Carol Berg - Rai-kirah 1 - Transformation

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Rai-kirah 1 - Transformation by Carol Berg

Chapter 1

Ezzarian prophets say that the gods fight their battles within the souls of

men and that if the deities mislike the battleground, they reshape it

according to their will. I believe it. I have seen such a battle and such a

reshaping as could only come about with the gods' devising. It was not my own

soul involved-thank Verdonne and Valdis and any other god who might eavesdrop

on this telling-but I did not remain unchanged.

Crown Prince Aleksander, Palatine of Azhakstan and Suzain, Priest of Athos,

Overlord of Basran, Thryce, and Manganar, heir to the Lion Throne of the

Derzhi Empire, was perhaps the rudest, most callow, ungenerous, and arrogant

youth ever to ride the deserts of Azhakstan. From the instant of our first

meeting I judged him so, though it could be said that I was prejudiced. When

one is standing naked on a slave-auction block in a wind cold enough to freeze

a demon's backside, one is unlikely to have a fair impression of anyone.

Prince Aleksander had inherited the intelligence and strength of a royal

family that had ruled a constantly expanding empire for five hundred years and

had been clever enough not to diminish itself through inbreeding or internal

mayhem. Older Derzhi nobles and their wives despised his lack of respect even

while shoving marriageable daughters into his path. The younger nobility,

themselves no paragons of virtue, named him a fine fellow on the basis of the

lavish entertainments he permitted them to share, though that opinion often

changed when they ran afoul of the Prince's whims

and irritability. Derzhi military commanders judged him fit, as his heritage

demanded, though rumor had it that they drew lots among themselves, the loser

forced to serve the rash and stubborn Prince as military aide. The common folk

were, of course, not allowed an opinion on the issue. Nor were slaves.

"You say this one can read and write?" said the Prince to the Suzaini slave

merchant after examining my teeth and prodding the muscles in my arms and

thighs. "I thought only Ezzarian women learned to read, and that just for

deciphering potions and spells. Didn't know the men were permitted it." Then,

while poking at my private parts with his riding crop, he leaned over to his

companions and expressed the usual humorous opinions on the question of

gelding Ezzarian slaves. "Completely unnecessary. Nature's already seen to it

when they're born a man in Ezzaria."

"Aye, my lord, he can both read and write," said the fawning Suzaini, his

bead-woven beard rattling as he babbled. "This one has many refinements as

would suit him for your service. Quite civilized and well behaved for a

barbarian. Can keep accounts or serve at table or do hard labor as you

prefer."

"But he's been through the rites? None of their sorcery nonsense hanging about

in his head?"

"None. He's been in service since the conquest. Went through the rites his

first day, I'd say. The Guild always makes sure of Ezzarians. Got nothing left

of witchery inside

him."

No indeed. None of that. I was still breathing. There was still blood inside

me. That was about all that was left.

More rude poking and prodding. "It would be decent to have a house slave who

had some semblance of intelligence-even barbarian intelligence."

The merchant glared at me in warning, but a slave learns quickly to pick and

choose the points of honor for which he is willing to suffer. As the years of

servitude pass, those be-' come fewer and fewer. I had been a slave for

sixteen years, almost half my life. No mere words could raise my hackles.

"But what's this?" I tried not to jump when the riding crop touched the

lacerations on my back. "I thought you told me he was well behaved. Why the

stripes if he's so virtuous? And why is his owner getting rid of him?"

"I've papers, Your Highness, where the Baron Harkhe-sian swears this one is as

fine and obedient a slave as can be found, with all the accomplishments I've

said. He's only getting rid of him to settle his financial affairs and says

the marks were a mistake and should not tell against the slave. I don't

understand it, but you can see the lord's seal on his papers."

Of course the slave merchant would not understand. The old warrior baron I had

served for the past two years was dying and had decided he would sell me

rather than allow me to become the property of his only daughter-a woman who

took singular pleasure in abusing those she could not command to love her.

Deciding whom to love was one of my remaining points of honor. No doubt it

would crumble along with all the rest, given enough time.

"If he doesn't suit, perhaps one of these others ..." The slave merchant's

small eyes darted nervously about the barren, walled enclosure and the ten

restless spectators. As long as the Prince was interested in me, no one else

would dare bid, and the weather was so nasty, there was no assurance anyone

would stay around to buy the other four wretches huddled together in the

corner.

"Twenty zenars. Have him delivered to my slave master."

The slave merchant was horrified. "But, Your Highness, he's worth at least

sixty!"

The Prince gave the man such a look of strained patience as would make a

sensible person check his back for daggers. "I'm reducing it fifty because

he's damaged. With scars on his back I'll have to keep him better clothed. But

I'm giving you ten extra because he can read and write. Is it not fair?"

The slave merchant recognized his defeat-and his danger-and prostrated

himself. "Of course, Your Highness. Fair and wise as always. Twenty zenars." I

had a feeling the merchant was going to have an unpleasant surprise ready for

whatever well-meaning friend had notified the Prince that a literate slave was

up at auction.

The Prince was in company with two other young men. Those two were dressed

like gaudy birds, in bright-colored silks and satins with gold linked belts,

and carried daggers and swords so ornately wrought and crusted with jewels

that the things would be absolutely useless. From the soft look of the pair

and the way their eyes were set so close together, I wondered if they could

figure out what to do with weapons. The Prince himself, lean and long-limbed,

wore a sleeveless shirt of white silk, dun-colored doeskin breeches, tall

boots, and a white fur cloak that could only be the pelt of the silver Makhara

bear, the finest and rarest fur in the world. His red hair was caught in a

single braid on the right side of his head—the Derzhi warrior's braid—and he

wore few adornments: arm rings of beaten gold and a single gold earring set

with a diamond that was likely worth more than all his foppish companions'

baubles put together.

The Prince slapped the arm of one of his finely dressed companions. "Pay the

man, Vanye. And why don't you bring the creature along? Except for the scars,

he's a league more handsome than you. He'll look well in my chambers, don't

you think?"

The pockmarked young lordling in blue satin and cock feathers dropped his

receding jaw in horrified astonishment. Well he might. With a single phrase,

his prince had banished Lord Vanye from Derzhi society forever. It was not the

humiliating public comment on his physical shortcomings that had done it, but

the fact he was named a slave handler: a job ranking just above those who tend

dead bodies before they're burned and just below those who skin animals. As

the Prince turned his back and strolled out of the gate, the chinless man

pulled out his purse and threw the coins at the feet of the slave merchant,

looking as if he had just eaten a green dakhfruit. It was astounding how

proficiently Alek-sander could destroy a friend, insult a reputable merchant,

and cheat an influential baron in a short five minutes.

In the way of slaves, I looked no further to the future than

the next hour. Rather than spending an entire day chained to the wall of the

slave market in the dismal weather, I had the prospect of clothes and shelter

almost immediately. Not a dreadful result. Far from my worst day on the

auction block.

But as was to happen frequently in the ensuing months, I was to reap the

consequences of Prince Aleksander's carelessness. The furious slave merchant

said he had no time to replace the choke-collar, arm chains, and hobbles that

were designed to make delicate female slave buyers feel secure, and he refused

to supply so much as a loincloth to cover me. My journey across the crowded,

cosmopolitan city, naked in the freezing rain, hobbling frantically behind

Lord Vanye's horse to keep from being dragged, ranked with the more ridiculous

events of my long captivity.

As for the chinless lord ... well, having one's body in the control of a man

who sees himself grossly ill-used is not the way to improve on a miserable

situation. And when the man thinks himself clever, but is not, matters can get

much worse. Instead of delivering me straight to the Prince's slave master,

Lord Vanye took me to the palace forge and ordered the smith to mark me with

the royal seal... on the face.

What breath I had left was sucked away in horror. On the day of their capture,

all slaves were branded with a crossed circle, but it was always on the

shoulder, as I had been, or on the thigh. Never on the face.

"Is he a runaway, then?" asked the smith. "Prince Alek-sander don't brand none

but runaways in that fashion. Don't like the ugliness, even in those for the

mines."

"No, I'm only—" I tried to protest, but Vanye shut off my cry with an iron bar

he'd been fondling since we'd entered the smithy.

"See the lash marks on his back, and how we've had to chain him up like a wild

dog? Of course he's a runaway."

"He's an Ezzarian. Durgan says—"

"Are you afraid of groveling filth like this? The only magic that's going to

happen here is when I turn you into a tongueless gelding for disobedience.

Now, do it."

Vanye's blow to my head had left me groggy, but I soon

wished that he had hit me harder. Claiming long experience with the Prince's

whims, the uncertain blacksmith used only his smallest iron to sear the seal

of the Derzhi royal house on my left cheekbone. The larger iron would have

exposed bone and teeth, creating enough damage that sepsis would eat away what

was left of healthy tissue. But, at the moment, gratitude was not in my mind.

And so I was delivered to the Emperor's Summer Palace in the middle of winter,

deposited on the straw-covered floor of the slave house, shivering, nauseated,

and half out of my head.

The burly slave master, a bearded, flat-faced Manganar who called himself

Durgan, looked down at me in puzzlement. "What's this? I got word of a new

house slave for the Prince's service, not a runaway fit for nothing but the

mines."

I was certainly in no condition to explain Vanye's pitiful attempt at revenge,

his clever plan to ruin the Prince's bargain.

"This is the only new one bought today. Lord Vanye said-" The smith's lad who

had dragged me across the courtyard almost swallowed his tongue when Durgan

grabbed his throat.

"Demonfire! Vanye! Smith burned the Prince's new slave on the word of a dolt

not clever enough to open his pants to piss?" The slave master looked like he

wanted to put his head through a brick wall. "Tell your master Smith he don't

ever, ever in this world mark a slave but the word comes from the Prince's own

mouth or from me. I was told to get this one cleaned and sent up to serve

supper. Just look at him!"

I could not have been a happy sight. My stomach emptied itself again at this

mere hint of food.

"At least master was careful with the branding," stammered the boy, backing

toward the door. "Not too damaged, is he?"

"I wouldn't set great hopes for living much past fourteen if I were you. Be

off with you. I've work to do."

Half an hour later I was climbing the back stairs of Alek-sander's palace

carrying a monstrously heavy tray filled with a platter of peeled fruit,

cinnamon-dusted pastries, a round of stinking Azhaki cheese, and an urn of

scalding nazrheel; their tea that smelled like burning hay. Every few steps I

had to stop and let my muddled head clear, my churning stomach settle, and the

throbbing firestorm in my cheek subside.

I was dressed in a plain white sleeveless tunic that reached from shoulders to

knees, a concession to the Prince's distaste for seeing open wounds or

excessive scars. The Derzhi usually kept their male house slaves in fenzai-

short, loose pantaloons-and no shirt. It was some remnant of their desert

heritage, singularly inappropriate and unpleasant for those of us held captive

in the mountainous northern regions of the Empire. The tunic was not much

warmer, but felt slightly more modest at least.

Strangely enough, the slave master's biggest dilemma had been my hair. I had

no beard-Ezzarians just don't produce them like most races. But, unlike the

usual custom in Derzhi slave houses, the Baron's daughter had commanded my

hair be left long. Durgan wanted it off, but was afraid that would leave the

burn marks on my face too prominent and expose the swollen, bloody lump where

Vanye had laid the iron bar. So instead, he had me tie it loosely to one side

in the Derzhi style-not braided, of course; only blooded warriors wore it

braided-hoping it would cover Vanye's folly. He also put salve on the burn, a

gesture I did not mistake for kindness. The slave master was praying to see

the next sunrise.

"Ah, supper!" said the Prince as I walked through the gold-leaf doors and into

a sumptuous sitting room. I bowed-awkward with the tray-and congratulated

myself when I managed to straighten up again without passing out. There were

seven or eight people in the room. Three men and two women were seated on

cushions around a low table playing ulyat, a Derzhi gambling game that

involved painted stones and wooden pegs and not a few blood feuds. I

studiously did not look at anyone as I set the tray on another low table

surrounded by blue and red silk cushions. The slave master had been very

specific about keeping my eyes down. I wasn't sure if it was a household rule

or just a way to keep my swollen, seeping cheek out of view.

"Look, all of you. I've got myself a new slave. An Ezzar-ian who can read."

"Impossible ..." There were titterings and a repetition of the standard

remarks.

"Quite accomplished, I hear. Perhaps even some royal Ezzarian blood in him."

"A barbarian sorcerer! I've never seen one of them. Will you lend him out?"

asked a low-voiced woman with more on her mind than food.

"Ah, Tarina, why do you ask it? What pleasure would you find in such a scrawny

fellow, all dark hair and dark eyes?"

"Though nowhere near your own stature, my lord, he looks quite fit. If his

face is pleasing, I could be tempted... when your eye wanders, as it seems to

do constantly. Will Lydia allow such dallying when you are married?"

"Now you've done it. I will certainly not lend him to anyone who reminds me of

the sharp-tongued she-wolf. Come take your pleasure with my food, for you will

surely not get my slave."

I very much disliked being the center of such sparring. As I had discovered

again so recently with the Baron's daughter, it was more dangerous than

serving a warrior on the front lines of the Empire. I bowed and mumbled. "If

that's all . . ."

"Speak up," said the Prince. "How can you read if you can't speak clearly? And

no, that is certainly not all. We must let Tarina see what she's missing."

Before I could be properly afraid, a hand reached under my chin and jerked it

up. By the time my eyes could focus after the nauseatingly sudden movement of

my head, they were looking straight into the hot amber gaze of Prince

Aleksander. "Get Durgan!"

Someone scurried past us, hearing the unrefusable menace in the Prince's

voice. I was held immobile by the iron hand under my chin. He had me stretched

up on my toes, and I was sorely afraid I might be sick again from the position

and the mingled scents of heavy perfumes, cinnamon, and the rank tea and

half-rotted goat's cheese the Derzhi so prized.

Durgan's account of the afternoon's events was somewhat muffled by the carpet

under his mouth. Complete prostration was perhaps a bit overdramatic in such a

private setting, but the slave master was fighting for his life. When the tale

was done, the Prince released his grip and shoved me aside. I knelt down and

crossed my hands on my breast as would be expected, encouraging my stomach to

return to its proper venue.

Ezzarian Seers teach that in nature's pause before disaster strikes, a

discerning listener will hear the clicking of the victim's bones. On this

occasion a stone could have heard them. When the Prince gave the order

summoning Lord Vanye, the bone rattling was as noisy as an earthquake.

I was sent outside the palace gates to await the young lord. The night was

freezing, and I had no cloak or shoes. But neither the gate guard's bonfire

nor the blazing torches on the wall could have warmed the chill inside me.

Perhaps the Prince thought it would unsettle his chinless friend to see me,

though as I led the gray-faced young man through the gates, I doubted my

presence had anything to do with his terror. He knew he was done for.

The Prince met us in the front courtyard of the palace. He wore his white fur

cloak and gave his hand to Lord Vanye as the trembling man dismounted. "You

see I sent this slave outside to greet you . . . freely, with no concern that

he might run away. You've done me quite a service, Vanye." The young lordling

gaped stupidly at the Prince, who laughed, took the young man's arm, and

strolled toward the kitchen courtyards and workshops. "Come, I want to thank

you for it."

Though he laughed uncertainly-more of a squeak than a laugh-Lord Vanye could

not have been easy. In addition to two torchbearers and two attendants, there

were four liveried soldiers following him and the cheerfully chattering

Prince. The soldiers shoved me after them. I wrapped my arms about myself,

silently cursing winter and royalty and my life.

Dread and surety gnawed at my gut as we stepped inside the smithy, the heat of

the thundering flames searing my cheek anew until the very air quivered with

the burning outlines of the falcon and the lion that I would wear to my grave.

The smith stood ready.

Vanye tried to pull away as they strapped him to the post, but he was not half

strong enough. Then he began to beg, his pockmarked face a pasty gray.

"Aleksander... Your Highness. You must understand. My father... the

disgrace... handling slaves ..." When the smith pulled the largest of his

glowing irons from the fire, the gibbering turned to a low wailing.

I would not watch it. I had been very close to howling two short hours

earlier, and the smith had been careful with me. I closed my eyes ... so I was

not at all prepared when the burly smith crammed a heavy iron handle into my

hand.

"Do it," commanded the Prince, who smiled and folded his arms, waiting. "Vanye

is not content to be a slave handler. He thinks he can fall no lower: Prove to

him how wrong he is."

"My lord, please." I could scarcely speak for my revulsion. Everything I still

held sacred, everything I prayed was still tucked away inside me ...

The hot amber gaze shifted to me. I wanted to look away, knowing that no good

could come from anything I might do or say. But there are deeds that are

impossible, no matter what the consequence of leaving them undone.

"I'll hear no womanish Ezzarian scruples. I'm giving you the chance for

revenge. Surely a slave craves revenge."

I held my tongue, but did not look away. I could not let him mistake my

intent. While staring straight into his blazing fury, I raised the vile

implement to toss it back into the fire. But before I could loose it, the

Prince roared, curled his powerful hand about my own, and forced the red-hot

iron onto Vanye's face.

I heard Vanye's screams and smelled his burning flesh long into that night,

long after I was locked in a cell beneath the slave house in the frigid

darkness. I pulled the filthy straw over my nakedness and fought to retrieve

some semblance of the peace and acceptance I had striven to build over sixteen

years. But all I could think was how much I detested Prince Aleksander. I

could not judge Lord Vanye or whether he was truly worthy or unworthy of

Aleksander's scorn, but how could I not despise a prince who would mutilate

one man and trample the pitiful scraps of another to remedy his own foolish

mistake?

Chapter 2

It was three or four days before Prince Aleksander had need of someone who

could read. Not just anyone. Someone that he trusted. Palace scribes were

notorious for spying and intrigues, being privy to private information as they

were. Of course, it wasn't so much that he trusted me, as that he could remove

my tongue should I repeat a word I read. I understood that. Misplaced trust is

an extremely painful lesson.

I was asleep when Durgan dropped the wooden ladder through the ceiling and

yelled at me to come out of my barren little hole. Through years of such

intermittent punishments, I had learned to make the best of the silent hours.

I had taught myself to sleep through almost anything: sweltering heat, bitter

cold, chains, ropes, unending damp, pain, filth, and vermin. Hunger was a

little harder, but only rarely had I been starved-slaves were too expensive to

ruin frivolously-and, in general, I had managed to give my masters little

reason to go beyond the normal beatings and degradations that seemed to make

them happy. On this particular occasion I feared I had gone too far and might

not get out of it, but even so, I had managed to sleep away most of the time.

"There's a cistern just outside, and your tunic on the hook," said Durgan as I

climbed squinting and shivering into the cold daylight. "You're to make

yourself presentable. There's a knife beside the cistern. Take off the hair.

And don't think I won't check to be sure the knife is still there when you

go."

I sighed and did as he told me. The knife was very dull, and my head throbbed

at every jerk. It seems ridiculous, but being forced to cut off my hair had

come to be more irritating than any of the other petty annoyances of

servitude. It was so pointless.

"You're to go straight to the Prince's chambers." Durgan gave me no word as to

what was wanted. Whether I was to serve dinner or be murdered, it wasn't his

business to know ... or to tell me even if he did. I ran across the bustling,

slushy courtyard to the kitchens, cleaned the mud off my bare feet in the

footbath by the outer door, then hurried up the stairs, regretting the savory

smells and billowing warmth I left behind as I passed by the spits and baking

ovens. Perhaps I'd get to linger a moment on the way back. Surely the Prince

wouldn't have bothered to have me cleaned up if he was going to kill me.

I tapped on the gold-leaf door and swore at myself for violating my long-held

rule by thinking beyond the moment.

"Come."

A quick glance about before dropping to my knees and averting my eyes told me

that only the Prince and one other man were present. The other man was much

older, with a weathered face, long, wiry gray hair only partially tamed into

his braid, and upper arms that looked as if he juggled boulders for pleasure.

Aleksander was reclined on a blue brocade couch. "Who are ... ? Ah." It wasn't

a deadly sort of ah, but neither was it an "I'm going to forget that you

defied me" sort of ah. With my luck he would have a long memory. "Come here

and read this."

Derzhi nobles did not learn to read or write, or if they did, they certainly

wouldn't let anyone know about it. The Derzhi were a warrior race, and though

they prized the literacy of their scholars and merchants, it was much in the

way they prized their dogs who did tricks, or their birds who could carry

messages unerringly, or their illusionists who could make rabbits turn into

flowers or sultry maidens disappear. It was not something they would want to

do themselves.

I touched my head to the carpet, rose, and knelt again beside the couch where

the Prince lay, waving a rolled paper at me. My voice was hoarse to begin

with, as I'd scarcely used it since being sent to the slave merchant almost a

week before, but after a paragraph I got the words to come out clearly.

Zander,

It sorrows me greatly that I'm not able to come for your dakrah. I'm bogged

down in getting the Khelid legate installed here in Parnifour. His list of

requirements for his residence is unbelievable. It must back to the hills. It

must accommodate at least three hundred. It must have a superior view of the

city. It must have two wells that are not connected. It must have enough

garden space with its own spring that their delicacies can be grown there. And

so on endlessly.

Why your father chose to send his most junior dennis-sar to see to such a

matter is beyond me ... though I am still interminably grateful for the

appointment and honored to be entrusted with such an important duty. I feared

the Khelid legate might be offended at my assignment, thinking it less than

his due, but he is everlastingly charming and accommodating-as long as I meet

all his demands. I may have to turn Baron Feshikar out of his castle if I

can't find anything better. Dispossessing a landed baron of the Fontezhi Heged

is an ordeal I would as soon avoid. But I carry the Emperor's warrant, so

anything that must be done will be done.

So as you can see it is impossible that I be there, though I know it will be a

celebration worth a man's life to miss. My throat aches already, thinking of

the bottles that have been laid down these twenty-three years for the day of

your anointing, and everything else aches for the women that you will leave

aside for the rest of us to enjoy! You must save me a bottle and a wench, and

enough fire for a race from Zhagad to Drafa next spring. My Zeor is faster

than ever and with a superior rider- myself-will have no difficulty against

your pitiful Musa and his feeble master. I'll set you a thousand-zenar wager

right now. That will give you reason not to forget me while I languish here in

the backwaters of the realm.

Your desolate cousin,

Kiril

"Damn!" said the Prince, sitting up abruptly. "It won't be a proper feast

without Kiril. It's only a two-week journey on a good horse. You'd think he

could manage to be here for at least two or three days out of the twelve." The

Prince snatched the letter from my hand and stared at it as if to send his

displeasure back to its writer. "Maybe I should have him recalled. Kiril is a

warrior, not some diplomatic lackey. Father can send someone else to do this

servant work." He pushed his boot into the older man's back. "How could you

let Father do this to Kiril? I thought he was your favorite nephew. Would you

send a son into such dismal exile? Perhaps that's why the gods never gave you

any."

"Did I not predict this?" said the older man, more worry in his voice than an

unavailable cousin seemed to warrant. "As the Khelid weasel their way into

your father's favor, they start making more and more demands. I'm told they

insist that only their own magicians can practice in Karn'Hegeth, and that a

Khelid must officiate at every marriage and funeral and dakrah. It's only been

three months since your father gave them the city, and already they shape its

working as if they were its conquerors."

I knelt unmoving, my eyes fixed on the intricate red and green designs of the

thick carpet, trying not to give the appearance of interest. The Baron was the

only one of my masters who had permitted me to hear anything of the world

beyond uninformed slave-house gossip. It had been a small pleasure in a life

with few of them, and I had regretted losing it more than almost anything when

he put me up for sale.

"You worry too much, Dmitri," said the Prince. "You've been on the borders too

long, and you're still upset with Father for giving away the city you took

from the Basranni. Learn to enjoy yourself again. Even in this ice pocket to

which my father consigns us, there are distractions aplenty. You've not been

hunting with me in six years, and still owe me a new bow from the last time."

"You worry too little, Zander. You are Ivan's only son, the future Emperor of

a thousand cities. It's time you worked at it. These Khelid ..."

"... could not defeat so much as a single Derzhi legion with their finest

troops. They ran away, Dmitri, and hid for twenty years. They were so afraid

of us, they came back groveling for peace. Who cares what they do with

Karn'Hegeth? Who cares what they do with their magicians? Might as well worry

about their jugglers or acrobats. Actually ..." The Prince poked at the other

man who sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. "... I've decided to hire a

few of their magicians for my dakrah feast. I've heard they're astoundingly

good."

"You must do no such thing. The anointing of the Derzhi Crown Prince on the

day of his majority is not a spectacle for foreigners. No outsider should even

be in the city on that day. And if their magicians are a part of their

religion as they claim, then why would they hire them out for entertainments?

I'd like to send all of them packing with their books and crystals shoved up

their asses."

My shriveled Ezzarian soul could not hear such frivolous talk of true power

without a twinge of anxiety. "Magic" was the common term for the illusions,

sleight of hand, and smatterings of spell-weaving used for entertainment and

mystification. Sorcery was altogether different. True power could alter the

workings of nature and could be used for purposes most men and women could not

imagine. I had heard enough of the Khelid to believe they knew something of

sorcery. The Derzhi played with things they did not understand. There were

mysteries . . . dangers ... in the world... I closed my eyes and slammed shut

the doors of knowledge and memory, the doors locked and barred on the day the

Derzhi had stolen my freedom and the Rites of Balthar had stripped me of true

power.

Lord Dmitri must have sensed my uneasiness, for he seemed to notice me for the

first time. He reached for my arm and twisted it almost to breaking behind my

back.

"You understand the penalties for sly, sneaking slaves who so much as think

about the private conversations of their masters?"

"Yes, my lord," I squeezed out. I had seen such penalties early on in my

captivity and had needed nothing further to persuade me to keep my counsel. I

could forget as easily as I could sleep.

"Get out," said the Prince, his cheerful manner clouded. "Tell Durgan to put

you back where you were."

I touched my head to the floor again and returned to the slave house,

informing Durgan that I was to go back underground. The Derzhi enjoyed seeing

slaves carry the messages for our punishments. They would have had us lash

ourselves if they thought it possible we would do it to their satisfaction.

In the dark, cold days before Aleksander called for me again, between my long

hours of sleeping and the three minutes a day I was fully occupied by a cup of

gruel, a hard lump of bread, or a chunk of rancid meat wild dogs would

disdain, I did some thinking about the Khelid. My previous master, the Baron,

was the most traditional of Derzhi, and mistrusted any foreigner that had not

been conquered by force of arms. Even Ezzarians were more palatable to him

than the Khelid. We had held out for all of three days once the Derzhi set

their minds on the soft green rain swept hills beyond their southern borders.

The Baron thought us weak and stupid to let ourselves be ruled by a woman, and

muddled in the head with our sorcery, but at least we had put up our best

effort before we were dutifully subdued.

"These Khelid, though," he had said, confiding in his slave because no one

else would listen to him, "never really fought us before they ran away. I

never believed they were engaged in a real battle. They did not ride, you see.

No horses. But look at them now, prancing around on these stallions they've

brought with them-beasts that Basranni would worship as gods. You cannot

convince me the Khelid do not fight on horseback." He was not a particularly

intelligent man, the Baron, but he knew horses and he knew war.

When I asked him what the Khelid had been doing if they were not fighting, he

said they had been "testing" the Derzhi. "They would probe here and there,

then disappear," he said. "Show up in another place, get whipped, and run

away. One day they just never came back. They learned where we were and how

strong we were. Do you know we never captured any of them alive? Only dead.

Always dead."

"But why is this so different?" I asked. "They learned you were stronger ...

as did we all. They just endured the loss of their independence with less

death and destruction."

The Baron had no answer for that. He had no vocabulary for concepts beyond

war.

I wondered if Lord Dmitri knew the Baron. It seemed he shared something of the

same sense about the pale-haired strangers from a land so far away few Derzhi

had ever seen it. It had been three years since the Khelid had reappeared,

offering their tongueless king to the Derzhi in chains and vowing subjugation

to the Derzhi Empire in return for peace, friendship, and mutual respect.

Their king had been executed straightaway, and his head dispatched to Khelidar

with a military governor and a small garrison. Messenger birds arrived

regularly with reports from the governor detailing the good relationship with

the Khelid in their remote and harsh land. It was a very different

relationship than with other newly conquered peoples. The doomed king-or

whoever he truly was-had been the only one to wear chains.

"Wake up and get out here! You sleep like the chastou at noonday."

I had almost given up on ever seeing daylight again. Seven days had passed

since I'd read the Prince's letter. I assumed I had not pleased him, for in

the last three of the seven, no cup had been lowered with my daily scrap of

food. I couldn't muster enough spit to wet a dust mote, and hadn't even been

able to eat the last hunk of dry bread they'd given me. Death by thirst was

very ugly. Better to be killed outright.

In the great paradox of the desert, I was so dry I no longer desired to drink.

But even in my muddled state I knew I was not one of the sturdy desert beasts,

and I'd better do what was needed. I knelt to Durgan once I was out of the

hole, and I held out my hands. "Please, master, may I drink?" The words ran

together, stumbling over my tongue.

Durgan growled and called for someone named Filip. A scrawny albino boy, a

Fryth, scurried into the long block-shaped room, where it appeared mat at

least a hundred men must sleep on the straw-covered stone floor. "When did you

last give water to the one in the hole?" demanded the slave master.

The pale-eyed boy shrugged. "You just said feed him. Didn't say nothing else."

Durgan laid the back of his hand into the boy's head so hard it flipped the

child end over end. The boy bounced up and shrugged his skinny shoulders, then

strolled casually out of the door. "Drink as you need." Durgan threw a tunic

at me and a tin cup, and pointed me at the cistern at the end of the room, all

the while mumbling, " Cursed Fryth. Don't have a brain to share out amongst

the lot of them."

There had been a time when I believed that drinking and washing from the same

basin was impure, a sign of inner disorder that prevented one from discovering

universal truths, and put one at risk of corruption. Youth can be so laughably

serious. On that day the only difficulty was leaving any of the brown,

brackish stuff to wash with. When I was dressed, Durgan informed me that I was

to go to the Prince yet again. "Best behave yourself. He's had me asking

around for another reading slave. He don't trust you."

Well, I certainly shared that feeling. If I had thought the only penalty was

to be sent away, I might have considered misbehaving, but I knew better. I

didn't want to attract any further unpleasant attention from the future

Emperor of the Derzhi. Survival was still of interest to me, though it was not

the passion it had been when I was eighteen and still learning what manacles

and whips were all about. "Thank you, Durgan. And thank you for the water.

I'll do nothing to draw his wrath upon you ." I gave him a bow of true

respect. He had not been required to let me drink my fill before answering the

Prince's summons.

"Off with you, then," he said.

This time the Prince was alone in a modestly proportioned map room attached to

his chambers. The walls were covered with maps of the Empire. A rectangular

table and most of the floor were littered with map rolls, and ebony pointing

sticks, and gold and silver markers used to indicate troop positions and

supplies. Massive candelabra hung low over the table, casting bright light

upon the strategist's tools. Prince Aleksander was standing beside one of the

maps tracing his finger idly over a part of it and sipping a glass of wine.

Unlike his larger chambers, this one had no perfumes sprayed about to cover

the stink of gathered bodies. Though the Prince seemed reasonably clean, his

race-a race with origins in the desert-was, in general, not keen on bathing.

The only scents in the map room were candle smoke and wine.

In the first months after my capture, I spent an inordinate time wallowing in

the pain of looking backward. But another man, one who had been in bondage for

forty years, had taught me the self-discipline required to stave off that

particular madness. "Look at your hand," he said. "Trace the bones and examine

the skin and the calluses, the fingernails, and the iron band about your

wrist. Now re-create the hand in your mind with the joints knotted, the skin

hanging loose and dry like paper, the nails brown and thick, the flesh spotted

with age like mine. The same iron band about the wrist. Tell yourself.. .

command yourself.. . that only when there is no difference between your hand

and the image ... only then will you be allowed to remember what has been. It

will not be forever, so it is not an impossible command to obey. And when the

time comes, you'll not remember so clearly why you weep, and no one will take

you to task for it." I had followed his lesson faithfully and became quite

good at it. But there were moments when the exercise failed, and I would

glimpse a piercingly clear image from my true life.

Such was the moment when I knelt just inside the door of Prince Aleksander's

map room and inhaled the homely scents of hot beeswax and strong red wine.

There flashed before my eyes a vision of a comfortable room, lined with books,

hung and carpeted with the rich, deep autumn colors of ray mother's weavings.

My sword and my cloak lay on the floor, dropped after a long day of training.

A beeswax candle burned softly on the dark pine desk, and a man's strong and

vital hand pressed a glass of wine into my grasp....

"I said come here! Are you deaf or just insolent?" When I lifted my eyes, the

Prince was glaring at me from across the room. I was up quickly, trying to

regain my composure, trying to suppress a hunger that had nothing to do with

food.

The Prince motioned me to a stool. Paper and pen, ink and sand were set out on

the table in front of me.

"I want to see a sample of your writing."

I picked up the pen, dipped it, and waited.

"Well, get on with it."

I steeled myself for his displeasure. "Is there anything particular you would

like me to write, my lord?"

"Damn it all, I told you I wanted a sample of your writing. Did I say I cared

what it was?"

I deemed it prudent to answer with deeds, and that the deed had best be well

considered, so I wrote, "May all honor and glory come to Prince Aleksander,

Crown Prince of the Derzhi." I turned the paper so he could see it over my

shoulder, dipped the pen again, and asked, "Would you like to see more, my

lord?"

"You wrote my name," he said, accusing.

"Yes, Your Highness." "What did you put with it?"

I read him the sentence. He was quiet for a moment, and I kept my eyes pinned

to the paper.

"Not very original."

I glanced up in surprise at the wry humor behind the unsmiling words. Perhaps

it was because I was off balance from the vision .. . unguarded .. . still

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Rai-kirah1-TransformationbyCarolBergChapter1Ezzarianprophetssaythatthegodsfighttheirbattleswithinthesoulsofmenandthatifthedeitiesmislikethebattleground,theyreshapeitaccordingtotheirwill.Ibelieveit.Ihaveseensuchabattleandsuchareshapingascouldonlycomeaboutwiththegods'devising.Itwasnotmyownsoulinvolved...

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