[The Onic Empire 03] - Sinful Harvest (18 page)

Heads turned in her direction and steps faltered, but only for the barest moment. Quickly they turned away to forcefully make merry, as if her dark presence hadn’t disturbed their gaiety. Much like her father, the bulk of the elite granted her deference and the respect due her by virtue of her position, but below their forced smiles lurked hearts filled with fear. Only Kerrick looked upon her without terror skulking in his gaze. His eyes held a dull fury, but sometimes, far below, she saw his desire.

Tables laden with food dotted the room while potted plants offered secluded spots with chairs and couches so that guests could find a momentary reprieve from the festivities. Everywhere her gaze traveled, she found greater and greater excess. Servants were dressed elaborately and frozen in place like living statues. Ariss felt for them. Her own hideous outfit confined her movements. Huge fountains of red wine gushed into the air, burbling merrily. To her eyes, they seemed as huge, open wounds spewing blood. She clutched Kerrick’s arm tighter as her stomach roiled in protest.

Sensing her distress, Kerrick led her to a raised platform with several layers, like widened steps. At the top rested the elaborately carved Onic timber throne of the empress. No consort throne sat by its side. Ariss thought that curious. Below the highest step rested another throne. This one was smaller and not as decorative. Was this one for her consort?

The protocol officer had drilled Ariss earlier, but she couldn’t remember any of what she’d said. When Kerrick led her to the smaller throne, she hesitated, dread stealing over her. In a rush, she remembered. She would have fallen to her knees if not for Kerrick’s strong arm holding her up. This was not a party for her to attend as a guest. This was a party for her to sit on high
so all the elite could look upon her and see the vessel of a god. This show was to remind them that the child she carried would one day rule beside their new empress.

Turning her back to the throne reminded her of her punishment in the temple. She shivered, even though this one had no stone phallus. Carefully, as she sat down, her servants arranged her robes to fall artfully over the chair so that when viewed, she would be centered in the decorative folds. Feeling like artwork on display, Ariss sat very still, nestled in the golden fabric that lined the inside of her black robe.

Kerrick stood to her side. One hand dangled loosely at his side while the other rested lightly on the hilt of his blade. His gaze never ceased to travel over those below them. Now she understood another reason why they had seated her up high; such afforded her protector a wide view. Not that any would dare to attack her. She sensed that if any harbored her ill will, Tavarus would know. He would reach down through Kerrick and destroy them.

Once the music ended, the dancers babbled excitedly until a blast of fanfare drowned them out. All eyes, including Ariss’, were drawn to the entrance of the great hall. Palace guards dressed in finery marched into the room, flanking into two lines on either side of the door. Their massive bodies created a hallway of protection for the new empress.

Ariss held her breath, curious as to which House had won the most coveted position in the entire empire. Crimson House had ruled the empress line for so long that none could remember a time when they didn’t. Below her, the masses waited, too, their eyes gleaming, their mouths pressed tightly to hold back any excited utterances.

Sensing a problem, Ariss narrowed her eyes, as if that would help her see beyond the entrance. Her sensitive hearing picked up several voices whispering in fury. Suddenly, a sour-faced young
woman stumbled into the path between the guards. Ariss sensed she’d been shoved by the way she struggled to keep her balance.

A collective gasp erupted.

Before she could stop herself, Ariss lifted a hand to her mouth, as if to block her strangled shock. Clad in crimson, the tawny-skinned girl with black hair was clearly related to Kas-miri. Older, but obviously her sister.

The whole reason for the empress challenge was that Kas-miri was illegitimate. As the product of an empress and an unofficial consort, Kasmiri had renounced her throne before Ambo could impose death or exile upon her. As an only child, Kasmiri’s stepping down meant that Crimson House’s claim on the throne ended with her. Yet, here was a young lady who simply had to be the sister of Kasmiri and the daughter of Empress Clathia. For her to even compete in the empress challenge, her claim must have been validated. She had to be the legitimate offspring of Empress Clathia and her official consort, but where had she been kept all this time?

Ariss scanned the crowd. They seemed as stunned as she did, with wide eyes and hand-covered mouths. The empress challenge was conducted in secret, shrouded in mystery, and obscured by ritual, so none here would have had foreknowledge of the outcome. Now that one had been chosen from the many, their daughters would be returned to them. Ariss’ sister had failed early on in the challenge, as the competition was conducted in stages. Darabelle had survived the initial test of proving she was of an elite House; however, she’d failed the next round that judged them on beauty. Ariss felt a twinge of sympathy for Darabelle despite her petty behavior, but she’d not been allowed to see her sister before she’d left the palace in shame.

Similar in several respects to the Harvester competition, the apprentice empresses had to compete in a layered challenge involving
six areas. The last level was the most secretive. The four who entered would have been secluded until one was chosen. Or so Ariss thought. She honestly had no idea, as her attention had been otherwise engaged in her own pressing issues.

Frowning at everyone, the new empress darted her pale blue gaze among the guests as if all of them were against her. Her enormous pile of black hair glistened in the light. Displaying an utter lack of grace, the extremely tall woman lifted her skirt and stomped toward the raised platform.

Ariss bit her lip not to erupt in laughter. Whoever she was, she was clearly upset about something. Probably the elaborate crimson dress. In her fists, she grasped handfuls of the fabric so it wouldn’t impede her steps. Annoyance oozed from every glance, every breath, and every step she took.

Behind her, in the doorway looking on, the protocol officer, Undanna, openly cringed at the spectacle the new empress created. As the young woman threw herself into her throne, heedless of the way her dress twisted around her legs, the entire room of people fell to their knees. She might be a petulant, ill-mannered child, but she was still the empress.

“All hail Empress Bithia!”

A snarl darted across Bithia’s face at the mention of her own name. Ariss guessed she preferred another name other than her given one. Although, with a name like Bithia, Ariss couldn’t really blame her. Bithia was a name no longer used, as it hark-ened back to the time of the ancients. Perhaps Clathia had given her daughter such a name to show their lineage went back that far. Clathia’s name was of the same era.

Everyone in the great hall called out her name as they lowered their faces for a moment of silence. Ariss followed suit, but cracked her eyes open to observe Bithia.

Upon her throne, Bithia glowered down at her people; then to Ariss’ utter surprise, she rolled her eyes and exhaled a long, rather loud sigh as she tossed one leg over the armrest!

Small wonder there wasn’t a consort throne; what man would willingly become this woman’s partner? Another snarl twisted her face. Bithia lifted her hand to scratch at her hair. If the woman would stop scrunching up her face, she was actually quite pretty, especially with her light blue eyes set in tawny skin. As she scratched at her head, the mound of hair swayed dangerously from side to side. Ariss realized she wore a wig. What had possessed them to put this creature on the throne? Was it because she was a descendant of Crimson House?

Ariss’ neck grew stiff from having to hold her head so still. As she longed to reach up and rub the knotted tension away, she appreciated Bithia’s blithe dismissal of convention. If her neck were bothersome, Bithia wouldn’t care about protocol; she’d do what she had to do in order to make herself comfortable. Ariss wished she had that much courage.

Once the moment of silence ended, the crowd lifted their heads, but none commented on Bithia’s sprawled position. Eyes went wide, but none uttered a breath of disapproval.

“Oh,
grandathall,
” Bithia said, swearing in a language Ariss didn’t understand. Waving her hand dismissively, she bellowed, “Let the celebration begin.”

Music blared into the room, compelling all to dance.

Kerrick leaned close to Ariss’ ear and murmured, “She certainly knows how to make an entrance.”

Ariss did her best not to laugh, less the woman hear her, but a small giggle erupted despite her best efforts. She hadn’t laughed in so long, and sharing something lighthearted with Kerrick lifted her spirits.

“You, you there,” Bithia said, snapping her fingers and pointing at Ariss. “Are you the god’s
yondie
?”

Only those closest to the platform heard Bithia’s comment. Ariss felt them straining to listen without appearing obvious.

Lifting her entire upper body, Ariss turned in her seat to face the empress more directly.

Staring straight into her eyes, Ariss proudly declared, “I am the vessel of Tavarus, god of the Harvesters.”

Blinking back her surprise that Ariss met her challenge without flinching, Bithia shrewdly considered her for a moment. Her face broke into a wide and amazingly charming smile. “You, I think I will enjoy.” Flicking her chin to the people below, which tilted her wig even more precariously, she said, “Them, I will tolerate.”

Her grammar was atrocious, but there was something poignantly endearing about her. Ariss forgot all about why she was here, and instead, fell deeply into conversation with Bithia. Her life story was amazing, her spirit indomitable. She hadn’t even known her origins until recently.

“’Bout the last thing I ever wanted was to be tarted up and paraded around for a bunch of overdressed
peckards.
” She rolled her eyes again with a shake of her head. Ariss didn’t know exactly what a
peckard
was, but it certainly wasn’t complimentary. As Bithia’s wig timbered to the side, Ariss reached out, even though she knew she was too far away to catch it. Growling in frustration, Bithia reached up and yanked at the pins holding it in place. Once she freed the enormous mound of hair, she tossed it into the crowd, knocking a man off his feet. His scowl of annoyance disappeared when he realized who had caused his downfall. Plastering a wide grin to his face, he bowed repeatedly as he brushed nonexistent dust off his deep blue clothing and melted into the swelling crowd.

Bithia’s laughter rang through the room, causing several people to look up and quickly away. Her laugh was big, brash, almost a force of nature. Ariss had never heard its equal in volume or length. Bithia’s real hair was extremely short. Black as ink, but the strands were no longer than the length of one of her stubby fingernails. Ariss had never seen a woman with such short hair, yet Bithia’s face was strong enough to wear the odd style well.

She brushed her hands quickly through her close-cropped locks so they stood straight up from her skull. Then she leaned over, yanked her high-heeled shoes off, and tossed those into the crowd as well. “
Grandathall!
Now I can relax!” She snapped her fingers at a passing servant. When he approached, she snatched not one, but three drinks off his tray, settling the extras beside her throne.

A gaggle of female servants stealthily climbed up the back of the steps, carrying her wig and shoes, clearly determined to set her royal person to rights.

Bithia winked at Ariss conspiratorially, then lifted her hand, halting them in midstride. “One more step and I’ll have you all …” she trailed off, trying to find the right term. “Put in the stone? Covered with stones?” She turned to Ariss, and said, “Help me out here.”

“Put to the stone,” Ariss supplied. Crushing wayward inhabitants below a massive stone was the preferred death sentence on Diola. Several times, Kerrick had been threatened with just such a horror. However, Ariss knew that Bithia wasn’t serious, she simply wanted them to leave her be. And the threat worked; slowly but surely, the servants backed away.

Ariss admired the young woman’s spirit, for most would be far too worried about appearances to ever be themselves around the elite. They would put on airs and demand the finest of everything. Ariss had a feeling the empire was in for quite a surprise with Bithia’s rule.

“So,” Bithia said, tossing back an entire glass of wine in one gulp. Pointing the empty glass at Ariss’ belly, she asked, “That brat gets half my empire?”

Ariss darted a quick glance up to Kerrick’s eyes, but they were clear green. If Tavarus heard Bithia’s comment, he either didn’t care or didn’t understand the derogatory nature of the term.

Softly, Ariss returned, “When he comes of age he will rule beside you.”

“Is that so?” Bithia grabbed the last glass of wine and swallowed her drink in one mighty gulp. Carelessly, she tossed the empty glass behind her. “What if I don’t want to share?”

K
errick stood still beside Ariss’ throne, letting Bithia say what she would. None of her blather mattered. This child would rule beside her, or she would be cast aside. The most ancient of prophecy decreed that the very gods had chosen this child, which made him far more important than the empress herself. Nothing this silly girl did or said would change that. Bithia could no more alter the future than Kerrick could change the truth of his position.

In the temple, on his knees before Ariss, he’d been so angry that he swore he would master her. Visions of her on her knees begging for his touch fueled his passion and gave him the strength to continue. When she pulled him to his feet and wrapped her lovely legs around him, encouraging him to fill her slick passage, his heart relented, but only for a moment. He had no choice but to stay by her side. However, he would not become a slave to her body. She commanded him as her servant, but he refused to share her bed. He was her protector. To that end, he shared her rooms, but he slept on the floor. Ariss had tried everything to get him to share the massive bed, but he refused.
When she put soft pallets beside her bed to please him, he pushed them away, refusing to take her charity.

Anger still filled him that he hadn’t walked away when he’d had the chance. He’d stayed to protect Ariss. Bitterly, he reflected that he truly was her protector now. In the temple, he knew that Tavarus commanded him to be her champion, not Ariss, but Kerrick found it difficult to focus his anger on a god without form. It was so much easier to focus his rage on the woman he was sworn to protect.

From his height, Kerrick scanned the crowd, but the elite gave little notice to him, Ariss, or even the new and startling empress. He didn’t fear any would dare to attack because simply everyone was terrified of Ariss. To her face, they showed the deference a demigoddess was due, but behind her back, they whispered about her and the child she carried. None of their comments was complimentary. Besides, the elite were far too enchanted with themselves to bother with harming Ariss. They danced and drank, babbling about their worthless lives, gorging themselves on expensive treats and sexual perversities. Kerrick despised them. Even when Kerrick was at a greater height than they were, the elite still managed to look down at him. He noticed when they looked at him their gazes went through him, as if he were not worthy of being noticed. Kerrick speculated this was due to what he wore and years of indoctrination; brown was the color of servants. Ironically, the brown showed off the rich gold of his hair and enhanced the green of his eyes. He’d caught sight of himself in Ariss’ many mirrors and was satisfied by what he saw; he might be a lowly slave, but he’d never looked better.

Kerrick turned his attention back to Ariss and Bithia, grudgingly pleased that Ariss managed to hold her own against the decidedly different empress. Kerrick didn’t sense any ill will in Bithia, only a need to test boundaries, like a child poorly reared. Soon enough she would learn to share the mighty burden
of her position, not only share, but also she would welcome additional support. Right now, everything was parties and pageantry, but very soon, it would be petitions and pacification. Once she realized that a thousand myriad details would demand her attention every day, she would welcome all the help she could get.

“Besides, you have eighteen seasons to get used to the idea.” Kerrick hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until both women stopped talking and glanced in his direction. Mortified by his breach of station, for a servant should never speak over his master, Kerrick hung his head in abject apology. His hair flopped over his gaze, shielding him from Bithia’s penetrating glare.

After a moment, she laughed that massive booming laugh of hers, and said, “I think I will enjoy you, too.”

Hesitantly, Kerrick lifted his gaze to her.

Her fingers smoothed against the arm of her throne, and he knew she wished to brush the strands of hair out of his eyes. He smiled inwardly. Even as a slave, he still appealed to women. In the greater scheme of things, this knowledge was immaterial, but to his battered pride, knowing lifted his spirits.

Flicking his hair back with a toss of his head, he bowed low but said nothing. He could only speak to Bithia if she asked him a direct question. Such was the case with Ariss, too, but he often broke that rule with no censure, which caused his slip in this situation. For the rest of the evening, he would have to be on his guard.

Bithia called for a passing servant. This time she took the entire tray of drinks. She offered one to Ariss, who declined with a shake of her head and a hand to her belly.

“
Tadenta fa!
” Bithia slapped her palm to her forehead. Slowly, she lowered her arm, considering their baffled expressions. She then translated, “It means, ‘I’m stupid for forgetting’
on Beserrah.” She put the tray near her throne, then held a cup out to Kerrick.

By protocol, he wasn’t supposed to drink, but Bithia didn’t seem concerned with adhering to strict etiquette. After a quick glance to Ariss to confirm her permission, he took the offered cup. Before he could withdraw, Bithia stroked her finger along the back of his hand. He would have dismissed the caress as an accident but for the quick lifted brows she flashed him.

Ariss noticed but said nothing.

Without acknowledging her flirtatious behavior, Kerrick saluted her with his drink. In addition, he took a perverse pleasure in watching Ariss have to hold her tongue for a change. She noticed Bithia’s interest but could do nothing to chastise her. One simply didn’t correct the empress’s behavior.

“To the child of the gods,” Bithia said without malice, lifting her cup on high. “Long may we rule in harmony.” She tossed back her drink, then tossed the cup over her shoulder, where it shattered. “Well, in eighteen seasons, anyway.”

Her grin was infectious. Kerrick found himself returning her smile, which earned him a slight, almost imperceptible frown from Ariss. Bithia’s face was unlike any he had ever seen. Sharp cheekbones lifted the oval of her face out of the ordinary and into something extraordinary. Her close-cropped black hair only accented the pale blue of her wide-set eyes and deepened the tone of her tawny skin. Someone had artfully applied makeup, but her constant wiping of her mouth with the back of her hand had smeared it, revealing the true dusky color of her lips. On most women, the effect would be comical, however on Bithia, such disarray echoed the honesty of her nature. Whatever trappings they slapped on her, she quickly eroded. Disorder made her far more interesting than studied perfection would have.

When she caught him staring, Kerrick dropped his gaze. If
he wasn’t careful, she would take the absolute wrong meaning from his interest. Just about the last thing he needed was to encourage the attentions of the new empress. Ariss had been fairly tolerant about his breeches in servant behavior, but he didn’t think she would forgive a tryst with the empress. Not that he would actually do anything with her. Bithia was cute in her odd way, but she didn’t stir his lust. Not the way Ariss still did, despite his best intentions to remain aloof.

Kerrick had thought Ariss was staying true to him as well, but he’d seen evidence of her passionate encounters with someone else; rug burns marred her palms and knees, fingertip-shaped bruises dotted her hips. Whoever her lover was, he was unbelievably aggressive. Kerrick told himself he didn’t care. Ariss could fuck every man in the palace if she wanted, and there wasn’t one thing he could do about it. But the truth was, it chafed his already decimated pride. He thought that by denying her, she would beg for him. Still, he had visions of her on her knees in supplication for even the smallest kiss. Apparently, she’d turned to another rather than waste her time on him.

“Tell me about your home planet of Beserrah,” Ariss asked.

“Bes-er-rah,”
Bithia corrected mildly, giving the word three distinct syllables. Her gaze swept over the people below, then the entire great hall. “Beserrah is nothing like Diola. We have one season: scorching.” She shook her head fondly. “It’s always excruciatingly hot and very humid.” She plucked at her heavy dress. “This would be considered a form of torture on Beser-rah.”

“What do you wear?” Ariss asked, leaning closer.

Kerrick grinned. He might love gossip, but Ariss simply adored fashion. Each time he’d accompanied her to official gatherings, she would endlessly discuss what each lady wore, especially the women from other planets. When she returned to their rooms, she would sketch ideas for her seamstress. Slowly, inexorably, Ariss was single-handedly altering Diolan fashion.

“Most wore little, if anything,” Bithia said, her eyes flashing meaningfully to Kerrick before returning to Ariss. “Nudity was common.”

Kerrick had been to a world like that once; one that was hot, not one filled with nudity. The name escaped him, but he remembered the game they had played. Each man in a low-slung vehicle fought to reach the summit of a long uphill expanse of sand. The first to the top won. Most tumbled backward or lost momentum in the deep sand. It had seemed to Kerrick that the real point of the game was to spend an inordinate amount of time standing around drinking and watching the other participants. When night fell, they’d sit around campfires doing basically the same thing.

“Your people walked about naked?” Ariss stifled a gasp.

“They were not my people!” Bithia rolled her eyes. “I didn’t rule there, I only spent time in their …” she searched for the word. “
Natsuma
—court.”

“Why did Clathia send you—” Kerrick cut himself off when he suddenly realized he was prying into the private affairs of the empress. Worse, he’d again spoken out of turn. Kerrick didn’t think the warm feelings generated during this brief encounter were enough to ask the young woman why her mother had sent her away and never told anyone on Diola about her existence. How she’d been found and entered into the empress competition was another provocative question altogether. One that he swore he wouldn’t dare to ask, even though he was dying to know. Sterlave’s accusation, that Kerrick was more enamored of gossip than any woman, was a lot truer than Kerrick would willingly admit. His love of gossip could very well be the death of him.

There had been one redeeming aspect to becoming a servant; he was allowed entrance to the
tishiary.
In the lower level of the palace lay a vast set of rooms where servants gathered to bathe, wash clothing, gossip, and gather supplies for their masters.
He’d been furious the first time he’d been sent there to bathe. However, one of Ariss’ other servants had to retrieve him because he’d been so caught up in gossiping he’d forgotten everything else. Rown was a servant to Sterlave and Kasmiri. He knew simply everything about everyone. Rown demurred about his master and mistress, but he eagerly talked about everyone else. Whenever Kerrick went to the
tishiary,
he looked first for Rown.

A sullen expression, filled with an age-old hurt, darkened Bithia’s normally bright face. “You know, you are the only person brave enough to ask me to my face about why Clathia sent me away.” Lifting her chin accusingly toward the entrance, where the protocol officer, the magistrate, and other assorted members of her staff stood deep in conversation, she said, “They speculate behind my back, talking just loud enough so that I can hear.” A smile of malice twisted her lips. “I don’t tell them because I know how badly they want to know.” Bithia considered Ariss and Kerrick for a moment. “Well, that’s what I tell myself.” She took a long drink. “The truth is, I don’t tell them because I don’t know.” Her face turned wistful and terribly sad. “I never knew my mother or my father. I have no idea why they sent me away.”

In that moment, he saw that despite her proud carriage and her bluster, Bithia was still a very young girl with a tender heart. In fact, she was just barely old enough for the Harvest. And that’s when he recognized her. No wonder Bithia looked so familiar; he’d harvested her only a few cycles ago. Someone had taken great care to obscure her features with makeup, and she’d worn a wig of blond hair, but those pale blue eyes … He would never forget that almost translucent color. But what he remembered most about her was that she was no virgin. Surely, Bithia had recognized him, too.

Softly, Ariss said, “Perhaps they did not send you away.”

Hope filled Bithia’s eyes only to be replaced with wary suspicion.

Shrugging delicately, Ariss said, “Sometimes, in a world such as this”—she lifted her hand to include all those below them—“a father or mother might have no say in what befalls their child.”

Bithia glanced down at Ariss’ still-flat belly. “You would not choose this life for your child.”

“No.” Ariss looked up as if she could see right into the mists of
Jarasine.
“I would choose a life far different.”

“Maybe that’s why they sent me away; they didn’t want me to have to deal with all of these
peckards.
”

Ariss’ laugh cheered him. She rarely laughed anymore. He knew that all her life she’d longed for a quiet home, surrounded by forest, earning her keep with the simplest of trades. Of all things, she wanted to sell medicinal plants. Ironically, she knew absolutely nothing about them, but she said that’s why the whole thing was simply a dream.

Bithia tossed back another drink. With a low voice, she asked, “Are they keeping you here in the palace because of—” she pointed to Ariss’ belly.

Ariss nodded.

“If you could send the child away, would you?”

Ariss’ gasp said no louder than any words.

Despite his continued annoyance with her, Kerrick grudgingly admired Ariss for refusing to abandon her child. No matter what, Ariss would not walk away. Even if she herself became a slave, she would stay to protect her child. Although he knew in his heart that the child was his, he always referred to the babe as “her child” or simply “the child.” Distancing himself was the only way he’d been able to contain his emotions.

For a moment, Bithia considered Ariss, then, no longer content to throw her glasses behind her, she tossed her current one
onto the floor below. The fragile glass shattered with a delicate tinkle, almost like the peal of a tiny bell. Several people jumped, then danced away from the platform. Kerrick thought they were lucky she hadn’t hit them. She might have, if too many drinks hadn’t hampered her aim. He took note that as the evening progressed, the people below made a wider and wider path of empty around the platform.