What He Never Told Her
Watching the woman regain her composure so quickly, Elona felt a prickle of wariness. It was plain enough what a woman who admired Kazan would think of the one who shared his bed. Even so, she kept her feelings off her face, glanced sidelong at Elona, and went on.
“As steward of the court, I will house that woman in Mano Palace and keep a close watch on her, according to Your Majesty’s command. Will you entrust her care to me?”
Kazan considered for a moment, then accepted Irid’s offer.
“I will. But never forget that she belongs to me.”
“Thank you, Lord Sindar. Then I shall see you again tonight, at the victory feast.”
Irid crossed her hands and rested them lightly upon her shoulders, offering Kazan the salute of the court. When the tall woman set off in long strides, Kazan flicked a look at Elona. Elona had no choice but to follow Irid out of the audience hall.
Beneath a dusk that seemed to burn, Irid led Elona along the colonnade. Elona stole glances at the gold earrings and bracelets flashing red in the light, and at the belt set with topaz—splendid ornaments, as befitted Ashatra, a land of gold and gems.
They suit this woman all the better…
Something in Irid’s height and the lush curve of her figure left Elona oddly cowed. She envied, too, the confidence and the station that let the woman speak so boldly before Kazan. Looking down at her own cotton dress, grimy from being jolted about in the baggage wagon, she was thinking that the first thing she would do upon reaching the palace was change her clothes—when Irid spoke.
“You were a princess of Parsion?”
The question was tossed back without so much as a glance. Elona answered the figure walking ahead of her.
“Yes. Not anymore.”
“I see. If you were royalty, you must have kept Ashatran slaves of your own.”
“I did.”
“Men? Women?”
Elona held her tongue. Before her confinement she had owned two slaves: a woman, Samira, and Kazan.
Samira is one thing… but should I tell her Kazan was my slave?
Did the people of this country know that their king had once been a slave of Parsion—her slave, no less? For the moment, Elona chose caution.
“I had one woman.”
“Only a woman? I heard the princess was unmarried. You didn’t even keep a man to serve you at night?”
From Irid’s reaction, Kazan’s past as the princess of Parsion’s slave seemed to be a secret. Elona was glad she had not spoken of it—and at the same time had no idea how to answer.
“Ah, well… I… I don’t care for that sort of thing…”
“Hmm. Is that so?”
Irid had only just turned a corner when she stopped short. Elona nearly walked into her back and halted a breath away.
The eyes that turned on her were cold and cutting. Irid looked her up and down and narrowed her gaze.
“A figure with nothing to recommend it, so I wondered if the skill made up for the lack. From the way you talk, you’re a wench who doesn’t even know how to take her pleasure properly—and yet Lord Sindar comes to you every night. Tell me why.”
“Why…? How would I—aah!”
Smack! The sound cracked, and Elona’s body reeled. Irid had struck her hard across the cheek. She nearly fell, and only just caught herself against the wall. Irid drew out a handkerchief, wiped the right hand that had hit her, and spoke.
“There has to be a reason, doesn’t there? Lord Sindar has never even kept a lover. Plenty of women clung to him, but he never gave them his body or his heart. I know that better than anyone. I’ve watched him from closer than the rest. And yet…”
Irid ground her foot down on Elona’s. While Elona gasped, she went on, her voice edged and sharp.
“All at once he makes you his slave, and the rumor is everywhere that he takes you into his arms night after night. The only thing special about you is that you’re a woman of Parsion. Don’t tell me that’s the reason. If it is, I won’t accept it.”
“Nngh…”
Only after a long struggle did Elona work her foot free. Afraid of being tormented again, she hurried several steps back from Irid. Irid stared into the blue eyes bright with tears and said,
“Is he only playing with you a little before he kills you? Blood will tell, I suppose. Lord Sindar’s royal father did the same from time to time. Yes—if that’s what this is, I could understand…”
“His royal father?”
Elona asked it with a blank face. Cut off mid-sentence, Irid shot her an irritated look.
“You were a princess, and you don’t even know what a royal father is? I mean Lord Kalima, Lord Sindar’s father.”
“So… his father was the king. He was a prince to begin with…”
Kazan had been a prince of Ashatra? Elona was thrown into confusion. In all the time they had lived together in Parsion, he had never told her any such thing. Seeing the shock on her face, Irid grew annoyed.
“Why gape at something so obvious? You really are lacking. Stop dawdling and come this way. Now!”
Irid spun and started off. Elona followed, sinking into a bleak mood.
Kazan never told me who he was. Not even at the very end, when he spoke of running away.
He might have other secrets still. The thought darkened the world before her eyes.
We never trusted each other…
Kazan already seemed to have gone somewhere her hand could not reach.
“Ah, hot!”
Hot water was poured over Elona where she sat in the tub. The maids’ hands were indifferent, and a little harsh.
“Lower your head. I’ll pour more.”
“Ugh…”
A stream hot enough to redden skin ran down Elona’s white body. Whether she flinched or not, the maids attended her with mechanical efficiency and sat her back in the bath.
She was washing in the bath attached to the bedchamber of Mano Palace. Cream-colored marble, carved here and there in low relief, gave the room an old and elegant air. The palace where she would live from now on was beautifully ordered, as a queen’s palace ought to be. She felt only uneasy.
She could easily imagine herself treated as nothing but spoils at the victory feast. She would attend the king in a banquet hall instead of a baggage wagon, in fine clothes instead of a cotton dress, but the essence of it had not changed.
She was still the king’s bed-slave.
Everyone must know what we do every night.
How low a woman she would seem. Her worry only deepened after the maids had dressed her. Her top was nothing but a length of blue chiffon wrapped about her breasts. Shoulders, arms, even her navel lay bare; the costume was little different from underclothes. When they bound her hair high in the Ashatran style, her back and waist felt all the more exposed. The lower garment, at least, was a pair of full, long trousers, but the cloth was so thin that the lines of her hips and legs showed plainly.
“Um… something I could put over this…”
“Out you go.”
The maids drove her outside without mercy. Evening had come, and the air was cooling fast. Walking the torchlit colonnade, Elona remembered walking there with Irid, and at the memory of the slap her shoulders drew in before she knew it.
From far off, out of the rear garden behind the Main Palace, music began to rise. The feast had only just begun. Elona, who had never cared for parties or balls even in Parsion, grew tenser still. Her steps slowed, but the maids pushed the lagging girl along as if they were driving a goose.
“Oh my.”
Irid, standing at the entrance to the banquet hall, caught sight of Elona and smiled. Elona meant only to bow and pass, but Irid blocked the way with easy grace and looked down at her bowed head.
“You’ve dressed prettily.”
“Thank y—ow!”
Irid yanked roughly at the tie in Elona’s hair. While tears stung her eyes, the loosened gold spilled down over her shoulders. Irid glanced at the pitifully tangled mass and gave a short laugh.
“This way suits you better, though.”
She mussed every strand. The maids, as if the sight pleased them, coughed to hide their laughter. Elona was backed into a corner and floundering when a voice came from a little way inside the hall.
“You there. Enough of this nonsense. You had better come in.”
It was a middle-aged man’s low voice. Irid started and turned. Relief softened her face once she saw who it was.
“And who did I think you were. Grand General, nonsense? Since when have you taken such an interest in women’s affairs?”
One-eyed Grand General Tortan was staring straight at them. He glanced at Elona, half hidden behind Irid, and answered.
“Making free with His Majesty’s slave as if she were your own—that is the nonsense. What else would it be?”
“Ha. As if she were mine? If this wench were my slave, I would have long since—”
“Killed her, would you?”
The voice that followed was not Tortan’s. At the familiar sound behind her, the fine hairs at the nape of Elona’s neck stood on end. It was Kazan’s voice—the voice that brought her torment every night.