KING ZACHARY’S TREASURE

The Huradeshian dancers wove circular patterns to the beat of drums and rattles, a strange stringed instrument whining in the background. Their dance was not dance as Estora and other Sacoridians knew it; a refined meeting of ladies and gentlemen moving in time to harmonic orchestral music. No, this was something quite different, their dance like a story unfolding in a foreign language that required interpretation. Sacoridians had no point of reference from which to understand it, and watching it proved disconcerting in its alienness, even uncomfortable.

The dancers wore animal masks decorated with feathers, antlers, and fur, some representing specific creatures, others without any semblance at all to the natural world. Many of the masks were nightmarish, sporting huge eyeballs and teeth, some slashed through with scarlet, like blood.

The male dancers wore little more than loincloths in addition to their masks. Even their feet were bare, leaving Estora to speculate whether or not they were cold on the stone floor. As they contorted their oiled bodies as though in the throes of some madness, the ritual tattoos of birds, serpents, and animals emblazoned across their chests and down their backs rippled to life across flexing muscles, and it occurred to Estora that maybe it was the tattoos that they were trying to make dance.

The ceaseless giggling and whispering of the ladies surrounding Estora was ignited by the sight of half-naked men. Evidently they were not put off by the masks or tattoos. Some of the matrons had acquired a high color in their cheeks and were fanning themselves.

Her mother, in contrast, and other ladies of Coutre, had gone stiff, disgusted by the exposure of bare flesh. Her mother, in fact, had grabbed the hand of Estora’s littlest sister and marched her out of the throne room the moment the Huradeshians began their dance, and gave her into the care of her nanny. Her mother then returned to her chair, disapproval etched into her features as if into stone, and sat. She remained, Estora knew, only because she was there at the king’s invitation and did not wish to offend him.

The eastern provinces tended to hold to a more conservative view of life, their values rather strict and restricting. Estora had heard her father and others mutter about the decadent standards of those in Sacor City, and she was sure that King Zachary only confirmed their notions by allowing the Huradeshians to perform in such a “depraved” manner before decent people. A glance at her father sitting next to her mother revealed a stony countenance of dismay. Meanwhile, non-Coutre members of the audience appeared unoffended by the show of flesh, and even seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.

The female dancers were attired more modestly, wearing rough woven dresses dyed with colors so dazzling they overwhelmed Estora’s eyes. They seemed to have taken on bird-type roles and fluttered about the male dancers, mirroring them, shadowing them, teasing them.

Tribal leader Yusha Lewend sat in a chair adjacent to Zachary’s throne. Lewend and the other men of importance from his tribe wore a melding of traditional Huradeshian costume and Sacoridian attire: velvet frock coats with fine stitching over multihued shirts, trousers that matched the frock coats, their feet shod only with sandals. The ensemble was topped off with cloths wound around their heads and tied in intricate knots. One of Zachary’s advisors, Colin Dovekey, explained that each of the knots was symbolic, but what they symbolized, he could not say.

“Barbarians,” muttered Estora’s cousin Richmont Spane, seated to her left.

“Handsome barbarians,” said Amarillene, another of Estora’s cousins, who could not stop ogling the dancers.

Richmont murmured something disparaging under his breath.

Lewend’s escort of Huradeshian warriors stood near the far wall, their arms crossed over bare, brawny chests. They wore bright scarlet head cloths and long, curved blades hung at their sides. Their clothing, or lack thereof, deeply contrasted with the black cloth and leather of the king’s Weapons, but astonishingly their watchful attitudes and stern expressions were nearly identical.

“Is it true,” Amarillene asked Richmont, “that Chief Lewend offered the king a gift of fifty slave girls?”

Richmont shook his head. “Only twenty.”

Amarillene squealed. “Did he accept them?”

Marilen, her older sister, nudged her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Slavery is against king’s law.”

“Did he?” Amarillene persisted.

Richmont rolled his eyes. “No. To do so would have been scandalous to say the least.”

Estora permitted herself a tiny sigh, wondering if the Huradeshians likewise considered the Sacoridians barbaric and strange. She wished the ladies behind her would stop their incessant giggling. It was most undignified. And annoying. Some elder Coutres passed the ladies looks of displeasure, but the hint went ignored.

She glanced in Zachary’s direction. His expression was pensive as he watched the dancers. Did he even see them? She didn’t think so, for his gaze seemed far away and she wondered what thoughts occupied him, but when the dancers finished and the music abruptly halted, he straightened and clapped along with everyone else. The dancers and musicians left the throne room at a trot.

Yusha Lewend rose from his chair and made a long speech in his own language. Since Estora understood none of it, her attention wandered. To her surprise, near the throne room doors, she saw the man she had met on the kitchen steps the morning she had exchanged unhappy words with Karigan. He was dressed in the same clothes as before, but from this distance she could not discern their flaws. He cut a sharp figure, angular and athletic, no excess to be found on his frame.

Estora placed her hand on Richmont’s wrist and he bent toward her.

“Do you know that man?” she asked, pointing him out.

“Distant relative of Zachary’s, I think. The name’s Amberhill. Small landowner, impoverished. I suppose he’s come around to ask his cousin for charity.” With that, Richmont returned his attention to Yusha Lewend.

Amberhill. The name was unfamiliar to Estora, but that was hardly surprising, considering how many counted themselves among the ranks of nobility. It seemed like most of them had paraded through the castle to meet her since the betrothal announcement. Amberhill perceived her gaze and returned it, nodding at her with a smile.

Embarrassed that she had been caught staring, she returned her attention to Yusha Lewend. An interpreter had come forward, probably a merchant versed in a number of languages, and spoke in impeccable common tongue: “Most gracious king, we are honored by your hospitality. You have further honored us by recognizing our importance in your trade.”

The interpreter droned on, interrupted periodically by Yusha Lewend to add some comment in praise of the king. Bored by the ostentatious speech, Estora’s gaze strayed back to Amberhill, and when their gazes intersected, he mimed an exaggerated yawn. Estora stifled a laugh.

“…and your fair queen-to-be,” the interpreter said.

Estora blinked in surprise and found many pairs of eyes looking her way. She wondered what she had missed; what had been said about her. Did they notice she hadn’t been paying attention?

“Sacoridia is certain to flourish with such beauty in its midst, and assuredly the king will soon find many children playing at his feet. May Methren, our goddess of fertility, embrace you.”

Twittering from behind Estora made her cheeks warm.

Yusha Lewend then said something in his own tongue directly to King Zachary, and followed it with a hearty laugh. His people laughed as well.

The interpreter licked his lips and looked a little nervous. “Uh,” he began, “Yusha Lewend believes you will not, uh, need much of the goddess’ help to make children with your beautiful queen.” Yusha Lewend slapped the interpreter on the back and barked something at him. The interpreter turned red. “Yusha Lewend wishes me to tell you exactly what he said, sire. May I approach the throne?”

Zachary nodded.

The interpreter did so hesitantly, and spoke in such low tones that only Zachary could hear. A mortified look actually crept over his features and his ears turned scarlet. Yusha Lewend laughed uproariously at his great joke, obviously something of a rather lewd nature.

“Please inform Yusha Lewend,” Zachary said to the interpreter in a cool tone, “that this kind of talk is not acceptable in my court, not even in jest. I value all members of my court, including the women, and I would like that considered in all conversation.”

An uncomfortable silence followed as the interpreter relayed Zachary’s words. When he finished, Yusha Lewend looked baffled, but unoffended, and shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t see why Zachary has decided to entertain these crude beasts,” Richmont murmured. “Instead of negotiating trade with them, he should just send some soldiers over and claim whatever it is he wants from them.”

Estora sighed. Conquest was Richmont’s answer to everything. “The ways of the Huradeshian people are not our own.”

“That’s because ours is a cultured, moral society.”

“Our differences do not necessarily mean we are better than they, nor that we should start a war with them.”

“War? Who said anything about war? We could just take what we need.”

Estora shook her head. Her cousin would never see things in any other light, so there was no use in arguing with him.

During the reception that followed, servants wove among the guests offering food and wine. As usual, Estora was hemmed in by clinging ladies asking questions about wedding plans that she had grown heartily weary of answering. She did not feel like responding at all, but her mother had trained her well, and she maintained a smile—though it did not reach her heart—and responded to the questions with courtesy.

“What color will the gown be, my dear?” old Lady Creen asked.

“Cobalt, for the clan,” Estora said.

“A harsh color for a bride.” Several ladies nodded in agreement with Lady Creen.

“It is tradition in Coutre Province,” Estora said. From the corner of her eye, she saw Zachary near the throne, his attention dominated by Yusha Lewend and a group of gentlemen. They were all staring at the ceiling. It was an almost comical sight until she realized he must be explaining the significance of the portraits of his predecessors painted there. Soon she too would sit there, beside Zachary on a queen’s throne, with the rulers of the past peering down on her as if in judgment. Would she meet their approval? She shuddered.

Actually, she was more worried about what Zachary would think on their wedding night when he realized she wasn’t—

“—picked a day yet?” Lady Creen inquired.

Estora brought her attention back to those who encircled her. “No, though the moon priests are leaning toward the summer solstice, Day of Aeryon.”

There was much murmuring and nods of approval among the ladies. Again from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the man Richmont had named Amberhill roving among loose groupings of people, a goblet in his hand, and a charming smile on his face as he greeted those he knew.

The ladies were discussing the advantages and disadvantages of a solstice wedding when Estora politely extricated herself and edged through the crowded throne room in a path she hoped would lead to Amberhill. Courtesy required her to pause and exchange greetings with those who wished to speak to her, but with a deftness acquired over a lifetime of banquets and receptions in her father’s manor house, she was able to keep moving while appearing to be attentive to all she encountered. As she went, she overheard snippets of conversation.

“The price of silk has—”

“—heard that the council in D’Ivary has already chosen a successor—”

“I want to leave now.”

“Rumor has it that the Raven Mask has returned to burgle—”

“—filthy barbarians coming half naked before decent folk.”

Estora forged on, keeping her eye on Amberhill, but somehow he always managed to slip farther away. Then she came to a clearing near the fringes of the crowd, and she hurried, without seeming to, to approach him. He was currently engaged in conversation with two elderly ladies who were giggling and fanning themselves like schoolgirls. He had a devilish glint in his eyes as he regaled them with some tale.

Estora paused to consider why she was pursuing him like this. She supposed it was to thank him for his kindness that morning when Karigan upset her so. But inside, she knew it was more, that she was drawn by the mystery of who he was. His kindness and handkerchief would be an excuse to speak with him and learn more.

She lifted her skirts to approach him when someone touched her arm. “My lady?”

Estora turned to find Zachary beside her, accompanied by Yusha Lewend, his interpreter, and the most wrinkled crone she had ever seen. The crone gazed at her with one sharp green eye. The other was opaque with blindness. She clung to Yusha Lewend’s arm, and was dressed in a more subdued fashion than the other Huradeshians, in somber grays. A round emerald stone tied around her neck with a leather thong was the only adornment she wore. The emerald matched her eye. Was this Yusha Lewend’s mother? Estora curtsied.

“Yusha Lewend wishes to meet you,” Zachary said, “and the lady is Meer Tahlid, a wisewoman of the tribe.”

Estora nodded respectfully, which made the wisewoman smile broadly. Gold teeth glinted in the late afternoon sunshine that streamed through the tall windows. Yusha Lewend started rattling off something in his own tongue, and Estora glimpsed Amberhill on his way out of the throne room. Somehow aware of her gaze on him, he smiled at her before passing through the entrance.

“Yusha Lewend expresses that such beauty is rare and he is honored to be in its presence. A gift of your sun goddess, no doubt.”

Estora jerked her attention back to those who stood before her. Astonishingly, Meer Tahlid started weaving back and forth, muttering, a hand held to her forehead and the other grasping her emerald. Both Zachary and Estora looked at her in alarm, but Yusha Lewend appeared unconcerned.

“The wisewoman can see many things ordinary souls cannot,” the interpreter explained. “These seeings sometimes come on her suddenly.”

Then, in a high-pitched voice, Meer Tahlid spoke in a rush. Both Yusha Lewend and the interpreter glanced at Estora. When the woman stopped weaving and speaking, she smiled again like a benevolent grandmother who had no idea of what just transpired.

The interpreter and Yusha Lewend conferred for a moment before the interpreter finally said to Zachary, “Meer Tahlid has had a seeing, Your Highness. She said you must guard your treasure well, for men are greedy and will want what does not belong to them.”

“My…treasure?”

The interpreter gazed significantly at Estora. “Meer Tahlid saw that one would try to steal your lady from you.”

Zachary gazed at Estora as if seeing her for the first time. “I will not permit that to happen.”

Long after most of the castle’s human inhabitants settled into their beds for a night of rest and dreaming, and most lamps along the corridors were extinguished or turned down to a low ambient glow, a white cat emerged from the dusty, unused corridor that joined the section being reinhabited by Green Riders.

At first all the activity had frightened the cat, who had watched from the shadows, around doorways, and from behind suits of armor, but being a cat, his fear soon was overcome by curiosity and so he investigated, over the course of weeks, this intriguing new world created by the Riders. Not only was it a feast to his senses of smell and hearing, but it was warm. If there were embers still burning in the common room’s hearth and no Riders in sight, he’d settle down before it on the hearth rug, stretched out to his full length.

Tonight, however, there was another sort of warmth he sought.

When he arrived at the door, he found it slightly ajar. He butted it open with his head and slipped inside, pausing, his tail in a low sweep from side to side as he looked around. A candle next to the bed was close to sputtering out, and the human was sprawled under a blanket breathing deeply, an open ledger and some papers scattered atop her chest.

The cat rubbed his full body length against the corner post of the bedframe, then lightly jumped up, walking so carefully, as only cats can, that he did not rumple the papers or inadvertently awaken the human. He curled up on the human’s long brown hair, which was splayed across the pillow. His brethren might catch more vermin down below and have full bellies by morning, but he preferred sleeping with the warm living humans rather than the cold husks of the dead.

The cat’s eyes were beginning to close when suddenly he felt a tingling along his whiskers and down the fur on his back. A spirit was present in the room. Cats were very adept at sensing spirits, and this one regularly saw them wandering the castle and tombs, the living humans remarkably ignorant of their presence. How could they fail to notice something right in front of them? Humans were, the cat decided, very limited.

Sometimes the cat saw the spirits as solid entities, and sometimes only as mere points of light. This one materialized as a smoky figure that wavered in spectral air currents. A gold brooch gleamed on his chest and he carried a bow in his hands. There was some armor and other weapons, and a horn slung at his hip. He had the look of a Green Rider, but the cat really didn’t care about any of that. To him, it was just another spirit among the many that inhabited the castle.

The spirit drifted in the air for a time, gazing down at the human in her bed, who snored away as obliviously as any of her kind in the presence of a ghost. What this one’s purpose was, the cat could not divine. What prompted any spirit to haunt the living world when they could be resting peacefully instead? It was a mystery, but not one the cat wasted time puzzling over. To his mind, it was more imperative to find his next meal and decide where to take his afternoon nap.

But then the Green Rider ghost did something unusual, something none of the other spirits had ever done: he spoke to the cat. I think, he said, you know what she is.

The cat’s eyes widened in surprise, but as the words faded, so did the spirit, its smoky form seeping away until the cat’s whiskers no longer tingled.

The cat, of course, could not speak the human tongue, nor did he understand most of it, so the words of the spirit came to him as gibberish. That a spirit addressed him? Now that was curious, but not likely to change his life overmuch.

He yawned and stretched, more interested in sleep than the inscrutable ways of humans or their ghostly counterparts. All he knew was that he chose to sleep with this particular human because, though she was alive, there was something about her that was not so far removed from the dead, which made him feel right at home.