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Authors: Carol Berg

BOOK: Transformation
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Much as I wished it, I could not forget about the demon. The Khelid had left Capharna for a visit to Parnifour, but he was due to return for the dakrah feast. Though I told myself not to worry about it—a mountain could fall on him or an earthquake open the earth to swallow him—my bones told me otherwise. We had not seen the last of him.
As if there weren’t enough complications to the whole matter of the dakrah, Aleksander decided that he needed a new sword to carry on the anointing day. Though the gift swords were elaborately decorated and enormously expensive, none of them was the excellent weapon the Prince fancied proper for an Emperor-to-be of a warrior race.
“Demyon of Avenkhar forged my last blade,” he said to some friends one morning in his chambers. “He’s the finest swordsmith in the Empire.”
“Why not have Demyon make you another?” asked Nevari, slurping loudly at a glass of wine. Lord Nevari was the squint-eyed dandy who had been with Aleksander and Vanye at the slave auction. He always looked as if he had just sniffed a dead body.
Aleksander was watching me unpack a crate of amethyst-encrusted gold goblets, but nothing grabbed his attention like idiotic suggestions. “Are you an entire imbecile, Nevari? There are only three weeks until the ceremony, and it would take Demyon most of that time to make a decent sword. He swears that no other forge will work a blade as does his own. He could hardly come here to fit it to my hand and go back to finish it, nor could I go there and try it, and still get back here in time.”
“Couldn’t you send the order by messenger bird? I ordered this sword from Zhagad, and was quite pleased with the result. I saw no need to be there while they were making it.” He pulled out a thick bronze weapon with a hilt so ornately wrought, so encrusted with jewels, and so immensely heavy it would have made a far better bludgeon.
Aleksander rolled his eyes at the other three young men in the room and thumped a finger on Nevari’s slightly flat head. “Your sword is a whore’s bauble, Nevari. How did you ever earn your warrior’s braid? Did your father hire mercenaries to set up a battle for you? Ahh! I see, I’ve guessed it!”
“Certainly not!” spluttered the young man clad in pink satin, his face the very color of his tunic. His companions covered their mouths to hide their smirking.
“Learn from me, if your head can comprehend it. No true warrior could carry a blade not made to fit his hand and balanced to suit his style and pleasure. Not all of us are satisfied with swords so heavy they drag the ground.”
The dim young man held his ridiculous weapon high where the candlelight caught it, and wrinkled his brow seriously at the sparkling toy. “But it looks well, don’t you think, Aleksander? How can you bear such plain work as you carry? Yours might be the sword of a drudge soldier. An Emperor’s sword should be even finer than mine.”
But Aleksander wasn’t listening to Nevari. He was staring down at his scabbard, discarded on a round, marble-topped table. Suddenly he whirled about. “Seyonne!”
I set down my work and bowed. “My lord?”
“Has there been any word from my uncle?”
“No, my lord. Not since the last from Zhagad.” That was the three-line message in which the old man had submitted to Aleksander’s scheme to keep him away from Capharna for the Dar Heged.
Your Highness,
Your word is my command. The Lady Lydia will be provided for. I will see you in Capharna, when my duty is done in Avenkhar.
Dmitri
 
Aleksander had taken no pleasure from that note, and no triumph. “We’ll mend,” he had said to himself after hearing it. “We’ll mend.”
“Dmitri has surely gone to Avenkhar by now. He knows every strength and weakness of my hand, and exactly what design suits me best. Who better to judge Demyon’s work than the finest swordsman ever to carry a blade? It will only delay his return a bit longer. If he comes by the Jybbar Pass, he’ll be here well before the ceremonies begin.”
I was immediately set to writing at the cherry wood desk.
Dmitri,
As you are yet annoyed with me, I might as well get your blood boiling one more time. It will keep you warm as you come over the Jybbar to Capharna. I’ve decided on a new sword for the dakrah. You will command Demyon to drop everything he’s doing to make a sword fit for his Crown Prince—a warrior’s blade, not some ceremonial toy. The finished blade should be two mezzits longer than the last one he made for me, as you and I discussed last summer, but I expect the balance and the edge to be just as perfect. As for the hilt, Demyon knows my taste. I require only that it bear the graven device of the Derzhi lion and the falcon of our House. I trust you to judge it fit, Uncle, and to bring it in all haste from Avenkhar for the opening of the dakrah. Send me word that you will see to this commission.
Zander
 
The Prince had me post the letter via messenger bird to Avenkhar, then he fussed and fidgeted for four days until a message came in reply.
Your Highness,
Your sword will be satisfactory. The Lady Lydia is on her way. Three weeks and I will be in Capharna.
Dmitri.
 
Aleksander shook his head at the message. “I suppose I must be ready for your thrashing, likai,” he said. Then, with an unaccustomed wistfulness, he added, “Why is your head so hard?”
Likai. That explained a great deal about Aleksander and Dmitri. A likai was a Derzhi warrior’s tutor, the master of his apprenticeship in the art of war. Though it was unusual for a likai to be a relative, I should have guessed it. Ivan would not have allowed his son’s training to be handled by just anyone. What was more unusual was that they had apparently come out of it without being mortal enemies. A good likai was a hard taskmaster—and I surmised that Dmitri was good at it. Inevitably these thoughts of mentors and students led me back to Llyr, and I returned to my work cursing all Derzhi.
The only preparation for the dakrah Aleksander found amusing was hiring entertainers. Five householders were given the duty of designing entertainments for every day and night of the celebration, and there was a constant flow of musicians and dancers, jugglers and magicians streaming into Capharna, vying for the lucrative contracts. The householders would screen the applicants, then send any who seemed likely to the Prince for final judgment. The Prince was, of course, not at all shy about expressing his preferences.
“You sound like screeching geese.”
“Your mewling makes me vomit.”
“You are an offense to Athos. Isn’t there some god of music to throttle this woman?”
One after another the unsatisfactory aspirants slunk away. The Prince told a Basranni lore master that she could not show her face in Capharna or Zhagad for ten years. He kicked a dark-skinned Hollenni singer in the backside, just as the man reached an emotional crescendo. The singer’s eyes popped open and the poor man almost swallowed his tongue.
“Seyonne, write a proclamation that Hollenni are not permitted to sing Derzhi love songs. Their slobbering sentiment degrades our traditions.”
I wanted to tell him that perhaps the emotion had something to do with the fact that Hollenni couples were pledged at birth and never had an opportunity to challenge their tribal matchmaker’s choice. When Hollenni sang of unrequited love and the sorrows of impossible joining, they knew what they were talking about. But I refrained.
At the end of the long day of unsatisfactory auditions, a lute player twanged an off-key string in the middle of an otherwise decent performance. Aleksander leaped from his chair, grabbed the instrument, and smashed it over the unlucky musician’s head. The devastated man fled from the palace music room weeping.
“Well, what are you looking at?” The Prince caught me before I could drop my eyes.
“I’m looking at nothing, my lord.”
“You see? Again, you’re not saying what’s truly in your mind. This past fortnight it’s been worse than ever. What are you brooding about?”
“I think of nothing but doing your will, Your Highness.”
“There. Clearly a lie. Tell me the truth or I’ll have you flogged. It’s been too long since you’ve had a lash, so you’d best make me believe you. You’re useful, but not indispensable.”
I was sitting on a high stool at a clerk’s desk, staring down at my bony, ink-stained fingers that had once held a Luthen mirror, and such a great weariness overcame me that I could not retreat behind my usual barricades of words.
“I was thinking that the lute player’s family is going to starve, because his instrument, which is his livelihood, is now destroyed.”
“Ah, he probably has a bag of gold sewn into his cloak. Or does your Ezzarian magic tell you other?”
“No, my lord. It is only my eyes tell me. He is Thrid and therefore he has traveled a month to get here and must travel a month to get home, yet he has holes in the soles of his shoes. The five tattoos on his left arm tell me he has five children, yet he wears no ivory. A Thrid who has sold his last ivory talisman has no legacy for his children. Therefore he has nothing and his family will starve, for what merchant or farmer will have mercy on a Thrid, who are hated and despised by every race?” I let far too much bitterness leak out with my words.
“What’s the matter with you today, Seyonne? What care have you for a Thrid? He has no slave rings. Thrid soldiers were in the vanguard when we took Ezzaria.”
I believed I had controlled my anger about Llyr’s death. But after the endless day watching Aleksander’s boorish behavior, I could not check my tongue when he goaded me.
“He is a living, breathing being, my lord. He has hands and voice to do you honor, and a soul to worship his gods and bring good into the world. You have destroyed him because you are bored.”
“How dare you speak to me thus?”
It was one of the most difficult battles I had ever fought to abandon my stool, force myself to my knees, and will my tongue to obey. “I do only as you command, my lord.” I was shaking in rage. Never had I been so close to losing control of myself, and from the corner of one eye, I saw Aleksander’s fist clench and jerk, ready to lay me flat. I prayed for him to do it before I made matters worse. But all he said was, “Get out. And bring a civil tongue tomorrow or you’ll have no hands with which to write.”
All that evening as I worked at Fendular’s drudgery, I damned myself for a fool.
Stupid. Stupid to let him goad you into words from your heart. If you once let a trickle past the dam, how long will it be until you loose the flood?
 
I hoped the Prince would forget the incident. He was quick in his humors. Quick to anger. Quick to strike. Quick to forget. I thought of him as a dangerous child, and had come to believe it was the source of his deepest difficulties with people. He could not understand long-standing or deep-held grievances, and found any reminder of them irritating or insulting. He truly believed that the Mezzrahn lords would love him again and send their sons to be his noble attendants and warrior companions. Indeed those who had suffered from his violent and thoughtless tempers or his childish, humiliating insults put on the face required before the man who would one day control their destiny. But I saw their expressions when Aleksander was not looking, and I did not believe they forgot.
Unfortunately, Aleksander did not forget my rash words. On the next morning I sat again at my high writing stool in the vast cavern of the gilded music room. The giant open hearth in the middle of the room was producing very little heat, and the Prince slouched in his cushioned chair beside it, staring at me sourly while he listened to more aspiring entertainers. For an hour nothing would please him. But as the day progressed, three performers were fortunate. The first played the mellanghar, the low-droning pipes of the Derzhi, in such fashion that he could have had the giant stone lions of Zhagad fawning at his feet. A lissome, sloe-eyed Manganar dancer merited not only a contract, but also an escort into the living quarters of the palace, where I had no doubt she would be made other unrefusable offers on the Prince’s behalf. Also approved was a storyteller who made the well-lit, chilly room seem dark and hot with a tale of a warrior venturing Druya the bull god’s cave.
But about midday a skinny Thrid juggler, performing a daring trick, missed a catch and came near bashing Aleksander in the head with a large wooden ball. It was not a good week for Thrid. The lanky, hollow-cheeked young man prostrated himself in abject terror. When the roaring Prince picked up the man’s bag of implements and aimed it at the hearth fire, I quickly averted my face. Aleksander must have changed his mind then, for the heavy bag nearly knocked me off my stool.
“Hie, Thrid,” said Aleksander, poking at the man with his foot. “Up with you and show me the soles of your boots.”
The poor, gaping fellow could scarcely stand for his knees knocking together so wildly.
“Hmm. No holes. And show me your left arm. One child. And three of your ivory baubles about your neck. What say, Seyonne? May I thrash him without your disapproval?”
“You may do as you please as always and forever, Your Highness. Your will is sacred to all who live in the sunlight of the Derzhi Empire.” I stared at the blank paper on my writing desk as I recited the required words.

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