Paul Kearney: Kings of Morning

‘You must be as dumb as a stone, as still as a vase, when you are up there,’ Fat Borr had told him, his face shining with earnestness. ‘A slave in the world above has no feelings, no needs, no loves and no fears.’

And yet, Kurun was also a boy — one who would soon be a man — and there was in him a spirit which neither his life nor his intellect had yet tamed entirely. He had left his station, knowing it would be hours yet before they began to return the dishes and platters for the descent to the kitchens. He had walked the corridors of the palace as though he belonged to them. He was just one more striped chiton scurrying along the marble, and his anonymity had emboldened him further. The man’s caution had given way to the boy’s curiosity.

Until he had found himself under the open sky, and for the first time in his memory, had looked up at the stars.

They had dizzied him, smote him open-mouthed with their beauty, their myriads, swirling in half-guessed shapes and foaming breakers, as though splashed across the black vault of the night sky by the hand of God Himself.

And against them, the darker shadow of the great cedars and cypresses of the gardens. Kurun had never in his life before seen trees in such numbers, planted in grass, no order to them it seemed — they were not lined in avenues, or placed in pots. They were real, massive, fragrant with resin, alive with the wind. He touched them with something approaching reverence, running his hands down the ancient bark.

Kurun looked back. The King’s feast went on amid the trees like some magical pageant. There was music now, someone softly strumming an instrument Kurun knew nothing of, singing a song he had never heard. But the melody of it wrenched at his young heart. Tears rose in his eyes. This, then, was heaven — this was how the gods lived. And he could even see the far figure of the Great King himself, seated on his black throne with his white komis thrown low about his beard and smiling — smiling!

He would have so much to tell when he went back down to the kitchens. He would have such a story. It swelled up in his breast, and the tears rose higher in his eyes for the beauty of it all.

The blow caught him entirely by surprise.

He found himself blind, lying on the ground with grass in his mouth, the taste of blood. No true realisation of what had happened, just a vague impression of something large, a white explosion in his mind. His head was dragged up by the hair, and then released to crack down on the roots of a tree.

‘Greasy little bastard. Better tell the captain. And Farnak, warn the others. He’s just a slave, but you never know.’

‘He has the mark. A nice little arse, too.’

‘I’ll save some for you. Now go.’

Kurun choked as a huge hand took him by the throat and lifted him up. He could see nothing through his tear-drowned eyes but the bright distant spangle of the distant lanterns in the trees. The music played on. He could hear children laughing.

Another blow, which broke open his lips against his teeth.

‘Who are you and what is your purpose here?’

He blinked, eyes clearing at last, rational thought fighting through the bewilderment and rising terror in his heart. ‘Nothing,’ he croaked. ‘I do nothing.’ The question had been asked in good Kefren, the language of the court, but Kurun knew enough of it to reply in kind.

‘A naked little hufsan, hiding in the trees. What are you, some kind of wood nymph?’ The fingers on his throat loosened. He was released, to collapse, gasping, on the grass in the dark. Above him two violet lights blinked. He could smell leather, sweat, the metallic tang of bronze. One of the Honai.

‘I’m from the kitchens,’ he stammered. He clasped one hand about the tree root below him as though seeking strength from the scales of the gnarled wood. ‘I meant no harm, master.’

‘What in Mot’s Blight is a kitchen slave doing here in the gardens? You need a better story, boy.’ A hand ran over him, almost a caress. The fingers glided over his buttocks. The Honai chuckled. ‘Not a single scar. You have the skin of a girl. Who are you here to fuck, hufsan? You tell me true, and you may yet leave here with those pretty little balls still attached.’

‘I — no-one. There is no-one, may Bel hear me. I just — I just wanted to see the trees, the stars.’

A laugh. But then the Honai tensed, and straightened. Kurun looked up to see more massive shapes looming over him, more bright eyes shining in the night. There was a slap of flesh on bronze. ‘My lord!’

‘Easy, Banon. What is it that’s so important you have me dragged from the King’s side?’

‘A spy, lord. I found him lurking in the trees. He claims to be from the kitchens. The other posts have been alerted.’

Perfume in the night, a taut, bracing smell of sandalwood.

‘Stand up.’

Kurun did so, his hands instinctively clasped over his nakedness.

‘If this boy is an assassin, then he’s the prettiest I’ve yet seen. What’s your name?’

‘Kurun, master.’

‘Who is your superior in the kitchens?’

Kurun hesitated. ‘Auroc, master — but he knows nothing of this. I just — ’

‘Shut up. Banon, go down to the kitchens. I know of this Auroc. Bring him in. I will question him later.’

‘The slave says he wanted to see trees and stars, my lord.’

There was a general rustle of amusement among the Honai. The one who smelled of sandalwood leaned close. Kurun could smell the wine on his breath. ‘Trees, is it? How would you like to be nailed to one, little Kurun?’

Kurun said nothing. The enormity of it all was chilling his flesh, turning his tongue to wood.

‘What shall I do with him, lord?’

‘Take him to the cells — and mind he gets there in one piece, Banon. It’s not your job to work on him. Prince Kouros will want to handle this. No need for the King to know.’

A hand fell on Kurun’s shoulder, gripped the bone. ‘As you wish, sir.’

Sandalwood leaned close again. The violet eyes stared into Kurun’s face. ‘I hope the sight of the stars was worth it, hufsan.’

Kurun was dragged away, limp as a child’s doll in the grip of the Honai.

I have been lucky, he told himself. He looked out on the great cedars, which were as old as the very line of his family, and exhaled silently, the happiness nothing more than a passing brightness across his face. No more. A king must always think of who might be near, even when they were those he loved best in the world.

And those he loved best must never be aware of their position, for that would mean their lives were cast into the Game. The unending game, of who does what to whom in this world.

I am past sixty, an aged man. A monarch past his prime.

I am the most powerful person in this world.

And yet. He looked out across the gardens, past the assembled diners and the hordes of courtiers and attendants who flitted across the grass in the lamplight, beyond to where young voices could be heard under the deeper shadow of the woods.

Look at these children, playing beneath the stars. They are my sons and daughters, and I know them not. They are to be reared like blood stock, brought to maturity and then winnowed out, until I can find one worthy to hold all this in his hands. His hands.

Bel, Lord of sunshine and song and fruitfulness, look upon me now. Your brother, Mot, has brought a second great storm into my world, and I need you now. I need a way to look into the hearts of my enemies.

He stared out, impassive, at the night-time garden, the quiet river, the playing children who were his and yet not his. He strove to hoard the memory of it, to set this scene in amber, or imperishable crystal, and set it aside in some untwisted portion of his mind. He knew how to do this. He had practised it for many years. As long as he had been a king.