Morose and unkind,
Unfeeling, unheeding, blind;
The winds laugh and moan;
Unknowing, unknown.

– The Canticle of Menkeret

Night. I am alone in my cell in the house of Heshuzius. I am one of his possessions; a thing to be used, like a ladle. Or so he thinks. But I am no ladle, I am a sword, I am a rod of iron. Heshuzius does not know me, nor do any of these Darrakhai. I am a thing as foreign to them as snow is to the howling desert.
I am alone yet I am never afraid; my gods are ever with me and though I may perish in the darkness, I will always be their child. Menkeret and his kin are good to their children. There will be talk of me in Mentrassanae, my home. Talk of the wayward shaman’s daughter, the cunning sorceress.

I have killed a Darrakhai, whose name already escapes me, even though only a mere handful of days have passed. I escaped punishment too – why punish the ladle if the diner burns himself with the broth. A smile passes my lips but it does not linger long. Already there are sounds in the house. Dawn must be rapidly approaching; a key turns, a door opens, footsteps going up, quieter footsteps descending, a mouse scuttles over the kitchen flagstones and incense is lit. My mind is ever alert but it wearies me. Better to think of other things, to dream of the past, as perhaps the moth does in its chrysalis, before it is reborn.

I head waves breaking
Upon a deserted beach;
A place as distant
As the mountains of the moon.
Yet, to me, it seems like home.

I see myself now in the polished mirror of my mind. I am beautiful, as I have oft been told. We of Mentrassanae hold false modesty to be as contemptible as any other lie. Indeed I am possessed of beauty; I am tall and my back is straight, my shoulders are broad, for they have already borne many burdens and borne them well. My face is fair and my hair is darker than the storm clouds, my mouth has full lips and my eyes are as green as the southern sea. My legs are as fair and as shapely as any, my breasts shake and there is thunder, my hips are the embodiment of flame, my mouth is the crucible of desire and what there is between my legs men and women alike would give much to possess. But more than this; my passion and my power both glow inside me like the fires of creation, spinning a veil of light that these ignorant Darrakhai cannot see.

Now faces crowd me as I fall deeper into my reverie. I see the golden, jewel encrusted visage of Menkeret the kindly, my father the wise, my brothers, the young women of my retinue – brave and beautiful are they all. But one face comes to the fore as all others slowly recede; Oltos, my lover.

He was the son of old Kakryllion the fisherman. I remember well the day I first saw him; I was seventeen and had already enjoyed several lovers, all of whom my parents had picked.

It was a hot summer’s day at noontide and Oltos was at the quayside hauling his catch out of a tiny boat. I stopped, to the great consternation of old Ultaa, my maid. I watched him haul the fish from the tiny craft. He was naked, not an unusual sight in summer by the quay, but his rippling muscles under deeply tanned skin, his shoulders bearing the swirling black tattoos of the fishermen of Mentrassanae and his hair; long, raven black and glistening with the sweat of toil, all this made my heart beat faster, my eyes widen and the inner depths of my body stir. For a long while I watched him, feasting my eyes on his powerful back, his legs with their every muscle defined, his perfect, smooth buttocks and the compact package of his hips that hinted at the power they might contain. Still he had his back to me.

Deaf to her protestations, I left Ultaa the old crone, behind and walked up to the water’s edge. The smell of the boats, of the sea and salt come back to me now and are more wonderful that the costliest of scents. I said nothing to him, my eyes simply continued to drink in his beauty then he turned and caught sight of my sandaled foot. He looked up, doing nothing to conceal his nudity.

“Can I help you my lady?”

But his words were lost to me, like a breath is to the wind. I saw eyes of fierce turquoise blue, large eyes that glowed with honour and with nobility far above his humble station. I saw a face tanned by the sun and sea, stubbled, strong and glistening. Here was a man of surpassing beauty. I stood firm even though my legs were trembling and an ache had developed in my inner depths.

“What is your name fisherman?” I asked at last.

“I am Oltos, son of Kakryllion.”

Suddenly the screech of a passing gull made me look at his wrists. He did not wear the sacred matrimonial thread. My heart stirred again and gave me added courage.

“How much for your catch Oltos son of Kakryllion?”

“All of it my lady?”

“Aye, I never do anything by halves.”

Now he did something that I will recall and treasure all my days; he leant back against the mast of the boat and swung his hips to one side. At first I thought this was a mark of disrespect but as I looked at his manhood, my heart melted like beeswax in a fanned flame.

“One hundred oboli, my lady.” He said firmly.

“Ultaa, give me two hundred and fifty oboli.”

Again I was deaf to Ultaa’s cacophony of complaints. I took the money from her and jumped down into the boat. Fearing that I would fall, Oltos went to catch me but I am sure footed.