There is no one in this room, except a high ranking servant who stands at attention near the entrance. Seeing Aeson, the man inclines his head in a bow. “My Imperial Lord,” he says in a ceremonial tone in Atlantean, and steps aside to let us enter.
“Where is my Father?”
“Our Imperial Sovereign, the Archaeon Imperator, is having his eos bread upstairs in the roof pavilion. My Imperial Lord and his Bride are expected.” The servant stretches his hand out to point to a doorway in the side wall.
Eos bread, I vaguely recall from my Atlantis Culture classes, is the name of the first meal of the day, more-or-less equivalent to Earth breakfast. So far I’m able to understand most of what is being said in Atlantean, but once again a worry returns as to how I will be communicating with the Imperator—in Atlantean, or English, or both?
Aeson pauses momentarily, and his expression hardens. “Very well,” he says, then turns to me and resumes in English. “Come, Gwen. It appears we must go outside. Try not to look directly at the sun, if possible.” And then he walks to the specified door.
I follow.
Inside is a small chamber dimly lit with wall sconces, with a spiral stairwell of shallow stone steps, leading up. We take the polished stone stairs, rising one level. When we reach the landing, it opens directly onto an open-air gallery, covered by a grand roof canopy of stone, but open to the elements on all four sides. Colonnades run along the perimeter, holding up the roof, and the wind and morning sun rule all the spaces between. . . .
We emerge in this amazing place—a long pavilion on top of the world—and immediately I am forced to squint and shield my eyes against the infernal brilliance of Hel.
What an impossible burning-white sky!
“Gwen . . .” Aeson touches me lightly on the arm. “Be careful, please. Try to keep your eyes down. I am so sorry you are being subjected to this without the necessary wraparound sunglasses. But my Father must see your face.”
I nod, and whisper, “Okay.”
Despite the blinding light around me I manage to take in my surroundings. The long rectangular pavilion does not take up all of the rooftop. Wide terraces extend beyond the roofed area at least thirty feet in each direction. Completely open to the elements and bathed by the incandescence of Hel, the terraces contain potted trees in elegant stone vases and intricate container landscaping. Green vines climb arched trellises, and a rich scent of flowers wafts on the breeze.
Aeson walks slightly ahead of me, leading the way toward what appears to be the formal eating area for the Imperator. At the far end of the pavilion, a large table is set before a high-backed chair, with several lesser chairs flanking it. Servants move discreetly, carrying trays of food that is being set up on a bar serving area.
A tall man with long, golden Kassiopei hair stands off to the side, with his back to us, staring at the view. He is wearing an ordinary outfit consisting of a long shirt and pants, dark and likely expensive. The wind stirs his metallic hair and billows the sleeves of his shirt.
There is no crown, no robes, nothing to make this man different from any other.
But I know it is the Imperator by the sense of power he exudes, the straight-backed confidence of his posture, the impossible aura of authority.
The interesting thing is, he is not alone.
Two women sit quietly at the table. I would have easily missed them, because they are nearly motionless. As we approach, I start to make out exquisite iridescent fabrics in warm tones of deep coral and violet that sparkle in the sun, and subtly sculpted hairdos. I can’t see their faces yet, only that the older woman has dark hair that shines with bronze highlights, while the younger one—a teenage girl who might be my age—is a true Kassiopei blonde.
They are sitting in the Imperator’s presence, so they must be Aeson’s mother and sister.
Wow, I did not expect to meet the whole family so soon—at least not yet!
And then it occurs to me, Lord help me, these are my future in-laws.
We approach the table area, and the Imperator turns around just as Aeson stops before him, while I trail slightly.
The Imperator is a handsome man, mature yet ageless and vigorous. In his lean features I find some resemblance to his son—possibly the elegant line of jaw, the chiseled nose and underlying bone structure. The father and son have the same dark, perfectly formed brows, the same slim sharp line of natural “eyeliner” around the eyelids that resembles a cosmetic kohl highlight—but the older man’s eyes are an even darker blue, so dark they could be black.
This is the first time I dare examine the Imperator properly, and now that I can see him up-close, I find something vaguely unpleasant in his expression. While Aeson’s face has an underlying solemn clarity and integrity, his father’s features carry the weight of cynicism and dissolution—and deeper yet, cruelty.
“Good morning, Father,” Aeson says in a controlled voice. “We are here.”
“My son—and his Bride.” The Imperator looks at Aeson and then glances at me. His voice is cold and dry, lacking any kind of welcoming inflection. And he is speaking perfect unaccented English, which surprises me more than anything else. “Come closer, yes, both of you.”
Aeson watches me intensely, as I take a step forward, so that I am now directly before the Imperator, and at Aeson’s left side.
“So—you are Gwen Lark,” Romhutat Kassiopei says, resting the full unbearable weight of the Imperial gaze upon me, so that I almost cringe. His dark blue eyes are terrifying, and I find that I am unable to blink or tear myself away as I look directly in them. “Let me see your face, girl.”
There is a long pause as he stares at me, and I forget to breathe.
“You are not much to look at,” he says at last, then turns his gaze to Aeson. “You chose her for her unusual abilities, I assume. Because there is nothing in her appearance that warrants such a loss of reason and judgment on your part. Very unwise of you, boy, considering the many superior choices you were presented with at Court—especially the Fuorai daughter whom you snubbed, knowing full well I vetted her.”
Aeson blinks and I can see the slow darkening and stillness coming to him. “I chose Gwen because she is the best choice possible—for me and for Atlantida.”
I notice the hard tone and the strange measured phrasing of his response. He does not say that he loves me.
The Imperator makes a low sound of derision. “Your reasons are yet to be evaluated. For now—I am disappointed in you. As for this mildly pretty face next to you, she is nothing.” And he looks at me once more.
“Well, speak up, girl. Tell me why my son chose you for his Bride over all others.”
I open my mouth and try to look at his chin and not in his eyes as I speak. “My Imperial Sovereign. . . .” My breathy voice sounds faint and pathetic. “I am not sure why Aeson chose me. But I am very glad he did.”
And then I glance up to meet the Imperial gaze.
With my peripheral vision, I notice that the two women seated at the table a few feet away from us are watching intently. . . .
“Not sure?” the Imperator echoes me mockingly. “Well, this must be a blow to your manly pride, my son. Even your Bride is unsure why you chose her. But then, she just might be smarter than you, in this regard. Well—are you smart and clever, Gwen Lark? Are you as smart as they tell me you are?”
“Yes, My Imperial Sovereign. . . .” I mumble. “So I’m told.”
“Ah, we are both told this thing, so it must be true. And are you scheming and hungry to become the Imperial Consort?”
My heart is starting to pound rapidly.
“Not in particular, My Imperial Sovereign. . . .”
“Then why did you agree to this charade? You are completely out of your place here, little Gwen Lark from Earth! How dare you presume to wed into the divine line of Kassiopei?”
The voice of the Imperator intensifies and grows louder with every word, until the last sentence is spoken with such a terrifying level of force that i
t sends echoes ringing along the stone pavilion. The servants working discreetly at the food serving station stop moving and freeze. He must be using a power voice.
I take a deep breath, my gaze locked with that of the Imperator. “I. . . .”
“Father!” I hear Aeson’s voice interject.
“Well?” the Imperator roars at me.
“I love him.”
There, I’ve said it, even if Aeson did not. And the fact that he didn’t—I get it completely. He cannot admit his feelings for me in front of his father—that would mean exposing his vulnerability. Admitting to any weakness in regard to me could be used against both of us. . . .
“You love him? Love? What nonsense! You mean desire.” The Imperator looks at me as a mesmerizing serpent. I see such a chilling lack of empathy, a true void in him. In that one moment more than any other, his dark blue eyes appear to me truly alien. “Yes, my son is beautiful like his mother, and young and virile—I can see the attraction. . . . But once he has you in his bed a few times, and then tires of you, you become nothing again. If you base your future upon a whim of desire, you are far less clever than I thought. Unless—are you seeking to bear his child, a Kassiopei child? Do you really think it will give you a place of rank here in my Court?”
My lips part. . . . I have no words right now and my mind is reeling with so many things, including red-hot outrage.
“Well, girl? Did my foolish son already have his way with you? Has it been going on for months, with the two of you up on that Fleet ship? Is that what happened last night when he claimed his Bridegroom Privilege in such a hurry? Did he betray all reason and propriety and fill you to overflowing with Kassiopei seed?” And the Imperator breaks the lock of his relentless stare to glance at Aeson with derision.
“My Father, you know very well I have not,” Aeson says very softly and fiercely, speaking through his teeth. “And you dishonor and insult my Bride needlessly.”
Okay, this is hell. . . . I hold myself very still, but I’m on fire, burning with a deep crimson flush. This is pure unbelievable hell.
And then I say, out of the blue, because now I am feeling crazy and I have no outlet, so I must pretend to be insane: “What exactly is the Bridegroom Privilege? If the Imperial Crown Prince may not be with his Bride until the Wedding, then what does it entail?”
There is a moment of silence. I realize I must’ve sufficiently startled everyone by my bizarre question.
The Imperator looks back at me with a glimmer of surprise. But it is the older woman seated at the table who suddenly answers me. . . .
“The Bridegroom Privilege is simply the right of personal privacy. The Bridegroom and Bride may be alone with each other—without judgment or the unwelcome presence of others. It does not imply any other intimacy or wrongdoing,” says the woman with the dark bronze hair in a soft melodious voice, deep and rich, and somehow reminiscent of my own mother. She is speaking English, and her pronunciation is imperfect, with a lilting Atlantean accent. And yet her speech is beautiful.
I turn to look at her, and so does everyone else.
“Mother . . . thank you,” Aeson says carefully. And then he looks at me. “Gwen, this is my Mother, Devora Kassiopei, the Archaeona Imperatris of Atlantida. I did not think she would be here this early in the morning, but it appears I must introduce you already.”
“My Sovereign Lady,” I say awkwardly, turning to face her, and feeling the heat of anger drain out of me. “I am happy to meet you.”
Oh my God, did I even use the correct form of address for the Imperatris? I am suddenly drawing a blank. . . . This woman is my future mother-in-law!
The first thing that strikes me is that Devora Kassiopei, also ageless and strikingly beautiful, looks like the Ancient Egyptian Queen Nefertiti, whose famous bust I’ve seen in museum pictures. The second thing that comes to me is that she and Aeson look very much alike—and consequently that Aeson looks like the male version of Nefertiti. Holy crap, what a strange realization!
I look at the Imperatris and see an exquisite face of a woman who could be in her forties, with softly golden skin and expressive great eyes of deep cobalt blue highlighted in fine kohl, that contain in them a mixture of dignity and a great deal of suffering. The Imperatris watches me without any reaction, but her eyes—unlike those of her husband—are deeply sympathetic. She wears a dark under-dress with many sheer outer layers of dark coral and violet that add a mystery and demureness to her figure, covering her so that it is hard to see her arms or throat. Her hair is sculpted and pinned up in a tight updo, and long gold earrings cascade from her ears.
“And I am glad to welcome you,” she says in the same soft voice, while a very faint smile appears on her perfectly chiseled lips.
I smile back at her, and manage to sneak a glimpse of the golden-haired younger girl dressed in shimmering dark violet, sitting in the seat next to her, looking sufficiently nervous and tense, but bursting with curiosity. Princess Manala Kassiopei has her brother Aeson’s eyes with their natural Kassiopei dark line around the eyelids, and his clarity of gaze, and she is staring at me with an innocent wonder. . . .
But in that moment the Imperator’s cruel voice dashes this one gentle interaction.
“You want to know about the Bridegroom Privilege?” the Imperator says, forcing me to once again look at him. “It is nothing but a clumsy excuse for the Bridegroom to put his eager hands on his Bride and get away with it. And in your case, I have no doubt my son was no different than any other lusty young man, regardless of what he claims. But—enough! What I want to hear from you, Gwen Lark, is the truth.”
“What . . . truth?” I say. My voice is so quiet I can barely hear myself.
Romhutat Kassiopei’s austere lips curve upward slowly. This is the first time I see him smile at me, but it’s not a normal smile so much as an evil sneer. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me with such real hatred before—not even all those horrible bullies at school—and I feel it like a hard blow of psychic darkness. . . .
“The truth of yourself,” the Imperator says, and his voice starts to slither insidiously, making my skin crawl. “Look at me, little Gwen, who presumes to be my daughter by marriage, and tell me the truth of how you really feel.”
“I am sorry, My Imperial Sovereign,” I say. “I don’t think I understand . . . the question.”
At that moment, everyone is looking at me, I can sense it. Aeson’s unblinking intense gaze, his mother, his sister . . . even the servants are paused, though I don’t think they know enough English to be aware of what’s going on.
For that matter, what is going on? What does the Imperator, this awful man, want from me?
“Tell me and everyone here how you really feel about my son Aeson.”
“I already said that I love him.”
“It is a lie.” The serpentine voice comes at me, chipping away at my last composure, breaking me apart into little pieces of pain. “Tell my son that you do not love him at all. Beg forgiveness for deluding him. Tell the truth—that you feel nothing. Kneel, now, and admit that you have deceived him!”
The strange compulsion to kneel and lower my head before them all comes over me. It is as if a little dial has been turned inside me, and I must get down on my knees and confess my lying betrayal of Aeson, my horrible lie to him. . . .
“You do not love Aeson—tell him so,” the Imperator says again, watching me tremble in place, and begin to lower my head before him—before all of them.
You do not love him.
Tell him so.
Darkness fills me, and there is a rush in my temples, as everything begins to recede, only the narrow focus of what I must do now.
And then, something inside my head snaps back. Clarity returns. The compelling voice! The Imperator is using the compelling voice on me.
Immediately a clean wash of anger wipes the last traces of the compulsion, and I stand frowning instead, looking at him with cold outrage. I raise my head that started to incline be
fore him, and instead I say, “No, I will not.”
My voice rings out, no longer meek and careful, but strong and hard and loud, for the first time.
There is a strange impossible silence.
“What did you say?” The Imperator’s neck cranes slightly as he observes me, and his expression becomes incomprehensible.
“I said, I will not. I will not say these horrible lies to Aeson whom I love with all my heart.”
“Kneel before me!”
The Imperator’s voice comes like thunder. It’s as if he slammed a sledgehammer of raw power over me. Electric currents strike me and prick my skin with goose bumps, surging in waves along my spine, and all my nerve endings ring. Small hairs stand up on end everywhere on my body. . . . Electricity rages in the air, concentric circles of wavelengths colliding and collapsing. . . .
And yet I remain upright, standing straight and staring back at him with my own unblinking gaze. “I don’t think so, My Imperial Sovereign.”
Wow, did I even allow a bit of snark in that tone?
With my peripheral vision I notice suddenly that all the servants in the pavilion have come down on their knees and are bowing their heads before the Imperator.
Oh my God! Aeson and his mother, and sister—they too, they are all kneeling! Aeson is poised with one knee down on the floor, and his head inclined, while his pale golden hair falls softly in a curtain to cover his face. Devora Kassiopei has slid from her chair and now kneels with her body close to the floor, her lovely sculpted bronze head bowed. Next to her, Manala is cowering also, so that I can see the graceful curve at the back of her long neck and the wisps of her blond Kassiopei hair escaped from her hairdo.
I am the only one standing.
There is a long horrible pause, while the Imperator stares at me, appearing genuinely taken aback.
And then he speaks. “Interesting,” he says softly, observing me with dark unreadable eyes. “You show an unusual response. An immunity of some sort. Well, well. . . .”