage into dust, and we had continued on beast, abandoning the empty metal hull to the elements.
Cadhla spoke in turn. “We know our ways are different than your own, ambassador. But if there is some need you have, or some desire you wish fulfilled, as our guest we will do all we can to honor your requests.” Cadhla drew breath. “Is there anything you desire, serah?”
“Yes, Counselor,” I said. “I wish to see the hakarum.”
I had asked the impossible. Only the Saban’s inner court were permitted into the private sanctum of the hakami. To all others, it was forbidden. Cadhla startled.
The Saban, however, raised that heavy, golden hand. “Cadhla – please escort the ambassador to the hakarum.”
...
In that infamous collection of writings, Nika had often remarked on the “uncontrolled decadence and harmony” of Cardominian architecture. Seeing the pillars in the hakarum recalled this phrase to mind. Decorative rather than functional, a dozen imposing towers encircled with intricate diaglyphs extended from polished floor to distant ceiling. Lithe figures seemed at the point of drawing breath, life-like in every detail excepting their monstrous genitalia. From some, arm-length phalluses sprung, straining up against the pull of gravity, while others bore swollen, gaping clefts, equally exaggerated. Briefly I wondered what it must be like for the hakami to live among these images which served as a poignant reminder to the purpose of their existence. It seemed cruel.
Yet the expressions of those figures were so serene that I could not easily dismiss them. Grotesque, yes, but beautifully wrought, and this beauty was reflected in every detail of the hakarum, creating a harmonious whole.
Besides the pillars, there were pools painted blue, and silken cushions arranged artfully under the shade of glossy-leaved trees. A soft breeze redolent with the sweet scent of fruit brought relief from the heat. In this idyllic setting lived the hakami.
Our entrance unnoticed, I glimpsed the assemblage in an unguarded moment. At least I believed it unguarded – upon leaving the throne room, Counselor Cadhla had led me here directly. It seemed unlikely that such a scene could have been created in such little time solely for my benefit.
The hakami were dressed in diaphanous silks skillfully constructed to reveal and hide their golden skin with every languid movement. Their hair was long, black and glistening like the dargum feathers which rained in the streets, either oiled and loose or else coiled up like confections. Each obsidian-eyed face was unblemished perfection. In truth, despite the differences between our races, they were not so dissimilar from the beautiful youths often seen in the gathering atriums of Verhall.
After a moment, the hakami became aware of our presence. They regarded me curiously. Then each of them, having completed their silent assessment, returned to their activities: bathing in a pool, lounging in the shade, conversing, or reading.
Surprised by the last, I turned to Cadhla. “You educate the hakami?”
“Of course.”
I had not expected that slaves would be taught to read. “Why?”
“An uneducated life is not worth living,” Cadhla said, then added, “It is also a pleasant way to pass the time. The hakami have few obligations. Most of their time is spent here. Reading is one way they amuse themselves. They like stories.” Cadhla smiled. “The hakam in the Saban’s favor at the moment also writes stories. They are very entertaining.”
I wondered what sort of stories a slave could write. “Does this hakam have a name?”
“Cricket.”
“And the others?”
Cadhla gestured around the room, naming the hakami. All of them had strange, absurd little names more suited to pets than to people: Lake, River, Butterfly, Grasshopper, Oriel, Nightingale, Sparrow, Moonbeam, and Starlight. The Saban’s favorite – the storyteller – was not present.
Casting about, my eye fell on a pair of hakami, deeply involved over a board littered with small, iridescent pebbles. “What are they doing?”
“Ah. They are playing Stones. A simple game to learn, but it requires much strategy.”
For a moment I observed as the pieces were moved in what seemed a random manner. Pebbles and fingers danced across the board, exchanging places: dark stones for light, light for dark. Intrigued, I agreed to Cadhla’s offer to teach me the game.
Without lifting their gazes, the hakami watched us. I felt like an intruder. Yet I lingered. “Where do they sleep?”
“They have private rooms for sleeping.”
The counselor offered to show me. Thus we walked through the grotesque pillars, the shaded recesses, the blooming vines, to where the hakami slept.
We reached a threshold. Before us was an alcove, small but curtained with embroidered silk, a sumptuous bed and other furnishings. The room was occupied. The hakam’s back – half-exposed, slender, straight – was to us. A cascade of ebon hair was twisted in the golden hand, the nails painted with a purple lacquer so dark it appeared black. In the mirror of the vanity, our eyes met.
My heart ceased to beat.
I had never seen a creature more exquisite. Darkly lashed black eyes drew me in, and yet, at the same time, pinned me where I stood. Beside me Cadhla spoke, but I could not comprehend the soft guttural sounds, lost as I was in those twin pools of night.
The hand twitched. The hair fell. And yet, the thread of our gazes – tangible, tenuous – remained entangled. I could sense the counselor’s discomfort, but I was unable to tear my eyes from the mirror. I was captured, captivated and crushed by the gaze of the hakam.
Cadhla barked a brittle-sharp command. The hakam turned with a demure reply. Liberated, I could breathe again. Stiffly adjusting my collar, I looked at Cadhla. “Do any of the hakam speak Verhallian?”
“Not to my knowledge, no. If you wish to speak to one of the hakam, Ailin or myself could translate for you.”
“Your offer is kind. I would like to speak to this one.”
Cadhla startled again. Curious. Somewhat flushed, the counselor stammered, “Well... we... I would need permission from the Saban.”
“Permission? Why?”
“Because of this hakam’s status.” Seeing that I did not understand, Cadhla added, “This is Cricket. The favored hakam of the Saban.”
...
Each night I was presented with a plethora of delights.
In the theater hall the denizens of the palace gathered. Each night there was an abundance of food and wine, though no dish appeared twice. Each night, at the chime of the tower clock the lights dimmed as the entertainments began. And each night I was given the honor of sitting at the Saban’s right hand, which afforded the opportunity to converse.
On the third night, the entertainments included a stage play with elaborate mechanical toys in place of living actors, another with shadow puppets, followed by an ensemble of exotic instruments cut from gourds and strung with gut. On the previous nights, there had been other music, other plays, a magic show, and – of particular interest – a group of chytik singers who sing not with words, but make a humming sound deep in the throat, a different note performed by each voice.
In the lull between performances, the Saban turned to me. “Does it not please you, serah?”
A familiar question. I had sat through all of the royal delights unmoved. That these delights were strange and beautiful was of no import. I would not be seduced from my mission. However, my attempts to sway the Saban to the proper mode of thinking had borne no fruit. The Cardominians were resistant to change, and on the subject of slavery, we were at an impasse. Discouraged, my response, though polite, was cold. “We have such entertainments in Verhall, only not quite so excessive.”
Ancient eyes dissected me as neatly as the magician’s assistant had been last night by the magic box, as a cupbearer replenished the jeweled goblet in the Saban’s hand. “Tell me of Verhall.”
The demand caught me off guard. “Certainly Ser Nika told you of Verhall.”
“Have things not changed?”
In two hundred Turnings, progress had marched Verhall forward, and made us powerful. Whisperings of our strength had scattered across the world by the same method as my letter had arrived, carried by half-blood nomad tribes. “What do you wish to know?”
“I would like to see this ice kingdom of yours. Describe it to me.”
I mulled over this request. To put it in terms that the Saban could understand would be like explaining daylight to someone who had spent their life in the dark. There were two seasons in Verhall, and thus two visions. In winter, from a distance, Verhall was a jagged rock of stars. In summer, it appeared white as the landscape surrounding it. Not because the city was made of ice, but because it was constructed mainly of pale stone and glass. Yet there was color within the white. The light refracted from the icy mountains and from deep within the Mare Maica glacier danced like prismatic ghosts against the expanse of blue sky. To the East rose the Dinti Balu – a large outcropping of black lava rock whose name meant Dragon’s Teeth. To a Cardominian, I imagined that such a place would be bleak. “It is cold, Saban. Always covered in snow. Little grows.”
To this the Saban expressed curiosity about the means of our survival. I spoke of ancient times. How once, small-tribed, my ancestors survived by fishing through the ice, diets supplemented with meat from beasts and what sparse vegetation could be scavenged, mostly edible grasses, berries, and bark. Now many foodstuffs were grown inside special houses heated – as were dwellings – by machines powered with steam.
The Saban asked many questions about our machines. I dissembled by claiming no expertise on their function, such were their complexity. Some, I said, were powered by steam, others by clockwork mechanisms, similar to those in the play we had just seen.
The Saban sat, still as a portrait but for one amber finger tracing the rim of the goblet. “And you use these machines for war?”
My hesitation was perhaps too telling, my reply too glib. “We have war machines, yes.”
“And your people would bring their war machines here, ambassador?”
The Saban’s eyes were as black and cold as the Dinti Balu on a winter’s night, and despite the heat, I shivered.
I had been trained how to answer questions such as these. “I doubt that they could traverse the desert,” I replied diplomatically, and recounted my tribulations with the carriage.
To say that my words put the Saban at ease would be misleading. Yet there was an imperceptible shift in the ruler’s composure. “I would have liked to see this carriage,” the Saban decided and then spoke no more, as the lights had dimmed again.
After the dance, the Saban returned to our earlier conversation. “Tell me, serah, of your people. I have seen few. Do they all look like you?”
I smiled at the innocent sound of the question. “Some are thinner or fatter, shorter or taller, but yes. More or less.”
“Taller?” The Saban seemed amused. “To us, you are rather tall, serah. Tell me, do you have family?”
I had no siblings to speak of, so to satisfy the Saban’s curiosity, I spoke of my parents: their names, their occupations, their pastimes. When I finished, the Saban brooded quietly for a spell.
I was concerned that I had unintentionally disrupted protocol and offended my host. “You look thoughtful, Saban.”
The ruler’s expression lightened, dispelling my concern. “Yes. I was thinking that I find your language very strange,” the Saban admitted. “Is it true that you have no words for mathair or pathair? I presume you are familiar with these words?”
Indeed, I found Cardominian very odd for the fact that they employed unique words meant to distinguish one parent’s gender from the other’s. All Verhallians were equal – there was no need to make distinctions. I told the Saban so.
“You have no distinctions at all between the sexes?”
“There are words, Saban – male and female – but they are used only three times at most, and only for record-keeping. For each individual, they are recorded once at birth, once at death, and usually once more when choosing a permanent mate. But they are not used otherwise.”
Speaking aloud those clinical-sounding words – male and female – left a repulsive taste in my mouth. Verhallian is a much simpler language, and far less convoluted than Cardominian. To refer to someone of either sex in the third person, there is only one word, erah. A different form of it, serah, could be used as a polite ‘you.’ In Cardominian, not only the pronouns but also all other forms of speech indicated the gender of the subject.
A famous Verhallian writer had once remarked that language could either shape reality or become a prison.
Which was doubly the case in Cardominia.
“I see, serah,” said the Saban, looking thoughtful again. “Do you have a mate?”
I plucked at my robe’s collar to keep from touching the visible tips of the scars that had stolen that possibility from me many Turnings ago, and smiled politely. “No, Saban, I do not.”
...
It had a curious effect on me, that question of the Saban’s. In the days which dripped by like icicle drops at the season’s turn, I would catch my reflection in a multitude of mirrors and not avert my eyes as I had before. In Verhall, we do not tolerate imperfection. Before my journey, I had imagined that the Cardominians, worshipers of beauty, would also be repulsed by my deformity, yet this was not the case. Only later from Cadhla did I learn that the Cardominians fancied the scar jagging down my face a deliberate mark like a tribal tattoo.
Ten Turnings had passed since the accident in the workshop. I still dreamed of the burning metal which had carved a river of blood in my flesh, slashing tendon and chipping bone. Left with only partial use of my right hand, I had abandoned my childhood dream of becoming Grand Mechanist. Disfigured by hideous scars, I had fled to the isolated safety of the library. It was there I had built a new path, cobbled by knowledge.
As the Saban’s honored guest, my every whim was fulfilled but one. My request to speak to the hakam called Cricket had been refused, a vague excuse proffered. Nor had I spied the storyteller again, despite the time I frittered away in the hakarum. My days were my own, and I was free to do as I pleased. Usually I took on Cadhla or Ailin as guide to explore the city, or as interpreter when I questioned the hakami. Although I knew Cardominian well enough to have no need of them, feigning ignorance was part of the obligatory charade – such is the task of the spy. Ailin was of nervous disposition and tight-lipped, so I preferred the company of Cadhla, who had taught me to play Stones, which I considered an agreeable way to pass an afternoon.
One afternoon, however, I found myself wandering the labyrinthine halls of the palace and, following a trail of purple-flowered vines, turned down a corridor previously unexplored, and came upon a garden.
From my studies, I had learned that most religions possessed a primal garden. In our mythos, the Primal Garden was the seat of creation of the First One – a perfect being, without gender. Having tasted of the forbidden fruit, the Gods punished the First One by dividing it into two beings, each a different sex, and casting them into an icy abyss. It had been prophesied long ago that only once our people had attained our original perfection would the gates of the fruitful garden unlock again.
The scene before me evoked this image. Sun splashed down into the heady efflorescence, all tasted of green, while leaping koi rippled the center pool. Beside the pool, trailing long fingers languidly through the water, lay a heart-fluttering vision. Long black hair spiraled over the grass. The silken robes had slipped, revealing a tantalizing amount of perfect golden skin that stirred my blood.
I lurched forward, a ravenous beast ready to pounce on such tender prey.
As if sensing the danger, the hakam leaped like a gazelle, both hands gathering the silken robes to cover flesh, and fled.
I gave chase. I did not know what my intentions were, I only knew that this hakam had been purposefully concealed from me. I suspected that I had stumbled upon a secret to which Cricket was the key.
I pursued the hakam through several twists in the corridors. I raced down a turn, then another turn, and then around a third I pulled up short.
The corridors branched off in a myriad of directions like the spokes of a wheel. I stood in the center of the hub. Cricket had disappeared.
The pondering of my predicament was interrupted as voices floated down from a different hall.
I glimpsed three figures in plum and white. Instinctively I retreated back to the edge of the hub to better conceal myself and listened.
They spoke in hushed Cardominian. Two voices I recognized. A cautious glance confirmed that the counselors were huddled in a circle, whispering to the Vizier of the Saban.
A voice floated down the hall. Ailin. “– would resolve our problem.”
The Vizier, cool and calculating. “– you propose we accomplish –”
There were unintelligible mutterings for some time. I strained to catch the words. “– always poison.”
Cadhla’s voice was an audible hiss. “You fool! Do you think that the ice devils will not send their war machines against us if their ambassador does not return?”
I barely heard the arguments which followed. I must admit that their talk of treachery chilled my blood. I sank back against the wall, my thoughts spinning without arriving anywhere, like a carriage wheel in the sand. The voices continued, as though each were a chytik singer, holding one single tone: Ailin angry, the Vizier calculating, Cadhla defensive, then, eventually, resigned.
There was irony in this. I had been thinking it a rash impulse to flee the palace when Cadhla’s resistance broke. Cadhla, who had smiled apologetically when winning at Stones in those long afternoons in my chambers. The barb of betrayal jabbed deep.
I leaned in to better listen to their plotting and noticed that I was not alone in the hall.
At the corner of another branch of the hub, hidden as I was, crouched the hakam. I did not know how my earlier prey had eluded me. Perhaps the hakam had circled around the hub by means of some secret passage. Nor did I know how long the hakam had stood there, watching me eavesdrop on the nefarious triad.
If each of us were to have reached out an arm, our fingers would have touched. And yet, were I to cross the space between us, I would expose myself to the intriguists mere paces down the hall.
Cricket shifted, lifting a hand and filtering it through the gossamer strands of hair, a flash of gold against black. Dark eyes stabbed me into a thrall. Then, the hakam’s gaze swung towards the others before returning to me with a conspiratorial look that spoke a thousand words.
A sudden noise, a sharp metallic clang like a dropped platter, startled us both. The mutterings ceased. Into the silence the surge of the tread of footfalls approaching. And each of us – the plotters, the Verhallian and the whore – turned in a different direction and, like fresh snow below the gust of the Northern wind, scattered.
...
The days were spiders, creeping stealthily past, the nights the same, unrestrained farrago of color, chaos and ephemeral delights. On this night, the octad of my visit, the delights were even more so, a goodwill gesture to the other honored guests from the East, a delegation of Yintara of whom I knew little beyond that they were of close blood-relate to the Cardominians, and who specialized in trade. I was too distracted to care about the Yintara. At the right hand of the Saban, I brooded.
It was not long before the Saban perceived my mood. “Why such a lugubrious expression, serah?”
In the days since I had overheard the advisers in the hall, I had slept poorly, though it was meager consequence of my decision to remain. A foolish risk, perhaps, but I refused to succumb to cowardice. Still, with each sip of wine and each morsel of sustenance that passed my lips, through my head flitted the ghastly notion that it could be my last, and that I would expire, gasping on the floor, as my insides liquified. And yet, there had been no attempt on my life. The only possible explanation I could find was that Cricket – having the Saban’s ear – was somehow responsible for my safety.
Despite this, the cause of my brooding was another: the hakami. “I admit... they seem happy.”
No cloud crossed the Saban’s face. “You speak as if you disapprove of happiness.”
During sleepless nights, I had asked myself which was better: Happiness in slavery? Or misery in freedom? Yet the answer was irrelevant. To press the import of the matter, I spoke too freely. “I implore you, Saban. You must change your ways or Verhall will destroy you.”
To my pronouncement, there was only the barest of flickers. The response, when it came, bore the usual insouciance I had come to expect from the Saban. “Tell me, ambassador. If the roles were reversed, if an invader came to your homeland and demanded that you change your ways, would your people capitulate?”
I gave the Saban’s question my utmost consideration. “No, we would fight for what is right.”
“And how do you define what is right?”
“We know what it is, that is all.”
“Why? Are you perhaps closer to the gods than other beings? Have they shared some secrets with your people?”
I paused again to consider. “The gods have nothing to do with it.”
The Saban’s smile was condescending. “Do you not see, ambassador? Are you not a god, the chosen one sent to judge – and with that judgment, control the fate of an entire people?”
This time, I found I had no answer.
Chimes and mellifluous trills conflated, wafting butterfly light through the air, as drum skins skimmed my bones, announcing the next delight. Yet, when the Saban descended upon me me like a liquid serpent, I was rapt. The words of the Saban echoed intimately in my ear. “Burdened are the shoulders that bear a mantle so heavy.”
A strange, melancholy understanding passed between us as I felt the stifling weight of the Saban’s words and the world on my shoulders. Ever desperate, I pressed. “I cannot believe, Saban, that you could be so indifferent to the fate of your people that you would not lie to save them.”
The music swelled, but my gaze remained fixed on the Saban. I waited, hopeful. In the midnight eyes of the Saban, a dangerous scintilla blossomed. “And I cannot believe that you wear your mantle with ease. Tell me, serah, could you destroy a thing of such beauty?”
With my gaze I followed the Saban’s indicating fingers to where the clan of the Yintara clustered, encircled by lightly-stepping hakami. The dancing hakami were clouded in layers of the finest silks, jingling with chains and bells, their faces adorned with silver dust and paint. And, in the center, I spied Cricket, feeding bits of fruit to the Yintara leader, golden hand dripping juice. As I watched, the Yintara seized Cricket by the wrist to draw the golden hand closer, and licked the sticky fingers.
Something violent slithered, hissing and clawing, deep within my soul. My heart hammered painfully in my chest. My skin grew cold. My insides twisted, and I wondered if perhaps the advisers had not poisoned me after all.
I could breathe again only once the music died and the hakami whirled out of sight, as though spirited away on the fading notes of the flutes. I met the Saban’s gaze.
Indifferent, polite, the Saban repeated the usual inquiry. “Did the entertainments not please you this evening, serah?”
I could barely dredge up my reply, much less the courtesy required. “Not very much, Saban.”
“I see.” Hints of arcane secrets curled the Saban’s lips. “In that case, serah, for your final night, we shall arrange something I am certain will delight you.”
...
I was resigned to set aside my personal feelings and to face my final evening in Cardominia in all its decadence and pomp with all the diplomatic aplomb I possessed. I had done all I could to convince the Saban of the error of Cardominian ways. History would judge me god or demon for what I had to do, and though it was my duty to condemn, my conscience, stained by so much beauty, sat uneasily within me.
I had once believed it meaningful to leave a mark of my mortal life. Yet there was no longer pleasure in the thought that I would be remembered in Verhallian history books, for in Cardominia there would be no more books, nor history, nor people.
Except that on the final night, instead of accompanying me to the theater hall, servants conveyed a light supper to my room and drew a bath while I dined alone. Silently and efficiently they attended me, whisking away the empty plates before leading me into the bathing chamber. Once I had been stripped and scrubbed, the servants withdrew, leaving me to soak in the hot, perfumed water, a delicate cup of porcelain on a gold-rimmed saucer set within reach.
Along with the cup, there was a wide, shallow brewing pot, green-glazed and cumbersome. Curious, I lifted the lid to peer inside. Nestled within the steaming brew I discovered a clump of organic matter composed mostly of twigs. A dargum nest.
The scent of this tea most rare was spicy, intoxicating and rich – cinnamon-sweet but with peppery fire, streaming pale grassy yellow as I tipped spout over cup. Because of its rarity, it was a precious gift indeed, and a great honor to receive.
I did not believe the bird’s nest tea possessed those peculiar properties claimed by the Cardominians, that it was both aphrodisiac and magical elixir of life, yet, once I had brought the cup to my lips, I hesitated to drink. Fear of poison I would have said then if asked, for the plot still troubled my thoughts, yet the truth was different. For a moment, I believed.
The tea was slightly bitter and sharp, but it left a pleasant, velvety aftertaste, lingering in my mouth even as I stepped out of the bathing chamber, fully dressed but for my fox-fur, rubbing a drying cloth vigorously over my wet head with my good hand.
My heart staggered when I discovered Cricket in my bed.
I was immobile as an ice sculpture as Cricket nimbly slithered to the edge and then stood in the penumbra, reaching for a clasp. The clasp undone, the silks slipped down in a single motion, like a sheet of water, gliding to puddle at the hakam’s feet. Naked at the edge of the bed, the hakam pivoted with a soft smile, waiting with open arms.
I ravished Cricket with my eyes. Hungry, I devoured every inch of golden skin, following each curve, each dimple, each long and lissome limb. Thirsty, I drank in the hollow of the throat, the jut of delicate bones, the spiderweb thread of the cascading hair. What I felt, there is no word to describe it in Verhallian. It was not merely lust, but rather as if an invisible thread were tugging at my insides, drawing me to the waiting arms of the hakam.
Cricket’s skin was strangely cool and smooth below my hands, mouth eager and tasting of honey. My senses did not return until I was already on my back on the bed, and Cricket’s hands sliding beneath my shirt, soft breath and tongue in my ear. For all I knew, someone had sent the hakam to do me harm, and I had unwittingly seized the bait in the trap.
I pushed the hakam away. Confusion and hurt was in the dark eyes as Cricket gazed down upon me. “Do I not please you?”
The soft, guttural hush of Cardominian washed over my skin, spiking my blood. The hakam spoke no Verhallian. Vexed, I remained silent.
Cricket studied me, then smiled softly. “You do understand me, don’t you, white fox?”
The words were a taunt, both playful and disrespectful. My expression must have betrayed me, for the hakam’s smile became knowing.
“Did you not know? All the hakami call you ‘the white fox.’ We are like chickens in the coop, waiting to be snatched up by your hungry teeth.”
I opened my mouth to protest before I realized my error.
A warm chuckle resonated deep in Cricket’s throat. “Ah, you do understand me. But do not worry, white fox. I have told no one. Not even the Saban.”
Too late for pretense, I relinquished the facade. I had learned the language only from books, so my Cardominian came out stilted, flat, and halting, the words tasting unnatural and ashy in my mouth. “I do not understand you at all.”
“Is there something to understand?”
I posed the same question I had used with the other hakami. “Do you not want to be free?”
I had yet to receive anything other than incomprehension – real or feigned, I did not know. Yet Cricket became pensive, then smiled down at me and unfolded this tale:
“There once was a land, a wild desert of rock carved by the sun. And in this land, there came a people, drawn to the pulse of the land, people who thrived on the sun. With great magics, it is said, the people called the rock from the earth which became their buildings and streets, and water from the earth to slake their thirst, and animals and plants to nourish their bodies, minds and hearts. And yet, the life in their blood was too strong, and the people, relying on the great magics for all their needs, had no reason to work and soon became restless, and the boredom drove them to strife. The strife escalated until blood filled the streets and the people stood on the border of war.
“It seemed inevitable that the people would destroy themselves, but one had the courage to stand forth and unite them all under one rule. They called this one the Saban. The Saban believed that the people relied too much on the great magics, and they had no purpose in life. Without purpose, life was meaningless. Thus it was decided that the people would set the magics aside and everyone would be given a new role. Some would become rulers, others merchants, some would be servants, others slaves.
“Of the slaves, the most beautiful and skilled were chosen to serve in the hakarum of the Saban. They were happy, because they were well-treated and their purpose was to please. Yet, they are curious, too. One day, a stranger arrived from an exotic land, sent to condemn and destroy the people who thrived on the sun. But although this task made the stranger unhappy, the stranger was not allowed to save the people, or take pleasure in their delights, or to love them. The stranger had a role to fill, a Verhallian role, one that did not permit the heart to interfere.
“When the stranger came to the hakarum, a hakam named Cricket felt a strange, new emotion. Cricket begged permission, but the Saban refused to give the hakam’s body to the stranger. But the Saban could not control Cricket’s heart. The hakam was free to love anyone, to even love the mysterious white fox, if only in heart and not body. But the Saban relented and permitted the hakam to come to the white fox for just one night.”
As the words wove, mesmerizing like a spell, Cricket’s fingers deftly trailed out the story through my clothing – opening clasps, unwinding sashes, freeing buttons, unlatching buckles. By the end of the tale there was nothing but air between us. Cricket leaned down and sighed softly against my lips. “Do I please you now, white fox?”
The white fox snatched up the chicken in its hungry teeth, and near dawn slept, curled up in its fur, sated.
...
I had slept little, but my body was vibrating down to my bones as I walked briskly to the throne room. I could feel the rush of blood in my veins, and the life pulsating within me, and I wondered, briefly, if the dargum nest tea had not been a magical elixir after all, or if this sensation were merely an aftereffect of one evanescent night spent with the hakam.
My formal farewell to the Saban was my final obligation. My baggage already packed, it waited at the front gate of the palace with my halfbreed guide.
In the throne room, I was presented with a similar tableau for my departure as for my arrival. The Saban perched regally on the crimson-veined crystal throne, flanked by the counselors in their plum-colored robes – only one detail was different. At the feet of the Saban’s throne, wearing the usual revealing silks, sat Cricket.
Even now I was so enraptured by the hakam’s presence that I scarcely heard the lengthy ceremonial speeches intoned by the counselors, and I fumbled my reply, though I managed to retain the minimal dignity required.
Once protocol was satisfied, I bowed to Ailin and Cadhla both.
The final word belonged to the Saban. “It is a custom among our people, ambassador, to offer a parting gift. The more important the guest, the more precious the gift. As we consider you a most important guest, I offer you my most valuable possession.” The Saban paused to smile. “You may refuse, of course. In fact, Ser Nika, turned it down. However, in your case, I suspect you will have no such objections. Ser Nika already had a mate, and foresaw problems of returning to Verhall in the company of a hakam.”
My breath caught in my throat. “You are offering to give me a hakam?”
The Saban’s hand descended to caress the hair of the hakam at the foot of the throne. “Cricket is my most valuable possession,” the Saban said. “And yet, I feel there is value in letting Cricket go. No Cardominian has ever visited Verhall. Were you to show Cricket to your people, it may be of benefit to us both.”
I looked at the hakam whose gaze had never strayed from mine.
I thought of Cricket’s story about the hakam who had fallen in love at first sight with the stranger from Verhall in an exchange of glances in the mirror, who then overcame many obstacles to spend only one passionate night together.
Such were the romances written by the people of Cardominia. I knew them all well. Ser Nika had recorded those, too.
I believed none of it.
But this time it did not matter if I believed it or not.
I bowed to the Saban, and spoke in my halting Cardominian. “Yes, Saban, I will do that,” I said, and here I faltered over an unfamiliar word – one of those words which did not exist in Verhallian, a word whose concept did not even exist – and yet, when I spoke it, looking upon the smiling face of the hakam, it did not feel strange at all.
“Prepare him.”
Cardominia: The Immortal City. City of shadows and mirrors. City of whores.
My arrival at the Immortal City was greeted by ink birds whose queer laments mimicked the laughter of children. Cloud-thick flocks threaded through the jutting spires of the palace, dropping oily feathers in the wake of their invisible tapestry, returning to nest as daylight waned. The nests were shallow oval bowls, intricately woven with stolen scraps of yarn, twigs of beech, and long stalks of yellow grass, suspended in the branches of the trees that lined the uphill road of the open market in the heart of the city. They were precious, these bowls constructed by the dargum birds. Within the vulgar flotsam they wove tiny flowers plucked from the highest crags of the white mountains, inaccessible to all but the dargum. Only during the conjunction of the two moons could the bowls be cultivated by the pristine white-gloved hands of children. The resulting rare brew of bird’s nest tea was a powerful aphrodisiac that prolonged the imbiber’s life.
Such was the nonsense believed by the inhabitants of Cardominia.
As we moved like ghosts through the patterned streets under the wafting feather rain towards the palace, my Quirtal guide turned and followed my gaze to the vermillion branches of the trees. It had been difficult finding a guide fluent in both Cardominian and Verhallian, yet a relief to discover that my guide was not the loquacious sort. Only later did I comprehend that the halfbreed’s silence was due to lack of linguistic skill. The Quirtal did indeed speak both languages, but poorly.
Among the branches, brightly colored scraps of paper dangled, creating an effect of festive gaiety. Although I had encountered the dargum nests in my studies, I had found no mention of this particular custom. I gestured at the paper leaves waving in the breeze. “What purpose have they?”
“Cozen write prayer. Celebrate the Saban. The Saban thousand year.”
After near five decads of travel, I had learned to interpret the Quirtal’s peculiar mangling of my native tongue. Cozen – a Quirtal word, which meant unholy, venerable, ancestor and master, all in one. The Cardominians were always cozen. And their ruler, the Saban – if I were to believe the deceptive halfbreed – was a thousand years old.
For the Quirtal, the Verhallians were also cozen.
I adjusted the collar of my robe with my good hand. “The Saban? What know you of the Saban?”
Wrapped bodily in thin silk, only the Quirtal’s eyes were visible, two dark caverns in a patch of sand-colored skin. Confusion flashed in them before the Quirtal spoke again, this time with uncertainty. “Saban cozen.”
The snow fox fur collar prickled against my neck. Adjusting it again, I stifled the urge to cuff the creature. The halfbreed had done no wrong, but the unrelenting heat made me irritable and my temper short. In truth, I would learn all I needed to know about the Saban as soon as we reached the palace.
“Never mind,” I muttered. “Lead on.”
...
Beyond the gate of bleached bone the crystalline turrets of the palace sliced the deepening sky. At the gate I was expected, and relieved of my guide. Without a word, the guards – if that is what they were – collected my baggage and ushered me inside.
I was blinded by an explosion of green in the courtyard, the musky rust of ripened fruit under the relentless sun, trees alive with the twitter of small brightly-hued birds. Among the shadows, small feline creatures prowled, unfurling long tails as we passed. In the distance, the trickle of harp-string water plucked the stones.
The courtyard – like Cardominia itself – blazed and dazzled the senses with a cacophony of colors, scents, and sounds. Even the shadows seemed bursting with life. It was chaos.
A shaded path led through another gate into the palace proper. Corridors twisted, lit with burning oil, smoky and pungent, in suspended shells. Light through windows of colored glass checkered the stone floor worn smooth by centuries of scuffling feet. Cleverly rendered flowered vines uncoiled across the walls, sheltering a menagerie of painted birds. As we turned a corner, blue flowers became crimson, then white.
In the hall of white flowers, I was brought to a cool and opulent room. Bowing, the guards retreated. I barely had time to recognize the Cardominian version of a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk before a bevy of servants swooped to attend.
I assumed they were servants. They may have been slaves. Unlike in Verhall, Cardominian society was based on caste, from royal court down to the slaves. Even worse, unlike the Verhallians, the Cardominians believed that gender determined fate. On such an inconsequential detail as this were half the people of Cardominia subjugated due to the misfortune of being born the wrong sex. And of those, the most infamous were the hakami – pitiful creatures who lived cloistered, whose only purpose was to provide sexual pleasure to the court.
On such an inconsequential detail would Cardominia be destroyed.
Oblivious to their fate, the servants made their offerings of comfort: water for washing, clothing of silk, golden platters of food, and pitchers of drink. Elegant hands danced, weaving conversations in air. To each, I refused politely, but for the drink. A painted goblet offered, with wine fruity, crisp, and pale, shockingly cold against my teeth. Hands covered amused smiles. Until now, I had never seen a Cardominian up close, and I contemplated them as openly as they did me. The last Verhallian to reach the city had come over two hundred Turnings ago. I would be the first Verhallian they had seen. Unless there was truth in the rumor that Cardominians were immortal.
I had barely finished the wine when another silk-clad servant appeared, with a request in my tongue to follow for an audience with the Saban.
A waiting hand took the goblet, another my hat. Smoothing back my hair, I went to fulfill my duty: to speak with, to observe, and to judge the Saban.
...
Sheets of pale citrine glass filtered the light in the throne room. Water from an unseen source bubbled up below a dais. Beyond the dais, upon a throne seemingly cut from a solid block of rose quartz veined with crimson, sat the Saban.
The Saban was similar to the other Cardominians I had seen. Layered silk draped long, delicate limbs. Skin the color of sun-kissed amber. Gossamer strands of ebon hair floated unfettered about a comely, finely-boned face, but for two thin braids woven with ribbons and pearls tucked behind each long, delicately pointed ear. The only difference was that the Saban’s slanting eyes, dark as night, were imbued with cobwebs of ancient intrigue.
At my approach, the Saban raised one thin hand so heavily laden with gold rings that it seemed an effort. This gesture of peace was accompanied by a benevolent greeting. “I welcome you, serah, to the city of Cardominia.”
I could scarcely contain my surprise. “The Saban speaks Verhallian?”
A smile played upon the gold-dusted lips. “It amused Ser Nika to teach me. Like you, serah, Ser Nika came as an ambassador from your lands. Though that was many Turnings ago.” The Saban paused. “I don’t suppose that you, serah, speak our language?”
Verhallian flowed easily past the ruler’s lips, and the usage of the honorific suggested great knowledge of my culture. Impossible to believe, however, that Nika – the last Verhallian to visit the city so many Turnings ago – had taught the Saban personally. Yet I, too, using the writings of Ser Nika, knew much of Cardominian culture, and responded in a befitting manner. “I claim no mastery in Cardominian, Saban.”
The Saban made a small, fluttery gesture. “It is of no importance. It is rare that we have the opportunity to practice our Verhallian.” The Saban indicated the advisers flanking the throne, each garbed in elaborate robes of plum and white. “Counselor Cadhla and Counselor Ailin are both familiar with your tongue, and are at your disposal.”
“The Saban is too kind.”
The one named Ailin spoke in a Verhallian no less eloquent than the ruler’s own. “No doubt you are tired from your long journey, ambassador. We have no wish to tire you further, however we have two questions.”
I nodded.
“The letter was unclear about your intentions, ambassador. In order to arrange the appropriate entertainments, we wish to know the length of your stay.”
“I will only impose on the hospitality of the Saban for a decad.”
Ailin spoke with surprise. “Only a decad? It seems little time after such a journey.”
“I must return before the season turns,” I said, and it was true, for winter travel through my homeland was – at best – a dangerous affair. Unfortunately, reaching Cardominia had taken longer than anticipated. But then, I couldn’t have anticipated the difficulty of traversing the desert. The ubiquitous sand had ground the gears of the carriage into dust, and we had continued on beast, abandoning the empty metal hull to the elements.
Cadhla spoke in turn. “We know our ways are different than your own, ambassador. But if there is some need you have, or some desire you wish fulfilled, as our guest we will do all we can to honor your requests.” Cadhla drew breath. “Is there anything you desire, serah?”
“Yes, Counselor,” I said. “I wish to see the hakarum.”
I had asked the impossible. Only the Saban’s inner court were permitted into the private sanctum of the hakami. To all others, it was forbidden. Cadhla startled.
The Saban, however, raised that heavy, golden hand. “Cadhla – please escort the ambassador to the hakarum.”
...
In that infamous collection of writings, Nika had often remarked on the “uncontrolled decadence and harmony” of Cardominian architecture. Seeing the pillars in the hakarum recalled this phrase to mind. Decorative rather than functional, a dozen imposing towers encircled with intricate diaglyphs extended from polished floor to distant ceiling. Lithe figures seemed at the point of drawing breath, life-like in every detail excepting their monstrous genitalia. From some, arm-length phalluses sprung, straining up against the pull of gravity, while others bore swollen, gaping clefts, equally exaggerated. Briefly I wondered what it must be like for the hakami to live among these images which served as a poignant reminder to the purpose of their existence. It seemed cruel.
Yet the expressions of those figures were so serene that I could not easily dismiss them. Grotesque, yes, but beautifully wrought, and this beauty was reflected in every detail of the hakarum, creating a harmonious whole.
Besides the pillars, there were pools painted blue, and silken cushions arranged artfully under the shade of glossy-leaved trees. A soft breeze redolent with the sweet scent of fruit brought relief from the heat. In this idyllic setting lived the hakami.
Our entrance unnoticed, I glimpsed the assemblage in an unguarded moment. At least I believed it unguarded – upon leaving the throne room, Counselor Cadhla had led me here directly. It seemed unlikely that such a scene could have been created in such little time solely for my benefit.
The hakami were dressed in diaphanous silks skillfully constructed to reveal and hide their golden skin with every languid movement. Their hair was long, black and glistening like the dargum feathers which rained in the streets, either oiled and loose or else coiled up like confections. Each obsidian-eyed face was unblemished perfection. In truth, despite the differences between our races, they were not so dissimilar from the beautiful youths often seen in the gathering atriums of Verhall.
After a moment, the hakami became aware of our presence. They regarded me curiously. Then each of them, having completed their silent assessment, returned to their activities: bathing in a pool, lounging in the shade, conversing, or reading.
Surprised by the last, I turned to Cadhla. “You educate the hakami?”
“Of course.”
I had not expected that slaves would be taught to read. “Why?”
“An uneducated life is not worth living,” Cadhla said, then added, “It is also a pleasant way to pass the time. The hakami have few obligations. Most of their time is spent here. Reading is one way they amuse themselves. They like stories.” Cadhla smiled. “The hakam in the Saban’s favor at the moment also writes stories. They are very entertaining.”
I wondered what sort of stories a slave could write. “Does this hakam have a name?”
“Cricket.”
“And the others?”
Cadhla gestured around the room, naming the hakami. All of them had strange, absurd little names more suited to pets than to people: Lake, River, Butterfly, Grasshopper, Oriel, Nightingale, Sparrow, Moonbeam, and Starlight. The Saban’s favorite – the storyteller – was not present.
Casting about, my eye fell on a pair of hakami, deeply involved over a board littered with small, iridescent pebbles. “What are they doing?”
“Ah. They are playing Stones. A simple game to learn, but it requires much strategy.”
For a moment I observed as the pieces were moved in what seemed a random manner. Pebbles and fingers danced across the board, exchanging places: dark stones for light, light for dark. Intrigued, I agreed to Cadhla’s offer to teach me the game.
Without lifting their gazes, the hakami watched us. I felt like an intruder. Yet I lingered. “Where do they sleep?”
“They have private rooms for sleeping.”
The counselor offered to show me. Thus we walked through the grotesque pillars, the shaded recesses, the blooming vines, to where the hakami slept.
We reached a threshold. Before us was an alcove, small but curtained with embroidered silk, a sumptuous bed and other furnishings. The room was occupied. The hakam’s back – half-exposed, slender, straight – was to us. A cascade of ebon hair was twisted in the golden hand, the nails painted with a purple lacquer so dark it appeared black. In the mirror of the vanity, our eyes met.
My heart ceased to beat.
I had never seen a creature more exquisite. Darkly lashed black eyes drew me in, and yet, at the same time, pinned me where I stood. Beside me Cadhla spoke, but I could not comprehend the soft guttural sounds, lost as I was in those twin pools of night.
The hand twitched. The hair fell. And yet, the thread of our gazes – tangible, tenuous – remained entangled. I could sense the counselor’s discomfort, but I was unable to tear my eyes from the mirror. I was captured, captivated and crushed by the gaze of the hakam.
Cadhla barked a brittle-sharp command. The hakam turned with a demure reply. Liberated, I could breathe again. Stiffly adjusting my collar, I looked at Cadhla. “Do any of the hakam speak Verhallian?”
“Not to my knowledge, no. If you wish to speak to one of the hakam, Ailin or myself could translate for you.”
“Your offer is kind. I would like to speak to this one.”
Cadhla startled again. Curious. Somewhat flushed, the counselor stammered, “Well... we... I would need permission from the Saban.”
“Permission? Why?”
“Because of this hakam’s status.” Seeing that I did not understand, Cadhla added, “This is Cricket. The favored hakam of the Saban.”
...
Each night I was presented with a plethora of delights.
In the theater hall the denizens of the palace gathered. Each night there was an abundance of food and wine, though no dish appeared twice. Each night, at the chime of the tower clock the lights dimmed as the entertainments began. And each night I was given the honor of sitting at the Saban’s right hand, which afforded the opportunity to converse.
On the third night, the entertainments included a stage play with elaborate mechanical toys in place of living actors, another with shadow puppets, followed by an ensemble of exotic instruments cut from gourds and strung with gut. On the previous nights, there had been other music, other plays, a magic show, and – of particular interest – a group of chytik singers who sing not with words, but make a humming sound deep in the throat, a different note performed by each voice.
In the lull between performances, the Saban turned to me. “Does it not please you, serah?”
A familiar question. I had sat through all of the royal delights unmoved. That these delights were strange and beautiful was of no import. I would not be seduced from my mission. However, my attempts to sway the Saban to the proper mode of thinking had borne no fruit. The Cardominians were resistant to change, and on the subject of slavery, we were at an impasse. Discouraged, my response, though polite, was cold. “We have such entertainments in Verhall, only not quite so excessive.”
Ancient eyes dissected me as neatly as the magician’s assistant had been last night by the magic box, as a cupbearer replenished the jeweled goblet in the Saban’s hand. “Tell me of Verhall.”
The demand caught me off guard. “Certainly Ser Nika told you of Verhall.”
“Have things not changed?”
In two hundred Turnings, progress had marched Verhall forward, and made us powerful. Whisperings of our strength had scattered across the world by the same method as my letter had arrived, carried by half-blood nomad tribes. “What do you wish to know?”
“I would like to see this ice kingdom of yours. Describe it to me.”
I mulled over this request. To put it in terms that the Saban could understand would be like explaining daylight to someone who had spent their life in the dark. There were two seasons in Verhall, and thus two visions. In winter, from a distance, Verhall was a jagged rock of stars. In summer, it appeared white as the landscape surrounding it. Not because the city was made of ice, but because it was constructed mainly of pale stone and glass. Yet there was color within the white. The light refracted from the icy mountains and from deep within the Mare Maica glacier danced like prismatic ghosts against the expanse of blue sky. To the East rose the Dinti Balu – a large outcropping of black lava rock whose name meant Dragon’s Teeth. To a Cardominian, I imagined that such a place would be bleak. “It is cold, Saban. Always covered in snow. Little grows.”
To this the Saban expressed curiosity about the means of our survival. I spoke of ancient times. How once, small-tribed, my ancestors survived by fishing through the ice, diets supplemented with meat from beasts and what sparse vegetation could be scavenged, mostly edible grasses, berries, and bark. Now many foodstuffs were grown inside special houses heated – as were dwellings – by machines powered with steam.
The Saban asked many questions about our machines. I dissembled by claiming no expertise on their function, such were their complexity. Some, I said, were powered by steam, others by clockwork mechanisms, similar to those in the play we had just seen.
The Saban sat, still as a portrait but for one amber finger tracing the rim of the goblet. “And you use these machines for war?”
My hesitation was perhaps too telling, my reply too glib. “We have war machines, yes.”
“And your people would bring their war machines here, ambassador?”
The Saban’s eyes were as black and cold as the Dinti Balu on a winter’s night, and despite the heat, I shivered.
I had been trained how to answer questions such as these. “I doubt that they could traverse the desert,” I replied diplomatically, and recounted my tribulations with the carriage.
To say that my words put the Saban at ease would be misleading. Yet there was an imperceptible shift in the ruler’s composure. “I would have liked to see this carriage,” the Saban decided and then spoke no more, as the lights had dimmed again.
After the dance, the Saban returned to our earlier conversation. “Tell me, serah, of your people. I have seen few. Do they all look like you?”
I smiled at the innocent sound of the question. “Some are thinner or fatter, shorter or taller, but yes. More or less.”
“Taller?” The Saban seemed amused. “To us, you are rather tall, serah. Tell me, do you have family?”
I had no siblings to speak of, so to satisfy the Saban’s curiosity, I spoke of my parents: their names, their occupations, their pastimes. When I finished, the Saban brooded quietly for a spell.
I was concerned that I had unintentionally disrupted protocol and offended my host. “You look thoughtful, Saban.”
The ruler’s expression lightened, dispelling my concern. “Yes. I was thinking that I find your language very strange,” the Saban admitted. “Is it true that you have no words for mathair or pathair? I presume you are familiar with these words?”
Indeed, I found Cardominian very odd for the fact that they employed unique words meant to distinguish one parent’s gender from the other’s. All Verhallians were equal – there was no need to make distinctions. I told the Saban so.
“You have no distinctions at all between the sexes?”
“There are words, Saban – male and female – but they are used only three times at most, and only for record-keeping. For each individual, they are recorded once at birth, once at death, and usually once more when choosing a permanent mate. But they are not used otherwise.”
Speaking aloud those clinical-sounding words – male and female – left a repulsive taste in my mouth. Verhallian is a much simpler language, and far less convoluted than Cardominian. To refer to someone of either sex in the third person, there is only one word, erah. A different form of it, serah, could be used as a polite ‘you.’ In Cardominian, not only the pronouns but also all other forms of speech indicated the gender of the subject.
A famous Verhallian writer had once remarked that language could either shape reality or become a prison.
Which was doubly the case in Cardominia.
“I see, serah,” said the Saban, looking thoughtful again. “Do you have a mate?”
I plucked at my robe’s collar to keep from touching the visible tips of the scars that had stolen that possibility from me many Turnings ago, and smiled politely. “No, Saban, I do not.”
...
It had a curious effect on me, that question of the Saban’s. In the days which dripped by like icicle drops at the season’s turn, I would catch my reflection in a multitude of mirrors and not avert my eyes as I had before. In Verhall, we do not tolerate imperfection. Before my journey, I had imagined that the Cardominians, worshipers of beauty, would also be repulsed by my deformity, yet this was not the case. Only later from Cadhla did I learn that the Cardominians fancied the scar jagging down my face a deliberate mark like a tribal tattoo.
Ten Turnings had passed since the accident in the workshop. I still dreamed of the burning metal which had carved a river of blood in my flesh, slashing tendon and chipping bone. Left with only partial use of my right hand, I had abandoned my childhood dream of becoming Grand Mechanist. Disfigured by hideous scars, I had fled to the isolated safety of the library. It was there I had built a new path, cobbled by knowledge.
As the Saban’s honored guest, my every whim was fulfilled but one. My request to speak to the hakam called Cricket had been refused, a vague excuse proffered. Nor had I spied the storyteller again, despite the time I frittered away in the hakarum. My days were my own, and I was free to do as I pleased. Usually I took on Cadhla or Ailin as guide to explore the city, or as interpreter when I questioned the hakami. Although I knew Cardominian well enough to have no need of them, feigning ignorance was part of the obligatory charade – such is the task of the spy. Ailin was of nervous disposition and tight-lipped, so I preferred the company of Cadhla, who had taught me to play Stones, which I considered an agreeable way to pass an afternoon.
One afternoon, however, I found myself wandering the labyrinthine halls of the palace and, following a trail of purple-flowered vines, turned down a corridor previously unexplored, and came upon a garden.
From my studies, I had learned that most religions possessed a primal garden. In our mythos, the Primal Garden was the seat of creation of the First One – a perfect being, without gender. Having tasted of the forbidden fruit, the Gods punished the First One by dividing it into two beings, each a different sex, and casting them into an icy abyss. It had been prophesied long ago that only once our people had attained our original perfection would the gates of the fruitful garden unlock again.
The scene before me evoked this image. Sun splashed down into the heady efflorescence, all tasted of green, while leaping koi rippled the center pool. Beside the pool, trailing long fingers languidly through the water, lay a heart-fluttering vision. Long black hair spiraled over the grass. The silken robes had slipped, revealing a tantalizing amount of perfect golden skin that stirred my blood.
I lurched forward, a ravenous beast ready to pounce on such tender prey.
As if sensing the danger, the hakam leaped like a gazelle, both hands gathering the silken robes to cover flesh, and fled.
I gave chase. I did not know what my intentions were, I only knew that this hakam had been purposefully concealed from me. I suspected that I had stumbled upon a secret to which Cricket was the key.
I pursued the hakam through several twists in the corridors. I raced down a turn, then another turn, and then around a third I pulled up short.
The corridors branched off in a myriad of directions like the spokes of a wheel. I stood in the center of the hub. Cricket had disappeared.
The pondering of my predicament was interrupted as voices floated down from a different hall.
I glimpsed three figures in plum and white. Instinctively I retreated back to the edge of the hub to better conceal myself and listened.
They spoke in hushed Cardominian. Two voices I recognized. A cautious glance confirmed that the counselors were huddled in a circle, whispering to the Vizier of the Saban.
A voice floated down the hall. Ailin. “– would resolve our problem.”
The Vizier, cool and calculating. “– you propose we accomplish –”
There were unintelligible mutterings for some time. I strained to catch the words. “– always poison.”
Cadhla’s voice was an audible hiss. “You fool! Do you think that the ice devils will not send their war machines against us if their ambassador does not return?”
I barely heard the arguments which followed. I must admit that their talk of treachery chilled my blood. I sank back against the wall, my thoughts spinning without arriving anywhere, like a carriage wheel in the sand. The voices continued, as though each were a chytik singer, holding one single tone: Ailin angry, the Vizier calculating, Cadhla defensive, then, eventually, resigned.
There was irony in this. I had been thinking it a rash impulse to flee the palace when Cadhla’s resistance broke. Cadhla, who had smiled apologetically when winning at Stones in those long afternoons in my chambers. The barb of betrayal jabbed deep.
I leaned in to better listen to their plotting and noticed that I was not alone in the hall.
At the corner of another branch of the hub, hidden as I was, crouched the hakam. I did not know how my earlier prey had eluded me. Perhaps the hakam had circled around the hub by means of some secret passage. Nor did I know how long the hakam had stood there, watching me eavesdrop on the nefarious triad.
If each of us were to have reached out an arm, our fingers would have touched. And yet, were I to cross the space between us, I would expose myself to the intriguists mere paces down the hall.
Cricket shifted, lifting a hand and filtering it through the gossamer strands of hair, a flash of gold against black. Dark eyes stabbed me into a thrall. Then, the hakam’s gaze swung towards the others before returning to me with a conspiratorial look that spoke a thousand words.
A sudden noise, a sharp metallic clang like a dropped platter, startled us both. The mutterings ceased. Into the silence the surge of the tread of footfalls approaching. And each of us – the plotters, the Verhallian and the whore – turned in a different direction and, like fresh snow below the gust of the Northern wind, scattered.
...
The days were spiders, creeping stealthily past, the nights the same, unrestrained farrago of color, chaos and ephemeral delights. On this night, the octad of my visit, the delights were even more so, a goodwill gesture to the other honored guests from the East, a delegation of Yintara of whom I knew little beyond that they were of close blood-relate to the Cardominians, and who specialized in trade. I was too distracted to care about the Yintara. At the right hand of the Saban, I brooded.
It was not long before the Saban perceived my mood. “Why such a lugubrious expression, serah?”
In the days since I had overheard the advisers in the hall, I had slept poorly, though it was meager consequence of my decision to remain. A foolish risk, perhaps, but I refused to succumb to cowardice. Still, with each sip of wine and each morsel of sustenance that passed my lips, through my head flitted the ghastly notion that it could be my last, and that I would expire, gasping on the floor, as my insides liquified. And yet, there had been no attempt on my life. The only possible explanation I could find was that Cricket – having the Saban’s ear – was somehow responsible for my safety.
Despite this, the cause of my brooding was another: the hakami. “I admit... they seem happy.”
No cloud crossed the Saban’s face. “You speak as if you disapprove of happiness.”
During sleepless nights, I had asked myself which was better: Happiness in slavery? Or misery in freedom? Yet the answer was irrelevant. To press the import of the matter, I spoke too freely. “I implore you, Saban. You must change your ways or Verhall will destroy you.”
To my pronouncement, there was only the barest of flickers. The response, when it came, bore the usual insouciance I had come to expect from the Saban. “Tell me, ambassador. If the roles were reversed, if an invader came to your homeland and demanded that you change your ways, would your people capitulate?”
I gave the Saban’s question my utmost consideration. “No, we would fight for what is right.”
“And how do you define what is right?”
“We know what it is, that is all.”
“Why? Are you perhaps closer to the gods than other beings? Have they shared some secrets with your people?”
I paused again to consider. “The gods have nothing to do with it.”
The Saban’s smile was condescending. “Do you not see, ambassador? Are you not a god, the chosen one sent to judge – and with that judgment, control the fate of an entire people?”
This time, I found I had no answer.
Chimes and mellifluous trills conflated, wafting butterfly light through the air, as drum skins skimmed my bones, announcing the next delight. Yet, when the Saban descended upon me me like a liquid serpent, I was rapt. The words of the Saban echoed intimately in my ear. “Burdened are the shoulders that bear a mantle so heavy.”
A strange, melancholy understanding passed between us as I felt the stifling weight of the Saban’s words and the world on my shoulders. Ever desperate, I pressed. “I cannot believe, Saban, that you could be so indifferent to the fate of your people that you would not lie to save them.”
The music swelled, but my gaze remained fixed on the Saban. I waited, hopeful. In the midnight eyes of the Saban, a dangerous scintilla blossomed. “And I cannot believe that you wear your mantle with ease. Tell me, serah, could you destroy a thing of such beauty?”
With my gaze I followed the Saban’s indicating fingers to where the clan of the Yintara clustered, encircled by lightly-stepping hakami. The dancing hakami were clouded in layers of the finest silks, jingling with chains and bells, their faces adorned with silver dust and paint. And, in the center, I spied Cricket, feeding bits of fruit to the Yintara leader, golden hand dripping juice. As I watched, the Yintara seized Cricket by the wrist to draw the golden hand closer, and licked the sticky fingers.
Something violent slithered, hissing and clawing, deep within my soul. My heart hammered painfully in my chest. My skin grew cold. My insides twisted, and I wondered if perhaps the advisers had not poisoned me after all.
I could breathe again only once the music died and the hakami whirled out of sight, as though spirited away on the fading notes of the flutes. I met the Saban’s gaze.
Indifferent, polite, the Saban repeated the usual inquiry. “Did the entertainments not please you this evening, serah?”
I could barely dredge up my reply, much less the courtesy required. “Not very much, Saban.”
“I see.” Hints of arcane secrets curled the Saban’s lips. “In that case, serah, for your final night, we shall arrange something I am certain will delight you.”
...
I was resigned to set aside my personal feelings and to face my final evening in Cardominia in all its decadence and pomp with all the diplomatic aplomb I possessed. I had done all I could to convince the Saban of the error of Cardominian ways. History would judge me god or demon for what I had to do, and though it was my duty to condemn, my conscience, stained by so much beauty, sat uneasily within me.
I had once believed it meaningful to leave a mark of my mortal life. Yet there was no longer pleasure in the thought that I would be remembered in Verhallian history books, for in Cardominia there would be no more books, nor history, nor people.
Except that on the final night, instead of accompanying me to the theater hall, servants conveyed a light supper to my room and drew a bath while I dined alone. Silently and efficiently they attended me, whisking away the empty plates before leading me into the bathing chamber. Once I had been stripped and scrubbed, the servants withdrew, leaving me to soak in the hot, perfumed water, a delicate cup of porcelain on a gold-rimmed saucer set within reach.
Along with the cup, there was a wide, shallow brewing pot, green-glazed and cumbersome. Curious, I lifted the lid to peer inside. Nestled within the steaming brew I discovered a clump of organic matter composed mostly of twigs. A dargum nest.
The scent of this tea most rare was spicy, intoxicating and rich – cinnamon-sweet but with peppery fire, streaming pale grassy yellow as I tipped spout over cup. Because of its rarity, it was a precious gift indeed, and a great honor to receive.
I did not believe the bird’s nest tea possessed those peculiar properties claimed by the Cardominians, that it was both aphrodisiac and magical elixir of life, yet, once I had brought the cup to my lips, I hesitated to drink. Fear of poison I would have said then if asked, for the plot still troubled my thoughts, yet the truth was different. For a moment, I believed.
The tea was slightly bitter and sharp, but it left a pleasant, velvety aftertaste, lingering in my mouth even as I stepped out of the bathing chamber, fully dressed but for my fox-fur, rubbing a drying cloth vigorously over my wet head with my good hand.
My heart staggered when I discovered Cricket in my bed.
I was immobile as an ice sculpture as Cricket nimbly slithered to the edge and then stood in the penumbra, reaching for a clasp. The clasp undone, the silks slipped down in a single motion, like a sheet of water, gliding to puddle at the hakam’s feet. Naked at the edge of the bed, the hakam pivoted with a soft smile, waiting with open arms.
I ravished Cricket with my eyes. Hungry, I devoured every inch of golden skin, following each curve, each dimple, each long and lissome limb. Thirsty, I drank in the hollow of the throat, the jut of delicate bones, the spiderweb thread of the cascading hair. What I felt, there is no word to describe it in Verhallian. It was not merely lust, but rather as if an invisible thread were tugging at my insides, drawing me to the waiting arms of the hakam.
Cricket’s skin was strangely cool and smooth below my hands, mouth eager and tasting of honey. My senses did not return until I was already on my back on the bed, and Cricket’s hands sliding beneath my shirt, soft breath and tongue in my ear. For all I knew, someone had sent the hakam to do me harm, and I had unwittingly seized the bait in the trap.
I pushed the hakam away. Confusion and hurt was in the dark eyes as Cricket gazed down upon me. “Do I not please you?”
The soft, guttural hush of Cardominian washed over my skin, spiking my blood. The hakam spoke no Verhallian. Vexed, I remained silent.
Cricket studied me, then smiled softly. “You do understand me, don’t you, white fox?”
The words were a taunt, both playful and disrespectful. My expression must have betrayed me, for the hakam’s smile became knowing.
“Did you not know? All the hakami call you ‘the white fox.’ We are like chickens in the coop, waiting to be snatched up by your hungry teeth.”
I opened my mouth to protest before I realized my error.
A warm chuckle resonated deep in Cricket’s throat. “Ah, you do understand me. But do not worry, white fox. I have told no one. Not even the Saban.”
Too late for pretense, I relinquished the facade. I had learned the language only from books, so my Cardominian came out stilted, flat, and halting, the words tasting unnatural and ashy in my mouth. “I do not understand you at all.”
“Is there something to understand?”
I posed the same question I had used with the other hakami. “Do you not want to be free?”
I had yet to receive anything other than incomprehension – real or feigned, I did not know. Yet Cricket became pensive, then smiled down at me and unfolded this tale:
“There once was a land, a wild desert of rock carved by the sun. And in this land, there came a people, drawn to the pulse of the land, people who thrived on the sun. With great magics, it is said, the people called the rock from the earth which became their buildings and streets, and water from the earth to slake their thirst, and animals and plants to nourish their bodies, minds and hearts. And yet, the life in their blood was too strong, and the people, relying on the great magics for all their needs, had no reason to work and soon became restless, and the boredom drove them to strife. The strife escalated until blood filled the streets and the people stood on the border of war.
“It seemed inevitable that the people would destroy themselves, but one had the courage to stand forth and unite them all under one rule. They called this one the Saban. The Saban believed that the people relied too much on the great magics, and they had no purpose in life. Without purpose, life was meaningless. Thus it was decided that the people would set the magics aside and everyone would be given a new role. Some would become rulers, others merchants, some would be servants, others slaves.
“Of the slaves, the most beautiful and skilled were chosen to serve in the hakarum of the Saban. They were happy, because they were well-treated and their purpose was to please. Yet, they are curious, too. One day, a stranger arrived from an exotic land, sent to condemn and destroy the people who thrived on the sun. But although this task made the stranger unhappy, the stranger was not allowed to save the people, or take pleasure in their delights, or to love them. The stranger had a role to fill, a Verhallian role, one that did not permit the heart to interfere.
“When the stranger came to the hakarum, a hakam named Cricket felt a strange, new emotion. Cricket begged permission, but the Saban refused to give the hakam’s body to the stranger. But the Saban could not control Cricket’s heart. The hakam was free to love anyone, to even love the mysterious white fox, if only in heart and not body. But the Saban relented and permitted the hakam to come to the white fox for just one night.”
As the words wove, mesmerizing like a spell, Cricket’s fingers deftly trailed out the story through my clothing – opening clasps, unwinding sashes, freeing buttons, unlatching buckles. By the end of the tale there was nothing but air between us. Cricket leaned down and sighed softly against my lips. “Do I please you now, white fox?”
The white fox snatched up the chicken in its hungry teeth, and near dawn slept, curled up in its fur, sated.
...
I had slept little, but my body was vibrating down to my bones as I walked briskly to the throne room. I could feel the rush of blood in my veins, and the life pulsating within me, and I wondered, briefly, if the dargum nest tea had not been a magical elixir after all, or if this sensation were merely an aftereffect of one evanescent night spent with the hakam.
My formal farewell to the Saban was my final obligation. My baggage already packed, it waited at the front gate of the palace with my halfbreed guide.
In the throne room, I was presented with a similar tableau for my departure as for my arrival. The Saban perched regally on the crimson-veined crystal throne, flanked by the counselors in their plum-colored robes – only one detail was different. At the feet of the Saban’s throne, wearing the usual revealing silks, sat Cricket.
Even now I was so enraptured by the hakam’s presence that I scarcely heard the lengthy ceremonial speeches intoned by the counselors, and I fumbled my reply, though I managed to retain the minimal dignity required.
Once protocol was satisfied, I bowed to Ailin and Cadhla both.
The final word belonged to the Saban. “It is a custom among our people, ambassador, to offer a parting gift. The more important the guest, the more precious the gift. As we consider you a most important guest, I offer you my most valuable possession.” The Saban paused to smile. “You may refuse, of course. In fact, Ser Nika, turned it down. However, in your case, I suspect you will have no such objections. Ser Nika already had a mate, and foresaw problems of returning to Verhall in the company of a hakam.”
My breath caught in my throat. “You are offering to give me a hakam?”
The Saban’s hand descended to caress the hair of the hakam at the foot of the throne. “Cricket is my most valuable possession,” the Saban said. “And yet, I feel there is value in letting Cricket go. No Cardominian has ever visited Verhall. Were you to show Cricket to your people, it may be of benefit to us both.”
I looked at the hakam whose gaze had never strayed from mine.
I thought of Cricket’s story about the hakam who had fallen in love at first sight with the stranger from Verhall in an exchange of glances in the mirror, who then overcame many obstacles to spend only one passionate night together.
Such were the romances written by the people of Cardominia. I knew them all well. Ser Nika had recorded those, too.
I believed none of it.
But this time it did not matter if I believed it or not.
I bowed to the Saban, and spoke in my halting Cardominian. “Yes, Saban, I will do that,” I said, and here I faltered over an unfamiliar word – one of those words which did not exist in Verhallian, a word whose concept did not even exist – and yet, when I spoke it, looking upon the smiling face of the hakam, it did not feel strange at all.
“Prepare him.”
