Curious.
“Are you aware of the punishment for a man if he were to lay his eyes upon any of the king’s concubines?” He’d feel silly referring to them as his concubines, because he never intends for them to be his; they will always, in his mind, belong to his father. He’ll make them comfortable and keep them entertained out of respect for the Warrior King, but he has no time for anything more. Especially if he is to entertain a wife soon.
She swallows. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Tarik gestures around the room. “All of the men you see here? They are all to die because of your carelessness. Each and every one of them has seen you, Mistress Sepora; indeed they’ve apparently chased you far and wide, and were, by all accounts, forced to handle you. They are all deserving of death, according to the law. What think you of that?”
Her breaths come in shallow gasps. “I think, Highness, that it is unfair,” she says quickly. “It’s not their fault I escaped.”
“Actually, it is,” Rashidi counters grumpily. “It is one of the two duties they have. Keep you in; keep intruders out. It’s quite simple really.”
Sepora’s eyes grow as wide as the gems sprinkled in her hair. Her lovely pale complexion falls even more pallid. “What of the guards who bring us our meals? And the ones securing the wing? They’ve seen us all.”
“Eunuchs,” Tarik says. “A eunuch is—”
“I’m quite aware of what a eunuch is, Majesty,” she says quickly. Her eyes glint in the sunshine pouring in from the windows and Tarik is again captured by her glare. “I was not aware of any such law, or I would have gone about things differently.”
“Do tell.”
“Oh, is this really necessary, Highness?” Rashidi waves his hand impatiently. “Take her to your bed if you wish, Highness, and she’ll tell you all the stories you wish to hear. As it is, these men are waiting to know—”
“Yes, of course,” Tarik says. He turns to Dogol. “As Mistress Sepora was only trying to secure my attention and not the affection of any of my guards, they are all pardoned for their transgression today, and I would like to formally thank them for their efforts. An extra pittance will be added to their monthly pay. You are all dismissed.”
Sepora breathes an obvious sigh of relief as the men file out of the chamber, alive and well. “Thank you, Highness,” she says when they’re gone. “My apologies for the trouble.” Sincere this time. It appears the mistress cannot decide if she’s pleased with him or miffed.
And he cannot decide which he prefers just yet. “Please, sit. We have some details to untangle, I think.”
“Details,” Rashidi mutters.
“The only details I wish to discuss are when and how I may secure my release, Highness. Surely you can see I do not belong in your harem.”
“Indeed. And why is that, Mistress Sepora? What have you against a concubine?”
She lifts her chin. “Nothing, of course.” A lie. Not that he cares in the least how she feels about concubines, or even why she doesn’t want to be in the harem. It is solely for entertainment purposes that he keeps her talking just now. And to his delight, she seems easy to bait, even as she tries to be diplomatic. “But,” she continues, “I’ve traveled a long way from Serubel and I’d very much like to finish my journey. I’m for the Baseborn Quarters.” The truth.
The only Serubelans in Theoria Tarik knows of are the descendants of the freed slaves who chose to stay after their release rather than return to their own primitive kingdom. They’ve chosen to make careers out of building the pyramids, working for a wage instead of the whip or whatever small reward their old kingdom used to offer. If one must labor, he thinks to himself, it is better to labor in a kingdom enlightened with knowledge than one darkened with ignorance. They have become a vital part of the Theorian economy, and not only because of their skill in handling spectorium; the task of building the pyramids has long been looked down upon as being an inferior duty, which requires almost all labor and no thought.
But Tarik views things a bit differently. After all, his best pyramid architect is Serubelan, and she is by no means inferior. Thus far she’s been able to outdesign all of the past royal architects and her knowledge of the uses for spectorium is beyond extensive. She is a valuable asset to his kingdom, indeed.
He openly studies Mistress Sepora for a time, until she appears uncomfortable under his scrutiny. What to do with a concubine who does not want to be a concubine, but would instead suffer an uncomfortable life in the Baseborn Quarters? Ah, if only he could give up the “privilege” of being king. But obligation and duty have much more power than “want.”
Still, Sepora offers something of a reprieve from the burden, from the weight of his responsibilities. For the first time since his father passed, he’s genuinely amused. What will she say next? What will she do? And those eyes of hers. A silver medley of truth and lie all swirling behind long black lashes. He’s momentarily saddened that she does not want to stay here in the palace. But neither can he blame her, under the circumstances. “I have a problem with releasing you,” he says finally. A solution looms before him, and he tries not to smile. “You see, you were a gift from my brother. My brother has never given me a gift before.”
Sepora’s jaw visibly clenches. “I was not his to give, Highness.”
“I’m under the impression he paid a very high price for you, mistress.”
“That’s not the point—”
“How long will you let this she-demon speak to you in such a way?” Rashidi says, pounding a fist on the table. “She needs to be taught some manners, at the very least, but more than that, the respect that any king of Theoria is due. She is simply ignorant, and I’m horrified your brother would send you such a rotten gift. Then again, Sethos always was one for practical jokes.”
Sepora rears back, taking in the enormous breath she’ll need to retaliate. Tarik is delighted. Yet, her tone does not match her expression when she says, “I’m very familiar with how a kingdom should be run, sir, and how a king should be addressed.” The truth. Intriguing. And a little insulting. Still, he can tell she’s holding back her true ire. “But His Majesty’s brother took what was not his, and that is not how I was taught even a prince behaves.”
Rashidi’s face grows red enough for Tarik to fear heart palpitations in his adviser. “Rashidi,” Tarik says gently, “please do not be offended on my behalf. I find Mistress Sepora’s honesty quite refreshing. Though, of course, you’re right, old friend. She does need to be taught manners and she’ll need to be informed of the way of things in Theoria, if she’s to remain here in the palace for any length of time.”
Rashidi nods. “Yes. And taught by someone who isn’t afraid of this little snippet. Someone who will have the discipline to handle her tantrums. Obviously, the guards are not capable enough.”
“But it has to be someone wise and knowledgeable as well,” Tarik persists agreeably. “Her Theorian scribble is atrocious.”
Sepora scowls. “It’s quite adequate,” she says defensively.
Rashidi calms down slightly, accepting Tarik’s silent invitation to be dignified. “Of course, Highness, though I can’t think why a concubine should have a need of pen and parchment. And someone with an army of patience. I’m afraid I can’t think of anyone offhand—”
“She’ll be your attendant,” Tarik says, clapping his hands together to hide his soft chuckle.
“What? No, Highness—” Rashidi is shaking his head profusely but Tarik has already decided. Rashidi needs an attendant. Sepora doesn’t want to be a concubine. But sending her away from the palace would be a slap to his brother’s pride. He must be able to produce her at any moment, were Sethos to ask of her. Of course, Sethos having access to her unsupervised is out of the question.
“Yes, she will. It’s the perfect solution, don’t you see? You need an attendant, and Sepora here is already well informed of how to run a kingdom. How do you come by that knowledge, mistress? Were you a servant in a highbor
n household in Serubel?”
She blinks at him. Once. Twice. Gearing up for a lie, he can see. “I … I … yes. A servant. I was a servant.”
“Excellent. You’ll be paid for your labor, of course.” He allows his gaze to linger on what she’s wearing—and appreciate what she’s not. “Pride of the pyramids, you can’t go traipsing about the palace in that scanty concubine attire, I’m afraid. But as a royal servant you should be properly dressed and groomed. Yes, and you’ll have your own quarters away from the harem and an attendant to teach you how to dress and present yourself. I’ll have a guard collect your things from that wing. Whatever is presentable, anyway.”
“Highness—” both Rashidi and Sepora are saying. Rashidi has actually scooted his chair away from the young mistress.
“And you may have every tenth day off, starting in the morning. Do you require a royal escort, Mistress Sepora?”
She blinks. “I … an escort, Highness?”
“Yes. You’ll want to explore the kingdom, I presume?”
She lowers her eyes, barely containing the disbelief on her face. “You are correct, Highness.”
“Well then, the Baseborn Quarters are quite a distance from the palace and are known to be a rough place to visit at times. I’ll arrange an escort for you.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Something she truly believes. But he’ll not accept an argument on that point. Someone of her magnificence will surely be bothered on the long crude road leading to the Baseborn Quarters.
“I … I’m afraid I’m not qualified to be Rashidi’s attendant, Highness, though it’s a great honor to be considered.”
“Really? And why is that, mistress?”
“You see, I was an attendant to mostly females in the royal castle. I’m not accustomed to caring for the needs of a male, and certainly not one of Rashidi’s great rank and esteem.”
Rashidi beams at this.
But Tarik is troubled by this new set of lies. He must clear things up immediately, if Sepora is to stay. “Mistress Sepora,” Tarik says. “Do you know what a Lingot is?”
19
SEPORA
Early morning drizzles into my bedchamber a little at a time, the rays of gentle sunlight poking and prodding at my eyelids, bidding them to open fully. I’d been secretly pleased about being given a chamber facing the east; sunrises have always been something of a phenomenon to me. Back in Serubel, when I could steal away, I used to take Nuna out in the dark hours of the morning, to the highest mountain to watch the sun peek from the horizon and fully realize itself mere minutes later. It was, by far, the most relaxing part of my day and somehow made the long hours of Forging more bearable.
I throw the silk covers back and pad with bare feet toward the balcony of the chamber. My chamber is simple, save for the view, with only a bed, a settee, an ornate trunk, and a small room snuggled into the corner, sectioned off by a single sheer piece of hanging fabric that houses a bath and washbasin and a lavatory—which I’ve already ascertained empties into the Nefari.
The most exquisite feature of the room, save the promise of daily sunrises, is the gold-framed, full-length mirror beside the bed. A luxury for a servant and a bit out of place, I decide, as I lean my elbow against the stone railing and sigh contentedly at my good friend, the sun.
“Mistress Sepora,” someone calls from inside my bedchamber. “Mistress Sepora, are you here? We’ve come to dress you. Oh, what if she’s escaped again?”
“Someone would have noticed,” says another feminine voice. “His Highness set an extra pair of guards at the end of the wing, remember?”
The king had said he would assign me a servant, but two or more? A servant with servants—who has heard of such a thing? “I’m here,” I say.
Then their words register and a small smile spreads across my face. The Falcon King does not yet trust me, if he’s posting guards at the end of the wing. And what reason have I given him to trust me? I escaped his harem, putting the lives of many of his guards in danger. Then I lied to him about almost everything yesterday. Him, a Lingot. I’ve never met a Lingot before—though perhaps Rolan had been one—and the very idea of it fascinates me. Someone who can speak all languages and can discern a truth from a lie? Could that really be possible? I’m tempted to lie to him from here on out, just to test his abilities—and if possible his patience.
The Falcon King is entirely too collected for my liking. And far too handsome for my comfort. The black paint circling his eyes does make him look fierce and intimidating, but under his scrutiny—when I dare to meet his eyes—he has a kindness that reflects back at me. A kindness that one does not expect of a Falcon King. Especially after all the horrid things my father said about his father. I would be wise, I decide, not to underestimate this new king of Theoria. After all, my father could not have conjured up ideas from nothing, and if the Falcon King was groomed for kingship by the Warrior King, surely he will rule with the unjust, outlandish methods my father—and my tutor, Aldon—always spoke of.
It’s difficult, though, to feel gratitude toward a man—or is he truly a boy, like they say?—who keeps a harem as he keeps a stable full of horses or a field full of grazing cows. Though truth told, while they are there for his convenience, his harem seems to garner no attention from him.
As I ponder over that, one of my apparent servants peeks onto the balcony. She has dark hair and skin, and big impressive brown eyes with long lashes. I would not call her beautiful per se, but her features command attention and interest.
“Mistress Sepora?” she says. “My name is Anku and this is Cara.” She gestures to the girl beside her, who is, shockingly, Serubelan. Cara is a bit shorter than me, but with the same hair color and same distinctive pinched-looking nose native among Serubelans. Even her name is common among the farming class. Is she a freed slave, then, forced to stay here and work? I resolve to find out later, if we have a private moment without Anku. As it is, Cara stares at me now in a way that makes me uncomfortable. There is a hint of recognition in her eyes. Does she know who I am? Surely not. Not if she’s been raised in Theoria since the slaves were freed all those years ago. She might not have even been a slave herself; perhaps she comes from a slave family who stayed. She looks a bit young to be of the slave generation.
“We are pleased to be at your service this morning,” Anku is saying, motioning for me to follow her.
I comply as they lead me back into the bedchamber. Cara pulls some delicate blue cloth from a satchel she brought and lays it out before me on the bed, careful not to make eye contact with me.
“We just need to fit you with an ensemble or two before you depart today,” she says. “His Majesty gave strict orders to make sure you would be identified as a royal servant before you left.”
After what feels like an eternity of fitting and taking in and hemming, I’m fully dressed. Without asking, they each grab a shoulder and turn me to the mirror so I can inspect myself. Not terrible for servant attire, if I’m being honest. It’s a blue knee-length dress, with sheer blue fabric hanging down to my calves. Around my waist is a golden belt—surely it’s not genuine gold, or I’ll be robbed straightaway upon leaving the palace—and a large beaded necklace that resembles in shape the bib a young child would wear before taking in a meal. A simple striped blue-and-gold headdress is stationed atop my hair—which itself has been arranged into a labyrinth of curls and braids. I can’t help but notice that my attire is more intricate and detailed than the simple blue dresses of my servants back home. And it is a relief to find that it is much more conservative than the attire fitted for me in the harem—and by Rolan.
“The headdress is important,” Anku informs me. “It denotes a higher standing among the royal servants, since you are the attendant of the royal adviser.”
Ah, Rashidi. Rashidi, who argued to near death all the reasons why I’d be inadequate as his servant. Because of that, I’m going to prove him wrong. Why shouldn’t
I? I’m being fed and housed in the palace, and given leave to explore the kingdom of my own accord. I doubt even Mother could imagine how well this venture has turned out. I’ve traded the fate of the Baseborn class for the fate of a pampered servant.
And not just that. The thought is not lost on me that although I reside close to my father’s enemy, I am in a much better position to help Serubel than I would have been eking out an existence in the Baseborn Quarters. Surely that means all is not lost. Surely once Rashidi learns to trust me, he’ll divulge information that I could somehow pass on to Mother. And surely Mother will know what to do with the reconnaissance.
I must have taken too long to respond, because both Anku and Cara both stare at me, curiosity etched in their expressions. “Thank you for your help,” I tell them quickly.
“Of course, Mistress Sepora.” Anku strides over to the corner of the room, where she retrieves a large embroidered tassel that had hung close to the wall. She shakes it at me. “This is your bell, mistress. If you require anything at all, you may ring it and we will be at your service.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can manage without too much assistance.” Even at home, I did not use my servants as much as I could have.
She smiles. “We’re told you’re fond of writing to pharaoh. Do let us know if you require parchment.”
I flush. So, rumors spread in the Theorian palace the way they did in Serubel’s royal castle. By Anku’s tone, she’s merely jesting with me, but Cara turns up her nose in disapproval. Perhaps she feels I’m betraying Serubel by keeping up correspondence with the king. Perhaps she is jealous of my privilege. Whatever the case, I don’t want to make an enemy out of her. I’d quite like to have a friend here in Theoria, and it’s refreshing to see another Serubelan here.
“Thank you, Anku, but I doubt I’ll have need of speaking to His Majesty further.”
A pity, to say the least. I’ve all sorts of lies I’d love to deluge him with. But for now, he has given me leave and an escort to explore Anyar—but the smarter course, I decide, is to become acquainted with the palace itself. Besides, I still have a wretched taste in my mouth from my first experience in the Bazaar of Anyar. And I certainly do not want to risk another run-in with Rolan or Chut.