Llara had been a courtesan since her first blood as a young girl. It wasn't a bad life, but it was sheltered from the outside world. She was bought by the Lady Shadowglade almost fifteen years ago from another Madame. The Gilded Lily was a far nicer tea-house. She was safe here. She was educated here. She had learned some harsh life-lessons here. Like all the courtesans, she learned many secrets within the walls of the Lily.
Men whispered things in the dark. And the men they serviced were all noble, important, and shared things in their moments of pleasure and vulnerability. The Lady Shadowglade's courtesans acted as not only prostitutes, but also little information birds. It helped keep the Lady powerful.
While it was sometimes a lavish life, it also was a double-edged blade that cut deep. It didn't last. The girls were too valuable and youth only lasted so long. On the full moon of her hundredth year of her name's day, Llara was going to die. She had three months left to live. The clock ticked above her head while her neck was in a waiting guillotine.
It was tradition. She was going to be sacrificed to Baellith. She was to be homage to the God of flesh, fertility, pain, and pleasure. It happened to all the girls when they reached this age. Women were creatures that cycled with the lunar calendar, it was explained. And her time was waning. The sacrifice happened when the moon was old and dying. A new girl would be brought in to replace her when the moon was black and reborn. Life and death. Pain and pleasure. Old and new.
If she were merely set free, she would be too much of a liability to Shadowglade. It was the intent that all of Llara's secrets die with her.
There was only one other woman her age within the Gilded Lily. Llara learned long ago to not become attached to the men she serviced or the women who worked the tea-house. All relationships were volatile, dangerous, and fleeting. Most women didn't, or couldn't, follow this rule. The other woman, Nina, was going to be sacrificed on the full moon in two weeks. It would be nearest to her hundredth birthday.
Llara hated goodbyes.
Llara made the mistake of falling in love only once in her life. He was her first client. In the beginning, he was charming. He was young and his hair was a strawberry blonde. His eyes, she'd never forget, were a sea green. Sometimes they were a sapphire blue under the right light, like in the dim haze of twilight.
He was a prince, the son of a lesser king of a neighboring state. But he didn't notice Llara's feelings. He noticed her breasts and her magnificent, rare, natural scarlet hair. She always kept it long and the curls well oiled. No one in the world had hair like her. It was what set her apart and kept her clients waiting for her. They paid top gold to touch it and see it bleed against their pillow in the moonlight.
Her prince had a harem of women. It broke her heart. Eventually, she was less and less of a novelty and easily forgotten. Then she was traded. He was cold to her. He was spoiled. He just wanted to touch her, not talk to her. It was a rookie mistake to fall in love, but not uncommon. It happened most frequently with the first clients.
The girl with the flaming hair was of equal value to another girl with sandy skin and eyes the color of caramelized honey. She had an exotic accent, too. When the girl with sandy skin spoke, it sounded like radiant music and spices. Llara couldn't compete.
Her prince never loved her. He never noticed the intelligent things she had to say in her quiet, soft-spoken voice. She was shattered. She was a commodity, a thing. She had value in the same way his patterned rugs or his heavy jewelry had value. She was the sad girl with a cape of ruby hair. Her clients didn't like her somber attitude. She was bought and sold a dozen times.
She eventually landed in a filthy whorehouse that catered to drug dealers and pirates. They were not peasants or diseased junkies. She hadn't sunk that low, but she wasn't that far from the bottom. Those men were cruel to her. They weren't just cold and indifferent like her prince; they were rough and had once shattered her fingers for talking. She learned to keep quiet with her heart sewn shut inside her chest.
It was hard, but she wasn't broken. Eventually, life got a little better when someone noticed how lovely she was again. She was pulled from the muck and brought before Lady Shadowglade. At times, she missed her sisters in the whorehouse. But they were also her competition. Other women could never truly be her friends. They envied her fortune. They were jealous of her, deep down. But she knew better than to become attached. In this life, no one could be close – not the clients and not the sisters.
She took the opportunity to work in the Gilded Lily the second it was presented.
Few people knew Llara's real secrets. Few people knew how resilient she was. She couldn't be broken. Not if her fingers were smashed or her gorgeous curls sheared off. She had a place inside herself that was untouched, no matter how many evil men soiled her body.
Since she reached her ninetieth's day, Llara had seen fewer and fewer clients. Her main regular, the one she had been seeing exclusively for three years, recently returned her to the Gilded Lily. He was the Marquis of the Artisan Quarter. He didn't say it, but she was beginning to bore him. Which was fine; the feeling was mutual, though that was something she kept to herself and never told a soul. She now only saw one-night clients. Single evenings with men instead of the prestigious position of seeing just one rich man solely. It was never ideal. The work was unstable. It looked bad, too. It was rejection. It was a mark against her. It gave reason for the other girls to look down on her.
But they looked down on her already. She was much older than the other girls. They were still little birds, tiny fluttering creatures that flocked in groups within the tea-house. They gossiped and giggled and knew nothing about the profession or the world itself. Some of them hadn't even had their first blood. She didn't envy them or even try to connect.
Nina was the only woman she considered herself remotely close to. Nina had bouncing brunette hair and full hips. She was boisterous and easy for everyone to talk to. She was considered the tea-house's resident mother. Yet the closer and closer her end-date lurked, the more withdrawn she had become. It was certainly understandable. Watching her helped Llara understand what it was she was about to undertake. She saw the stages the woman went through.
Nina had grown morose, sour, and resentful. She even refused clients, which had gotten her reprimanded. What was the point, she argued? She wanted her final weeks for herself. But Lillandyr was far from forgiving. Her spirit was breaking, Llara saw, and soon Nina became listless, beaten-down, and accepting of her fate.
When her time came, Llara wanted to retain her dignity. She wanted her head held high and her eyes forward, even in her final hours. They could never take her pride. They could never strip her of her strength.
But it wasn't Nina's plight that was the talk of the tea-house the last day and a half. It was Lord Ashtorath. It was Belindra's brutal death. It was the smell of her corpse that hung in the tree. Only recently was she taken down. No one saw her noose cut or her body fall. She was just gone, spirited away in the night. The girls had asked where she was buried, in hopes she was given proper homage to the god Baellith. She was supposed to be wrapped in bleached linen with incense poured over her. Her body was to be purified in holy fire. Prayers from her sisters were supposed to be scattered in ash along the wind. None of that happened. Belindra's death left a void in their lives, and her missing corpse did not allow her spirit to be satisfied. It was unsettling, and everyone felt it. It was wrong. Baellith would not be pleased and Belindra's ghost would not rest. They now lived under a black cloud.
When Nina, as the mother of the house and the woman with little to lose, asked Lady Lillandyr about Belindra's remains, she truly seemed perplexed and did not know. But nor did she seem to care. Belindra did not deserve a final burial in her eyes due to the mistakes the girl made which sullied the Lady's House.
After Ashtorath murdered Belindra and hung her body, he set to work interrogating and terrorizing the other women. In between, the women still saw to their clients as if it were business and usual. Guards peppered the tea-house to ensure no one fled and everyone had their turn to be questioned.
Each session with Ashtorath was private and excruciatingly long. Llara saw each girl leave the interrogation chamber ashen-faced with bloodshot eyes. They did not speak, but they did not need to.
They looked as if they had been staring at their own graves.
Llara waited her turn. She didn't have a client to see to, and thus she merely sat. Nina was beside her and the two doomed women had been holding hands long enough that her palm was sticky with sweat.
Yet neither could let go.
She knew she had no one to entertain, but she still wore her crimson slip dress with cuts along the hips and thighs. It was clasped together by gold filigree and accented in rubies. Her hair was oiled into shining spirals of red spilling down her back. She painted her face and draped herself in jewelry. She was an elegant goddess. She kept her face perfectly still.
Nina was the opposite. She had lost any reason to care about much. Her fear poured off her as thick as Llara's floral perfume. Llara did not blame Nina nor pity her for her lack of composure. She could relate. Her stomach knotted and butterflies slapped in her throat. She silently wondered, maybe even hoped, that Ashtorath would become impatient and merely end her life. She didn't want to endure the torture she was quite sure he was implementing behind closed doors. She intended to tell him everything. Like Nina, she didn't have long to live and had nothing to lose by holding secrets.
However, the girls that left the room appeared physically untouched. There were no cuts or bruises. They did not leave with broken bones and limps. They were just sullen and frightened. They were pale. They had been crying. Llara wondered if he was just using mental attacks on the girls and raping their minds. She didn't know what kind of magic the Unquenched were capable of, but she was sure it was evil and powerful. The Unquenched worshiped Nehmain, the unspeakable god of death and decay. Their magic was necrotic, wretched, and vile. It was the god of death that kept them "alive" and walking for a period of time before they succumbed to rot.
Llara swallowed and kept herself steady. Her thumb gently stroked Nina's rough, knotted knuckles.
Nina kept clutching Llara's hand, even as she continually dipped forward to pluck grapes out of the bowl that sat before them. Nina was feeding her worries with fruit. She couldn't help it. She was white with worry.
A guard vigilantly stood across from them and tiredly stared at the whores squeezing hands. He seemed indifferent to their plight, and never said a word. This wasn't his problem, and he didn't care.
The door cracked open. It was once a lavish bedroom, but it had been converted to Ashtorath's interrogation office. The small, scared girl that drifted out looked like the others. She appeared to have had her soul sucked out and was now shrunken and smaller. Her time with Ashtorath was unfairly short. No one wanted to be called next. She was pallid and wide-eyed. Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes fell onto Llara's face. It was then Llara knew. She was next. She sucked in a breath and told herself that she would be brave.
The other girls waiting their turn, Llara included, peered at her expectantly.
"Llara Lily," she muttered in a mousy, mechanical voice. Llara didn't even hear her name. She was already standing.
She felt as if she were walking into death's domain. The tea-house walls around her blurred. All she could see was what was directly in front of her. Time slowed. She didn't feel Nina's hand squeeze one last time or hear her friend wish her luck. She didn't feel all the eyes boring into her as she stepped through the door.
She was walking into infinity, and she closed the door behind her.
He sat like a giant black hole in the room. He was a rip in space. The ostentatious decor was brightly colored and decorated with peacock feathers and rich scarlet velvets. But his mere presence swallowed the atmosphere with his iron armor caked in dried, brown blood. He was a colossus, and sat in a throne that was nearly as large as the bed, big enough to hold his frame. It was brought specifically for him and didn't fit with the other furnishings.
The bed was shoved askew and out of the way. A second chair, smaller and more demure, was placed across from the stygian behemoth. His metal hands were tangled together as he looked at her expectantly through empty eyes.
His face was too white. She was looking at the face of a frozen corpse with blue-tinted lips. She couldn't stop staring at him and he seemed to notice this. She couldn't get a read on the animated dead man's expressions. He gestured for her to sit. His metal gauntlets clicked in the arching movement.
She sat herself down stiffly across from him and smoothed down her dress. Then she waited. He said nothing. He continued to say nothing for a long, long time.
"You are Llara Lily," he said in a flat, low voice that reverberated through the room. The bass was so low it made her teeth vibrate. She was silent and merely nodded. Her posture was rigid and upright, unable to relax enough to press into the back of her chair.
He lifted his chin to look at her appraisingly. She felt as if his gaze would burn. She couldn't look at the monster across from her.
Another excruciating amount of silence passed. Her hands were clammy enough to leave small wet spots on her flowing, airy dress. Then, finally, he tipped his head. His hair was a sheet of snow and moved with him, catching the oily light of the room.
"Tell me the names of your clients," he requested plainly. There was no anger, no demand. His voice was just emotionless.
In her panic and fear, her mind went blank. Who were her clients? She thought of their faces in flashes. But names? She couldn't think. She cursed herself and fidgeted. When she looked at the monster with desperation, he still seemed placid, almost patient. It was as if they had all the time in the universe between them. The names were frustratingly elusive, slipping away from her. They mocked her. They were doing it on purpose. They knew that she was going to die.
"I – I'm not seeing anyone regularly anymore." Her voice was small but firm. She was only going to allow the truth to pass across her plum lips. "I used to belong to the Marquis of the Artisan Quarter exclusively." What was his name? she reprimanded herself. Her eyes clasped shut for a beat. What was his name?
"I saw him for around three years. But he recently returned me to the tea-house. Marquis Malviss." Yes, good. She remembered her old client's name. She exhaled a breath she had been holding.
"Why?" The question came swift and harsh.
"I... I don't know, my lord." She fumbled. She felt her cheeks suddenly scorch. Under his cold scrutiny, she squirmed. Be honest, Llara, she told herself, calmly and smoothly. Or he may kill you. He knows if you're lying. You have nothing to fear. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't make the mistake that Belindra did. You never refused anyone, and you kept your love only for yourself. "I think I bored him, my lord," she said as her head dipped down. She looked at her feet and curled her toes. "Eventually, I had nothing new to show him in the bedroom. He grew tired of the routine. And really? He... he truly only fancied younger boys." That hurt. Her own words stabbed her. She nervously passed a trembling hand down her curtain of curls.
"What did you do for him?" he asked in a vacant, unfeeling way.
Her head snapped up.
His lip curled into a snarl and his eyes narrowed. He could taste her surprise. "What did you do for him in the bedroom? Exactly. Exactly what you and he did together. Tell me." He leaned forward slightly and the leather under his metal armor creaked. The black throne groaned under the monster's weight.
"My lord..." she answered, her tone tiny and composed. "What we did was... what lovers do." Did he really want specifics, she asked herself? Her nails curled against the arms of the chair.
"Tell me!" he roared with venom and spite. A small amount of spittle landed on her cheek.
"I..." She stumbled. He's trying to break you, said a small, sensible voice in her head. Don't let him. Just tell him what he wants to hear and be on your way. He can win this battle, but he can't win you. Keep your head high, Llara. She locked eyes with the dead beast and answered his question. She was suddenly serene and regal.
He couldn't shake her. He could be a demon, and she would not let him frighten her. He was asking these questions to purposefully cut her pride.
She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek and sat up straight. She sat like a queen, even if her throne wasn't as tall. Her eyes were set on his icy face. She felt the small drop of the creature's cold spit slide down her cheek. She swiped her hand to brush it away.
"I let him bend me over to take me. I knelt down before him and allowed him my mouth. I did whatever pleased him. Whatever he asked, no matter how vile, vicious, or demeaning. I lay with other men while he watched. I touched myself before his eyes. I did my job as was expected of me, my lord. And at night, I allowed him to hold me until he dismissed me in the mornings."
He stared at her. His eyes tore into her skull and feasted upon her mind like crows on a carcass. She could feel her skin coat in bumpy gooseflesh. He was an unworldly thing that did not breathe nor feel. She unconsciously shivered in his cold aura. Too much silence passed and she wasn't sure if she should be the one to initiate conversation again. Thus she held her tongue. Minutes ticked by, and then the minutes turned to nearly a half hour. She shifted in her seat, her bottom becoming sore. He was a demon, or a demigod. He was soulless and wholly not elfish. His eyes were pale, twin stars shining in the darkness.
She wasn't sure what he was expecting from her. She couldn't glean what he was thinking or feeling, if anything at all. However, her words seemed to have appeased or impressed him somehow. She wasn't weeping or shaking. She kept herself together with grace.
"Tell me of your other clients," said the mammoth horror across from her, finally breaking the prolonged silence. "Did you ever love them?"
The question brought her pause. It wasn't because she ever loved those men or because she had any hesitation in the answer, but because it struck her as unusual that he would care about such things. The Unquenched could not love. They could not care. The only thing they felt was the cold hunger for flesh, anger, and hate. They cared nothing for warmth or affection. Llara's eyes dropped to his spiked, black metal boots to think about her answer. This question must have come from Lady Lillandyr. She must want to know if anyone else had followed Belindra's mistakes.
"No, my lord," she said softly. "The majority of my other clients only see me once, and then never again. Rarely do they repeat. And I..." Her eyes lifted to his sharp face that held his jagged teeth. "Never love them."
"Do you ever tell them that you do? Do you ever lie, Llara?"
"Yes, my lord," she answered breathlessly. He was trying to shake her again; she knew it. He was just trying another tactic. "I do what is expected of me. I do my job. I do and say what they ask me to."
This seemed to have upset him. She could sense a shift of his mood. It was almost as if the walls were closing in around them and the hulking Unquenched seemed larger. The room was chilly and claustrophobic like a coffin deep below the ground. He grunted, displeased. His gauntlets formed a small shelf under his chin. Ashtorath's steel eyes stabbed into her face.
Keep calm, keep quiet, she told herself. Remember to breathe. He probably won't kill you, not today... not unless the Lady has requested it.
"Why?" he barked demandingly. "Why do you lie to them like that?" he bristled.
"I... I do what is expected of me, my lord," she repeated with a stammer, not expecting this unusual line of questioning. It was almost as if she personally offended him in some way, and it baffled her. She wondered if he was leading the conversation somewhere for an unexpected twist, trap her in a corner to make her seem guilty of a crime she did not commit. "We are trained to pretend to love, so long as we do not actually feel it or become attached to a client. Like Belindra did."
Ashtorath scowled and wrenched his gaze away.
Llara did not move. Her mind was frozen stiff, bracing herself for him to lash out. He never did. After what seemed like eternity, but was likely only a few minutes, he waved a hand to dismiss her.
"That's enough. Call in the next girl," he said in a callous, unfeeling voice.
Llara flew to her feet and left the room without looking back.
She cracked the door open and looked to her despondent friend.
"Nina Lily."
She had eaten all of the grapes in the bowl as she had waited for Llara to return.