Bhakhayo bhali nga chimbwa. Solikhupa bhakhusima ta. Oombelesya nio.
(Wives are like dogs. You will never beat them into loving you. You have to be nice and gentle to win their hearts).
- Source: Act 2 Scene 5 of 'Love And Other Painful Things' by Robyr Hyrmanus Silversmith, alias Robyr Penlord, a playwright from Pharasandria.
While the wearing of white wools and linens alone on festival days was meant to maintain a semblance of sameness, sieving the haves from the have-nots was easy. Citizens of means wore newer and finer fabrics, all pressed to perfection. The poor had on worn and coarse clothing with a coloration closer to cream than white.
Allara could have passed for one of those citizens of means today. Her entire ensemble, from head to toe, was new. Allara kept looking down at her feet. The novelty of her new sandals hadn't quite worn off yet. They were made from the finest leather and she couldn't stop admiring them on her feet. She touched her tunic too. Brand new bright white linen and soft as sin. Not scratchy like the roughspun wool shifts she had grown accustomed to. All thanks to The Thunderbolt. Allara wished he would never leave but she knew that was a vain hope.
It had been a heady five days at The Roost. The food was salted again and rations were increased, whippings had almost vanished, the women no longer had to put mud in their hair, and instead of slaves running away, it was the overseers who were on the run. The Baenarites had dragged many escapees back in the intervening days but the cruelest overseer of them all, Magyr The Skinner, was still at large.
Even the swollen necks had healed. All slaves were saying The Thunderbolt had scared away the demons bringing the disease with his divine presence. Allara was more grateful for that presence than most. She spent her days serving The Thunderbolt's endless stream of distinguished guests and nibbling on foods that probably cost more than she was worth.
She enjoyed the soft warmth of the morning sun thawing the dew on the grass and warming her skin as she climbed onto the bridge.
Below her, two men maneuvered an ornate barge to a jetty by the riverbank. The owner of the barge would be one of many who had come to join Aeduisia celebrations at The Roost. A few slaves were up and about, jolly at the prospect of three whole days filled with feasting, fun, and no work.
But for now, Allara enjoyed the sights. On the riverside near the bridge on the castle side, workmen were putting finishing touches on the wooden arena The Thunderbolt had ordered built.
Allara had heard of the construction prowess of the Baenarites but had never seen it in action until now. They had put up the massive arena in a record four days. It wasn't quite as large as other charioteering arenas Allara had seen but it was grand enough for the slaves of The Roost.
At the foot of the castle hill, the Baenarite camp stretched out into the horizon. It was made up of thousands of tents, clustered in groups of five and arranged in neat rows with wide lanes between them.
The camp was protected by two deep trenches on either side. The soil from the trenches formed two low makeshift walls that were topped with sharp wooden spikes. The other two sides of the rectangular camp were protected by the city walls of Confluencia in the far distance and castle walls on the near side.
Allara always watched the city walls with a sense of longing. She had lived in Confluencia for two years before being traded to The Roost by Lady Varinia's husband. Confluencia was only a few miles south of The Roost but it could just as easily have been a thousand miles away. In six years, all Allara had seen of the city she once called home were its walls.
Allara's longings were interrupted by the waking bell. That got her moving again. She crossed the bridge over the river and after some walking, crossed a second, much smaller bridge that spanned the castle's moat. It was technically a drawbridge but it hadn't been raised in a century and a half. With the moat behind her, Allara made for the gatehouse.
Baenarites patrolled the castle's battlements and manned every gate. Everywhere Allara looked, she saw Baenarites. None of the castle guards were in sight. The innocent had been released but the rest were in the dungeons beneath the castle. Allara went past the first gate and felt a perverse sense of pleasure as she climbed up to the top of the castle hill. All her tormentors were beneath her feet.
At the top of the hill, the second set of The Roost's walls rose like cliffs on the flat hilltop. Allara had developed a new appreciation for just how large Siiruch's Roost was. The outer walls enclosed 20 acres of land and scores of buildings.
Allara went through one checkpoint then another and then another. This was her least favorite part of the day. Siiruch's Roost boasted three concentric defensive walls. Each succeeding set of walls was higher and thicker than the set that came before it.
Inside the triple walls was a maze of keeps and courtyards all arranged in maddening rings of concentric circles. Narrow passages between these concentric rings acted as chokepoints. No two openings were aligned. There was always a fair bit of walking to get from one opening to another. This design was meant to dishearten and whittle down any enemy force storming the castle but it also made navigating it on a day-to-day basis infuriating. The Thunderbolt's quarters were in the innermost of this endless ring of concentric circles, a section of the castle Allara had never been allowed into until five days ago.
Annoying as navigating the maze was, Allara paused to appreciate the beauty around her. Beauty she had never known existed within The Roost because she had never been allowed to see it. Unlike the bare, gray, and dreary outer courtyard the slaves were used to, the inner courtyards featured manicured grass, shrubbery, fountains, flowers, clear water ponds with glittering fish, and expertly-pruned trees. Here, the air smelled of roses, lavender, honey, and expensive perfume, not animal dung, the stale sweat of a thousand men, and misery.
Allara arrived at The Thunderbolt's audience chamber before she knew it. She paused and started inching back as slowly as she could, praying that no one turned and recognized her. In front of her was a serving girl's worst nightmare.
The Bhaandini class structure was a complicated puzzle but also a simple one for anybody who understood it as well as Allara did. All men and women expected you to know how important they were but none of them would tell you. You just had to know. And Allara knew. Until today.
The Roost had become a pilgrimage destination. Every man and woman who was anyone within a 50-mile radius of the castle had come to pay homage to The Thunderbolt. It was Allara's job to keep these people comfortable as they waited for an audience. She kept them plied with food and drink, ran errands, and fetched them whatever they needed. As the unwritten rule went, you always served the more important person first.
In normal circumstances, that was easy. The more important person usually wore more expensive clothes, had more purple on his garments, and brought a larger retinue. There were also always crests that made it easier to figure out which highborn man outranked who.
But today was Aeduisia. Everybody was wearing white and any overt markers of status were expressly forbidden. There was no way to tell who was more important than who, which as Allara had learned, was very important to self-important people. And there were at least a hundred of them milling around in the garden outside The Thunderbolt's audience chamber.
As Allara tiptoed backward, she stepped on something. For a moment she thought it was a stick until a woman squealed. Allara turned to find herself face-to-face with Princess Saurena.
The Trevantene princess was one of her master's trophies. The Thunderbolt had taken the king of Trevantum, his family, and all of his leading noblemen captive after conquering the kingdom. As Aeduiana and honorary Bhaandini, the Trevantenes were allowed freedom of the castle, unlike the barbarian kings who were kept chained up in the tower cells. Now Allara had stepped on the foot of a princess as she was sunning herself.
Allara immediately dropped to her knees, apologized, and begged for mercy. It was Aeduisia… The princess wouldn't, would she?
"Watch where you're going, slave!" Saurena Trevantbhurg fumed as she backhanded Allara. It stung but Allara was no stranger to pain. The princess returned with an open-handed slap across the left cheek and another backhand across the right. She alternated seven times before stopping, each blow weaker than the last. Allara could only count.
Saurena Trevantbhurg was panting by the time she was done. "Get out of my sight!"
"Thank you, Your Highness." Allara bowed, rose, and scampered off. "I hope they kill you, you vicious cunt," she cursed under her breath.'
Allara checked her face in a reflecting pool. It didn't look too battered. It was a little red but there were no palmprints. The princess wasn't particularly strong. Allara found a side door and let herself into the waiting room section of the audience hall. She decided to ignore the people waiting outside and not open the doors for now. She wasn't supposed to be working on Aeduisia but nobody had told her not to work either so she had come to work just in case.
Allara busied herself with sweeping, arranging the chairs, and setting up the tablecloths just right. That didn't take half as long as she assumed it would and she was fiddling with a perfectly aligned tablecloth for the hundredth time when a side door opened and Allara heard footsteps.
First, she assumed they were Pennia's, her tardy coworker, but the stride was too heavy so Allara concluded it had to be one of the Baenarites on Thunderbolt's personal guard. The floor was already clean but Allara took the broom again and swept anyway. She needed a believable explanation in case anyone asked why she hadn't opened the doors. Sweeping was as good an excuse as any. Highborn people didn't like dust in their faces.
"What are you doing?" a voice asked. It was Sir Wylarn Liekokher, the baby-faced giant. He looked amused for some reason.
"Setting up for the day's petitioners, my lord."
"It's Aeduisia. Did you forget?"
"No my lord. His Highness didn't say anything yesterday and I saw them all out there…"
"Forget about them. Come." Sir Wylarn gestured and started walking across the room.
Allara followed, struggling to keep up with the giant's huge strides. Allara had gathered that Sir Wylarn was The Thunderbolt's best friend. She found it curious. In addition to the huge gulf in the station of their births, the two men were polar opposites. Sir Wylarn was always jovial, with a ready smile and thunderous laughter. The Thunderbolt was solemn and somber. As the Baenarites often whispered, "When Small Willy smiled you wanted to tickle his cheeks. When The Thunderbolt smiled, you had to slap yourself to confirm you were still awake." Allara didn't know why they called him Small Willy so she just added that to her box of mysteries.
At the eastern end of the waiting room was the audience chamber proper and beyond it a study where The Thunderbolt saw his more important guests. Allara was feeling the strain of jogging to keep up with the giant by the time they got there. Two Baenarites, Hamyr and Sylar, sat outside the door. Small Willy greeted them like old friends, knocked once, and let himself in without waiting for a response.
Prince Caedmyr looked up as they entered. He wore his white festive vestments and was reading from a large leather-bound book on his desk. Allara took in the room in a glance. It was small enough to be intimate while remaining large enough to ooze grandeur.
A lightning lamp hung from a chandelier on the ceiling and lit the room as brightly as if it was the sun itself. It reminded Allara of her own father's lightning lamp, looted by Young Smandan's men. Allara was awed by The Thunderbolt's lightning lamp. It radiated blinding white light and seemed to vibrate with energy.
Caedmyr The Smith, the progenitor of the Rhexbhurgs, created the first lightning lamp nearly 2,000 years ago and it had never dimmed. The secret to making one was closely guarded by both the royal family and the priests of Aemlilon's Order of Crafting. Over the centuries, thousands of men had convinced themselves that they had figured out the secret to trapping lightning in a bottle for a shot at the small fortune that could be gained from selling a single lightning lamp only to end up incinerated and smoking on hillsides.
Small Willy's voice cut through Allara's musings on lightning lamps and her childhood. "Look who I found sweeping outside. My wife won't even pass the salt shaker on Aeduisia."
The Thunderbolt followed her gaze while the giant plopped himself down on a cushioned chair before the desk. Allara remained standing, not quite sure what was expected of her. The Thunderbolt looked at her cooly. His lips twisted slightly and threatened to smile but never quite got there.
Small Willy picked up a misshapen ragdoll off the desk. "You're making ugly dolls now?"
"Xaena made it," The Thunderbolt said.
"It's a very beautiful doll. The best handiwork I have seen in my life," the giant revised his opinion. A strange look passed between the two men at this sudden reversal.
"Beauty isn't the point of it. It's meant to be Aeduia. Xaena sprinkled it with holy water from the temple. She said it will protect me."
"I thought you had a whole army for that."
"I thought so too," The Thunderbolt concurred. "Xaena clearly disagrees."
"Isn't that sweet? She's four, right?"
"Yes. She will be turning four this winter."
Small WIlly put the ragdoll back on the desk with exaggerated delicacy and leaned back in his chair. "They grow so fast at this age. You have been gone from home half her life. Do you think she will still remember you?"
A wistful Thunderbolt stared into the distance. "I hope so."
A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. In came one of The Thunderbolt's squires, a six-foot tall fifteen-year-old they called Little Horax. Little Horax had Roror with him and the sight of the slave had Allara hyperventilating.
Roror looked just as ill at ease as Allara felt. Their eyes met and two emotions replaced the terror on Roror's face: rage and pain. Allara had not ratted him out but she understood why he would think she had. What other reason could The Thunderbolt have for summoning some random slave? The same slave who had been plotting a rebellion? "I brought the man you wanted, Your Highness," Little Horax said.
Roror dropped to his knees and after one long murderous look at Allara, bowed his head. "Rise, Roror," The Thunderbolt commanded.
A shaky Roror rose to his feet but kept his eyes downcast. "Do you know where Marcinum Ravine is?" The Thunderbolt asked.
Roror looked up in consternation. "No, Your Highness," he answered in a shaky voice.
The Thunderbolt rifled through some papers on his desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. He slid it across the desk and gestured for Allara to pass it to Roror. Her hand was trembling so much she nearly dropped it. Roror turned the parchment several times in his hands, unsure of which side was up and which one was down. "What's this?" he whispered to Allara. The edge in his voice was still there.
Allara was as fearful for her fate as Roror. Even after righting the parchment, it took a few moments for the words to form in front of her eyes: "In the name of the Subaephyr Daegan XIII, King of Kings and Lord of All Men, I, Caedmyr Daeganus Aemlilonus Rhexbhurg, Prince of The Tides and Subrhex of War, do hereby pass a death sentence on…"
"It's a death warrant," Allara whispered. "For The Skinner." Allara let out a long breath she didn't know she had been holding and felt the tension melt away.
Roror was wide-eyed, his head swiveling around the room. He didn't believe her until The Thunderbolt nodded. "You will find him hiding in his cousin's granary near Marcinum Ravine. It's a small town between the hills a day's ride from the border with Vaechia," The Thunderbolt explained. "If you set out now and ride hard, you should arrive there by noon tomorrow. My men will escort you and show you to the cousin's house."
Roror took a series of rapid bows. He had tears in his eyes. "Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you."
The Thunderbolt pulled a jeweled sword from behind his desk. He pulled it an inch out of the scabbard to inspect the shiny steel of the blade then slid it over to Roror. "This belonged to Carman Kantbhurg. He never swung it but his squires kept it sharp. You can keep the sword. And the jewels. Just bring me The Skinner's head. Bring it to me in three days and I will make you a free man."
"I will bring it, Your Highness," Roror promised. He picked up Lord Carman's sword, eyeing it with open-mouthed awe and caressing the scabbard like one would a lover. Not that Allara would know anything about that. She had been groped more times than she cared to count but had never been caressed. Not once.
"Arrange for him to get horses, some coin, and provisions," The Thunderbolt instructed Little Horax. "Tell Marvyrn and Dillard to accompany him. They know where he's going."
"At once, Your Highness." Little Horax bowed and led Roror out of the room. Roror flashed Allara an apologetic smile before leaving.
"Sit, Allara Stefanus. We're all supposed to be equal today," The Thunderbolt said. Allara, who had been standing the whole time, collapsed into the nearest chair as she scrambled to both obey a royal order and hide her nervousness. Small Willy chuckled at her clumsiness.
"What did you call that slave?" Small Willy asked.
"Roror," The Thunderbolt answered.
"Isn't he the one who was trying to organize a slave revolt?"
"He is."
"And yet you don't just let him off scot-free, you actually reward him?"
"I could hang him but that wouldn't be justice. He had every right to think of rebelling," The Thunderbolt said.
"I never took you for a champion of the downtrodden."
"You have become quite the elitist, Willy. Perhaps it's time I made myself some new lowborn friends. Roror seems nice."
"Now that's just cruel," the giant grumbled.
The Thunderbolt narrowed his eyes. "What? Calling you lowborn? I am sure I'm not the first man to call you that. Or the last. It's not even the first time I am doing it."
"That is nothing," Small Willy said. "Imagine going through everything Roror has been through and then having to endure your company, Caedmyr. Have some mercy on the poor man."
"I can be lots of fun," The Thunderbolt protested.
"You're as fun as the Maevite Itch."
"That simile doesn't quite land, you know. I have never caught The Itch. Or any of those diseases. I have no idea what they feel like."
Sir Wylarn's shoulders sagged as let out an exasperated sigh. "Of course. We all can't be like you, you know." He raised his hand to chest height, index finger to the thumb as if he was holding a quill, and made a scribbling motion in the air. "Noble Caedmyr has never fucked a whore."
"Be careful," The Thunderbolt warned. "Your wife thinks you haven't either."
Small Willy wagged a half-foot-long finger at him. "And you will NOT tell her otherwise."
The Thunderbolt shrugged. "I don't know. It might be worth it just for the look on your face. The way you squirm while she screams at you, it's priceless."
"You are a heartless bastard. Do you know that?"
"How could I not know, Willy? You have only told me that how many times? A thousand? Or is it 1200? I really can't recall."
Small Willy raised himself off his chair ever so slightly that The Thunderbolt on the other side of the desk couldn't notice. He slid his right hand under his rear and sat on it. He slid the hand out again moments later. This time it was balled into a fist. He stood, leaned over the table, and opened the balled fist under The Thunderbolt's nose. "Perhaps you will recall this," the giant said.
While Small Willy laughed, The Thunderbolt cursed, sputtered, and threw his head back, his face scrunched up in disgust. "Willy!" he roared. "I'll kill you!" The giggling giant ran and darted out the door before the prince could rise to his feet. The Thunderbolt stood there, simmering with rage while Allara tried to sink into her chair. He finally turned his attention to her. "You will never mention a word of this to anyone, for any reason, as long as you live. Do you understand?"
Allara lept to her feet and nodded so vigorously she feared her head would fall off. "Yes, Your Highness."
The Thunderbolt gave her a long look, his eyes seeming to bore into her very soul. Then he motioned for her to sit, turned, and strode towards the window. He opened it wide and stuck his head out.
Allara caught a whiff of Small Willy's suffocating fart but dared not move a muscle. The stench dissipated in a few moments as the breeze poured in from the window. Allara kept glancing at Thunderbolt's back and looking around the room. She counted the regimental standards leaning against the walls but seemed to get a different number every time. The first time she got 31, the second time the number was 29, and the third time she counted thirty. Allara was on her fourth try when The Thunderbolt turned from the window and went back to his seat.
Slave and prince sat in awkward silence. Allara could feel his eyes on her but never dared meet his gaze. She didn't know how long that lasted but it seemed like an eternity. Time stretched and even her breathing seemed to slow down. She counted her heartbeats, kept track of every breath, and twiddled her thumbs but none of that seemed to make the time pass any faster. Allara's heart leaped with joy when a knock came on the door.
It was Small Willy. Again. The giant was all stiff and formal this time. He saluted and then bowed in greeting. "It has dawned, my lord Caedmyr."
"It has dawned well," The Thunderbolt returned the traditional response. The expression on his face said anything but.
"May the mercy of our Great Mother be upon us all on this blessed of days," Small Will said.
The stare he received from The Thunderbolt was hard enough to cut steel. Allara half-expected actual thunderbolts to come shooting out of those purple eyes and incinerate Small Willy. "May Aeduia's mercy be upon us all," The Thunderbolt said with icy courtesy. He didn't have much of a choice in the matter. It was Aeduisia. If a man asked for mercy on Aeduisia, you had to grant it, a loophole that had been exploited quite a few times in Bhaandini history.
"May I take a seat, Your Highness?" Small Willy asked, still stiff and formal.
"You may not."
Small Willy bowed and remained standing at attention like a soldier on parade. "I had a terrible dream last night, Your Highness."
"Did you now?" The Thunderbolt asked. Allara couldn't tell if his curiosity was real or feigned.
Small Willy nodded. "Yes. I dreamed that you were killing me. It was very chilling."
"How was I doing it?"
"With Sunsliver. Loped my head off in one fell swoop."
"That seems awfully merciful of me," The Thunderbolt observed. "In my dream, I locked you in an airtight room with a hundred flatulent pigs and left you to suffocate on the farts."
Small Willy recoiled. "Ew!"
"That is just one idea. I'm sure I will have more dreams."
"Will they be as horrible as that?"
"I don't know. Do you want them to be?"
"Not at all, Your Highness," Small Willy said. "I have something for you. Should have brought it earlier." Small Willy placed a rolled letter sealed with purple wax onto the table. A double-headed eagle clutching a sword adorned the wax, the king's seal.
The Thunderbolt didn't touch the letter at first. He waved for the giant to sit. Small Willy did so with a grateful sigh and seemed to relax for the first time. "How did you get your hands on this?" The Thunderbolt asked.
"Courier arrived last night. You had gone into the city. They thought you were still here. He said the bird landed in the relay station there. Why not here?"
"The pigeon keeper killed all the pigeons before he fled. And then you fools used all my reserve birds to send love letters to your mistresses."
"I don't have a mistress," Small Willy said defensively.
"You should save such lies for your wife. But it's good that you're practicing. You sound so sincere. I almost believed you."
"Seriously Caedmyr, I don't," Small Willy insisted. "I have never been unfaithful to Paetia. Not once. I love her."
"Willy, I have known you since we were boys. You are perfectly capable of loving five women at once. When exactly did you become a faithful husband?"
"The day I got married."
"Willy, I know what you were doing the night before your wedding."
Small Willy wagged a finger for emphasis. "I was NOT married yet."
"I don't think Paetia will be swayed by that line of reasoning."
"She doesn't need to be swayed if she doesn't know anything in the first place," Small Willy said.
The Thunderbolt gave his friend a long look then turned to the letter, striking purple eyes quickly traveling down the page as he read. Allara found it absurd that anyone would ever mistake this man for a peasant. Besides the inhumanly purple eyes, there was his hair, simultaneously as dark as night and as shiny as polished onyx. His bronze skin had a similar radiance. It wasn't the kind of sheen that came from oil but someplace deeper. She stole surreptitious glances at him as he read.
"The courier just handed you a letter from the king? Seems mighty presumptuous of him," The Thunderbolt said after he was done reading.
"He didn't. The poor fool couldn't hold his liquor. He passed out and I stole his letter bag. He is probably pissing his pants with worry by now." Small Willy chuckled at the last part, sounding very impressed with his prank.
"You're an evil man," the prince said half-seriously. "Why would you get a royal courier drunk?"
"The lad looked tired from all the riding. He had been delivering letters all day. I felt sorry for him. And technically, it wasn't me that got him drunk."
"Who then?"
"Gaudric Trevantbhurg held a small Aeduisia eve gathering in the old throne room. So, if you think about it, it was his wine that got the courier drunk. No me," Small Willy argued. The Thunderbolt just glared at him. It was a withering look but Small Willy ignored it. He seemed accustomed to it.
"That little prince can drink," the giant continued.
"More than you?" The Thunderbolt asked.
"Oh no." Small Willy said with an effusive shake of his head. "No man can outdrink me. You know that." Small Willy's voice took a tone of grudging admiration, " But he tried. He tried hard. The little Trevantene must have downed an entire barrel of Salandrian red just to keep up. I will need to check if he is still alive."
"Who else was at this little get-together of yours?" The Thunderbolt put the word "little" in air quotes as he spoke.
"Not many. Our men here, the Trevantenes, a bunch of quartermen and khamsiners from the camp, the Cteti chieftain, and a handful of his boys. Those barbarian boys quaff their wine like it's fruit juice. You should have seen them. Then someone brought in a bunch of singers and actors from the city. That was all."
"That is, two thousand men, give or take?" The Thunderbolt asked.
"No. No. It was a couple of hundred. Three, maybe four hundred at most," Small Willy said. The Thunderbolt only gave him a pointed look and the giant chuckled when he realized he had just tripped himself up.
"My entire officer staff drunk. That's…" The Thunderbolt trailed off.
"It wasn't all of them," the giant backpedaled. "Well, maybe most," he admitted.
"And I should expect two more days of that?"
"Definitely."
"We break camp and march south two days after Aembauria. Make sure everyone is sober by then."
"I will," Small Willy promised.
The door opened as if on cue. The Thunderbolt's second squire, Amran, the boy whose whooping had stopped Allara from killing The Beast and then herself, entered carrying a huge covered platter. Allara's nostrils were assailed by a dozen delicious scents that made her stomach growl. Her mouth filled with saliva and she swallowed quickly. She suddenly felt very hungry.
Small Willy clapped the squire on the back as he set the platter down on the table. "Amran my boy. How's your head?"
The Thunderbolt turned to the giant. "Don't tell me you got him drunk too."
Small Willy looked like a cornered animal. "No. I would never…"
"It was only a cup, Your Highness. One cup," Amran answered before Small Willy could finish. He had the tall wiry look of a teenager in the middle of a growth spurt and the nervousness of a bride on her wedding day.
"We diluted it. The boy was too terrified to drink much," Small Willy said in defense of Amran.
The Thunderbolt just stared at Amran and Allara could have sworn she saw the boy shrink. She was terrified of that gaze. It felt like he was looking into your soul, stripping you of all your lies.
The Thunderbolt finally broke his gaze and Amran stopped squirming. "Tell Hamyr and Sylar to come in. And Gregory too. We have an additional guest." The Thunderbolt pointed at Allara.
"At once, Your Highness." Amran bowed and left.
"Anything good?" Small Willy pointed at the letter The Thunderbolt had set aside.
"Not for Carman Kantbhurg." The Thunderbolt slid the letter across the table to his friend. The giant picked it up and started reading.
"Sit," The Thunderbolt told his guards when they came in. They looked ill at ease as they lowered themselves onto the seats closest to the door. "Around the table," The Thunderbolt instructed. They obeyed, setting themselves between Allara and Small Willy.
When the door opened without a knock, Sylar and Hamyr rose as one. Their swords were fully drawn in the single heartbeat it took them to get to their feet. They only sheathed them when they saw the new entrant.
He was as tall as The Thunderbolt, powerfully built, and older than everyone else present by at least 20 years. He was also the only man not dressed in white. He wore the fiery-looking red, orange, and yellow robes of his priestly order. After a round of greetings, the warrior priest unstrapped a purple shield from his back and sat down next to Allara. He was Mukhlun Gregory, The Thunderbolt's Purple Shield. Technically, he was one of King Daegan's twelve but he was assigned to The Thunderbolt for now.
Allara had never gotten anywhere close to a warrior priest of Aemlilon, let alone a Purple Shield, and couldn't help stealing glances at him. First, she checked his hands. Mukhlun Gregory had six fingers on each hand just as she expected. It was the one requirement for The Shields that every child knew about. Twelve shields, Twelve fingers, Twelve years. The Shields swore an oath to protect the Subaephyr with their very lives for twelve years and commit ritual suicide on his funeral pyre if he predeceased them.
Allara kept stealing glances at the warrior priest as he engaged in small talk. She watched the way light from the lightning lamp danced on his bald head and wondered how someone closer to fifty than forty could have the physique and vitality of men half his age. Small Willy's whistling as he read the letter drew Allara's attention from Mukhllun Gregory.
"You don't approve?" The Thunderbolt asked.
"Oh no, I do," the giant answered. "I was surprised the slaves hadn't rebelled yet."
"It was only a matter of time. Half the slaves would have died of goiter by winter and the other half would have roasted the bloody fool for dinner."
"I have never fought in a slave revolt," Small Willy said idly as he slid the letter back.
"That's because there hasn't been a major one during our lifetime," The Thunderbolt pointed out.
Small Willy turned to Mukhlun Gregory, "How old were you during Hvirak's revolt."
"Sixteen when it ended," the older man replied.
"Did you fight?" The Thunderbolt asked.
"I fought in the last battle outside Namantown," Mukhlun Gregory said. My first campaign. I was barely a man. We slaughtered so many of them the boys started calling your father Daegan the Deathbringer–"
"Wait," Small Willy interjected. "How come I have never heard of that name?"
"He didn't like it," Mukhlun Gregory said. "Threatened to rip the tongue out of any man who called him that."
"I think Daegan The Good sounds better in songs," The Thunderbolt said.
"Certainly," the warrior-priest agreed.
"How did the revolt get so big? How could one slave terrorize half the A Hundred Realms for three whole years?" Hamyr, the bodyguard, asked.
"It was the Decade of Disasters," the Purple Shield explained. "First, Pharas The Fair lost an entire army beyond The Drapes and got himself captured by barbarians. When Baeon The Bard became king, he decided to invade Trevantum for betraying his father but his fleet got wrecked in a storm. He lost a second army and both his sons. Baeon the Bard never recovered from that. He locked himself in his palace and didn't set foot outside for years. The Navigator was away on one of his voyages so the running of the state fell entirely on Daegan's shoulders. Daegan had to fight Maevites in the east trying to take Salandria, Trevantenes raiding up and down the west coast, and Khwhefians raiding the northeast, while northerners themselves threatened to rebel if the crown didn't help. The army was spread thin and busy with all these wars. A rabble of slaves making fools of themselves in the south wasn't seen as a significant military threat when we had Maevites, Khwehefians, and Trevantenes to grapple with. In a more stable time, it would never have happened but all the experienced soldiers were either dead or tied up on other fronts. Hivirak claimed easy victories against fight poorly equipped peasant militias that had zero training. When he faced a real army, he lost."
"What do you think happened to Hvirak," Small Willy asked.
"Probably died in the battle, drowned, or fled. We never found him."
Amran returned with another slave, carrying a second platter, two silver flagons, and a bronze basin. Allara knew the woman by sight but she had never learned her name. She was one of the many familiar strangers at The Roost.
The woman helped Amran set everything down and tried to leave. "Sit," The Thunderbolt ordered her.
"Your Highness…" the woman started but ran out of words. Allara was familiar with what she was feeling. Fear, worry, confusion, and abject terror.
"Sit down at my table, woman," The Thunderbolt said. "It's an invitation to breakfast, not a death sentence."
The woman shakily lowered herself onto a chair to Allara's left. Allara could hear her teeth rattling. Amran sat himself between Hamyr and Sylar. The whole room was unnervingly quiet. A quiet that was broken by the scratch of wood on marble as The Thunderbolt slid his chair back and stood up.
Everyone but Small Willy immediately stood up as well only for The Thunderbolt to order them back down. He picked up the bronze basin and one of the silver flagons. He approached the older woman.
"What's your name?"
"Semmy, Your Highness… Forgive me, I forget myself… it's Sempronia."
The Thunderbolt didn't respond. Instead, he handed her the small bronze basin. "Hands," he said.
"I don't understand, Your Highness," Sempronia said timidly.
"I want to wash your hands," The Thunderbolt said. "Isn't that the entire point of Aeduisia? Masters switching places with their servants? Eating together? The one day a year when all men are equal?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Sempronia agreed with a shaky voice.
"Now, hands," The Thunderbolt insisted. The woman put out a shaky pair of hands. Everyone watched with naked curiosity as she rubbed them together while Prince Caedmyr poured a slow steady stream of water from the flagon onto them. The water made a clattering sound as it fell onto the bronze basin on her lap.
It was a sight to behold. The Thunderbolt, a Prince of The Blood and descendant of the God of War, was washing the hands of a common slave. Sempronia's face was the very picture of awe.
Once Sempronia's hands were sufficiently clean, The Thunderbolt picked up the basin and moved to Allara. She felt like she had a fire in her stomach. A warm fuzzy fire that felt like the early morning sun. Her heart pounded with exhilaration. Her parents made her carry out the ritual with their slaves but she had never thought much of it. She had never appreciated its impact until that very moment. Allara couldn't quite describe how she felt as Thunderbolt poured a stream of warm water onto her hands. She felt every good emotion all at once. It was the first time anyone had served her since she left home.
After Allara, The Thunderbolt moved on to Sir Gregory, then Hamyr, Amran, Sylar, and finally Small Willy. "If only my father could see me now," the giant said.
"Don't be crass, Willy," The Thunderbolt scolded.
After Small Willy, The Thunderbolt then washed his own hands and sat back down. He removed the covers from the platters. On them was a veritable feast. The delicious scents saturated the room and Allara had to gulp down mouthfuls of saliva.
There was a pitcher of milk, freshly squeezed fruit juice, long strips of crisped bacon piled high, stuffed songbirds, a small mountain of red sausages still glistening from the fryer, soft-boiled duck eggs, a selection of sweetmeats pickled in honey, a small glass bowl filled with honey, a large bowl of diced fruit, and a perfectly round fruitcake, still steaming from the oven.
He sliced the cake into eight equal pieces and handed them out on silver plates. He portioned and then passed around the fruit juice and milk. Finally, he turned to Sempronia, "Why don't you pray for us, Semmy."
Sempronia took a deep breath and placed her hands on the table, "Let us pray." They all placed their hands on the platters, bowed their heads, and closed their eyes. Sempronia recited the old prayer of gratitude:
Almighty Aephyr, we thank you for the gift of life
All merciful Aeduia, we thank you for the gift of earth
Ever just Aembaur, we thank you for the air in our lungs
Ever pure Aemeia, we thank you for the water in our veins
Eternal Aemlilon, we thank you for the fire in our hearts, hearths, and earth
Khwars'm
"Khwars'm," they all intoned.
The Thunderbolt took a sip of his milk first. Everyone took this as a signal to start eating. Allara ate quietly, almost like she didn't want to be heard. She could scarcely believe it herself. If this was a dream, she didn't want to wake up.
"This is very good fruitcake," The Thunderbolt said Amran. "You gave them the recipe?"
With a full mouth, the squire nodded vigorously. The Thunderbolt turned to Sempronia, "You baked it?"
"No, Your Highness," Sempronia said. "I am just a soup cook, Your Highness."
Allara knew the answer but couldn't bring herself to speak. Her friend Sylvia had spent all of the previous evening bragging that she had been chosen to bake a cake for The Thunderbolt.
Luckily, Amran saved her. "I believe her name is Lyvia, Your Highness," the squire said.
"Bring her to see me before the day is out."
"I will, Your Highness."
They continued eating with conversation flowing back and forth. Allara and Sempronia took little part, only speaking when spoken to. The Thunderbolt directed the flow of conversation but Small Willy did most of the talking.
At some point, Mukhlun Gregory started ragging on Amran for neglecting his study of the classics. The other men piled on.
"But it's useless. Silly poems and plays written by a bunch of old farts for the enjoyment of little girls. How is that supposed to help me win a battle or build a bridge?" the boy asked.
"Barbarians don't have the written word. Without our refined culture, we're no better than them," Hamyr said.
"He makes a good point," The Thunderbolt chimed in. "You're young now and may think it useless but you cannot talk about war and bridges all the time. You need an extensive body knowledge on different topics."
This elicited bouts of laughter and nods of approval.
"You didn't like the classics very much yourself, Your Highness," Small Willy said. "Gave that poor tutor of ours a hard time. I remember you said, and I quote, 'I would rather grow a pair of breasts and become catamite than recite that womanish nonsense.' " This comment elicited a round of laughter.
"And I remember you backed me up, Willy," The Thunderbolt shot back. "Aren't you the one who used to strike our tutor with his own hands and ask him why he was slapping himself? Uncle Caedmyr had us chained to an oar for half a month because of that little stunt." The giant had the grace to look embarrassed. Allara found the image of the mighty Thunderbolt chained to an oar like a slave extremely amusing.
The Thunderbolt turned to Amran. "I wasn't always as old and wise as I am now. I was young and stupid once, as you are now. But I have grown up. I am not sure I can say the same for Small Willy."
"Hey!" the giant protested. "I'm right here."
"And here I was wondering where you were," The Thunderbolt said. He turned to Amran, "I am paying Nicanor a fortune to turn you into a refined gentleman. Warriors need culture too, Amran. If you would rather be an uncivilized barbarian, say so now. There is no shortage of frivolous nonsense I can waste that silver on."
"I will be more dutiful in my studies, Your Highness," the squire promised. The breakfast conversation moved on to lighter topics until everyone was stuffed. Half the food remained uneaten but Allara couldn't bring herself to eat another morsel. She was frankly surprised at how much she was capable of eating and wondered if she could even move. The unspoken consensus around the table seemed to be the same.
"Ladies, you won't find any good seats in the amphitheater if you linger here any longer," Small Willy, who had downed half a gallon of wine with his breakfast, advised. The Thunderbolt nodded his agreement.
Allara and Sempronia rose, bowed, cleared the table, and left. "Tihihi," Sempronia squealed in glee as soon as they were outside the door. Allara understood her emotional state. She had the same giddy feeling. She had sat down at table with a Prince of The Blood. She could scarcely believe it herself. It was a good thing she had a witness to back her up when she recounted the tale.
The slaves in the kitchen pounced the moment they set foot inside the door.