The King's Daughters (14 page)

Pleased, Dimitry produced a big grin, exposing his three teeth. "I hope you understand that we don't dislike our king, or foreigners."

The man seated on my right slapped my shoulder hard enough to throw me against the table. "We like them well enough," he proclaimed with a loud belly laugh.

"Leonid's right," said Kathia. "The queen is from a foreign country and she's a kind, loving lady."

I watched every head in the room bob in agreement. I looked at Kathia busily washing dishes. "So you like the queen?"

"Yes, very much," she replied, drying her hands on her apron. "When she was well, the queen used to travel to the villages, ours and the others farther west. She'd bring goods for the poor. On the bad years, when the harvest failed, she'd make more trips, bringing food as well as other supplies. Now her ladies-in-waiting are doing her charity work. Lady Isabo and Countess Ivana, fine, fine ladies. They often bring the young princesses along when they come to see us. Still, I wish the queen was in better health." Kathia sighed. "It's a shame that she's so sick."

Dimitry coughed. "What's a shame is that she wasn't able to give the king a son."

"She gave him five lovely daughters," I said.

"Arh, they can't rule. We're stuck with that spoiled duke."

"Have you heard about the kidnapping of the king's daughters?"

"The news got to us. That's a scary affair."

"They say Farrellians did it."

"What! Farrellians! Here, in these parts? I don't believe that. If you ask me there is more truth in the Baba Yaga story."

The man with the sheep vest seated on my right slammed his fist on the table. "The Baba isn't a tale. She exists. She's mean and ugly. Her mouth is huge and filled with big rocklike teeth. She's real, I tell you. My son saw her house in the woods, that thing nearly killed him."

"By that thing, you mean the witch?" I said.

"No," the man snapped. "I mean the house. The witch steals children and kills grownups. But the house kills everyone that comes near it."

"The house?"

The man's face twisted in frustration and anger. I watched his nostrils flare, thinking he might strike me for having dared question his belief in the Baba. Fortunately, no blow came my way; the man regained some control over his temper and continued his confusing explanation. "You see, there are skulls with glowing eyes above the house. If they don't see you, you're safe. But if they notice you though, the house would then trample you to death."

"Ah, I see." I nodded, feigning having understood. I glanced at Diego. He made a drinking gesture with his hand then indicated the man with the sheep vest.
Oh yes, my friend, you got that right,
I thought before turning back to the group. "Have any of you got other ideas about who might have abducted the princesses?"

Several theories were expressed by the men assembled around the table. In my opinion, none made sense, so I came to the conclusion that these peasants knew nothing useful about those crimes. After some more time spent talking and savoring Kathia's hearty, delicious cooking, Diego and I bid the villagers farewell and departed Dimitry's home.

The coldness of the air took my breath away. My nostrils stuck together, and I felt the skin of my cheeks tightening as the frigid breeze stung my face. From the corner of my eye, I could see the glow of the fire still burning in the ruin.

"Are you coming?" Diego asked while untying our horses.

I shook my head. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to leave the village now. Something was bothering me. "Remember those horse tracks we saw?"

"Yes," replied Diego. "What about them?"

"I don't know." I rubbed my beard trying to recall the image of the tracks in my mind. Slowly, they began to take form. The tracks had come from the hill, passed near the ruin, then moved parallel to the bear's trail, entering the forest. "The more I think about it, the more I believe these tracks belong to the rider we saw last night."

Diego was skeptical, I could tell by his posture: arms folded and nose wrinkled. "That's impossible to prove, Amir."

"I know. However, this rider came down the hill and rode into the forest."

"And?"

I sighed. He was right. It proved absolutely nothing. This affair was far more complicated than I had anticipated. Or perhaps I just wasn't smart enough to figure it out, or simply not looking at the right things. Either way, I was lost.

That night I had a peaceful, dreamless sleep, and I awoke in the morning feeling refreshed but a little disappointed. Secretly, I had wished to see Jafer again, wished for him to speak to me in my dream, to show me the right path. By his absence, I assumed he wasn't going to help me anymore and that I was now all alone—well, not really, there was Milo.

Stretched out in my bed, I watched him prepare my clothes for the day, then boil water for tea and my daily washing. Honestly, I don't know how I would cope without Milo. Even though coming to his defense had put me in a precarious position with the king, I no longer regretted having saved him. My appreciation of Milo's service was unusual for me. I was never fond of servants—I never trusted them. I always believed that their loyalty was something that could be bought with gold or broken by force. So why did I feel so differently about Milo? I trusted him thoroughly. I didn't question the strength of his loyalty either. That was strange . . . very strange indeed.

While I was watching Milo pick lint off one of my kaftans, I suddenly realized why I trusted him so much.
Because he's not a servant.
As an imperial eunuch, Milo had been trained to fulfill many functions: valet, confidant, taster, even male concubine (for the sultans who were so inclined). But first and foremost, he was a bodyguard, and as such he was ready to give his life to protect his master. No amount of torture or gold could change that.

"Milo, how old were you when you were made a eunuch?"

Milo stopped fussing over my clothes and straightened as swiftly as if he had been bitten by a whip. Keeping his back to me, Milo answered in a neutral voice, "Eight, I believe."

"Uh, was it done in Telfar?"

"No. In my homeland." Clearing his throat, Milo added, "My lord shouldn't trouble himself with this. It's of no importance for my lord."

I ignored his suggestion. "Must've been hard for you. Do you miss your homeland?"

Milo took a deep hissing breath. "Telfar is my home. And yes, I do miss it."

His answer baffled me. Sitting up in bed, I questioned him further. "You don't miss Farrell?"

Milo swung around; his eyes were abnormally shiny, I thought. "Why should I miss a country that . . . butchered me and . . . and then sent me away as a gift."

"What about your parents?"

"They died of the plague. I was an orphan living on the street. That's were they got me. I have only bad memories of Farrell. Telfar, your father's palace, is where I felt safe and valued for the first time in my life. They clothed me, fed me, educated me. I had power there. I was trusted with the charge of protecting your father, of conversing with him."

I gasped. "You served my father! You seem too young for that."

Milo raised his chin with pride. "I replaced Ely for a few months when he broke his ribs at wrestling practice."

I was speechless. I'd never thought, not even once, that Milo could've come in contact with my father, let alone serve him. "How was he?"

"Your father?"

I nodded.

Milo shrugged. "Lonely."

I frowned. That wasn't the answer I had expected. "What do you mean? Father had hundreds of women, sons, and viziers. How could he be lonely?"

"He just was. Well, at least that's the impression I got. True, he spent his nights with Çiçek, his favorite concubine, but his days were spent mostly alone . . . with us. His meetings with the vizier never lasted very long. We, the white eunuchs, provided the bulk of his companionship. The palace made sure that our education was extensive and as complete as any highborn nobles would receive. Hence our lessons included a broad variety of subjects such as mathematics, art, literature. We had to be able to entertain any type of conversation, play music, read poetry, or play chess. Your father loved chess."

A sudden wave of jealousy washed over me. Why not seek us, his sons, for conversation? Were we not good enough? Why did my father spend all his time with eunuchs? Why choose them over us . . . unless. A distasteful thought had just formed in my suspicious mind. I stared at Milo with some repulsion. "What other duties were you fulfilling for my father?"

"All kinds. We—" Milo stopped speaking. By the embarrassed look on his face, he'd just realized what I'd meant. "Oh, that! No. Your father's taste was strictly for women."

Oddly enough, this answer brought me no joy, quite the opposite in fact. I had hoped this could have been the reason why my father had favored the company of eunuchs over mine and my brothers'. For a good minute, I chewed the inside of my cheek while brewing dark thoughts. We could have been his companions instead of the eunuchs. I glared at Milo, resenting him for having known my father better than I had.

It's not his fault,
I told myself.
Princes cannot be trusted. Eunuchs, on the other hand, are devoted, trustworthy, loyal companions. They would never bury a knife in the Sultan's back as an ambitious prince might have done. That's why Father trusted eunuchs more than us. Father trusted Milo. And so do I. We have that in common.
My resentment evaporated, and I smiled at Milo. "Today, I feel like exploring the castle, and you're coming with me."

* * *

I had left my rooms with no precise destination in mind, but for some unknown reason, my instinct had led me to the foot of the tower's staircase where I had first felt the strange tingling sensation.

Milo didn't hide his disappointment; I knew he had been looking forward to spending time in the warmth of the conservatory. Later maybe we'd go there, but for now I had to verify something here, something that had been gnawing at me for a while now.

I placed my foot on the bottom step and leaned forward. Nothing. No tingling whatsoever. Could it have been a draft I felt that day? Could it have been my nerves? It could have been anything, really. I peered up the steps. Perhaps I should see where these steps led nonetheless.

I climbed up. Soon I reached a square landing where the steps turned before going up again. A door was set there. I touched the wooden door. Nothing; I felt nothing besides its rough wood grain. I grabbed the doorknob and turned it. The door was locked.

"Whose room is this?" asked Milo.

"I don't know, but that person holds no interest to us," I said before moving on. As I neared a second landing, another door appeared further up the stairs. I hadn't reached the door yet, when a familiar smell hit my nose. I hurried up the remaining steps to the front of the door. A thin opened space was visible around its frame. I brought my nose to its edge and breathed in the aroma escaping from the small crack. Herbs. That was the familiar scent filling my nostrils. I recognized chamomile and mint. There was more though, much more. I tried opening the door, and again, I found that it was locked.

Closing my eyes, I breathed in the aroma once more. Amid the rich blend, I was able to distinguish one pungent scent. "Camphor," I whispered, a little disappointed that I couldn't discern the others. I backed away from the door.

"What is it, my lord?"

"This room smells like an apothecary's chest."

"Maybe that's what it is—I mean a room-sized apothecary chest."

"Maybe," I replied, although I had a hard time believing that. Putting this room out of my mind, I stared at the last stretch of steps. Without another word, I climbed up them. Just as I thought, one last door awaited us atop the staircase. This one however wasn't locked like the others, but half-opened. Clanking noises were filtering through this opening.
CLUNK, POINK, TANK
echoed from inside. That blend of metallic sounds accompanied with the resounding
clinks
of glass containers touching together reminded me of the cacophony of a busy kitchen. Here too the air was permeated with odors, bizarre powdery ones, oily ones also.

I stretched a hand to further open the door, but Milo blocked my move before my fingertips could make contact with the door. "This could be dangerous, my lord. Perhaps I should venture in first."

"No—step back!" With a hand firmly grasping the hilt of my sword, I pushed the door wide open. What lay in front of me took me so totally by surprise that, for a long moment, all I could do was just stand there in total awe of my surroundings, while ogling everything inside the room, like a thief might ogle the gold of the imperial treasury. This room was filled with all sorts of scientific implements the likes of which I had never seen before. My eyes traveled to the giant telescope aimed at the window, to the many compasses lining the right wall, then to the mechanical time-device beside the door. Well, I
thought
that's what that machine was. Its balance wheel moving left, right, left, right indicated that much.

Finally, my gaze settled on the long table in front of us. Its entire length was cluttered with bottles of chemical substances, some liquid, some in solid chunks, and some in powdered form. There were also two burners, one was lit and had a glass beaker suspended above its flame with an amber-colored liquid inside. Although this amber brew was not boiling yet, I could see a thin strip of vapor coming out of the beaker's open top, indicating that it was quite hot.

"What is this place?" whispered Milo.

"WHO GOES THERE?" a gravely voice hollered from the far end of the room.

"Prince Amir of Telfar," I answered, squinting to see past the clutter of scientific instruments.

Through this mess, I saw a silhouette coming toward us. It appeared to be a disheveled, gray-haired old man well into his sixties with a big bulbous nose. As he approached, I noticed that he was limping heavily. But what really held my attention was the red scar on his face. Starting above his left eyebrow, this jagged line slashed across his dead white eye, down his cheek, to finally disappear in his beard—which I noted was seeded with the leftovers of a late breakfast. I also noted that his clothes were stained and riddled with tiny burn holes.