Transformation
Authors: Carol Berg
Table of Contents
An unwelcome guest
As the Prince spoke to the other nobles gathered at his table, I knelt and poured the drink, stealing a glance at the Khelid’s face. Smooth, pale white skin, absolutely unlike the ruddy, weathered Derzhi or the reddish-gold color of my own race. A pleasant, narrow face. Ageless. Smiling. Then his eyes met my own.
Eyes that terrified me beyond anything I had seen as a slave, beyond nightmares, beyond the most fearful encounters of my youth, for never had I faced such eyes defenseless. I stopped pouring and bowed my head, breaking off the contact instantly. Brandy was of no use to him. Nothing could ever warm those eyes or what was behind them.
However crippled I was, however lost, however removed from the person I once had been and the life I had once lived, I could still recognize one when I saw it.
He was a demon....
ROC
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
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a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, August 2000
Copyright © Carol Berg, 2000 All rights reserved
eISBN : 978-1-101-49846-0
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To Mother, who taught me of books, and Pete, who taught me to reach. And to Linda, who taught me that putting words on paper was the first and most important step, and whose generous listening and perceptive questioning at innumerable “story lunches” forced Seyonne and Aleksander, Seri, Aidan, Dante, Will, and the rest of them to reveal themselves.
Chapter 1
Ezzarian prophets say that the gods fight their battles within the souls of men and that if the deities mislike the battleground, they reshape it according to their will. I believe it. I have seen such a battle and such a reshaping as could only come about with the gods’ devising. It was not my own soul involved—thank Verdonne and Valdis and any other god who might eavesdrop on this telling—but I did not remain unchanged.
Crown Prince Aleksander, Palatine of Azhakstan and Suzain, Priest of Athos, Overlord of Basran, Thryce, and Manganar, heir to the Lion Throne of the Derzhi Empire, was perhaps the rudest, most callow, ungenerous, and arrogant youth ever to ride the deserts of Azhakstan. From the instant of our first meeting I judged him so, though it could be said that I was prejudiced. When one is standing naked on a slave-auction block in a wind cold enough to freeze a demon’s backside, one is unlikely to have a fair impression of anyone.
Prince Aleksander had inherited the intelligence and strength of a royal family that had ruled a constantly expanding empire for five hundred years and had been clever enough not to diminish itself through inbreeding or internal mayhem. Older Derzhi nobles and their wives despised his lack of respect even while shoving marriageable daughters into his path. The younger nobility, themselves no paragons of virtue, named him a fine fellow on the basis of the lavish entertainments he permitted them to share, though that opinion often changed when they ran afoul of the Prince’s whims and irritability. Derzhi military commanders judged him fit, as his heritage demanded, though rumor had it that they drew lots among themselves, the loser forced to serve the rash and stubborn Prince as military aide. The common folk were, of course, not allowed an opinion on the issue. Nor were slaves.
“You say this one can read and write?” said the Prince to the Suzaini slave merchant after examining my teeth and prodding the muscles in my arms and thighs. “I thought only Ezzarian women learned to read, and that just for deciphering potions and spells. Didn’t know the men were permitted it.” Then, while poking at my private parts with his riding crop, he leaned over to his companions and expressed the usual humorous opinions on the question of gelding Ezzarian slaves. “Completely unnecessary. Nature’s already seen to it when they’re born a man in Ezzaria.”
“Aye, my lord, he can both read and write,” said the fawning Suzaini, his bead-woven beard rattling as he babbled. “This one has many refinements as would suit him for your service. Quite civilized and well behaved for a barbarian. Can keep accounts or serve at table or do hard labor as you prefer.”
“But he’s been through the rites? None of their sorcery nonsense hanging about in his head?”
“None. He’s been in service since the conquest. Went through the rites his first day, I’d say. The Guild always makes sure of Ezzarians. Got nothing left of witchery inside him.”
No indeed. None of that. I was still breathing. There was still blood inside me. That was about all that was left.
More rude poking and prodding. “It would be decent to have a house slave who had some semblance of intelligence—even barbarian intelligence.”
The merchant glared at me in warning, but a slave learns quickly to pick and choose the points of honor for which he is willing to suffer. As the years of servitude pass, those become fewer and fewer. I had been a slave for sixteen years, almost half my life. No mere words could raise my hackles.
“But what’s this?” I tried not to jump when the riding crop touched the lacerations on my back. “I thought you told me he was well behaved. Why the stripes if he’s so virtuous? And why is his owner getting rid of him?”
“I’ve papers, Your Highness, where the Baron Harkhesian swears this one is as fine and obedient a slave as can be found, with all the accomplishments I’ve said. He’s only getting rid of him to settle his financial affairs and says the marks were a mistake and should not tell against the slave. I don’t understand it, but you can see the lord’s seal on his papers.”
Of course the slave merchant would not understand. The old warrior baron I had served for the past two years was dying and had decided he would sell me rather than allow me to become the property of his only daughter—a woman who took singular pleasure in abusing those she could not command to love her. Deciding whom to love was one of my remaining points of honor. No doubt it would crumble along with all the rest, given enough time.
“If he doesn’t suit, perhaps one of these others ...” The slave merchant’s small eyes darted nervously about the barren, walled enclosure and the ten restless spectators. As long as the Prince was interested in me, no one else would dare bid, and the weather was so nasty, there was no assurance anyone would stay around to buy the other four wretches huddled together in the corner.
“Twenty zenars. Have him delivered to my slave master.”
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