City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) (38 page)

“You could do with a wash too, captain,” and she dragged him into the shower rooms with her.

Preparations were well underway for another Gialdin Day, and Artemi was nervous of being paraded in public like an oversized, green trophy. Morghiad had offered to buy her an utterly ridiculous dress, consisting of very little fabric and costing far too much money. She had refused to accept it, of course, but now found herself with nothing to wear. At least she could make a half-credible attempt at dancing with him. That was something. The two of them had practised everywhere there was space, and moving with his graceful steps was a journey into freedom. Artemi could only hope that she did not look like too much of a sack of kefruit next to him.

She raised the sponge to her arm once more and scrubbed gently, reaching round the back of her neck to relieve the tension. Her captain was out in the castle, busying himself with arrangements for the day, and she had his rooms to herself. A knock sounded at the door. It could have been the guard he had left for her; maybe something urgent was happening...

Artemi stood quickly, water cascading from her noisily, and wrapped herself tightly in a dressing gown. The rich, heavy fabric brushed loudly on the floor as she approached the entryway. She unbolted the thick oak door panel and opened it. Silar stood outside, blinking in apparent confusion. “I... ah.” He swallowed. “Should I come back later?”

His timing was not wonderful, and he would certainly have rumours flowing by visiting like this. “Is it important?”

The lieutenant shook his head and looked down. “Not especially.” He sighed through gritted teeth. “I just thought you should have this.” Silar handed her the bundle he held under one arm.

The object felt weighty in her hands, and she opened it there to peek at the contents. Shimmering glass shards glittered back at her. “I cannot wear this. Silar... how will I explain it to him?”

“It would be a shame if no one else could see you in it. And it has no more association to me than the floor you walk on. Everything you touch you make your own, my lady. Perhaps you could simply tell him it was from an admirer.” He turned and strode off into the darkened halls without waiting for a reply.

Whatever did he mean by making things her own? It was not as if she owned that revolting king, or even bloody Morghiad! The kahr never acted as if he was her property, and nor would she want him to. Men! Artemi closed the door before a curious-faced guard and examined the mirror-laden dress. At least their conversation had been quiet enough for the guard not to have overheard.

The dress was as luxuriant as she remembered. It glittered as if made of sun-filled gemstones, giving off the slightest tinge of blue. She
could
wear it this evening, though it was perhaps a little too extravagant for a benay-gosa. Artemi sat on the bed and pondered her conundrum. It was ridiculous that her decision-making had been reduced to choices over her attire, and that she concerned herself so deeply with it.

She would much rather be made a sergeant with a few men to direct. That would be altogether far more exciting. She laid the dress out on the bed and went to stand at the window. A few nobles milled around amongst the autumnal blooms of the garden, just as primped and decorated as their surroundings. Life would have been so different if she’d had the chance to be born as one of them. Artemi wondered if Morghiad would have liked her nearly so much, since he seemed to dissociate himself from them as much as possible. She returned to her bath, which had by now grown quite cold.

The rest of her ablutions were rather hurried, and before long she was browsing the shelves for some reading material. Why Morghiad had a copy of ‘Chronicles of Artemi’, she had no idea. She had always found the book tedious and uninspiring as a child; even though it contained her infamous namesake. A funny thing the kahr had no books about the other Morghiads through history. Perhaps they were not as exciting for a man to read about.

Artemi took hold of a grey tome with browned edges, and allowed it to flop-open on a random page. It was filled with idle foretellings - verses constructed by con-women to sell and pretend they described the future.

“And so the great battle of Asterid will rage ‘neath rock, water and snow.

Two armies in black; flames wrought, released and lo,

A place with no entrance – the way in, the Fire Blade only can show.”

Utter tripe! It was so vague and date-less; it could be about any battle! She read on to the next verse written by the so-called “Mistress Cloud of Dragons.”

“For the House that rules the white palace in the light,

Their son will know the greatest love in heart and in sight.

From this love he will perform great acts to save, to guard.

But out of that love he shall bring the long night,

From it, evil will burn this Earth’s people to ash; full-charred,

And Achellon will be frozen; it will be deaf to their plight.”

It was very convenient how Mistress Dragon’s foresight always seemed to rhyme. Very convenient indeed. Artemi closed the book and scanned the shelves for another. She pulled out a volume on far-off lands known as Casfin and Rhofin. The countries sounded rather exotic compared to the dullness of Calidell. Before long she was curled up in the embrace of the ancient chair, learning of their peculiar culture of male subservience.

When the sky had darkened, a second knock came at the door. Artemi had her head buried deep in the marriage rites of Casfin, where women would offer their arrows to a man of their choice, and then proceed to lambast him while he hunted for their wedding feast with said arrows. A very singular people, indeed. She closed the book and went to answer the knock, but before she reached it Caala came storming in. The broad woman blustered about for a moment, tidying things that were not out of place. Artemi had missed her regular company, and went to hug the older woman, or to calm her.

“What in blazes?” Caala looked her up and down. “You’re not ready yet! You do know you are to dance in the Malachite Hall in under an hour, don’t you?”

Artemi nodded with resignation.

Caala harrumphed. “Well, we’d better get you bloody ready then, hadn’t we?” Her gaze caught sight of the dress. “Is this what you are wearing?” she said in half-astonishment.

“I think so.”

The servant blinked, open-mouthed. “You
think
? Bloody fires of Achellon, girl! Sit down while I sort out that hair of yours.” Caala practically raked a brush though her hair, before fastening parts of it to her head in complicated ways. The end result took most of the hour to achieve since her hair was such an untameable mass, but Artemi was quite impressed by it. The broad woman had rolled her hair around the end of the fire poker, making it twist like an elegant vine. Several of these trailing ringlets fell over one shoulder, while the rest was arranged delicately around a silver headband.

Caala was similarly proud of her work. “Right, no time to lose. Time to get into that dress. Though I’d be surprised if that tiny body of yours could support something so heavy!” She seemed to find that very funny.

Artemi compressed her lips and undressed quietly. The glass-clad gown did feel heavy as it settled on her hips, heavier than she remembered. She took a deep breath as Caala pulled the ribbons of the bodice tight. Why was she always so zealous about that? A woman needed to breathe, after all. The servant finished tying off the ribbons and walked round to admire the finished product.

“Am I presentable?” Artemi suddenly felt very nervous indeed.

The older woman folded her arms. “Passable, I suppose,” she grinned. “You’ll be the envy of every woman there. Chin high, girl. Do us linen girls proud, won’t you?”

She felt the weight of new responsibility settle on her bare shoulders. Did they really think she had achieved something by becoming the kahr’s bed fellow? “I shall do what I can, Caala.” A bell rang twice in the distance. “I should go and meet my escort for the night. Thank you, for fixing my appearance.”

There really wasn’t much time, and Morghiad would not appreciate being left partner less. Artemi burst into the high-ceilinged hallway outside, causing her guard to jump at the sight of her. His eyes were wide, and she hoped that was for a good reason rather than bad. She hitched the narrow skirt of the dress up and broke into a brisk sprint. The soldier fell in beside her, keeping pace with ease. “You look lovely, my queen,” he whispered between footfalls.

She could not help but smile as she ran, in spite of the false title. She would probably end up looking a mess by the time she reached her destination. The corridors sped past her in a blur of greys and blacks, and Artemi was glad for her training in covering short distances at speed. At last they turned the corner which would bring them to the base of the hall steps. She was breathing hard when she came to a halt. The vast doors were already open. She cursed loudly. She was too late! Artemi squeezed her eyes shut; she had embarrassed him when she had promised she would not! Blasted vanity.

A figure moved in the shadow cast by the door. “You swear like a soldier.” Morghiad stepped out from the darkness and unfolded his arms, offering her a hand. “Will you come into the light so I can see you properly?”

She
hadn’t been the one hiding in obscurity. Artemi began climbing the elegant, curved steps to him. Abruptly his hand dropped and he swallowed. He mumbled something she couldn’t make out.

She froze her ascent. “Is everything alright?”

The kahr said nothing. He stared blankly at her. Had an invisible arrow hit him in the head?

A steward came to tap him on the shoulder. “The king awaits your presence, my lord.”

Finally Morghiad moved, as if registering he was still alive. “Oh.” He took a breath.  “I’ll... be there in a minute.”

The servant became anxious. “My lord, I do not think your father will wait a minute.”

The kahr waved him aside absently and intensified his focus on Artemi. She couldn’t help but feel like a rabbit caught in his snare. He came down the remaining steps to meet her in silence. Morghiad rearranged a few strands of her hair that had become loose during the journey. “Must you destroy me every time I look at you?” He cupped her jaw in a long-fingered hand.

“My lord, I really must insist!” The steward was almost hopping on the spot.

Morghiad half-growled, but dropped his hand to her waist. “Let’s go, then. Though it seems unfair that I should have to share you with them tonight.”

Artemi boxed up the frustration she felt. The idiot man never seemed to register how handsome he was, no matter how many times she said it. He would always whine on about not being a match for her or claim she was some great beauty. Utter nonsense. It was all very well being complimented, but sometimes he needed a slap to bring him back to reality. The Blazes had driven the man half blind, she was sure. Then again, his myopia did serve her purposes, meaning she was able to keep him to herself.

They strode into the glare of the Malachite Hall and Artemi felt the trickle of self-consciousness turn to a torrent as innumerable pairs of eyes turned to her. Morghiad’s hand tightened at her waist, offering her support, but her panic was already there. Why had she ever agreed to this? She struggled to keep her shoulders back and relaxed, though she remembered to keep her chin high for Caala. It wouldn’t be long before she tripped over his feet and was made to look a fool in front of thousands of Calidellian notables. Artemi hoped it would be over quickly, so she could retire to their bed and his embrace. If he would still have her after she publically shamed him with her clumsiness.

The king eyed her suspiciously as she neared him and his red-clad retinue. “That is not a dress for a benay-gosa,” he muttered audibly.

Artemi felt her cheeks redden. She wanted to leave, or to melt into the floor! Either would do.

Morghiad pulled her closer gently. “There are no written rules on that. She may wear whatever she wishes.”

What sort of statement had she accidentally made? Would everyone think she had presumed to be a noblewoman when she was nothing more than a glorified whore?
A whore who did not even satisfy her customer.

King Acher frowned and waved for the music to begin. The sound of it eased her tension to some degree, but she still felt as if she was about to revisit her lunch. The kahr led her to the centre of the space made by the parted crowd, parallel with the king and one of his women.

“I can’t do this,” Artemi whispered. Nor could she meet his eyes through shame.

Morghiad smiled. “You’ve executed it perfectly every time we’ve practised, so I doubt that very much.”

Her panic grew. “You don’t understand. I -”

“Call yourself a man, soldier?” he taunted under his breath.

Artemi smiled, and then laughed, feeling her resolve return. “You can suck my -” Her sentence was cut short as he spun her into the first step. Her movements flowed naturally in response to his, and she found herself relaxing into his arms as she had done so many times before. The onlookers melted into nothingness around them. Before she had even begun to conceive of what she was doing, it was over, and she came crashing back into the hall. A deafening applause rose from the onlookers, so loud it hurt her ears.