Waking, I wonder;
What raiment does the breeze wear
On this first day of spring?
A fine spun, fragrant mantle
Borrowed from the swaying blooms!

– The Canticle of Menkeret.




Night.

I lie in my pallet and, as is now my custom, I listen closely to the nocturnal sounds of the house of Heshuzius. But, after an hour or so of this, my mind inevitably wanders to former times, to the days before my enslavement, to the house where I grew up and its life of happy, carefree idleness.

In those days, my father would read to me daily from the many sacred books of our people, reserving the end of each lesson for selections from the Canticle of Menkeret. Parts of the sacred Canticle I quickly learnt by heart, but knowledge of other chapters was forbidden to me. When I asked him why, as I frequently did, his response was always,

“I cannot foresee the consequences of you possessing such knowledge.”

Even my mother who has attained the rank of Divine Adoratrice in the temenos of Mehen, the Enveloper, was forbidden to read certain parts of the Canticle. She accepted this with good grace. Not so I.

My father had studied the arts of sorcery and necromancy for over twenty years and only then were the proscribed texts revealed to him by his teachers; masters in the art, which was as old as time itself. My father’s masters were old men too, or so it seemed to me. Once I told one of them so, only to receive a sharp rebuke. I was certain of one thing: that I did not want to wait until I was as old as they to fully learn the art of sorcery. As my father had no son, I was to be his heir. I was pleased, for sorceresses are rare in the long history of Mentrassanae. I was to be the successor of Mykita Umm Kala and Zia Tal Kadzior; my idol, who had lived, worked her magic and had been a lover and confidant of kings over five hundred years before my birth. My father encouraged my youthful adoration of these remarkable, almost legendary Mentrassan women while never believing that I could be their equal. I will prove him wrong yet.

The keeper of my father’s books and manuscripts was a man called Dorzi. He was a scholar, about twice my age. A handsome but reserved and bookish man, Dorzi was more at home amongst the old tomes than he was in the company of men or women, and he was infinitely more conversant with arcane lore and ancient tongues than with feminine wiles. He was the only servant my father would allow in his study and apart from my father, Dorzi seldom associated with the other occupants of the house.

One night when my father was away and my mother was busy entertaining one of her lovers, I slipped from my chamber. My father’s study was in the far wing of the house. It took me a long while to reach it by candlelight. It was also imperative that I go there unseen for I was forbidden to enter the room without my father. My journey was easier than I expected for most of the senior servants were engaged in the kitchens and cellars and the chamber maids had retired for the night. I crept into the study dressed in the most diaphanous of my night gowns; a fine garment, gossamer thin and costly. My hair hung back like a black mane, reaching far down my back. My eyes wide with awe, I paused by the large balcony window. Outside, a full moon hung in a cloudless sky; a moon as yellow as rich butter upon a field of stars; like countless fires dotted across the deep blue firmament.

“May I help you?” said a quiet voice behind me.”

Without turning I smiled; this was my quarry.

“May I be of assistance to you?” he asked again more firmly.

Now I turned slowly, fully conscious that the moonlight would be shining through the gossamer gown, illuminating my naked body beneath. I leant back against the window frame and smiled warmly.

“Lady Kayla!”

“Ah, you must be Dorazi.”

“Dor-zi, my lady,” he corrected me and bowed. “Forgive me but what brings you here at this hour? You must remember that your father…………”

“I was merely passing and wanted to see the view from this balcony.