Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire (3 page)

He mounted the
sill.

I could let
him fall and none would be the wiser. In a moment, I could go into
the outer chambers, seek the squire and complain there was no-one
within the bedroom. Then a search would be made, inside and out,
and a shattered body would be found among the roses.

He shook upon
the broad slab of marble, crouching down. He did not want to kill
himself, and yet he did. How would I feel in his position? If a
king other than Alofel took me to his bed? I realised I would not
care. If it meant I would survive, I would kiss anyone, open my
body for any man.

One moment, I
was standing by the door, the next I found myself by the window,
Akaten’s upper arms in my grip. I pulled him back. He uttered a
dull, dismal sound; relief and regret.

‘
Don’t
be foolish!’ I said and turned him round. We were much of a height,
and perhaps around the same age, nineteen years. He would not look
at me.

I half led,
half dragged him to the canopied bed, and made him sit down on it.
He had begun to weep, silently, his body shuddering to his
chest-deep sobs, tears running freely down his still face. He wept
as a woman might, or a prideless barbarian. I’d heard stories of
how Harakhte had wept publicly before his army when certain of his
favourites had been killed on the battle-field. Alofel would never
shed tears in the company of others.

Feeling
impatient and strangely vexed, I poured the boy some wine from the
flagon that stood waiting for the king’s hand beside the bed.

‘
Drink
this.’ I was surprised that he took it. He drank it down in one
long gulp, then wiped his face and handed the goblet back to me.
Still, he would not meet my eye.

‘
Are you
afraid?’ I asked him. Perhaps he could not speak our
language.

He looked at
me then. ‘Afraid? No. Not of what you think.’ He spoke Cossic
fluently, beautifully accented with a hint of Mewtish. In his eyes,
I did not see weakness but a quiet, if saddened, strength.

‘
You
were Harakhte’s slave, now you are Alofel’s. What’s the difference?
Act temperately and your life will continue much as before.’ I
don’t know why I proffered this advice, for I wanted him to be
miserable enough to brave the fall to the garden.

He looked at
me steadily. ‘The man I loved is dead,’ he said, and then added
with scorn, ‘Do you really believe I wish to give myself to the one
who slaughtered him?’

I felt only
disdain. People such as Akaten and I could never be the lovers of
kings. We were baubles, ornaments, to be discarded at will. Where
did love come into it? Of course, I adored Alofel as my sovereign,
but I did not rely on his love in return. That would only be asking
for heart-ache. I handed Akaten a cloth. ‘Wipe your face. The king
will be here shortly.’

He looked at
the cloth as if he’d never seen one before, then applied it with
dignity to his eyes.

‘
It can
be of short duration,’ I said, ‘if you know how to arouse him. If
he thinks you require pleasuring, he will take his time. To avoid
this, after the first kiss, raise and offer yourself to him. He
will understand. He is not a cruel man.’

Akaten looked
at me, as if stunned. ‘Why tell me this?’ he asked. ‘Who are
you?’

‘
A
member of the household,’ I answered. ‘The king has a large retinue
of concubines and boys. We are a community of sorts. We look out
for one another.’

‘
I was
Harakhte’s only lover,’ he told me. ‘besides his queen.’

I shrugged.
‘Customs vary.’ In truth, I scorned his sentiments.

He wound the
cloth around his fingers. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘Your hair was
very black in the sunlight, your skin very white. You looked
strange to me, like a ghost. When they tortured me, you were
there.’

‘
When
they tortured you?’ I was confused for a moment, then laughed. ‘If
you mean when they put the thorns in your flesh, that was meant to
soothe you. The herbalist did it.’

‘
A
strange way to soothe,’ he said. ‘You enjoyed watching
it.’

‘
I did
not!’ My voice rang out too loudly.

He smiled and
shrugged, pushed his hair off his face. ‘I don’t care. It doesn’t
matter. Not now. Back there, at Alofel’s camp, I thought you were
the Dark Messenger come to lead me from life. Now here you are
again.’

There was a
fatalistic tone to his voice. Death was not far from his mind. I
realised, or convinced myself, that Alofel might hold me
responsible should anything happen to this creature before he took
his pleasure. I sat down beside him on the bed. ‘Come now,’ I said
in a gentle voice, ‘surely your Khan would not want you to suffer.
Be strong for him, for his memory. Endure this night, then carry on
living. I should imagine that is what he would have wanted.’

Akaten
regarded me coolly. ‘You have no idea what Harakhte would have
wanted. Don’t patronise me.’

I shrugged
uneasily. ‘I’m not. I just think your situation isn’t as bad as you
think.’

He narrowed
his eyes. ‘What is this to you? I don’t think you care about anyone
but yourself.’

His
unsettlingly astute remarks made my heart beat faster. ‘You are
simply a stranger to our ways,’ I said airily. ‘What you perceive
as indifference is no more than courtly behaviour. We adhere to
strict protocols.’

He smiled.
‘You are lying. Still, at least you spared the time to try and
comfort me. You did not have to come. I understand it does not rest
easy with you.’

His attitude
was beginning to irritate me. This barbarian could know nothing of
the way I felt or conducted myself. Neither did he realise that I
had no choice in the matter of being there with him. I gritted my
teeth and grinned at him. ‘It is the least I can do.’

‘
What is
your name?’ he asked me.

‘
Darien.’

He nodded. ‘I
have heard of you! Alofel’s famous, beautiful catamite.’

My teeth were
pressed together so hard I thought my jaw would break. ‘I am a
member of Alofel’s household,’ I managed to respond. ‘Second only
to the queen.’ This, of course, was not entirely true.

‘
You are
like me,’ he answered. ‘Only you have never cared for the one who
owns you.’ He frowned and looked around the great bed-room. ‘What
place will
I
have in this
royal house?’

I too had been
wondering about that.The best I could hope for was that he’d end up
in the harem of one of Alofel’s friends. I wriggled my shoulders.
‘You will be looked after. No-one of your beauty would ever be
abused in Tarnax.’

‘
How
comforting,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I will choose the window-sill after
all.’ I knew then that he had decided to live.

I would have
given much to have lingered in the king’s chambers that night;
concealed behind a curtain, lurking beneath the bed. I wanted to
see the outcome of his taking of Akaten. I did not feel jealous,
surprisingly, but weirdly aroused by the thought of Alofel’s long,
sensitive hands removing Akaten’s garments, smoothing his tawny
skin. As I prepared myself for bed, I thought about how I might
turn all the conflicting thoughts and feelings I had for the Khan’s
boy into an amusing anecdote for Porfarryah. Occasionally, in
private, we swapped lewd stories. I could almost hear her delighted
shrieks of laughter as I described what I imagined Alofel might do
to Akaten.

That night I
dreamed of him as I’d first seen him, struggling in the hold of his
captors. Only he was not bloody and dirty, but dressed in clean,
white linen and crowned with purple flowers. I knelt in the dust
before him, at the feet of the king. Alofel was talking about how
Akaten would be brought to his bed-chamber that evening, but that I
would have to take his place. ‘You must use my sword,’ Alofel said,
and I knew then that I had to execute the Khan’s boy.

‘
But I
want his head now,’ I said, speaking far more firmly than I would
dare in waking life. ‘Give it to me, my lord, upon a bed of
lilies.’

‘
He
wants
your
head!’ Alofel
said, smiling. ‘And he will have it.’

I felt
disorientated, aware I had no control over the situation. I could
not remember what I should say next. And then the executioner came
striding through the flapping tents, clad in scarlet silk. Akaten
was pushed to his knees, his hair hanging forward to pool on the
ground before him. I saw his pale neck, and the knobs of spine and
gristle. Would it be my head that fell in the dust when the fatal
stroke was delivered?

I awoke before
the sword fell, my groin pounding with desire and the echo of
Akaten’s screams ringing like temple bells in my ears.

Discomforted,
I went out in the dawn, to walk in the palace garden. My thoughts
were tortured by memories of my dream, and the events of the night
before. Had Alofel dismissed Akaten immediately his pleasure was
taken, or did the foreign boy slumber still in the chamber of the
king, his honey hair fanned by the swaying canopies? I thought of
him lying there, on his back, his torso naked above the coverlet
which hid the most delicious secrets. I imagined his tawny skin,
the scent of him in sleep. This vivid image disturbed me. I knew
desire when it assailed me, but generally my interests always
veered towards men of power and status. Never a servant like
myself, and certainly not a slave. As I walked through the mists of
the garden, surrounded by the ghost-calls of drowsy peacocks, I
fantasised making a request of Alofel; not for Akaten’s head, but
for his immeasurable self. Would the king grant me that favour? I
could say that Wezling was incompetent, and that I needed a further
attendant. My servant’s ineptitude was already a joke about the
palace. But perhaps Alofel was already ensnared by the interloper’s
charms and would jealously keep Akaten to himself.

Even as I
thought these things, my face burned with shame. I dreaded
Porfarryah discovering my feelings. It was senseless. All based on
a short time in his company and a lurid dream. Was I mad?

There is a
saying: in dreams the heart speaks truly.

The temple
loomed out of the morning mist ahead of me, the fane of Challis
Hespereth. Her earthly abode was called Phasmagore, and it was a
wonder of the world. Its construction had begun during the reign of
mad King Missiker, four hundred years ago - only a mad-man could
have conceived it - and had been completed when Missiker’s
grand-son, Tastuel, had held the throne. Phasmagore was monstrous,
a towering mass of stone that shadowed the land around it. It was a
statue of Challis Hespereth of cyclopean size. Her hollow, seated
body concealed a labyrinth of chambers, tunnels and royal tombs,
while her high crown housed observatories and the school of
astronomy. Some days, the goddess’ face seemed to sneer down from
the clouds, while at other times, her countenance was benign and
tranquil. Today, it was invisible, just a dark blue shadow in the
sky.

I felt
confused and anxious, as my feet led me towards her. It was some
time since I’d visited the temple. Now, I needed to make penance,
to speak with the goddess in the manner she demanded of her sons.
All the way, Akaten’s face swam before my inner eye. I felt
sickened and excited, as if my steps led to the arms of a cherished
lover. I knew they did not. My feelings were inexplicable and
wayward, and the strange, disorientating flavour of my dream
lingered in my mind. I sensed that only doom lay in the future of
my yearning. In the dark halls of Challis Hespereth’s holy house I
could purge the sentiments that gripped my mind. I would offer
myself unto her, cleanse myself of the hunger that had come to hang
like a hag upon my heart. Never in my life had desire attacked me
so quickly and so thoroughly. I thought it was unclean, a disease
of the soul.

Soon, the
temple filled the sky before me. I reached the giant toes and began
to climb the perilous steps that were carved into the folds of her
robe. The ascent was long, and I paused at several of the terraces,
cut into the goddess’ calves, where temple acolytes sold
refreshment. By the time I marched over the hills of the divine
knees, the sun was high in the sky, and my spirits had lifted a
little. I walked along the plateau of her thighs, towards the
mountain of her body. Many other worshippers travelled beside me,
and some came hollow-eyed towards us; those who had spent a night
in the fane, drunk on narcotic juices, dreaming for the goddess,
and making the sacred offerings.

I would have
been missed at the palace by now. Porfarryah would be looking for
me, eager for news of the previous night’s events. I did not care.
I dreaded facing Porfarryah’s knowing glance, feeling as if my
guilty thoughts were emblazoned across my face.

At mid-day, I
began the descent down the wide stair-case that led to the temple
portal, which was situated at the statue’s groin. This last stage
of the journey was short in comparison to the rest, and soon I
entered through the wide-flung doors into the soft, perfumed gloom
of Phasmagore. Here, ghost-footed priestesses, drifted by in robes
of soft, russet muslin, swinging censers on the air, which unfurled
ribbons of silvery-green smoke. White-skinned priests, clad in
indigo robes that left one half of their chests bare, stood on
guard before all the door-ways, their eyes rimmed in black and the
dark, serpentine tattoos of their calling crawling across their
arms.

At the doorway
to the Shrine of Bestowing, I paused to burn a pinch of incense at
a huge brass font that was filled with smouldering coals. Many
travellers from far lands came to visit Phasmagore, but only the
natives of Tarnax would ever pass beyond this threshold. It was a
shrine accessible only to young men and boys. Women had their own
secrets chambers elsewhere within the complex. At fourteen, I had
been initiated into the secrets hidden within the shrine, and knew
that I would not be able to sample them for ever. Only the young
and beautiful passed into the Shrine of Bestowing to offer the
goddess the most precious gifts. It had been some time since I’d
visited this place, and I approached it now as I had the last time;
with excitement and fear. Two silent priests stood before the
entrance, as still as if they were carved from milky marble. They
did not challenge my approach.