Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1) (18 page)

Paris could not take his eyes from the man. For that was what he was: a man. No peacock or growling lion cub. Perhaps Avallonë was not a total loss. In his mind's eye the two of them were already allies, Paris holding the power of the throne and leading with his sagacity, this man a veritable hound of his will.

Long silver horns sounded and a palace door creaked. Paris could not see the horns: the large double-doors remained as closed as before. He wished to look behind him: his eyes searched the periphery for clues.

At length movement entered from his left. A rider, hooded in damask, rode out on a chestnut mare. Some dozen followed, also hooded, but cloth colored a shade lighter then the first. She, for at the horse's turn the visible face pronounced woman, proceeded directly in front of the man Paris had noted. He sensed all about him bow but he could not. A terrible thrill ran through him. It was her!

He bowed, not out of decorum but fright. He wanted to hide his face from hers. His guilt sat on his brow like water in a rain cloud. He feared lest any look sideways and condemn him. Then he wished one would look and relieve him of his torment.

The movement of horses broke to his ears past his throbbing heart. The troop had split asunder, making room for the Lady and the Man, now turned to match her, to ride away from the palace. One by one the maidens followed, escorts joining them from the inward ranks.

Following the press of the crowd Paris soon found himself a step ahead of a young maiden. He cast a furtive glance at her. What a relief. The face was not with her too, just an even featured but otherwise unremarkable image. He regained some of his composure as the silent troop exited the city.

Orion lay prone as if sleeping. He slept as long as he could, trying to push away what daily faced him. He couldn't sleep though. His body had gotten stronger with Desdemona's food and did not crash into a troubled sleep the moment it was allowed. His mind's ills now ruined several of his night hours. But he lay there, wishing for unconsciousness to come and take him.

He heard the trough flip over. “Yuck. It's a wonder I can still eat after seeing what her cooking looks like later.” It was Aeneas's voice.

“I tell myself that each night but my stomach disagrees by the time we next eat.” Theo. “I long for meat again. Venison, a nice juicy chunk with the fat dripping and sizzling into the fire.”

“You've never had venison in your life, so shut up.”

“I wonder what the hairy antelope will taste like.” Orion froze, wide awake.

“Raw? What are the chances we could get it cooked, the way she adores it? Leaves me alone, at least.”

“Oh, its not that hard. I shall use my grandfather's favorite way to broil a steak.”

Aeneas laughed. “Let you ruin its meat? Never. I'll eat it raw first, even if the rest of my teeth fall out because of it.”

If a kardja died the meat was given to the dogs, yes, but to butcher it? He felt sick.

“That would improve your look. Get those dark crooked things out. But I shall prevail on Simon. A few more days of nice grass—have you seen how thick she is now?—and I shall prepare you a feast.”

Fifteen

Orion swallowed hard. “Des....” Her name was hard to say through the spite and jealousy.

The girl didn't notice his feeble attempt, just quietly handed him a bowl of something like oatmeal, but not of oats.

“Hey!”

She stiffened, looking him in the eyes.

“You want to know a secret?”

She waited.

“The kardja's pregnant.”

She pointed at the bowl and turned to leave.

”No, wait. Her, Kerry, my animal you're walking towards, is pregnant and... Theo wants to eat it.”

She looked back. “All animals die. Worry about yourself.”

“But she's mine. My only....” He didn't say it. It sounded too stupid here.

“She's not yours. Not even you are yours, now.”

“You won't help?”

She looked at Aeneas and Theo and Simon in turn and raised her hands. “How?”

He thought fast. “Dead, she's just a few meals. Alive, much more valuable. Simon is a trader, right?”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Look, no one will kill a healthy horse for its meat?” He wanted to say sheep too but wasn't as sure.

Desdemona walked back and picked up his bowl, still half-full. “If there's money in it, Simon's interested. But why tell me this?” She left.

Far to the north, Paris bowed. Courtiers stood to his right and left. He did not see the Master: this was Her court. Behind him two musicians held long silver trumpets, their red-sleeved arms keeping the ends just off the marble floor. Beside the throne a chair, just smaller and white instead of red sat empty.

The Queen nodded at him, her full dress like red lava flowing from the great chair to the top step. “Welcome, Paris. Long has it been since your kin has visited the White City. You are most welcome.” If her dress were lava, her lips were the volcano's cone and redder than red. A silver circlet that flashed with white jewels competed against her even teeth as she spoke.

He bowed again, even lower. She extended her hand. He half stood, stepped forward and kissed the proffered ring. “You must join us. We shall feast: tomorrow eve?”

Once more he bowed, a shallow acknowledgment. He walked three steps backwards then, bowing deep once more, wheeled to her left and exited her chambers. His blue-dyed boots rang in the hall on his way out. Outside he glanced at a large tree in passing as he walked down the wide steps.

Orion thought and thought the whole day long. Anytime that he spoke up he was beaten: why would this be any different? Maybe the glitter of wealth would make them hear him out. But when did Simon even come close? He was always on his horse, on the lookout, Orion guessed, but not sure what for. More stragglers like himself?

Over the past few days the rocks began to lessen replaced by a rich loam. Plants grew in size and number. Their winding path brought them to a well-used road in the plain. Orion had seen several people walking along it between the farms and an occasional village. Simon captured none of these. Why had he been taken?

Enough of himself. He wasn't going to be eaten. At least he didn't think so. Kerry would, and soon. How could he persuade the girl to help him? What could he give? He had Kerry, that was it. He didn't even know if the cloak she bore had fallen off or was in the wagon now. Aeneas had taken his knife.

He wondered if they'd feel remorse butchering her and finding a miniature version of herself dead inside. He shuddered. If only he'd left the desert behind: he could be wandering the eastern slopes, out of reach of Riley, away from Darach and all the memories. Soon he would have had two kardja with him.

But all he owned was Simon's. Without his consent, how could he offer Desdemona anything? What did he have that Simon couldn't steal? He gritted his teeth.

For a time he just walked. The red beards in front of him were singing a low mournful tune. He didn't understand their words, just their sorrows.

How he wished he had the ring, hidden and secret. Then Desdemona would free him with it as pledge and the two of them on Kerry would flee to the City where he'd be reunited with his mother's kin and Desdemona rewarded as she was due. Then he and Kerry could begin a new life. He hated the merchant.

He listened to the song as it faded and stopped. Why couldn't his memories stop? Why did he have a sister, just to have her torn from him? Why did Kerry get pregnant just for two deaths under the butcher's knife? Why did he have parents, good parents, who died when he didn't? Half of him wished this was all he'd known, that way it wouldn't hurt so much. Why couldn't Simon steal his memories? He'd stolen everything else.

Perhaps that was his answer. Simon could kill him: that would stop them. He could torture him if he thought it useful. But what Orion held in his head and his heart could never be kidnapped.

Simon had stolen Kerry. But all he got was a half-docile animal running around the camp that could be turned into food. He didn't have the Kerry Orion knew: the brave, intelligent kardja, fully trained. Her fleece this next season was ten times' worth the value of her meat.

But how to speak to Simon? It would have to be through the girl. What could he give her? Jealousy sprang up and shouted no, a thousand times no. He struggled. There was no other way. Perhaps he could say it without meaning it. No. He was very bad at lying. It wouldn't work. And how could he live with himself?

“Tell Simon I must speak with him.”

“Why?” she said.

“Because he won't listen to me.”

“He beats me too, if I bother him.”

“This is worth it. You can save your friend.”

“I told you, all animals die.”

“Do you want to ride her?” He nearly choked.

She looked at him.

“Serious. She's no mere pack animal or sheep. I can train you how. She trusts me; she likes you. But it won't happen if she's dead.”

“Then why don't I just do it myself?”

“You need my help. Maybe not to ride. But without me, why wouldn't Aeneas or Theo take her from you?”

“How can you stop that?”

“Swear to me that you'll do as I say.” He bent forward and spoke quickly.

Soon she interrupted him. “Eat your food.” Theo walked by, grumbling about something or other. She whispered back. “This won't work. But for riding her I will risk it. Your risk is greater.”

“Trust me.” But his confidence was evaporating. Why did Simon need him? He had to need him, or it all fell apart. It had sounded so good in his head earlier today! The bitter pang of hope denied pierced his soul. It was a good plan, worthy of his father's negotiations, of years spent in the babble of markets.

It didn't make sense. Then the whisper of an idea struck him. What didn't make sense? One conversation of a merchant's, long ago, that made all the herders bristle. That stupid man who thought one of man's greatest gifts was to be a toy. He turned this new possibility over in his mind. His very nature revolted against it. Could such a person exist? He hoped Simon thought so.

He hardly slept that night. He went through his plan a thousand times, seeing the same things again and again, trying to spot weaknesses. He felt tired the next day, and nervous, jumping at every sound and sight of Simon, wondering if Desdemona had followed through on her promise.

They stopped midday at a stand of trees along a stream. Aeneas and Theo started watering the horses. He saw Simon walking toward him. His heart quailed. He stood up.

“The girl says you wish to speak. Speak.”

He stood there, his mouth opening and closing. He thought she would have at least mentioned something about what he wanted to speak about. “They want to kill Kerry but you shouldn't let them because she's more valuable.”

“Your pet, I suppose? Blood of Artemis, I didn't come to hear this!” He pulled his hand back to slap Orion.

“No, no. More valuable to you. Her meat—a few meals. Alive—make you wealthy.” He cringed behind raised hands.

“How?”

“Many ways. She's like a sheep. She makes a fleece every year. The finest wool, pure white.”

He laughed. “That dirty bag of bones?”

Orion saw a chance and he took it. “Dirty, yes, that is why it takes skill to see. I would not expect the others to notice, but you, this is your profession.” He paused, tensed.

Simon's expression hardened. “And what do you think my profession is?”

“To take fools like these,” he was playing recklessly now, “and sell them to fools who think them useful. But you and I,” mustering up everything he had he stepped forward and stared at Simon, just inches away, “know it is the burning inside the man that brings power. The body is just a tool.”

He kept on staring.

Simon's expression changed. “You are a mere boy. You know nothing of men. The least of these fools will fetch double what you'll bring me.”

“Double? Name your price. The ransom for myself and my kardja.”

“Theo, Aeneas, listen to this! The child is bargaining with me!” He turned back to me. “You have no money.”

“I told you the kardja is valuable. I know how to make it obvious to fools. Once I do that,
I
sell the kardja,
I
pay you the ransom, and then
I
go free, with any money left over.”

“If you can't pay the ransom?”

“Then I don't go free.”

“Ten talents.”

“No deal.”

“You said wealth.”

“You said I was worth half a red beard. It's the wrong season to sell kardja. I might not find a rich enough fool not too proud to bargain with one looking like me.” He raised his chained hands.

“Terms?”

“You let me free. I clean her up, get her ready.”

“You take me for a fool? Why wouldn't you flee with her? No. If I want you free, I'll have her forelegs bound. You tell me how I will get my money.”

He thought it would be easier. He'd said what he wanted to, or most of it. His words sounded empty, though, and his stomach still was as restless as if he'd eaten half a dozen green apples. It further twisted when he saw Aeneas limping his way. Something about his limp accentuated a thin scar on his cheek—Orion shuddered. He wished to pity the man for his wound, his weakness daily evident. He couldn't.

“Think you're bright? Think you've got the boss for a friend? Humph.” Aeneas pulled out a small key and grabbed at Orion's braces. A jab and a half-turn and they fell from his wrists.

He stood there, hands feeling light. His fingers caressed his bruised wrists. The red beards looked at him in surprise.

“Get on with it.” Aeneas grabbed an elbow and drug him away. By this time everyone was watching. Orion put his fingers in his lips and whistled. A hundred paces away Kerry stopped, stock still. Her ears pricked towards him. Desdemona stood too, watching. Then with a leap she ran towards him.

He wanted to cry. She was fatter than before, dirty as he'd ever seen her, and a strange green from some marshy ground a few hours ago still clung to her belly. She was so beautiful. Her eyes were bright and her pace was regular, no favoring the foreleg. He could see the faintest trace of where she carried her kid.