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But he thinks about Lyr every day. And every night as he lies alone in his bed, he wraps his hand around his cock, telling himself, each time, he will not think of Lyr’s sweet face and scar-covered body, and ends up thinking of it as he spends, nonetheless.
Lyr, in the orchard, with Damon’s hand on him. The way he looked as he gave himself over to pleasure at Damon’s heavy-voiced command.
The way he called Damon, ‘Master’, with thick lust in his voice.
On the morning of the Feast of Surrus, Damon receives a messenger demanding his presence at the Rose Court to speak with Selim about an important matter.
He suspects he knows what this matter is. He has heard the advance into Ik-Sundal is not going well. Battles have been lost and men have deserted.
He knows what the empire wants from him. The same thing it has always wanted. His body. His blood and bone. His skill in delivering death.
He rides through Attar early. The sky is a bright blue as he walks up the stone steps to the main building of the Rose Palace, through another set of carved doors into the vast, echoing public hall with its stone pillars and mosaic floor. The mosaic depicts a map of Azuria, Fanost and Vashti. Damon is walking over the tiles of the Amber Forest when Vindar emerges from the crowds to greet him.
“Master Damon Darekul,” he says, his voice light and pleasant. He’s a tall man, always neatly presented, with a spiked beard perfectly oiled. His manner is always calm. He is thought to be the greatest mind in Azuria. Nothing about his manner betrays a calculating intellect beneath, but Damon can believe it. Sometimes it seems that there is nothing Vindar doesn’t know. “Selim is expecting you,” Vindar says. “Let me accompany you to his shrine.”
Damon nods. “You honour me, Chancellor,” he says as he follows Vindar through the Golden Gates past the line of palace guards that mark the perimeter of the public part of the palace and the private domain of the Rose Court.
They pass into a long cool passageway, marble walls curve into an ornate carved ceiling. Every few paces is an alcove housing a statue of one of the heroes of the empire: Sarelik, of course, his children, King Damon and Lady Ferra, Zai Mother. Vindar’s boots click as he says, “I have heard many tales of your great victories in Jur-Mattan, our One Man Army.”
“Zai was with us,” Damon says plainly.
“Indeed. Some fear he has deserted us now.”
“His Imperial Majesty requires my attendance because of this?”
“Indeed. He is at prayer. But he is eager to acclaim his heroic nephew.”
They walk through more beautiful marble passages and a hall of golden statues, these statues are much bigger than the ones in the corridor. The smallest of them is twice Damon’s height.
They pass through and into a wide passage. Here one of the walls is inlaid with mosaic that glitters in the sunlight from the open terrace opposite.
As they get closer to Selim’s inner palace the rooms and halls grow ever richer.
Eventually, they reach a courtyard whose wide grounds are covered with an elegant design of raked white stones. A path of slate marks the route across the stones to a small low building in the courtyard’s centre. It is built entirely of the beautiful pink stone of the Rose Temple.
The Emperor’s private shrine.
This is where Emperor Selim spends most of his time. Shuttered away, praying for his army’s victories.
Vindar pulls the white silk rope by the shrine’s door. A soft bell chimes.
The door is answered in a moment by Doroth Zain. The High Word. Zai as Man.
Doroth Zain is also Vindar’s brother. Their sharp faces and high cheekbones are uncannily similar and the differences between them are slight. Doroth Zain is an inch taller. His beard is much longer and not as neatly kept and where Vindar wears a fine purple and gold robe, Doroth Zain wears a plain shift of grey and yellow linen. His feet are bare. The only richness to his appearance is a heavy chain of gold, holding a large mark of Zai. A twelve-pointed star in a circle.
“Chancellor Vindar,” Doroth Zain says, “Zai, hold your heart.”
“Zai, hold your heart, brother,” Vindar says. “I bring Master Damon Darekul for his audience with the Emperor Selim.”
“Ah, yes,” Doroth Zain says, looking past Vindar to Damon. “He is expected. Please, Master Damon, leave your sword and come this way.”
Damon unbuckles his sword belt, places it on the table beside the door and walks in.
The shrine is dark inside. A small space with no windows.
Selim does not give many audiences but when he does, he often presents himself in this small room. He rarely leaves, such is his devotion to his God. Damon can see the figure of the Emperor kneeling before a great altar carved with black stone images of Zai. They are monstrous figures, representing strength and victory.
In one corner a harpist plays soft music. The air is thick with incense. Frankincense and oud. Fires of scented wood burn in the corners.
