Chapter 18:
An Offer
Two Ironbloods, one of the rank of keirtum and the other unranked, escorted him through the camp on rekasí — when Deros saw they were headed out of it toward the gate he raised the question of why, but all he got was a ‘quiet, tribal’ as such an exact replica of the habitat guard’s rebuke he had to wonder briefly if it was the same person.
I guess not everyone can be as colorful as Semõìn or Elek.
Out past the gate in the dead cold of the dark, they headed for the river to a waiting ferry over it, overseen by four Hamaleen rowers and another bored-looking guard. It was obvious they were taking Deros across to the fortress overlooking the river: Twisted Bend. Its stone walls were battered from very destructive and concentrated-looking bombardments at only a few points, all of which seemed to have been left entirely unrepaired. The multiple forts rising slightly higher than the walls looked minimally damaged in contrast, at least from Deros’s angle.
Yawning and stretching around as the rekasí came to a halt atop the raft, Deros was thankful his arms were not behind his back while riding on one of the beasts for once. He eyed the rowers sitting on ascribed seats along the sides as they began to work at moving the ferry out from the slip with airs of routine. Men of no obvious allegiance, perhaps mercenary marines or hired sailors. Before they’d been made to serve the Cajhorans, anyway. He envied their quite logical kit right then: heavy jackets, gloves, scarves, and hats.
A thick rope was connected to a shoreline heavy post and ran through hoops on one side of the ferry, extending out across the water — keeping them on course as they pursued a diagonal path to the other shoreline, aided slightly by the current. The rope was clearly old and slick with river slime. He supposed the latter was useful for sliding through the rings. He wondered if they’d be able to make the landing if the decaying rope snapped.
Fortunately — maybe — it held, as they rowed across the water and Twisted Bend loomed above higher and higher, silhouetted starkly by the brilliant full measure of Keramus behind it, bright enough its shine could even be seen on the water. Back home, he had loved seeing that in the night, sitting on the shores of Miracle River. In the spring it would often be joined by the blue luminescence of the river blooms, particularly when a boat happened to be making some late movement. A few times he’d been on such a boat as a child, to be enraptured by the fantastical swirls underwater, up close. No such beauty was on display for this trip, however.
Deros shivered continuously along the way, the cold all but unblocked by his cloak. But finally, they maneuvered into the waiting slip of their destination, the ferry quickly tied off and secured to it. A very rocky shore awaited them, with an immediate incline up to the walls. Thankfully, some of the freezing wind was blocked.
Wordlessly, his escorts led their rekasí upward in the answering general silence of the night. Deros spied a serpent slithering in the brush once — a large one that would’ve made a nice meal, but the Ironbloods seemed uninterested. He wondered how accurate their guns were; if they could be used for hunting as well as war. It seemed crass to Deros, somehow. The idea of a loud report every time out in the wilderness, wounding that seemed to splatter flesh… and the lead bullets. It seemed more useful for meat you didn’t plan on cooking. They presumably liked to splinter into bits, by the evidence of the Bluehand corpse that started it all.
Sling bullets. How stupid we were. But how could they have an inkling? Perhaps I am the only stupid one since I knew guns existed. At one time. If not here… somewhere. Ultimately, he rejected the idea he could have foreseen it all, though. Seeing an entry in the dictionary was not enough to predict the madness that was revealed, when it was all unthinkable to their lived reality. And beating himself up over it was pointless…
The reality was a lie, though, wasn’t it? A fantasy. This is reality. One we have to adapt to, or perish to it instead.
The walls of the shoreline-facing battlements were undamaged, as was the gate, which was left open though presided over by two guards. Mere nods were exchanged as the two riders passed through. Beyond the gates, things were similarly subdued, with only a few Ironbloods visible here or there in the gloom. Even the number of rekasí laying around and dozing seemed small. The place didn’t seem like much of a command center compared to the camp.
Why does this ‘super general’ or whatever he is want to see me in the middle of the night, anyway? I can think of nothing.
At the gate of the central keep, they stopped and dismounted. When the unranked soldier made to grab Deros from off his rekas, Deros forestalled him with a sign of his hands, deigning to jump down himself. The Ironblood didn’t react to the maneuver, just removed the tether after and took Deros by an arm to lead him on.
The keep had a large, closed, central gate, another smaller door, and a staircase of stone climbing around it. The latter was their path, leading up, over, and around more battlements to more climbs of stairs, overseen by a scarce few patrolling sentries. At the top was a wide tower of perhaps three stories, and it was this they finally stopped at, rattling a door knocker loudly. Part of the inside of the door at the top slid to one side, revealing an opening, and Deros caught the flash of Ironblood iridescent eyes peeking momentarily. After another moment the door was opened from the inside, swinging outward to give them access. They slipped in, and the door was shut and barred behind them.
The inside of the tower looked like a dining hall, with a long table, an unused hearth, and the hint of a kitchen behind a far wall. Supply crates and barrels were stacked in the corners and all-in-all it seemed almost untouched from what he might suspect of an Azakan facility. Red-and-black striped banners with the twin spear-and-shield of the Sylmex in the center still hung from walls unmolested, and odds and ends of decor remained… preserved skulls of corsinids along a wall, paintings of heroes and ancient battle scenes along another… antique silver candle-holders at the table. All that spoiled it was the sheer alien coldness — that and the sparse but present aliens themselves. Two leaned down over a table, standing, but playing what looked to be some sort of card game.
It was another thing unusual about the invaders. No flags or banners of their own to replace the conquered. It was as if they weren’t interested in the land. Just the people. Occupiers, yet raiders, and it appeared not the greediest of looters. He didn’t exactly see gold and gemstones still laying around, at least.
They did not dawdle long on the first level, soon climbing up a curving staircase to the right that followed the shape of the tower. It led to a similar curving hallway, wood-shuttered windows spaced every so often along it. They turned into a hallway farther down that proceeded into the heart of the tower, and along this were doors that had to be to rooms.
At a door on the left, they knocked lightly and waited briefly before hearing a call to come in. Inside was an obvious domicile — in this case, most of the room had been cleared of Hamaleen trappings and replaced with rather utilitarian tastes. Two long, sturdy tables of dark, polished wood were at the far end, seemingly made for Ironblood standing height, with papers, books, and what looked like maps laying atop them. A pair of binoculars. Strange, compact cabinets with an air of portability were along the walls, straps hanging down from contoured anchors. Well-organized packs of gear stacked into a corner. No paintings, no banners, no flags, nor decorations. All business, aside from a few extra low chairs and a table, ornate and out-of-place. Perhaps the only Hamaleen thing present.
The occupier of it all was seated in the center of the room at a low table in a chair made all of jet material that held his weight despite not looking capable of it. His armor was similar to Sângére Jânaél’s with golden horns, but the suit had a uniform, dark amber color and somehow more refined contouring of ordered angles as if suggesting itself not organic like the rest. On each shoulder rose a gold pyramid upward, and down each shoulder hung one of the little capes, his of purple fabric with gold symbology. On one side was a complex symbol of hourglasses and triangles forming a precise hexagon, each with triangles within, and then triangles within those, as if going infinitely inward. On the other was a circle within a circle, the outer one all with triangles like spikes pointing to the middle, inner circle.
The ozmentus — as he had to be — seemed to be leaning back in his chair and studying Deros as he was brought in front of the table and made to kneel. Deros made no fuss about it, knowing it was pointless. Tapping his armored finger on the chair arm for a long moment, the ozmentus lifted it to flick his hands in some vague gesture. The escorts stepped away from Deros, and he heard the door open and close behind him.
When they were gone, the ozmentus let out something like a bark of sardonic bemusement. “You’re a lucky boy, quari.” His voice was light of accent, deep, and that of someone older. “You don’t realize it yet, but you will.”
Deros blinked. Well, at least he didn’t say I was to be executed immediately, or the like. “Ah…” He wanted to say something smart, but he knew the man was unlikely to be amused. “Thank you, Ozmentus.”
“You’re very welcome,” the seated officer replied in abject sarcasm. He rose from his seat to come around the table, pausing as he loomed above Deros, drumming his fingers on the polished dark wood. “It’s impressive that four of your people got away from us. We’ve seen some capability from these Sylmex, as well. They’ve adjusted somewhat to the understanding they can only harry us, annoy us, hit and run. Inflicted more casualties than we expected. I imagine we should expect the same in Miracle Springs Canyon.”
Deros felt alarm in the pit of his stomach as he looked up at what his mind identified as a commander. A general who truly made the decisions. “A long trip. And hardly worth it unless you need a more bruised purple than your capes display. There’s little else unique.”
The ozmentus huffed a laugh with little mirth to it. “Such humility. Have you not figured out why we’re here by now? Tell me what you believe.”
Studying the helmet, the mask like so many others he couldn’t see through, Deros considered what he should say. Play dumb and lie? The alien would see through it, he felt. “You’re taking people. Significant numbers, though not all. And you’re not staying, by all appearances. I’d guess you want slaves. Which you call quari.”
“Nicely summarized. A fair assessment, though quari is the only correct term for a quari. Naturally, you lack the evidence to know the rest of the equation you’re constructing.” The ozmentus paused, tapped his fingers all at once on the table, then turned away, his back to Deros as he took a few steps away. “Well. All in due time, I imagine. I won’t take any more of this meeting’s cut of it…”
The commander walked several more steps over to a door, then knocked three times on it. “As I’m not really the one that called it.” He opened the door, pulling it inward.
As a queen might, Eklásia swept in, clad in a split gown of pearly white with dark violet floral imprints, the cut of it leaving the top-most part of her purple skin bare, including a significant amount of cleavage. Her jewelry was minimal, though her diadem was atop her head above her great mane of jet hair, and she wore a loose gold necklace studded with many rubies. She carried… it looked like her staff of before, only half the size, held more idly in the crook of an elbow. And she wore a bemused smile, eying her new company.
As Deros knelt there dumbfounded for a spell, he sensed her flare up with daug’makar, fire out her farsense in wide-probing spools, then form her makar’osa to intensify and create a spectacular, vast network of branching lines from the staff, all practically at once. Smaller tendrils anchored to the floor as the main one shot across the room at a speed normal senses had to catch up to, led always by the contoured touch of the farsense. So shocking was the disturbing construct that Deros instinctively summoned daug’makar and flared out his farsense, tracking what she was doing…
But her target was blessedly not him — instead, the network wrapped itself around one of the small chairs, lifted it, then reversed, carrying it back to the makeshift ‘creature’s’ mistress. To normal vision, it was as if it flew through the air but for that telltale haze, her control so precise with all the wrapping tendrils that the process looked much smoother than it really was. The network anchored itself to the floor clearly as leverage, truly like an assemblage of limbs working in concert to lift and ‘walk’ the chair, albeit incredibly small and strong at each individual level of faux bone and muscle, and at a tremendously heightened speed. An explosion of… growth.
His eyes were as wide as they could go as he watched Eklásia place the chair under her just as she was sitting down in front of him, only a body’s length away. One bared leg crossed in front of the other as she regarded him with a wide, gleeful smile, eyes absorbing him and twinkling in mirth. She didn’t quite laugh. Meanwhile, the finished network of makar’osa-controlled tendrils just sat suspended at her side, vaguely like a great hand made of interconnected twigs, all beginning at the bottom of the staff, which was made smaller as the material was spun out of it.
“So adorable a reaction I shall treasure it like a jewel,” Eklásia declared in rich chimes, still grinning boldly down at him. “Deros, wielder of prime. Dare you to keep wielding it in my presence?”
Deros blinked, still stunned by the slurry of bewildering events. “I…” He began dropping the farsense, aware he was almost touching the Shaper with it. He suddenly looked around for the ozmentus, expecting to get cuffed for the insult… but the Ironblood wasn’t in the room.
I’m completely alone with her! The thought was a strangled thing — he’d never felt more like a cornered animal than at that moment. She could rip him to shreds in a heartbeat. Or hold him firm… toss him about, he believed. And, besides the matter of physical threat, there was the matter of… let’s not think about it.
He returned his eyes to hers, mostly because there was nothing else to do. Her smile had become a sidelong smirk. “Forgive me… my Ordení,” Deros murmured.
She shook her head down at him, in mild exasperation. “I’m teasing. You can cease with the official title, Deros. It bores me. Lásia is fine.”
A pet name?! “Thank you, I’m” — horrified — “honored… Lásia.” Within, he was at war, one side knowing it wisdom to play whatever game she was, for favor. But the other part of him felt completely scandalized to be alone with a beautiful alien woman in a fine gown in a private room. One that was interested in him in unclear though potentially quite salacious ways, considering the reputation he’d created for himself. The purple skin, it was so-
I have to charm my way out of this… whatever it is. But let’s not jump to conclusions.
She nodded her head to him as though approving and grateful for his quick adjustment, with eyes suddenly seeming very flirtatious to Deros — but he told himself he was imagining it. With another quick motion that had him tensing up once again, her tendril-network shot back across the room to grab the other chair, soon placing it oh so gently next to Deros before recoiling away.
Eklásia gestured with her well-manicured hand to the chair and commanded, “Have a seat.”
Deros rose and sat down in the cushioned wooden chair, trying to get his whirling mind to calm and focus on the task at hand. It was difficult not to ‘stare’ at the mass of spindly extensions she had by her side, arching out of the staff and connected to the floor, her makar’osa like a kaleidoscope of bent, warped lines twisted around it all like a part of the assembly. Even without his farsense extending through her and it, it all screamed out to his senses like a bonfire of input. A live bonfire — ready to move and burn in an instant. In his mind, at least, it already had.
Even Ryza couldn’t contend with this. There’s no way. The speed is at best slightly slower than her, and the power and capability much greater.
The Shaper was smiling at him again. She raised her hand up, palm out, and in it formed a little figure made of thick, concentrated layers of the tendril material, soon forming into the same appearance as the staff: black and of alien, organic appearance. What it formed, though, was a little dancer in her hand, a simplified but three-dimensional physical thing that flowed through some elegant, stately forms of rhythmic movement — a doll, a puppet dancing on its mistress’s strings. Terrifying, yet beautiful, in appearance as well as the control with which it was made. Like her.
“Remarkable,” Deros whispered, almost to himself.
“You’re easily enchanted,” she quipped teasingly in response. “Extend your senses to it, and to me. Go ahead, my curious, curious boy.”
“Wh-what?” He blinked at her. Bad idea. “My Or- Lásia, I… I couldn-”
“Please, would you, Deros?” she implored sweetly, cocking her head and dropping her chin to look at him through her eyelashes in hopeful, playful insistence. Meanwhile, the dancing doll on her hand stopped, to turn and entreat him with a begging motion of its hands.
Deros swallowed hard, trying to ignore the unreal weirdness of the doll, to rationalize clearly. Her demand was an illusion of request — she had every expectation and surety he’d oblige to such a reasonable ‘suggestion.’ Besides, it’s information. I’ve done it a thousand times in training. Even against women. I need to take what I can get. “Yes, Lásia…”
She was visibly quite pleased as he extended out his farsense — spooled-out information-gleaning flows — through her hands and the doll, then beyond it and through her, enveloping them. Touching them, of a sort.
The makar’osa of hers was many times more bewildering than anything he’d ever analyzed, which he more or less expected. It was just a blurred-out mess, hinting at so much far beyond him, all of it a network flowing out from her mind and tuned by her body. He was aware too of her physical form, soft and smooth over the… — don’t focus on it! — surface but hinting at a powerful buttressing underneath, like a secondary subtle makar’osa that was supporting her… or an echo of a work already completed. Her bones felt off though he couldn’t detect how or why, and her muscles seemed to have greater strength than they should for her apparent frame. Subtle indeed, giving her strength maybe to that of strong Hamaleen.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Her own farsense was already extending out somewhat he could tell, overlapping with his — and then she did something with it, that touched his own and reverberated through it like a ripple, like a light caress that extended back through him, even to that center in his mind. The shock of it all made his hold of the farsense completely unravel and evaporate. It was nothing he’d ever experienced. Involuntarily, he shivered.
Like a brush of the soul. Gods. Suppressing another shiver, Deros asked, “What was that?” It was rather more breathless than he intended.
She smiled grandly. “See? A curious boy who can’t help himself.” In a flash her farsense flared out, passing through him and back like a series of waves. Her smile tempered slightly as her eyes squinted at him in sudden focus, and she passed her farsense back through him again, slower and holding it for a spell while enveloping him. Such was her focus, the dancer in her hand seemed to half wither, though it did not entirely unravel.
Deros had the somewhat familiar feeling of the farsense at the level of Daexo enshroud him, and possibly even beyond, a feeling just at the edge of his flesh being able to feel it, like the air was charged. Until her doing it, only Daexo was capable that he knew… it was the source of his earned name, from literally killing enemies with his eyes closed. His farsense was acute and gave similar — in many ways better — information than the normal senses.
“You’ve scarred your lenseye, somehow,” Eklásia said in clinical tones that reminded him of Hospitallers. Her farsense finally unraveled and withdrew, though she still studied him with interest.
“My what?” He tried to speak evenly, calmly, though his breathing had increased from the constant barrage of things the alien woman stirred in him.
“Lenseye. The dot in your brain that focuses potential into reality. Chaos into prime, when the proper chymistry, will, and order is in place. Yours feels definitively malformed and twisted on itself, as sometimes happens. Opaque, tight.”
Deros looked away, thinking about his mad attempt of before. But also further back, the first time he’d been deduced as Blessed, gleaned to be a mild talent most likely of the visual and auditory bent. There was something that had been said of him, that when his ability awakened it had ‘burned into a unique form.’ It was less negative than the way Eklásia put it, and he’d never taken it as anything short of the miraculous wonder that it was. He’d certainly never been called ‘malformed’ or felt as such. He’d exceeded expectations, by all accounts.
“Sounds about right,” he said, finally. “I may have aggravated that through pushing myself too much. I have the habit.”
“No, Deros,” she replied, breathing a mild sigh, and when he met her eyes they seemed to hold pity. Or disappointment. “It occurred because your people’s inferior understanding and praxis could not detect something beyond their limited functionality. What is greater cannot be gleaned by many orders lower quality, unless by technologically advanced and specialized means. So yours was ruined, to save your life. You were left with nothing more than a trickle through a sieve. That, their primitive ways could process. Match the meager ingredients to the meager recipes.”
She looked at the little dancer. Restructured its form and made it dance something different. Less elegant. Primitive. “I’d have been the same, you know. Undiscovered by the proper agents, I’d either have destroyed myself through unrefined chaos or become crippled, in whole or in part. Instead, it was detected early and refined in purity, with nothing wasted. I could be all I am capable of. I became a primergist, an engineer, a surgeon, an artist. A Fleshshaper of the Krae Ashõìn you see before you — the kelambrique of bone and material science. I earned my right to the Form of Choice and a place among the Ordení.”
Proud and superior, these Ordení — just like the Ironbloods. Yet the latter seem to worship the former at the same time. “Krae Ashõìn,” Deros mused aloud. “Like the cord. And the carapace armor.”
“Those are kraetine byproducts, mere reflections of the Krae Ashõìn, this” — and she made the little dancer do a summersault through the ‘air’ — “the purer source, the raw, primal base. The ascendant product of hundreds of generations of design, development, pain. Experimentation and sacrifice. Just like who you see before you.” A wicked smile. “Perfection is not achieved by any individual, Deros. It is cultivated by all parts of the organism working as one, in balance. Orchestration. Symbiosis.”
The dancer on her hand continued flipping and spinning in a feat of gymnastics, then suddenly flipped up in the air in a powerful leap of a high arc, with all the threads connecting to it ripped free. It spun end over end toward Deros, and just barely he jerked into action to catch it in his bound hands, almost falling into his lap.
Deros held it up somewhat hesitantly, fearful of it continuing to move, but she no longer controlled it, he was sure. It was still, and frozen in a pose of leaping, two little hands outstretched. It was incredibly light but felt hard as stone or metal. It was somewhat glassy, almost like obsidian, and its color was the deepest black.
“Keep it,” Eklásia drawled out richly. “A reminder of me. But do hide it, out there. Our little secret.”
Pulling his gaze from it to meet Eklásia’s blue eyes as they were drinking him in, Deros once more found himself swallowing a dry throat, and almost coughed. “Why are-… why have you brought me here, Lásia?”
That grandest of smiles erupted on her countenance once more, cruel in the compulsions it begged — to give her whatever she desired, to please her. “To hear someone call me Lásia without their voice strangling, for one. You’re adjusting so much quicker than quarin of my culture.” She paused, and her mouth quirked. “But before we address the matter at hand...”
Her network of tendrils extended over to a cabinet, opened it like a hand, then retrieved a glass bottle with a stopper and two glass cups. Even as she was doing this, more extensions very slowly gravitated toward Deros and cupped under his hands with tickling contact. He watched — holding his breath — as she removed the clasp around his wrists through a careful process of pressing down something like a finger or thicker tendril of unique form, and like muscular action the material simply split apart down the middle, popping open.
It’s what Semõìn does. It’s not a trick, it’s something in the glove of the suit. A reaction of two materials touching.
She split the end of the cording similarly, and he found his hands completely freed. Presented in front of him was a glass. Hesitantly, he took it, the tendrils brushing across his hand once more in that tickling way that made involuntary goosebumps down his arm. The tendrils quickly withdrew, however — under the watchful, smirking gaze of their controller.
The glass bottle was unstoppered within the fuzzy haze in front of them, then a reddish liquid was poured into the waiting cup he held out diligently, spilling not a drop as it was filled up two-thirds of the way. The bottle was then pulled over to her cup to pour.
“Can I know what it is you’re having me consume?” Deros asked, with some anxiety. “It might not be safe for Hamaleen.”
“It is,” Eklásia answered confidently as her glass was filled the same as his. “We’ve bestowed the honor on a few already. It is sevoon nectar, with an added cocktail of extracts for flavor. Absent of alcohol, and coveted for its refreshing effects. Very expensive. It would be a frightful insult for you not to drink it with me, so offered.”
Lifting his eyes from the swirling murky liquid — which did have a pleasant scent — Deros shook his head at her obvious teasing. To the hells with it.
Before he could raise it to his lips, she forestalled him with a finger. “Ah, ah!” she admonished. “Not before we toast, my eager, eager boy.” She raised her glass and waited for him to do the same. Once they were toasting, she said, “To the advancement of our organism,” then took a small sip.
“Yes,” was all Deros offered before taking his own sip. He swallowed it quickly and gasped a bit after. It had a heat to it, more so than cider, to where he wondered if she’d simply lied and killed him with a poisonous brew. But it was different enough for him to doubt. It was a heavy, fruity sweet layered over something bitter and nutty. Shocking but pleasant, all-in-all.
Clearing his throat, Deros commented, “Like nothing else I’ve had.”
“There are many things like that in store for you, I think,” Eklásia replied with blatant suggestion, eying him while leaning slightly on an elbow propped on the arm of the chair, glass cup held idly. “You asked why I brought you here. It’s quite simple: you interest me, as does your love, Palamera. I would have you both as my personal quarin.”
Deros stared and tried to keep his face smooth. Though he couldn’t know the details of what she was indicating, he knew he wanted out of it based on her demeanor toward him. Her slaves. Pet aliens. “Palamera. She’s not at all my-”
He was cut off by a quick shock of laughter. “Please, Deros! I’ve lived many multiples of your lifetimes overseeing a court to make your head spin. You’re clever, and you could do well in my world with guidance, but you are like a babe with your emotions in regard to her. And vice versa. You both are smitten with each other. In love. Don’t bother to deny it to one who knows your very chymistry.”
Though he felt he should regard the last as something of a bluff, he knew she had him. There was no expectation in her waiting for confirmation. Just the certainty of someone with evidence. “If you deem yourself to know this, then why…” He gestured generically at her, then trailed off, seeing the look on her face.
She was grinning devilishly. “Why what — flirt? Desire? Crave new experiences? Guilty as charged, man of Hamellion. I did not need to come here for riches — I have them in abundance. I came here for the challenge. For a new horizon to walk. I see the same in your eyes… a curiosity and a need for wonder. I love to reward the bold, the studious, the subtle, the amusing. You are all of those things, wrapped in a lovely bow. And a prime wielder. A desirable quari, Deros. And I would not see you wasted and fallen through the cracks due to a lack of vision. You cannot understand what system you face, what interests might compete to have you, use you.”
“And Palamera?”
A subtle shrug — the sudden shift of subject didn’t betray much in her, but her reaction was certainly tailored. “In the greater spectrum, she is the same in desirability. She has an inner mettle, does she not? She will bend, but not break. Unless she is separated from you, hmm? And so too would you break, if you were split. A tragedy I’d rather not see. Many would prefer to break quari, to the needs of servitude. Or the needs of the Cerovuân State, to those souls so allocated. I cannot detail these but suffice to say you don’t want to be one, comparatively. I wish I could extend the offer to all of your party, but alas, taking the two best of the bunch is greedy as it is in the eyes of the Ordení.”
There’s something else with Palamera, but I am unlikely to glean it from her. Small wonder, the rest. If he could save everyone, he would, but she was the priority. Deros kept himself under control, taking the position of it being like a negotiation, though it probably wasn’t. He took another measured sip of the drink. “So you mean to tell me your intentions are altruistic?”
She chuckled as she took a sip from her cup. Her crossed legs uncrossed, then re-crossed the other way as she shifted subtly in her seat, leaning back a bit more. “No, though they might as well be for you. I gain two glorious quarin worth envying and showing off and learning every bit of, and you two remain together.”
“And what does that mean? Live together as a couple? Would we marry?”
After another sip of her cup, she shook her head. “There is no marriage, Deros. It was abolished by the State long ago. The Ordení, guided by the Sectorian Premier, the Governor of All, sanction all things, including property. By law, all provide service to the greater organism to retain what they have or pay equal tribute. You would live under my protection for provided service under contract, granted of course by the reasonable graces of the State, for a fee. I would provide an apartment, yes. Your sexual exclusivity is to your own jurisdiction.”
Contract. That is what this is all about. Negotiation indeed. Deros took another carefully controlled sip of his drink. “Is this really true? Do I really have any say or choice?”
“On my property, in my palace? Yes, you do. As for the contract, you can review it when the time comes.”
She doesn’t require me to agree right now… not in writing, anyway. He could almost sigh in relief, except there was still a mountain of tension left over. “What if I sign no contract? I’m sure you realize I’d rather just walk.” He was sure to add a twang of humor to it.
She breathed a laugh. “Naturally. But your backwater wasteland life is over, regardless — it is not deemed to serve the greater organism usefully. A contract is merely the means to stay the hand of the default State jurisdiction. You can stay your own hand from signing, and take your chances… experimenting with the State.” Her emphasis was deliberate and significant.
He detected genuine disgust from her for the idea. “How guaranteed are our rights? All you’ve given me so far is your word.”
She eyed him with an unreadable expression. “The rights of quari are minimal. Service given for protection and jurisdiction of a State-approved party you choose to trust in lieu of the direct determinations of the State. I have a responsibility to care for you, to reasonable accommodations. To which I personally will greatly exceed. Is everyone so generous? Gentle, reasonable, kind? No.”
Deros looked away, feeling the full weight and gravity of what life he was being ‘offered’. A servant. He felt sick. And he was supposed to feel grateful? He wanted to toss the drink in her face. Wanted to pull the knife out and hold it to her throat and force her to call off the beasts and fetch him two aloga, then take Palamera and make a daring escape. More fantasy, of course.
“I wish we could be friends right now,” Eklásia offered, sounding genuinely sad. “I would offer a hug, or a shoulder to cry on. A bosom, perhaps. But neither of us trusts one another yet. I believe that will change, Deros. You’ll take my hand and I’ll lead you into this new world where you’ll flourish! And so will she. It will be hard for her, I know, but she’ll be safe. She’ll survive and grow. We’ll cultivate it together.”
Deros really didn’t want to hear it. It was just like the Bluehand trader on the ship with his son. To protect Palamera, he’d do literally anything. If her offer was true, and they ended up trapped in whatever madness Cajhor was, he’d do it, just so she was safe. And it horrified him. Even if it could all be believed, it was awful.
We just have to escape. This won’t matter, then. None of it will matter. He worked on the drink again, felt the mild burning liquid go down easier than the last, then glanced at her and said, “One thing I don’t understand: why did you make this meeting secret? As a powerful Ordení, can’t you do whatever you want out here?”
She smiled as if she were proud of him. “Ah, you did notice. I in fact could, but it would be looked at askance on Cajhor. That alone, I wouldn’t care, but if information travels — and it often does for profit — such things would be used against me. And you. I have rivals, dear… and they’d love to steal away what I want. I can’t simply claim you here and now, due to processes and procedures necessary to follow.
“I have things to wrap up here before I can return as well, but I can send word to get claims in order. If I am ahead of the game, and information does not get to the wrong people in time for interference, I am confident I can arrange your sequestering not long after you are processed in Al Pendrós and… well. You get the idea.”
She swirled her drink around in the glass, finally lifting it to her mouth to down the rest all at once, wiping the excess from her lips with a finger, then… licking it off while eying him. “Well? You don’t have to agree now, but I’d like to know if you’d at least entertain the possibility on Cajhor when the contracts are delivered. It will be up to you to inform your lover in the meantime.”
Deros did not bother hesitating. He didn’t down the drink, but he took a sizable glug. It really was refreshing. “I will consider your offer. I am not sure I can manage speaking to Palamera alone, however. Can you help?”
She had an intake of breath that could only be called one of tempered triumph as she sat there, pleased with herself and squinting her eyes in thought at his request. “I can try. If it doesn’t happen along the road, I can ensure it does in Al Pendrós, well before the contracts. There is one I trust who might be able to show you a little favor here and there. She will come to you and mention this meeting.”
“Grand.” He dreaded trying to explain it to Palamera almost as much as he dreaded Cajhor itself. Better to get away before it. She never needs to hear or know. Especially about this woman’s flagrant flirtations.
Suddenly he found himself draining the rest of his drink, wincing at the faux heat of it in his mouth and going down his throat. He certainly felt more awake, like he’d had multiple cups of strongly-brewed featherroot tea. A ‘stimulant,’ as Palamera would call it.
With her network of tendrils, Eklásia whisked away the glasses and the glass bottle, back into their cabinet. The lightest remainders of the branches remained at Deros’s hand and fingertips, brushing across in their tickling way before Deros drew his hand back. She had each of her real hands gripping her chair’s arms at the ends as she stared in his direction with her chin angled downward, smirking. A picture of restrained desire, like she was looking at dessert still cooling by the window.
Does she truly think she is not transparent or doesn’t care? This is not a woman used to restraint, nor denial. She gets what she wants with the snap of a finger…
“Well, Deros,” Eklásia declared, almost a purr. “Thank you for your time and cooperation, and I’m sorry for interrupting your rest. I hope I can convince you that I mean you and your love no harm. That I wish only the best for you. Now. Your hands must be rebound for your return. Stow that little figure away, would you?”
Deros blinked. He’d expected some sort of ‘offer’ matching her more immediate desires. He’d expected seduction. Hiding his relief was an effort. “O-of course, Lásia.”
He hid the figure in an inner pocket, then put his hands together. With her network, Eklásia picked up the fallen bindings and began reapplying them around his wrists, maintaining an almost teasing eye contact until he looked away.
Though he felt relieved she’d not tried more direct seductions, he was certain it was in her mind throughout the meeting. He had the suspicion it was tactical — calculated — not to offer or push for more. He’d not reciprocated her advances, so she let it lie. Temporarily, anyway. Coming into the meeting, she couldn’t be sure how malleable or ‘easily enchanted’ he was. How dedicated he was in the face of temptation. How much of the lies of his presented reputation were actually lies.
She can’t spook the prey before she’s close enough to make the strike with a guarantee of sinking her claws in. She’s stalking me slowly, for now. But she aims to have me — what she hunts does not get away for long, I’m sure.
Shaper Eklásia rose after his bindings were in place, smoothing her gown and its skirts with a hand while the other held the staff. “I know this is difficult, Deros, and the circumstances cruel on this road, leaving your freedoms behind. But what is freedom in this desolate land, anyway? The right to this or that rock or sandy waterhole. An endless struggle for survival. Are the chains of duty, honor — whatever you believe hold you to your tribe — are they really so much better than the chains you face now, which will be lighter? Gilded, lovely, cherished, just as you will be?”
Deros didn’t bother answering, not feeling it was advantageous. Silence showed consideration and betrayed no position. He put on his best ‘brood’ for her.
“I surmise you won’t find your role or situation nearly as difficult to adjust to as you imagine, nor will she. Place yourself in my hands, Deros, and you will want for nothing. And neither will she. I will ensure she’s pampered as to a princess. And that curiosity of yours? You can spend a lifetime sating it, with what I have to show you. Would you care to crack your teeth on a library the size of a house?”
He could not help himself — he looked up, at that. Her smile was quite openly victorious. ‘Got you,’ it said.
Damn her. It’s nothing. Meaningless.
Sliding her eyes from his, she strode back toward the door from which she’d come. Her makar’osa-directed tendrils pulled it open and she waited in front of it. “Just a little while longer, Deros. Wait. Allow me to be your rescue from so, so much…”
With that, she swept out of the room, and the ozmentus ducked in immediately after, holding some sort of large book in his hand. “Well, tribal, that was rather quick — perhaps you’re not as bright as I thought...”
Deros was soon escorted back through the castle in equal silence to his arrival, the Ironbloods curious for nothing of his meeting. He stayed in his own thoughts, the rest of him just going through the motions. Escape was on his mind, as were the gilded chains Eklásia offered. An easier life, supposedly — even than the one he’d always known. A palace, like out of a story. A great library. A plethora of things to learn, see, and do. An indolent paradise escape from the terrible consequences he faced…
As they were crossing back over the river to the walled camp, Deros took out the little jet figure she’d given him, studied it. Jumping headlong, carefree — boldly accepting its fate, the moment frozen in time.
He tossed it into the river. He was glad to see that it sank.
“The nok was that, tribal?” his escort asked in annoyance.
“Nothing worth considering,” Deros replied.