Eos, p.31
Eos, page 31
Benaten and Behamenut reach the ground floor just as the first of the prominent guests enter the antechamber.
“The Most Venerable Vardavar Urartumi, Born of the Great House Urartumi and First Priest of the Imperial Order of Kassiopei! The Most Venerable Tuataan Madru, First Priestess of the Sacred Order of Amrevet-Ra!” Steward Kidu cries, his voice thundering with additional emphasis.
A man and woman in long dark robes walk from the entrance past the arch trellis. The woman is young, tall, and hard, without any spare flesh on her bones. She is dark brown-skinned like my Grandmother, with an elegant neck and a stern, angular face of grim beauty. Her floor-length niktos-black garment is trimmed with white, and her black hair is gathered in a sculpted bun on top of her head. A veil of fine gold mesh covers her head and sweeps down her back, to indicate her priestly rank.
Meanwhile, the man is short and heavy-set, middle-aged, with skin the color of desert sand and a clean-shaven head except for a small gilded forelock coiled like a serpent in a spiral on top of his head. His long black robes are more intricate, multi-layered, and trimmed in gold. His face is unreadable, like a mask of serenity.
As soon as they approach, all of us assembled in service rows, bow our heads deeply, and I do the same. We stand offering flowers while the lofty priests sail past us. And now, all I can see is the moving fabric of their black robes at waist level, and the gold or white trim at the hems near the floor. Far too afraid to raise my gaze any higher while they are directly nearby, I nevertheless see, very soon, two beautiful flower blossoms fall discarded at their feet. . . .
I look up moments later, as the Steward of Ceremonies announces very enthusiastically, “Our Most Gracious Lord Muutat Bisfuri! First Lady Ashura Ximunat of the Great House Ximunat, and her son Lord Enhuvarat!”
Everything is happening too fast, vying for our attention all at once. I’m unsure whose arrival to watch, where to turn my anxious, scattered gaze. . . . The Bisfuri brothers intercept the priests, while their father, Lord Bisfuri arrives from the other direction—
“Welcome, Most Venerable Tuataan, and Most Venerable Vardavar, to our—that is, to my festivities,” says Behamenut loudly, stepping ahead of his older brother, after only a moment of awkward hesitation. I watch Benaten stand directly behind him, and notice the discreet placement of his hand as he pushes Eham forward, since it is officially his party to host.
First Priestess Tuataan stops and gives Behamenut the faintest of nods. “It is a pleasure, as always, to be received in the House of Bisfuri,” she says in a deceptively bland voice that manages to ring with power. “Young Eham, your festivities are charming. Do we owe this to your older brother, or your own efforts, this time?”
“Oh, it is all Eham,” Benaten says with indulgent sarcasm and a magnetic smile, nodding at the Priestess.
“Yes, yes, perfectly delightful, everything,” the First Priest Vardavar interrupts, patting Eham on the shoulder in a fatherly gesture, and then coughs. “Now, be so kind, young man, as to direct me to the refreshments. The heat outside is unusual for this time of night, and our ride was also overheated, so unfortunately it has affected my vocal—”
“But of course, please do come this way, Venerable One,” Eham says at once, with a practiced gesture.
Benaten nods at him with an assertive look, but remains standing in place while the Priest of Kassiopei follows the younger brother to the drink fountain.
I see that Benaten periodically glances past the Priestess of Amrevet-Ra at the other arrivals—his father and the two who came with him.
Now that I’m able to look away, I do the same.
Surprisingly, I recognize the tall, cold noblewoman with impassive dark eyes, a beautiful oval face, and ruby painted lips that were not made to smile. . . . It’s the same First Lady Ximunat who had been at the Service Competition this afternoon, picking and choosing among us. She was the one who ignored Uru, Girsul, me, and numerous worthy others who completed the race across Denderaat Bridge, all in favor of the most handsome and beautiful.
And now, this same Lady Ashura walks next to Lord Muutat Bisfuri, engaging in charming banter and laughing in an exaggerated manner, all while resting her manicured hand on his forearm. Tonight, she is dressed in a spectacular gown of pearl and gold, made of a fine fabric that hugs all her voluptuous curves, leaving nothing to the imagination except the true expression of her glamorously shadowed eyes. . . .
Immediately behind Lady Ximunat comes the young Lord, her son. Enhuvarat Ximunat is a young man of exceptional good looks, tall and elegant in posture, not unlike his mother, and well-aware of his attraction. His long dark hair is gathered in a segmented tail, a slim sculptured circlet of gold hugs his forehead, and his eyes are a vivid dark blue. He sports the same male fashion as most of the younger noblemen, a well fitted upper jacket, deep blue to match his eyes. However, underneath he wears an exotic garment of fine airy silk that emerges from the front of his jacket like a frilly scarf, and also continues beneath the jacket, sweeping over his sleek pants like a cloak of spun gold.
I find myself staring so hard at his fashion choice that my jaw drops. And I force myself to look away and take in the sight of the older Lord of this House.
It must be said that Lord Muutat Bisfuri himself is an impressively handsome man, displaying a fine figure tonight. He might be of a lesser physical stature than his first son Benaten, but he certainly has the effortless confidence of the great Lord of the wealthiest noble House of Atlantida. Muutat Bisfuri is perfectly groomed, with the beginnings of a beard, and his dark brown hair is contained with a gold circlet studded with gems.
His jacket is silvery grey trimmed in persimmon bands of silk at the sleeve wrists, with matching pants and pointed shoes.
Lord Bisfuri arrives before his serving staff and graciously receives a flower, putting it in the center of his wide collar of gold and gems. He then makes a welcoming hand gesture to Lady Ximunat, and she takes a lotus blossom also. She brings it up to her nose and then suggestively brushes it against her full lips—before tucking it in the bracelet at her left wrist.
Her son, the handsome Lord Enhuvarat, takes his flower, and twirls it between his elegant manicured fingers, as he walks past us.
Lord Muutat, along with Lady Ashura and her son, then join Benaten and the Priestess, all of them continuing onward toward the grand hall.
All of us in the staff receiving line exhale in relief—prematurely.
In that very moment, the Steward of Ceremonies cries out at the top of his considerable voice, announcing the most terrifying arrivals of all.
The Imperial Kassiopei are here.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
The servants of Bisfuri start bowing deeply at the waist, gazes cast to the floor, hands outstretched, offering flowers. And the noble guests in the vicinity also pause, gathering themselves for obeisances.
Menahit gives me a sideways look of widened eyes, because I’m staring, having forgotten to bow. I recall myself, and copy her motions, but not before I’ve seen the three Imperial newcomers arrive and walk toward us past the arch trellis, followed at a short distance by a whole retinue of others. And even then, I persist, stealing quick glances from my bent position because . . . Bastet, I simply must.
“The Imperial Lord Narmeradat Kassiopei, Crown Prince of the Divine Kassiopei Dynasty!” Steward Kidu exclaims, pausing for impact. Then he continues, “The Imperial Lord Oron Kassiopei, Prince of Kassiopei and the Imperial Lady Arlenari Kassiopei, Princess of Kassiopei!”
Prince Narmeradat walks several paces ahead of his younger brother and sister, with the confidence of an ancient god come to life—striking, overbearing, and yes, terrifying. His attire is surprisingly informal: a sleeveless white linen jacket and pants, with only a hair-fine pattern of gold trim around his collar and shoes. The muscles of his arms are nicely defined, and his long golden hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He barely glances at the surroundings with a bored gaze of his lapis lazuli-blue eyes that appear to have a black line “drawn” around the eyelids. That dark outline is a natural trait—the divine wedjat inherent in the Kassiopei lineage, together with the niktos-black brows and preternatural vigor (something I learned from watching the shows on our media-box).
The Crown Prince pauses to pick a flower from one servant, then continues a step and takes a second one. The expression of his face transforms into a faintly mocking sneer of general disdain. He holds both flowers in his hands and twirls their short stems as if they are fidget toys. He then heads in the direction of the Bisfuri, who in turn retrace their steps to meet him half-way.
“Wixameret, Imperial Lord Narmeradat!” says Lord Muutat Bisfuri loudly, in a musical voice, taking a step forward and inclining his head to the minimal degree necessary. “You grace us with your shining presence tonight.”
“My Imperial Father and Mother send their regrets to the House Bisfuri. They’re unable to attend your feast this time. Instead, they send their entire brood to your door,” Narmeradat replies in an equally loud, low voice imbued with traces of dark humor, and power.
The Imperial Kassiopei are known to have divine power voices, I recall, even as my skin prickles at the strange tangible sound of that voice.
Meanwhile, the Imperial twins, brother and sister, approach the line of servants. Oron Kassiopei is slightly taller than his older brother, but has a milder expression and less of a commanding presence—as though he knows his place and has no intention of assuming anything more. His sleeveless jacket and pants are light brown, with no other adornment, except for the gem-studded gold collar which is slightly more formal than his older sibling’s.
Oron has similar handsome features as Narmeradat, the same wedjat eyelids, blue eyes, and golden hair of the Kassiopei Dynasty, worn loose down his back. But his visage seems to be lit from the inside with an interesting energy and benevolence. He even looks directly at the faces of the servants lined up in rows on both sides, takes the first flower offered to him with a gracious nod and carries it like a gift.
Princess Arlenari Kassiopei walks alongside him, wearing a pale, sky-blue dress of several layers of fine gauze fabric, and a short delicate veil floating in a cloud over her upswept golden hair sculpted in a twist shape on top of her head. Droplets of pearls are threaded throughout her hair, and slim gold bracelets encase her slender wrists. Every step she takes with her gem-encrusted shoes is silent and light. Her lovely oval face appears to be serene and unfocused, and she looks mostly ahead of her, with occasional odd glances to the side and up, as if to admire the lofty ceiling . . . or avoid meeting other people’s eyes.
At some point, it is inevitable that she must turn in our direction, as we servants stand with our floral offerings. She happens to be on the side closer to me and Menahit, while Prince Oron is closer to the opposite row of servants.
Menahit, I, and the woman directly to my right, bow deeply, offering blossoms, never knowing if ours would be the one chosen. In sudden panic, I force my gaze toward the floor, seeing only with the edges of my sight the light blue shimmering fabric of the Imperial dress.
Mustn’t look . . . dare not look . . . she’s the weird one . . . strange princess, possibly touched by the gods; probably has the Evil Eye.
Don’t look!
And then, just like that, like some kind of ignorant hoohvak, I can’t help but glance up, right as she’s about to pass me.
Our gazes meet; we’re almost the same height.
I see startled blue eyes, darkness-outlined wedjat eyelids, underneath raven brows. Up close, her oval face is delicate but less doll-like, with thin, hollowed cheeks. Her glossy lip color is slightly lighter than the dark red that is my own noohd. . . .
For some foolish reason, the notion that she’s Imperial but also wears glossy noohd on her mouth like ordinary people, enters my head. Bastet, guard me from thinking nonsense!
The moment is a mere heartbeat, but I do the unthinkable. I thrust the flower I hold at her, and barely whisper, “My Imperial Lady—for you!”
Sacred Hathor and Bastet and all the benevolent gods, what have I done? And more importantly, why?
I hear the rush of blood in my temples, and the world possibly stops in terror at my affront to one of the divine Imperials in whose presence I’m unworthy to be.
But in that instant, Princess Arlenari Kassiopei slows her pace and pauses before me. A slender hand (with delicately manicured nails and fragile wrists) rises and meets my own. She takes the great lotus flower from my fingers, momentarily brushing them with her undoubtedly divine ones.
“Thank you . . .” she says very quietly, looking at me with sincere, clear eyes. And then, clutching the flower I’d just given her, she nods almost shyly and turns away, resuming her walk.
Strange, but her divine touch doesn’t feel any different than anyone else’s. . . . Oh, but Bast, forgive my blasphemous thoughts!
I exhale and once again forcibly lower my gaze. But first, I manage to notice Arlenari’s brother, Prince Oron, turn his head and glance at me with curiosity and a complete lack of reproach. There is indeed a twin resemblance between them—a similarity of features, but also a kind of benign demeanor. It occurs to me, now that I’ve seen her and looked directly in her face, it’s unlikely the princess has the Evil Eye.
Speaking of eyes—for just one brief instant, from further up ahead in the small grouping of nobles, I see Benaten Bisfuri’s intense grey eyes fixed upon me.
Oh, no. . . .
Somehow, I’m still standing. How is it that I’ve not been stricken dead by the gods for my weird insolence?
Crap of a goat . . . it could still happen.
At the very least, I’m probably getting fired.
Or am I?
The Imperials walk beyond us, and Lord Muutat Bisfuri himself again steps forth to welcome them with another gracious sweep of his hand and a courteous but shallow bow. Unlike the rest of us, Bisfuri is apparently lofty enough to be held to a minimal expression of obeisance. I can no longer hear what they’re saying as they move away toward the interior and the grand hall.
Next to me, Menahit widens her eyes and gives me an open-mouthed, silent glare which is amazingly eloquent: I really screwed up.
And yet, so far there are no consequences. Instead, there are more guests coming—namely, members of the Imperial retinue. The Steward of Ceremonies resumes calling out more noble names and ranks and Houses.
“Ter Stryr Giparu of the Great House Giparu and Ter Arguam Giparu!”
Now that we no longer have to bow so low, I can keep my head up and freely observe the two very handsome young men with long, reddish-brown hair, warm tan skin, and a family resemblance saunter past us.
Ter Stryr is older than his possible brother, and he only wears what could be a shining collar and a short tunic of spun gold to cover his lower body, leaving his remarkable torso and shoulders bare, as well as his muscular legs, and feet encased in light sandals. His provocative, dark-eyed gaze is sensual and disturbing as it sweeps over us, and he takes a flower from the young woman just ahead of Menahit in line.
But I immediately forget about his sculpted abdomen when I see the strange reality of the impossible, rippling collar of iridescent, living rainbow light wrapped around his manly neck.
Could that be . . . ?
Strolling right next to him, Arguam, the younger Ter Giparu, with pale blue eyes and a complex, amused expression, wears a similar tunic and little else. His lighter reddish hair falls to his shoulders, just above an identical radiant collar. He takes a flower and, with slow deliberation, picks off the petals, dropping them one by one, so that eventually his blossom falls apart in shreds, leaving nothing but the core.
I stare at both young men as they walk away. Slowly, I comprehend.
The two nobles of the House Giparu are wearing pegasei, like jewelry around their necks.
In the next few daydreams, more elite nobles pass by us, and then the stream of arrivals slows down. That’s when I see that the servants in our rows who happen to be dressed as entertainers, step out of line, and start leaving, until only the uniformed servants remain.
“Semmi! You too, go!” Menahit whispers, nudging me with her elbow. “Time to head to the entertainer dressing room and prepare for your act.”
My heart starts beating faster. I do as she says and break away from the reception line. Stepping awkwardly in my new golden sandals, I follow the others, keeping out of the way of any guests, and return to the grandeur of the feast hall.
All this time, while we’ve been receiving the fine guests in the antechamber, the last-moment decorations in the main hall have been completed, exquisite braided garlands hung, vases and tables positioned, sound system components hidden, miniature orb-lights set sailing in the air. And now the immense chamber is packed with so many noble elites in such finery that together they could fill up a busy marketplace. I have no other frame of reference to describe so many people all being in one place, hence I think of the big open-air market nearest our home in Denwen’s Pit. . . .
Probably not the best comparison to make.
Sounds of festive music, loud conversation, laughter, hit me from all directions, and I’m momentarily lost in a sea of sparkling humanity.
Clusters of noble guests form various groups, reclining on the pillow-strewn divans and settees along the walls, or striking artful poses while standing to better show off their outfits and jewelry. Servants bow before them, carrying trays laden with delicacies. Courtesans circulate among the crowds, some seated alongside nobles, others strolling gracefully, with elegant smiles for all. I don’t see where the Imperial guests have gone, and I definitely see no sign of the Bisfuri hosts.
In fact, I recognize no one I know, not even the serving staff.
I pause several times, utterly lost, feeling completely out of place, despite my own sparkling outfit.
