2. Lyr

2

LYR

L yr stands and follows this big man they call Bastard and Damon out of the Grand Hall. He can't be sure exactly what just happened, but he knows this: they were going to kill him. They were going to kill him and this man saved him.

His new Master. Damon.

When they are out in the stone yard at the front of Blackstone Castle, Lyr looks around. He can't remember the last time he was outside. He turns to gaze up at it. Huge and built exclusively from the rough black stone that gives the place its name. Some say Blackstone Castle is over a thousand years old. Some say it was built by the Jura-il before men ever came this far north from The Cradle.

Damon grabs Lyr by the arm. "Come on. Now. We go," he says in clumsy Juran. His grip is strong. His hand is so big it almost encircles Lyr's upper arm.

His black leather jerkin is sleeveless. Lyr can see the shapes and swell of the muscles in his arms. His shoulders are broad. His face is bluntly handsome. Strong, stubbled jaw. His green eyes are flecked with silver.

"Where are we going?" Lyr asks, speaking Juran. It seems easier than explaining he speaks Artemian. He tries not to sound fearful.

Damon looks at him as if surprised to be asked a question. "My camp," he says after a pause, in his own stilted Juran. "You will be safe there. Nothing will happen to you. You belong to me."

Lyr nods. He understands. Damon might have refused to use Lyr in the Great Hall of Blackstone Castle, but surely Damon must want a pleasure slave for bed warming.

And that must be where they are going now. To a tent, a private place where Damon will make use of him. But it is strange, Lyr thinks, that Damon took the time to tell him that he would be safe. Perhaps he simply means safe from death.

They leave the castle yard and emerge through the broken gates onto a street. It's mostly deserted. Lyr looks around wide-eyed at the destruction. Buildings are on fire, doors are broken in. The only people anywhere are the ones lying on the ground. Dead. Or too injured to take shelter.

It's almost sunset. The air is heavy, still holding on to the heat of the day. Even half-ruined like this, Pellex is a city designed for the heat. There are wide awnings and stone balconies on the buildings still standing. Trees planted to provide shade.

As they walk on, the air grows a little fresher and the scent of salt grows sharp.

They reach the walls where another gate is broken to pieces, hanging open like the mouth of a great monster. Damon leads Lyr through it and onto a dirt road. In the dusty valley below he can see a vast encampment. Rows and rows of green tents. Green flags flying a gold sigil. A twelve-pointed star inside a circle. The Azurian Army.

They walk down the hill to the camp. When they reach it, Damon leads Lyr on, past the neat tents. As he passes soldiers salute him. He ignores them.

Eventually, they reach a tent four times the size of the others around it. Damon pulls the tent flap aside and lets Lyr walk in ahead of him.

Inside the tent is very fine. It is tall enough to stand up in, even for Damon who is a head taller than Lyr. A brazier burns in the centre. The floor is covered in thick rugs. There's a table and chairs and, behind a curtain, Lyr can see a glimpse of a wide bed covered in furs.

But Damon does not order Lyr to the bed. He points to a corner. "There," he says in his oddly accented Juran. "Sit there. Stay there."

Lyr looks at the corner. There's a small rug. Some kind of animal skin. "There?"

Damon nods. "You will stay there tonight. You will be safe."

"Just here?" Lyr is still puzzled. "What if I try to run away in the night?"

"No. Do not," Damon pauses, struggling for the words. "This camp is full of men with wild blood. They won't care if you're man or woman or fine pig. Half naked. Don't." His Juran is much worse when he tries to talk in full sentences. But Lyr understands what he is trying to say. Damon is telling Lyr he looks like a whore.

Lyr looks down at himself. He's so used to being naked he'd barely noticed he was only wearing his torn alit. The white robe of a Juran pleasure slave. It's filthy now and barely covers his body.

Damon looks at him for a moment, assessing. He turns to a trunk and pulls something out. "Take this. Nights get cold."

Damon throws a cloak at Lyr. A huge thing of black wool lined with fur. It must be his. It smells nice. Of sweat and smoke.

Lyr wraps himself in it. He supposed he ought to simply ask. He takes a breath and says, "Do you want me to do anything?" he says, adding, "Master." The word seems to shiver over his tongue. He realises that somewhere deep inside, somewhere dark, he likes it. He likes that this man is his master.

He owns me, Lyr thinks. I'm his. It's strange how pleasant that thought is. His new Master.

"Do something?" Damon says. "Like what?"

Lyr holds his gaze. "I'm your pleasure slave, Master."

"No. Stay there. And don't call me so."

"Master?"

"Damon." Damon pauses as if he's thinking about this. "Call me Damon."

Lyr nods. He looks at Damon. He's staring. He can't seem to help it. The sweat on his skin. His strangely-long, dark eyelashes. The sword scar across his cheek. He didn't expect to feel sorry that he wasn't going to be taken to bed as a pleasure slave. But it seems that this big man really isn't planning to have him warm the bed. He says, "My name's Lyr."

"I know that. Where are you from?"

"Here," says Lyr.

Damon smiles. His teeth are very white. "Before that. Where from before?"

Lyr blinks. It feels for a moment like a strange question. Where was he before? Who was he before he came here to Jur-Mattan? "I'm from Klish," he says. "The islands."

Damon nods. "How old are you? "

"I believe I am twenty-five summers. I tried to keep track."

"How long have you been in Pellex?"

"Seven years, I think. Perhaps a little more."

Lyr watches Damon's face. He's calculating something in his head. "You look younger."

"We do. On Klish."

Damon looks at him quizzically again, there's a moment that Lyr can't describe. Damon's face is soft.

But the strange moment breaks when, behind Damon, the tent's fabric door flaps open and someone shouts, "Damon Darekul!"

A woman stands in the opening. She is like no woman Lyr has ever seen. She's almost as tall as Damon. Her head is shaved completely bald. Lyr has to look twice to be sure she is a woman. She smiles brightly and exclaims, "Renrel said you were back." She speaks in Artemian. But she is not from Azuria, Lyr is certain. Even if she wears the black leather armour of the Imperial Army and the Azurian sigil on her breast.

The same sigil Damon tore off. Tore off to protect him.

"I am," Damon says as the woman crosses the tent to embrace him firmly. They embrace like men, straight-backed. This woman is not his lover, Lyr thinks.

"I thought you would be revelling in the ruins of Pellex all night," the woman says into Damon's shoulder. She has a distinct accent. Definitely not Azurian.

"I decided not," Damon says, pulling back from the embrace.

The woman frowns and touches the torn place on Damon's jerkin where he ripped off his badge in the Grand Hall. "Where is your sigil? Did you lose it in battle? Surely that is an ill omen."

"No. Nothing like that. It was not torn from my breast by a Juran fighter, I took it off myself. I am done. My last promises to Emperor Selim are honoured." He smiles slightly. "I threw it at Atticul's feet."

Trysta rolls her eyes. "How dramatic. You did not think it would be better to wait until you were home in Attar to behave in such a manner?"

"I had my reasons. I did not want to spend a moment longer under Prince Atticul's command as the worst General Paramount Azuria has ever known."

The woman raises a dark eyebrow. "Then thank Zai, you are here now."

"You are pleased I am not revelling?"

"I am pleased you are here and whole."

Damon smiles warmly at her. "You thought me dead in battle?"

"It was your last campaign. I thought Zai might find it amusing to strike you down."

"You think Zai so malicious? Doroth Zain would make you do penance for such a thing."

The woman steps back from Damon and spits on the floor. "Your Zai High Priest can punish me if he wishes. I have committed more crimes against his God than fearing for your life." The woman walks around the table and sits down at it. She pulls a dagger from a sheath on her thigh and uses it to point at Lyr, seeming to notice him for the first time. "Who's that?"

Damon says, "He's King Ramel's pleasure slave." He walks over to the tent flap and leans out of it, calling, "Renrel, I need you."

Damon walks back into the tent followed by a page. "You staying to eat?" he says to the woman.

She nods.

"You sure? There will be a wild feast in the castle. Atticul's men are trying to convince themselves they are great warriors. They are dividing spoils. Like rats with a wheel of rotten cheese."

"I prefer the company here," says the woman. "You and," she points at Lyr with a smile on her face, "King Ramel's pleasure slave."

"Bring hot water and food," Damon says to the page who seems to be trying not to look at Lyr. "And bitter argent. Or any ale they have in store."

The page nods. "Yes, Sire." He glances over at Lyr with a strange expression, then looks away and leaves.

The woman says, "So King Ramel has male pleasure slaves?"

"Had one male pleasure slave."

"And you took him as your warprize?"

"Atticul's idea," Damon says. "His attempt to insult me."

"And would that have anything to do with the reason you threw your sigil on the floor at his feet?"

"Something like that," Damon says. He's smiling again. He seems much less angry about the whole situation now he's telling this woman about it.

The page returns with a pail of steaming water, a golden bowl and a pile of linen cloths. He takes them behind the curtain to the space by the bed.

When he emerges, Damon says, "Thank you, Renrel."

As the page leaves, Damon walks into his sleeping space.

"You want me to watch him?" the woman says, pointing at Lyr with her dagger again.

"He won't run," Damon replies, not looking back.

From his place sitting on the rug, Lyr can see through a gap in the curtain as Damon pours the hot water from the bucket into the gold bowl. He washes his hands and face then pulls off his jerkin, baring his chest. He turns and muscles move on his broad back. He has more scars there. A burn on his left shoulder. A long laceration across his lower back.

He starts to wash. It's hypnotic, watching the water droplets glisten on Damon's skin.

This man owns him now. This man who makes Lyr's heart beat too fast when he looks at him.

Renrel returns with bread and ale and meat which he sets on the table. He lays it out fussily and lights the candles. Lyr glances at the woman. She grins. She's been watching him, watching Damon. In Artemian, she says, "I know, sweet thing, he's a beauty, but is it enough to compensate for his personality?" Clearly, the woman knows just what Lyr was looking at.

Lyr feels himself blush. He isn't sure if the woman knows he understood her.

In very broken Juran, she says something like, "Come here, slave. Eat."

Lyr stands. "Are you sure?" he replies in Artemian.

She cracks another wide grin. "You speak Artemian. Ah, good. Damon made me learn some Juran, but conversation will be much easier in Artemian." She gestures to an empty chair. "Sit."

"At the table?" Lyr glances towards the curtained sleeping space. Damon told him to stay in the corner.

"You think slaves can't sit at this table? I am a slave too. Taken from Pluma-Ferris by that wretch in there." She points in Damon's direction. "I chose this rotten army over death on his sword and I regret it every day." She laughs, but Lyr is not sure if this is meant to be funny. "And as for your new owner General Damon Darekul, he was indentured to the Imperial Army for twenty years, little more than a slave for all that time. If he'd done what he did to me as a free man, I'd slit his throat right now. And remember, under the rule of the Azurian Empire, none of us are free from Zai's judgement." She laughs. "So sit and eat, slave. You look half-starved."

Lyr gets to his feet, still wrapped in the cloak, and takes his seat at the table.

"What is your name?" the woman says.

"Lyr, My Lady," Lyr replies.

"Sire is fine. No one in the Imperial Army is a lady. I'm Trysta. Trysta the Plumian, if you want to be formal."

Lyr nods, "Yes, Sire," he replies. He eats some more of the bread. It's good.

"You are hungry," says Trysta. "Drink too, calm your spirit a little." She passes Lyr a cup of frothy ale. Lyr takes a drink. It seems to slow his clattering heart. "I know that whore's son who took you seems like a fearsome tyrant," Trysta says. "And I have certainly believed so in my time. But you are safe with Damon. As safe as anyone can be in this world. He is a good man. If he took you, he means to protect you. And he will."

Lyr takes another sip of ale and as he does, Damon emerges from his sleeping area. He has replaced the leather jerkin with a loose silk shirt. His bone-short hair glistens with moisture. Lyr feels warmth rush to his face.

Perhaps it is the ale.

"Lyr," Damon says, then pauses. "That's right, isn't it? Lyr?" he adds in Juran.

"Lyr," says Lyr. "Yes."

He points towards the curtain in front of the bed. "You want to wash too?"

Lyr nods. He gets up from the table and walks through the curtain. Damon's wooden bed is even larger than it looked from the glimpse he caught earlier. Lyr pauses to touch the black fur that covers it. It's coarse, but warm. Several skins sewn together .

Wolf, Lyr thinks.

Lyr walks over to a high wooden table where Damon has set the golden bowl. The water is still quite warm and he uses one of the cloths to wash the grime off his face and hands. He removes the cloak, then takes the torn white alit and repositions it so it covers him more decently. His bare feet are filthy. He takes the bowl from the table and sets it on the floor. Then he sits on Damon's bed and puts his feet into the bowl.

On the other side of the curtain, he can hear Damon and Trysta speaking Artemian. Lyr can follow their conversation quite easily.

"You will be glad to get home to your wife?" Trysta says. "Will she have any concerns when you turn up with a male whore in your cart of spoils?"

"I will not turn up with a male whore. He will not be a whore. He cannot be in Attar if he is to survive. I will put him in my kitchens."

"But you will keep him?"

Lyr leans down and uses the cloth to wash his legs clean where they are dirty from the trek through the conquered city. He has neat rings of scars on his legs. Below the knees, they were mostly done with Queen Jareleezi's sharpest blade. He can feel the raised bumps of them as he washes himself. He knows it hurt when she carved them into him, but he can barely remember the pain.

"Inez is very fair," says Trysta, on the other side of the curtain. "And young. Selim could not have found you a better wife."

"He could. I should have asked for you," Damon says.

Trysta laughs. "You know very well you would never have been allowed to marry me, Damon. I am a Plumian warrior slave. You are the son of the heir to the Imperial throne. Your father cares a great deal about the matches his sons make. Even the bastards. So instead of being the sweet wife, who you struggle to bed, I will be leaving tomorrow for Ik-Sundal."

"They are already moving on Ik-Sundal?"

"That is the rumour. A few staying here to begin the work on Pellex and bring Jur-Mattan into the arms of the empire. But many more moving south. Additional troops are already on their way from the barracks in Lunatum and Naranda. They march through Fanost. I will fight on for this blasted army into the desert, while you travel home to your sweet new life."

"I would take you with me if I could, Trysta."

"I know you would. But truly, Damon Darekul, what is there for me in Azuria apart from a bloody execution when Doroth Zain and your cruel God discover my sins of the body?"

"I will miss you a great deal."

"I don't suppose you'd consider staying? I am sure your tantrum in front of Prince Atticul would easily be forgiven in return for you leading the Imperial Army into battle in Ik-Sundal."

"I am sure it would. Selim has offered me a great fortune to stay. But the term was twenty years and I have served him for twenty and two."

It's getting dark in the tent. The only other light is from two candles on the table and only a little of it makes it through into the sleeping space. Lyr lies back on Damon's bed, wolfskin prickling through the alit. He listens idly to Trysta saying, "Strange that someone with such a talent for battle should have no real taste for it."

"It is a filthy business. I grew skilled at it because I did not wish to die in a pool of blood and shit. No other reason." Lyr hears the sound of cups being refilled with ale. Lyr thinks they have forgotten he is even there. "If I could have found a way to avoid it, I would have."

"You would never have met me if you had."

"I would never have met you because I wouldn't have been on Pluma-Ferris fighting for Azuria and killing and enslaving your people. You would still be in your home."

Trysta laughs. "You think that without you Azuria would never have re-taken Pluma-Ferris?"

Damon laughs too. "Have you forgotten that I am The One Man Army?"

"How could I, with you here to remind me?"

Lyr stands up before he falls asleep. He dries his feet with one of the linen cloths and wraps himself up in the cloak. He walks back into the main space of the tent. Trysta smiles at him. Her teeth glittering in the candlelight. "Sit back down with us, Lyr. And eat some of this mutton before it's all gone."

Lyr sits back at the table and Trysta slides a plate of meat in front of him. Gingerly, he takes a piece with his fingers and eats it. He has not eaten meat in years. Jareleezi said it would pollute the power in his blood. It's greasy and strange.

"What a sweet gift Atticul has given you," Trysta says, looking at Lyr.

"Atticul forced my hand. Would have killed him otherwise."

Trysta places a splayed hand over her chest. "Oh, how sweet. You saved his life."

"He didn't deserve to die just because Atticul wanted to fan the flames of things people whisper about me."

"Oh, the whispers ? You mean the terrible, scurrilous rumour that you are sly?"

Damon nods.

"Is it a crime to be sly in Azuria?" Lyr says .

Damon looks at Lyr, a little shocked.

Trysta laughs. "I didn't tell you?" Trysta says brightly. "He speaks Artemian." She looks at him. "You understand us quite well, don't you?"

"Yes, Sire. I have some Artemian."

Trysta grins broadly at Damon. "He speaks Artemian. You speak Juran. Perhaps the two of you could mix tongues," she says bouncily.

Damon rolls his eyes, "Zai's balls," he murmurs. "Are you sure you wouldn't be happier in the castle?"

Trysta looks at Lyr. "Where are you from?" she says. "You don't look like a Juran."

"I'm from Klish," Lyr says, drinking the rest of the ale in his cup. "The islands west of Jur-Mattan. In the Priam sea."

Trysta leans over and refills it. "Klish, really. What language do they speak in Klish?"

"Some speak Juran and on my island, we speak Magaar, Sire."

"Oh, I don't believe I know any Magaar," says Trysta.

"You barely know any Juran," says Damon lightly.

Trysta gives him a withering look. "You should hear me converse in Plumian. The most beautiful language in the world."

"Is it?" says Lyr. "I have never heard anyone speak Plumian."

"Nor have I," says Trysta, "for many years."

"Magaar is a beautiful language too," says Damon, "I learned it as a child. It is part of the education of a young nobleman to learn Magaar."

"Really," says Trysta. "Why?"

"So we can read old poetry, mainly."

"Oh yes. Can you recite any of this Magaar poetry? "

"Not really. I've not had much call for it lately. There was one about roses, I liked that, I remember."

Lyr leans forward. The ale he has drunk has made him feel relaxed and far more confident at the table of these two huge soldiers. " All the Roses Die ?" he asks.

Damon laughs. "That's the one."

"Sounds like the kind of thing you'd like," says Trysta. "Dramatic and maudlin. Let's hear it."

"From me?" Lyr points at himself.

"Yes," says Trysta. "Go on. I want to hear this beautiful language that rivals even Plumian."

"Perhaps Damon would rather. It is his favourite."

"No please," Damon says, gesturing with his cup. "You'll do it justice."

Lyr nods and closes his eyes for a second, remembering the words of the old rhyme. He recites the first line in the sweet, lilting language of his home. How long has it been since he's spoken Magaar aloud? Many of the incantations Jareleezi had chanted over his body had been in Magaar, but he hasn't spoken it himself since he left Klish.

" The roses raise their faces to the sun ," Damon translates as Lyr finishes the first line.

"Almost," says Lyr softly. His head is swimmy from the ale. "That word, ‘ juzu ' means faces but specifically, in Magaar, it means the faces of children. Maybe ‘The roses raise their childlike faces to the sun,' would be closer, but even then it's not quite right because their faces are literally children, not like the faces of children. ‘The roses raise their faces of children to the sun' is accurate. It doesn't sound quite right though."

Damon watches him with a strange expression on his face. Lyr can't read it. What is he thinking? Lyr recites the next line.

Damon translates again. Line by line. " All day they drink the sun's rays like honeywine. But the night must always come. All the roses die in their beds. They never drink the sun when they are dead. Is that right?"

Lyr nods.

"I know it is far more beautiful in Magaar," says Damon. "But that's why noble sons learn it. Artemian doesn't do it justice."

Trysta nods at them both. "Noble sons learn Magaar so you can read the beautiful words of ancient poetry before you go off to lead the Imperial army to kill."

Damon laughs. "Yes. With poetry in our hearts."

Trysta sneers. "Revolting. Is that how it ends? With the roses dead and never drinking honeywine again?"

"In some versions," says Lyr, "but sometimes there are two more lines." He recites them in soft, sweet Magaar, the language feels lush, delicious on his tongue. When he's done, he translates, "It means, Their petals rot into the earth to rest with the Demon King as he sleeps in the soil. Their death is permanent, but his is not. The Demon King will rise. "

"I've never heard it with those lines before," says Damon softly. He gazes at Lyr in the candlelight.

"A twist ending," says Trysta. "It's not about roses at all. It's about demons. Roses and men die forever. But apparently, demon kings do not." She looks at Damon who is still staring at Lyr. "Does it ruin your favourite poem?" she asks. "To discover that it has a strange ending about the return of the Demon King?"

"I don't think I have ever liked it quite as much as I do now," Damon says.

"See, I was quite correct. Prince Atticul has done you a great favour by giving you this pleasure slave," Trysta says. "He is rather delightful."

"It was not Aticul's intention to delight. His intention was only to undermine me and fuel rumours. I'm sure he would like nothing better than to have me arrested for sins of the body the moment I set foot in Azuria."

Trysta shakes her head. "Your poor foolish brother. He's so threatened by you."

"I'm a better soldier than him."

"You're a better everything than him. Your father's oldest and favoured son. And you have been commended by Emperor Selim more than anyone. It's not hard to understand why Atticul feels threatened by his glory-laden older brother."

"He is foolish in the extreme. I'm the bastard son of a dead whore. It's not as if I trouble his birthright."

"I have heard people say you ought to be made Prince Rafus's heir. After all you have done for the glory of Azuria."

Damon raises his cup. "Oh, the glory of Azuria," he says, deadpan.