An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Read online

  I was too hard on her, too cruel, Kalafar reflected. But why shouldn’t I marry Juni? These days I’ve been enthralled by the notion of seeing her again after so many years. And now, now that I’ve seen her, I’ve been utterly obsessed… with the beauty of the past and the sorrow of the present. He felt a great burden inside his chest, trailing all the way down to the pit of his stomach. The strange sensation was akin to sickness, an ill balance of the humours. She may not remember me, but I cannot forget her. And she’s so fair, so shy, a maiden still.

  The thought of someone else plucking away that flower – the flower that should belong to him by rights of heart’s whim alone – was unacceptable. He was the liege lord of the Northlands, after all… the ram of Sodomis. Whether or not the nobility at large treated his house as foreigners and heathens, Weiyenor was his; the north was his. He could do as he saw fit. And what did he like? Politics? Wealth? The vain pleasures brought about by lust and drink? Or something more? Something worth fighting a war over, just like in the songs of old.

  He remembered one distinctly; the song of sir Stefan the brave and his battle with the three brother knights of his love, the fair maiden lady Anne Gladrose. Sir Stefan was not a landed knight, but a hedge knight – a noble one, brave and strong. He fell in love with the fair Anne, and she fell in love with him. Her lord father, however, did not approve of some lowly northern hedge knight to marry his highborn daughter. Sir Stefan the brave asked not for dowry, only for love. To prove his worth, he challenged lord Gladrose that he would best any of his champions for the hand of his beautiful maiden. Her father accepted, and chose his three sons to fight him.

  But lord Hardred Gladrose was a cruel man, wroth and prideful. He wanted a fight to the death. With purpose and sword skill, sir Stefan had managed to defeat those knights who opposed him, the brothers of his beloved Anne. The lord faced with the death of all his heirs, he gave his daughter to sir Stefan. Yet grief and spite deemed fate to be more tragic. Before the valiant knight could claim the fair Anne as a husband claims his wife, her lord father had sent assassins to murder them in their bed. Thus, the line of Gladrose was extinguished from history.

  The yellow rose, he thought. But not the ram.

  What Kalafar would have liked then and there was to see her, only her. To invite Juni to his chambers. Not to speak, but to gaze at her in silence. To touch her. To breathe in the odour of her flesh. To pull up her skirts, kiss her legs, and enter between them. The thought made him hard. He instructed the servants to prepare him a soothing bath with lime leaves. Sweat was not an alien thing, even in winter’s realm.

  While he bathed, Kalafar reflected upon the wedding and its most important part.

  When the time came for the bedding, he had escorted lady Catherine to his brother’s chambers, while the rest of the lords and knights had followed suit in a noisy cheer of lewdness. “Arfaij, give the girl a good ramming,” lord Oakhard had said in a voice half drunk with wine, half drunk with liquor. More loud japes had followed, of course.

  “I wonder if the bride is also freckled between the legs,” Holton Brax had chuckled in a low voice – a chuckle devoid of pure innocent mirth. The man had been quite sober compared to most of the others. “Oh, and look at lady Olivia. She’s certainly overcome her mourning. People shouldn’t linger on the past, I say.”

  Kalafar had ignored that remark, and kept his mouth into a stern arch. But Brax had had the right of it. His lady mother didn’t say anything or noticed anyone else. All she did was to giggle while holding lord Dagincourt by the arm, as if to keep the man from running away. When everyone had reached the chambers and the marital bed, it was time for the view. As lord of the castle, it had been Kalafar’s privilege to strip the bride of all her clothes. His brother, on the other hand, had not required such help.

  After he was done undressing the soon to be bedded Catherine Sodomis – a noisy round of yays, applause, and well wishing ensued. Kalafar tried to get himself out of the way as fast, but as gracefully as possible. Mayhaps everyone else regarded the bedding with much enthusiasm, but Kalafar had other things pressing at his mind.

  “What do you know? The girl isn’t freckled between the legs, after all.” Holton Brax had whispered to him in a sly tone; and Kalafar had nodded.

  Good thing that’s my brother, and not me. I would rather fight a war than marry someone I didn’t love. Highborn or not, Kalafar’s taste in women revolved around those south of the north. He preferred a skin more tanned to the pinkish hue.

  When they hopped into bed, Quintus More and him pulled the curtains for the young couple’s intimacy, of course. That, and to conceal the likely fact that his so-called maiden daughter would leave the sheets unstained with red. I hope Arfaij didn’t have too much to drink, else his ram will be quite short and weak when battering at her gates. Good thing that was all over. At last, the lord of Weiyenor could enjoy some peace and quiet inside his own castle.

  After his soothing bath, Kalafar was ready to receive her. He sent sir Falken Trent to invite and escort lady Juni to his chambers. “Tell her that I wish only to share a confidence.” He had no intention of rejoining the feast downstairs. He had had enough of food and drink. Kalafar wore a long white tunic and fur cloak. Even though it wasn’t autumn yet, the nights here were still cold. He got out of bed and made for the fireplace. He squatted to pick up a wood or two, and threw them into the fire. They crackled faintly as they began to burn. And then, the door to his chambers opened. And when he turned, she was there…

  “Sir Trent said that you wish to speak with me, my lord,” she said warily. “And so I came.” Juni Mayflower was wearing a grey cloak made of wool, trimmed with red fur. Gold laces were entangled in her black hair, which adorned a small jewel – a rhombus of four white pearls and a black one in the middle. Her crimson tight bodice was decorated with flowers sewed in orange thread.

  Her lady mother has good taste in fashion, Kalafar thought to himself. “Come,” he said in a warm voice. “Come sit with me by the bedside. I wish to tell you a story.”

  “What sort of story, my lord?” Juni asked in the same wary tone, as she seated herself next to him. The girl appeared different than she had hours before, in the courtyard. She seemed more lively and at ease with the world.

  “A story that you might not remember, but one I cannot forget.” Kalafar told her all and everything. All that he could remember – all the things they had shared as children, everything that was inside his heart. Kalafar felt no fear as he spoke, no regret, no embarrassment, but freedom. Jorghel Sodomis, his lord father, had once told him and Arfaij, that if a man would not share his sentiments with a woman, he might as well be mute. Yes, father. And I feel no less proud for having done so. When he had finished telling the story of Kal and Jun, Kalafar’s eyes were warm with water. Such was the strength of remembrance, the power of past emotions upon present truths. He wanted to brush aside the water in his sight, but she caught his hand.

  “Let me,” Juni said softly, and leaned closer. Before her fingers could dry away his tears, Kalafar closed his eyes, and a salty drop arched across his cheek. Juni kissed that cheek, and then he kissed her… on the lips; those soft lips which he yearned for so long to feel again. Then and there, it did not matter if she remembered or not. What mattered was that he had told her, and that now she knew. Juni stared into his eyes and she gasped. Something had stirred inside her breast.

  She remembers, part of her... remembers. Kalafar chose not to take her then. It wouldn’t be proper of me, nor fair to her and lord Mayflower. The ram would take Juni, only after he’d convince her lord father to formally cancel the betrothal, and accept his offer in its stead. On the morrow, the warden of the Northlands would do just that. For both of their parties had common road, the road which led to the Southlands. But Kalafar wouldn’t stop at Redgarden with lord Mayflower, he would travel on to reach the capital, Sun’s Helm... It was the emperor’s wish, after all, his majesty’s banquet.

  And though ren
ouncing house Krasus was an insult brought to the prideful lord of Heart’s Gift, Kalafar was not his inferior. While not having so much wealth as the southern nobility, by rank and title, he was Krasus’ better. And old man Poltron would give in to his wish, of that he had no doubt. But for now, he had to be content with Juni’s lips upon his mouth, his hand between her legs, and her hand around his cock.

  Chapter VI: Sycarus

  He had never cursed the holy sun before. Though the cloudless sky was the real culprit behind the scorching heat upon his skin. And during the cold nights, Sycarus found himself begging forgiveness from the Sun Father – and praying that the morrow would come sooner rather than later. The vast horizon seethed, while they kept to their path, to their purpose...

  Sycarus marveled at the harsh alien landscape. And he marveled at the mystic tales behind the Desertlands. It was said that the sand wyverns lived within the dunes, roaming beneath the hot sands of the waste. The Aharos believed that the beasts came long ago upon the earth from falling stars. In their myth, their homeland had not always been a desolation, but a paradise of green warmth, thick game, and clear blue waters. The Sky Father was the shepherd and protector of that paradise.

  But when the wyverns came from the stars, they brought with them a terrible curse. In unnatural union, freezing winds and burning waves of heat, it was said – engulfed that paradise with dust and sand. Everywhere the wyverns roamed, attacking settlements, eating the flesh of man, chasing the beasts of the wild – they left a barrenness behind them. Yet somehow, the Aharo tribes and their god fought off these monsters, these heralds of drought and death. But could not return their homeland into the green paradise it once was. Sycarus marveled at such stories and myths, but he did not believe in them. He only appreciated the tales for their magic; they were only metaphors to explain the unexplainable nature of things. The truth behind histories, however, was rarely magical.

  They traveled far through the desert, without encountering any other caravan, nor small group of Aharo travelers. Before he left Sand’s Port, Omir had told him it would be so. The guides explained that during the so-called longest month – a period in which the Aharo folk did not wage war or trade – they remained close to their oases, preparing their rituals to honor their shepherd of the clouds, their Sky Father god; by having the shamans bless their palm trees and their crops. And the longest month would not be over for many days to come.

  On the first night, Sycarus and his guides talked near the fire about who they were. Jodser claimed he was the son of a lowly merchant; and that he had spent all of his life in service to commerce, in service to Sand’s Port. Work and contracts, opportunities and shrewd dealings had always been part of his soul. “No desert’s too barren for my fearless resolve. No primitive too savage for me to sway in the pursuit of honest profits.” Jodser’s tale had been interesting, Sycarus thought – but Manyo’s story had been much more adventurous.

  The grey bearded fat man claimed he had been a smuggler in his youth. Born in the Lowlands, in the country of Zjialaa, Manyo used to work in the poppy fields. At the age of six and ten, he stole an entire sack of poppy seeds from his master’s storeroom. And after he sold the sack at the local market, he begged one of the merchants to take him away from there, else he would have been flayed alive for his crime. From then on, he entered the adventurous life of a smuggler – a life of bribes, deceit, and danger... from law court overseers to sultry pirates. Manyo claimed the pirates were easier to deal with because they accepted more reasonable a term.

  “They have respect for law breakers. And after they’re done robbing you, they at least leave you with enough food and drink to live and tell the tale.” Manyo confessed with a longing in his voice for those old days. “Now, my life has no more adventures. All I do is keep repeating tedious things in order to make an honest profit. Always at the mercy of foreign tides, of foreign whims and interests. Eh, I do miss my youth. I do miss my youth...”

  When time came for them to hear his story, Sycarus lied. Manyo and Jodser had no need to know of his true purpose. He had to keep the emperor’s errand a secret. Even a world away from imperial soil, rumor traveled faster than the plague. Or at least, just as fast. “I work for one of the greatest pleasure houses in the Empire’s capital, Adara’s Palace. My mistress desires to swell her ranks of beautiful and skilled women with a more exotic lot... there is good demand in Sun’s Helm for such creatures.”

  Fat Manyo and Jodser laughed at that, and clapped on their knees. When lying to men, talk of women and you’ll do fine. “The maidenhood of an Aharo chieftain’s beautiful daughter, now that will fetch a good price. Only rich men are allowed the services of my matron’s establishment. And believe you me, if I had the coin to enjoy such pleasures, I would probably never leave until my purse was emptied on all those sweet girls.”

  “So would any man,” Jodser agreed; and Manyo nodded as well.

  After that night, the journey had been quite pleasant. Mayhaps that was not the right word for it; but it had been better nonetheless. Only one thing left him disappointed, though, a childish thing… Sycarus had hoped to see, not a full-fledged sand wyvern; but at least a trail made by one of the beasts, or a bone or two of the monsters’ remains. Besides the sand dunes, however, he had seen snakes and small lizards skulking around the sunken ruins of millennia past; crumbled statues of nameless figures, minor columns, and broken walls. Forgotten stone scarred by wind and gravel, left without its dwellers, without its masters. The desert tribes had been no savages in their distant past; of that Sycarus was certain.

  They were builders. But a life spent under drought and ardent heat turns any man into a brute. There are many throats and bellies to be filled, and only so much water and fare. Only so much time for the practice of masonry. The Aharo tribes were no strangers to war either – he had learned. No strangers to slaughtering their kind in exchange for survival. It was a savage token of a harsh life. Death itself could not claim enough of the living without some form of mortal aid; sickness and old age weren’t its only means.

  But what Sycarus truly feared about the journey were the sand storms. He had seen the great tempests of the north back at the docks in Sand’s Port. They had looked ominous from afar; and now that he was traversing these barren lands, he was afraid such a storm would catch them on their way. If it’s true that the gods have a twisted and cruel sense of humor, then they’ll send the storm to catch us upon our return to the city. And not upon our meeting with the tribesmen. That would be true irony.

  Sycarus smiled at the awful notion. If such a thing were to happen to them, all they could do was bring their camels to kneel and hide behind the poor creatures. Jodser told him that such vicious sand blowing against exposed skin could very well pass through it and into the bloody meat. Not to mention the danger of being buried alive under a newly made dune to serve as their tombstone. Sycarus wondered how many sunken graves they had passed over on their journey, graves without testament... without any sign whatsoever.

  Bad thoughts, Sycarus, he said to himself. Bad thoughts, stop dwelling on them. Thankfully, from where they stood, the northern horizon masked the faraway tempests. So instead of seeing the raging storms he had seen from well behind the walls of Sand’s Port; Sycarus saw only mounds and dunes of still yellow facing the desolate silence under the naked belly of the sun.

  By the time the third night came, Sycarus was fed up with the sudden changes from the heat of the dreaded cloudless sky during the day, and the cold of the night’s darkness. Though this night, one thing was different – the sky was not entirely clear. Sycarus glared at the heavens, trying to spot familiar constellations. He recognized the cluster of five stars – the Hunter. He also saw the two sparkling ones, which were called the Twins of the North. The cluster of six, known as the Serpent, and the four stars, known as the Wagon. Those were the only constellations he could see, the only ones the clouds did not hide.

  Strange to see clouds this night. We didn’t see a
ny on the road. How come they’re above us now? As he pondered on that, Sycarus noticed that the light coming from the North Twins was the brightest of all the others. That made him smile, hope did that to any soul. And soon enough, he found himself pondering on a great deal more. Mayhaps luck is on my side. And when we’ll reach the tribesfolk, everything will be alright. The chieftain will accept my gold; I will return to Sun’s Helm with a fair Aharo maiden. And perchance the old man will adopt me. Then I shall be his only heir – Sycarus Abelbrooke, lord of Smalltown. It has a certain ring to it, I suppose.

  It was not uncommon for noble families to adopt other members, even those of lower birth, in order to pass on the name of their house. Of course, this could only happen in those cases in which there were no other pretenders with better claims.

  After the Inquisition’s war against the possessed emperor – which saw many generations of nobles falling to arrows and swords – the line of Abelbrooke rested only within the old man. Therefore, no contenders could attack his inheritance; provided of course, the old lord gave it to him.

  The campfire did not crackle, for it was fed with dried camel dung; not wood. Though the night was cold, his woolen attire kept him warm and comfortable. It was everything Omir said it would be. In the light of day, the thobe faded the moisture from the body; keeping the skin steady but not wet. Sycarus remembered why the fishermen from back home used to say that wool keeps a man warm, even when he was wet by rain. The fat turban’s thobe had been finely worked; the thin fibers itching not the skin.