Prince Eater
Other Chapters: (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8)
Words: 13,702
Dinner continued far longer than it should, and the wine flowed longer still.
The redder her face the looser her tongue. Wine doesn't whisper lies, it screams truths. Politics held one great deception: there was no opposition, there was only you. If the past taught him anything, it was not the enemy who made mistakes.
She blurted out about all the things she shouldn't have, all the things she believed most. The Alonites laughed at her sloppy jokes and cheered at her provocative manner, but it was hollow. They saw the crumbling castle with every sip, every gulp down her gorgeous throat.
Was she happy or sad? Happy the Accans had undermined her rival or sad for the same? Her face was no clear reflection of her actions, no mirror of her mind. She squirmed in her seat and clutched the pendant in one hand or the other, never releasing it as if she feared it being stolen. Wine flowed over her tongue until it stained crimson. When she'd drunk enough, she slipped a hand seductively over a breast and let out a sweet gasp. And she did worse.
She exclaimed, with no fear in her voice, exactly what she wanted. To f#ck, and she didn't care with who. But that wasn't true, no. She'd made it abundantly clear who she meant. She meant Naevu. And it wasn't for any sane reason. Not for attraction, or personal desire, or a longing to repay a debt, no. Elea wanted to make a statement, a vulgar statement. A petty and wine dimmed statement to Moril Vaban. The statement under any other circumstance would empower her.
He saw the glimmer in her eye, the faded brilliance of a politician knowing full well of her folly. But whether it was the wine or her own desire to never go back on her word, she didn't correct.
And she didn't care who heard. The City of Man held no secrets. The other Orders may have kept to their tables and their conversations, but they heard her and saw her. Every time she rolled her ass on the wooden seat, they saw. Alonites tried too hard to be what everyone called them.
Naevu looked to Three, who sat in blissful ignorance of every conversation. The boy smiled, sipping wine so watered down it couldn't intoxicate an infant. Naevu didn't want to do what came next, but he had to. For the greater good.
He played along to her tune. Throwing out jokes, the worst and most vulgar he could summon from the pits of his fiendish mind, to make them laugh. Anything to distract the idiots from their own mistake, to stumble back toward the Path. He told jokes about Accans in particular, about masks and horses and the true usage of Alxas' mouth. The party threw their heads back in laughter, spilling wine and slapping thighs. So Naevu pulled the Amasir close enough to whisper the terrible truth in her ear, the truth she already knew and regretted. She laughed, almost too eager to maintain the illusion and damn near deafening him in the process. Like a cloth had been pulled from her eyes, she changed. She'd botched again. That thought ran through her mind, crossing her eyes like a punch to the gut. A half second later, she fell back to laughing like a great actress assuming a different role.
A thunderstorm of laughter followed a second round of jokes. Naevu had to be the Aelonist, the stereotype, the untamed pervert, and the villain, all the same. He slapped his hand on her inner thigh, dangerously close to that disgustingly disruptive heat. Even with a belly full of bitter wine she knew his ploy. There were eyes on him as he slipped his palm where it had no business. And he wasn't sure if it was his mind playing tricks or if her body'd actually scalded him. She removed his hand with grace and dignity, asserting her status without a word. That's what needed to happen, for her to take control. That it was him, not her, who initiated, and the Amasir retained her senses.
The wine stopped. So, too, did the lies.
For a woman of her build, Elea Gyldwin held her booze well. When they left the dining hall and passed through the paths he'd walked earlier, she needed no help. She didn't even wobble. Naevu had drank far less and, oddly, couldn't hold himself up without using Three as a walking cane. An invisible force pulled the entourage like wind in a sail. It didn't matter where they went, so long as she led them there.
She called out orders to functionaries behind her. They went to retrieve his things, which were in a well-to-do inn not far from the Seniar. He'd assumed them safe, there, with all the other important faces staying. Men broke off from the entourage kiting behind her, doing as she bid. Some went to other Order heads. Some went to places he knew nothing of, and that was fine. He mostly wanted to lie down somewhere to sleep off the meal and wine.
The streets were awfully thin and disorienting. He felt lost, claustrophobic. The day still lingered, but the sun had set below the Seniar's walls. Lamps had been lit ahead of them, almost magically. But it still felt small and bare, brick after brick. The Order estates, he soon found out, were tucked in the southwest corner, near the wall. The buildings rose up around them three stories, just shy of the height of the Concourse hall and definitely lower than the Saepulum.
Along the wall the Alonites owned an estate. A three story building like the others, plain and orange brick. There was little to it on the outside, and the second and third stories had short balconies and wide shuttered windows. He wondered if he could see the whole of the city from the roof. Lighter colored brick acknowledge a recent remodeling near the entrance. Paint would fix it, but it mattered little in such a cramped alley.
Their backs were protected here. Go in last, she'd told him. And here she lived by that. No one could stab her in the back.
A stained oak door opened for them, luckily opening inward or else it wouldn't have at all. A guard in scaled mail with a polished spear stood at the ready just inside. He eyed Naevu with suspicion, nearly putting his hands on him to check for weapons until Elea waved him off.
The first floor was dim and tightly packed with delicate little rooms of reed wall and curtain doors. In the center a low pit of stone floor with a scattering of cushions served as a lobby where a dozen Alonites dozed or whispered sweet nothings. They paid Elea, and Naevu, no mind. Most of her entourage stayed there, but she pulled him upstairs with Three under his arm. The stairs were gently sloped stained wood, easy on the knees.
Elea had scarce said a word to him the whole way back, and here she said a precious few again. She told him Three would stay on this floor, in an open room. Naevu protested, as did Three when he found out, but she tossed him a sweet pear and ordered a guard to stay with him. There wasn't much else to do. Three's room had a hardwood floor, solid walls, and a shuttered window wide open. Another estate, of which Order he did not know, stood a short leap away. The opposite window was shuttered tight and no light leaked out. Three jumped to the bed, which was far more luxurious than any he'd been in before, and gleefully bit at the pear. Though, his eyes showed concern.
They topped the stairs to the third floor, to her home in Sirasona. Her guard checked the room over, all the balconies and windows, before being excused. The room smelled of fresh fruits and wildflowers. There were no walls or rooms, only the long, continuous chamber of a proper Amasir.
Wooden posts held up the white painted ceiling. The floor beige tiled. She removed her shoes and told him to do the same. The floor was surprisingly warm, as if some contraption heated it from below. A stone topped counter ran along the immediate right. On it, a large bowl full of sweet pears. Must be her favorite, he thought. There was a hole in the counter in which a fitted water basin of crisp copper sat. Over it, a pipe and sprocket.
Elea cut a sharp line to the sink, turning on the water in the same motion. She splashed her face with water, flowing from where he did not know, but sorely wanted to. She let out a long sigh, bending over the counter as the water circled a drain. There were stools along the counter, and beyond the room opened up and continued on past a low table near a balcony. On it an arrangement of flowers sat in a blown glass vase. At the end of the room the largest bed Naevu'd ever seen sat, with a full ceiling of its own and curtains to pull tight around it for privacy. And beside it, a solid piece of stone sculpted into a massive bath with copper piping running directly into it.
Lemdeh had running water, but never so high from the ground. It tickled his mind to find out how it worked.
Elea grabbed a pear, offering him one with a silent gesture. He shook his head. She leaned back on the counter, thumbing the pendant in one hand and rolling a pear in the other.
She brought the pear to her lips, and said, "I apologize." She took a bite, slurping at the juices spilling over her chin. That damnable outfit still draped about her body.
"None required, Amasir," he said, almost instinctively. That was a lie. He wanted her to say it. To be sorry for her actions, for the stupidity she'd shown with a bit of wine wetting her tongue. Naevu walked to the sink to stare at the plumbing.
Elea went to speak, paused to wipe juice from her lips, but decided to take another bite. Naevu turned the sprocket and washed his hands under the ice cold water pouring through. It held pressure, so the reservoir must've been on the roof.
The breeze carried harsh, distant shouting through the room. They looked at each other and walked to the nearest balcony. He'd been right. The floor overlooked the wall and had an unrivaled view of Sirasona and the sea beyond. But now the sun had faded over the horizon, leaving only a hypnotic purple-pink sky in its wake. The streets were full of activity, a mile away or more.
The Accan quarters. Neither of them needed to speak to know that. They could hear the faintest memories of shouts and confrontation down there, in the shadows. Elea's chewing was louder.
"The ship is dangerously close to tipping," said Naevu.
She swallowed. Sharp breath. "Vaban'll be pissed," she said with no humor. Elea took a seat at her table, crossing her legs. The pear's core laid elegantly on the tabletop. "You did well by me, professor."
"Naevu," he corrected. She nodded, tapping fingers on her thighs. Always be careful in another's house.
"Sometimes," she said, rubbing her knee, "I speak before I think. One of my greatest flaws."
Naevu took a seat, pulling his chair near hers. The wine still affected her, but she hid it. He, however, was quickly sobering up to the sound of potential lynching in the streets. They sat and stared at one another in silence, sometimes looking away, but he knew she was thankful for his quick footedness. An hour passed without a word before she spoke again.
"You owe me poetry."
"I do," he admitted. He glanced quickly to the door, thinking only of Three's experience. And of other, darker things. "I. I need to see the child's asleep."
Elea did not protest. He assured her he would return, leaving her seated at the table as he passed through the door to the stairs. He pulled it closed behind him, shrinking in his own body at the weight of the day. The wine blurred his vision but he made it down without breaking his neck.
Three lay on his back, wrapped in the feather stuffed pillows in a makeshift fortress. The boy was awake, though the room was dark. Naevu's eyes adjusted. The guard, a leather armored man with a sword on his belt, sat in a seat by the window, eyeing Naevu like a hawk. A good man.
"He won't sleep," said the guard. Naevu raised a palm to cut him off.
"Why not," he asked Three in Faronun. He stood at the bedside, inspecting the rather well-planned pillow defenses the child erected.
"You said they'd kill us," Three said, sniffling. Adorable and pathetic. He didn't know whether to strike the child or hug him. Either would have worked, he figured. "I-I-I see them in the shadows. Silver masks. They want to cut me, hurt me. What do I do if they come for me?"
Naevu smiled, though he didn't think Three could see in the low light. "You want to know how to kill the Dahaiaou?" The boy gulped, nodding. Naevu leaned in, asking, "What do they say? What're they most proud of?"
Three thought, hard. His eyebrows furrowed and lips curled. He looked to the guard, pensive, then back to Naevu.
"Exatas?" asked the boy.
Naevu fluffed a pillow, making the walls of Three's self-made fortress thicker. He patted the boy on the head, never adding a word. It was awful advice, and he was drunk, but it sounded good.
He found Elea undressed, standing over a chair she'd place at her bedside. She whistled him over, patting the seat with her hand. He approached as she climbed onto the massive bed, on hands and knees. Finally, he thought, this city understands beauty. She quickly wrapped herself in blankets, resting her head on a pillow.
"Speak," she commanded. He did.
He recited his translated poetry, from the beginning. He'd met better minds than his, but few could recall the written word with such mastery. On and on for hours, he told the stories of asexuals and hatred of mothers. All the self-deprecating humor. And when he thought for sure she'd passed into a dreamless, drunken sleep. She would giggle at a Parthecan joke, faint but awake. Her victory set in.
Sirasonan streets grew quieter late into the night. He heard the horn of city guard call from distant neighborhoods, until finally nothing. And the hour was late, far too late. At last, Elea did not stir to his humor. A shame, he thought, for the jokes only got better.
He stood, knees creaking beneath him. Sober. The drink had numbed his sense of smell, it seemed, for he stank of both wine and unpleasant body odors. He traced his hand along the massive tub, inspecting the faucet. A rope on the wall served as some alarm, and before long the tub was filling with steaming water. Tired and reckless, he made the motions of getting in the warm water and soaked in perfumed oils at the tub side. It wasn't long before he'd forgotten about the Amasir, sleeping mere feet away, before he himself dozed in the waters.
A wet slap woke him. Submerged to his neck, still warm bath water all around him. The fading scent of long diluted oils in his nose. He wiped the sleep from his eyes to see the sun high in the sky through the bathside balcony.
Her tanned foot propped on the tub. The cherished honey of her being pressed close to his face. Cinnamon curls, short and groomed, cut back to the bare minimum. Gallatene minimalism applied here, too. Leering where he shouldn't, far too long, he looked up her body. She seemed a giant to him, sitting low in that tub as she stood over him. She wore the pendant. A single moment of pure hatred for every life decision he'd made shot through him like an arrow to the chest.
"Move over," she commanded. "You can wash me if it pleases."
Naevu left the tub in a hurry unlike any other. He simply barked a number of no's, up until he'd wrapped himself in his cloth. She hadn't been serious, or he hoped not, as she emptied the used water down a drain with a loud, spiraling suction that fascinated him. She pulled the rope and refilled the tub, sitting on the edge, legs crossed and unashamed.
She tied her hair up with a blue ribbon, nonchalant. He fumbled about, feeling unusually embarrassed. He smelled food before she mentioned it.
"Breakfast," she said, again not an offer but a command. He had no trouble moving from staring at her . . . rather incredible figure, to the plate of Gallatene style bacon, toasted bread, and what appeared to be the eggs of a rather large bird, soft boiled. "You slept a while," she said, testing the waters and adding oils.
Naevu sat at the table, picking at the meal. His trunk lay on the floor, opened. Its contents were on the counter, and the volume of copied Zeek records was sprawled on the opposite side of the table. Her fingers had bent the upper corners of pages. He groaned.
"I didn't give you permission," he said, too harsh. But then he bit into the toast and smiled.
"Neither did I," she said, slipping into the water. Fair, he thought whilst breaking bits of bacon onto the boiled eggs. "I've had quite a few hours to consider my options. You'll stay here the remainder of your visit."
"Is that-"
"You were right," she cut him off. Elea rubbed her arms and neck with a rag. "A lynching in the Accan Quarter, last night. Vaban is outraged."
"I heard the guard," he added between bites.
She snorted. "You're free to stay here, with me. I'm not going out for a while."
"They'll come to you," Naevu agreed.
About the time she finished bathing and taking her sweet time dressingin a much less provocative outfitthe messengers arrived. Dozens of them. The Seniar was a hive of activity and Elea had called it right. She was sober, now, and a fair bit more competent. She sent her own men out as fast as they returned, carrying unknown messages to unknown recipients. Naevu didn't spy.
Late afternoon a rather more important individual arrived. Naevu knew him to be Gryfu Hatrach, head of the Sygwinites. He barreled up the stairs and into Elea's chambers like someone had set fire to his feet. By then, Elea paced on the balcony, singing some song under her breath, while Naevu picked at a soft, yellow cake she'd had brought up for him.
A waterfall of sweat rolled from the man's face, which was now redder than a ripe berry. He wore long robes, loose fitting, in a blue-green shade not unlike the harbor waters. If he planned on hiding his contempt at Naevu's presence, he did a poor job of it. Gryfu called to Elea, voice cracking like a young boy's, drawing her attention. When she walked to him, she ran her hand through Naevu's hair. Elea excused Naevu, who took the cake with him.
Gryfu watched him the whole way out, like Naevu'd killed his dog or set fire to his house. Elea's hand pulled the Sygwinite master's focus to her as the door closed. The poor b#stard stayed for hours, well past the setting sun. Naevu spent time on the second floor with Three, working him through another book to touch up on the Karapeshai, since he'd taken such an interest in Satar history overnight. Fortunately, the Alonites kept an assortment of works nearby, the pleasure of knowledge never far from reach. The Lay of the Unbowed might've been too advanced for him, but he championed through.
Gryfu Hatrach walked out in a drunken state. Drunk on what, Naevu couldn't hope to know. When he returned to Elea's chambers, she was undressing again and giggling to herself. Whatever she'd teased him with, it wasn't the real thing. A short leash.
She began blowing out candles, and the room darkened fast. Only the pale yellow light of the moon shined through the balconies. Elea crawled, deliberately slow, on top of the four person behemoth she called a bed. Her hands traced her figure in the shadows.
"Where we left off?" he asked, trying to remember the exact stanza he'd ended on. "It gets better, I assure you." He walked to the chair, still near the bed from the night before.
She shook her head. "A special request." Naevu watched a hand slip between her thighs and stopped walking.
"Amasir," he protested, looking away. This was exactly the sort of behavior he did not need to indulge in.
"I know," she said. He sat in the chair at the bedside. She brushed hair from her face, legs slightly parted, belly flat, and breasts defiantly firm. He looked to the ground, running the poems through his head. "Gryfu isn't a man," she said, sighing. "It takes considerable effort to maintain the image he craves. He sees himself a wolf chasing a scent. But he's a puppy, newborn and fragile. Yipping and whimpering for each and every drop of milk I allow him. In order to convince him I must convince myself." She paused, sliding her hands down her thighs. "That I want him. Need him. That in a short while, when the time is right, all the pent up passion will reach out and grab him. And then he can have me any which way he pleases. But I've become too good, too convincing. My body no longer knows the difference. Do you understand?"
"Yes." More than you, he thought. Nearly three years. He rubbed his eyes.
"I'm not asking you to change," she said. "Do you remember the way Alxas looked at me? The way he commanded me purged? Condemned me to burn?"
"Yes."
"No man has ever spoken to me as he did. Not even Moril Vaban. No one is so confident in their command of me as this prince was then. Not my father. Not any lover. No one. I hated his words. But he offered fire, and a fire he got. Here," she said. He didn't need to see. "Gryfu could never speak to me that way. No man I command could be so honest. I only know of two men I would believe to my core when they spoke to me. One's a prince, set sail away. The other a professor, shying his face."
"What?"
"You told me no, more than once, in fact. I believe you."
"I'll tell you no again," he said, looking dead into her eyes.
"This isn't what you think," she said, leaning up on her elbows. "I don't need you to touch me. I want you to say what Alxas said. You remember that?"
"You want-"
"A special request."
"You want me to recite the most offensive, insulting speech this city has ever heard? So you can pleasure yourself on my words? What do I get out of this? You think because I'm celibate this would be easy?"
"That's why you're so perfect. I want it to be hard. The worse it feels to watch, the more you'll mean it. That anger, that exclusion. I want to feel it in your voice." Her voice quivered, as if realizing the stupidity of her request. "You can sleep in this bed, right here. Plenty of room and a hell of a lot better than the bath." She was sitting up fully now, legs cross and leaning towards him. "My chef'll be yours. Whatever you want, I'll have brought to you. Cakes, clothes, books."
"That was good cake," he admitted. He put a finger to his temple. "Just recite it? I don't. How did it start? Uh." He thought for a moment, remembering until it came to him like a tidal wave of darkness. The words against his Faith cut at his heart.
He said, "Prince of Light."
"No. To my face," she said, lying back on the mattress. It was quickly becoming the most bizarre event he'd ever witnessed. He hesitated, but did slide up onto the bed. Uncomfortable was an understatement. It became pure, tortuous agony. She pulled him closer and closer until his breath was on her face. Did she expect him to shout into her ears?
He started again, but she shushed him. "In Satar. You speak it?"
Naevu nodded. "Sartas-ta-vhai."
Her lips quivered, no, her whole jaw. One hand sank to the pendant, now resting on her chest. The other teased, played, and rolled. Elea sped up as he did. He growled nonsense in her ear, for she didn't know the tongue and he didn't remember the speech. Her back arched, legs thrown out in spasms, toes curled, moans fired from her tongue.
Naevu closed his eyes and thought of cake.
With a great spasm and scream in release, it was over.
"I need a drink," he said, turning away. Whatever had occurred, he didn't like it. But by the time he'd slid off the bed to make for the wine she was deep in sleep. How should he feel about that? He hadn't touched her, but in some way he felt . . .
She slept longer the next morning. He slept well, too, and that concerned him. He woke guilty at the break of dawn to splash cold water all over himself. A seagull flew into the third floor, picking at leftovers on the table. He shooed it away, and Elea turned over in her sleep.
On her side, leg crossed over and hair falling just right on her cheek. Naevu could see all of her. The pendant shined by her breast and sank into the soft blankets. The freckles on her face like a splatter of paint, highlighted by a sleeping smile. Sitting in a chair by the bed, waiting for the sun to hit her just right, he sketched her on a blank page in an empty bookone left over from the archive. He drew the curves of her body. He wasn't half the drawer Aelea was, but they'd learned together.
Sirasona was beautiful, when it tried.
She woke, rather more quiet than before. Did she feel guilty? He finished the sketch and showed it to her. At the bottom he'd written Amasir Elea Gyldwin, in fine script.
He asked her, "Where were you born?" And for four days after, he recorded her memoirs. She came and went some, but mostly she poured her heart into it. It might have been thanks, or vanity, it didn't matter. The sketch, the moment, needed a story attached. That's what he was, what he did.
He told other people's stories.