Page 9 of The Cradle of Ice
Rami remained determined and pointed ahead, toward a stone sculpture of a naked man with a rather prominent appendage between his legs, who carried a pudgy baby under one arm. Flowers and baskets of offerings lay festooned about his stone feet.
“Here comes Har’ll, in all his majesty and prominence.” Rami lifted a brow toward Kanthe. “He is our god of fertility.”
“It’s certainly plain why he gained that reputation.” Kanthe waved past the statue. “Mayhap it’s best for now if we give him a wide berth.”
Rami laughed. “I’m sure you will sire many children. I’ve seen you in the baths. While you may not be as blessed as Har’ll, you will make my sister very happy.”
Kanthe coughed at such frankness. His face flushed hot. He tried to stammer away his discomfort. He still flustered at the ease with which the Klashean discussed such matters openly, with nary a bit of shame.
Unfortunately, Rami wasn’t done. “Of course, that applies to anyone you’d share your bed with.”
The man’s fingers slid down the rail to touch Kanthe’s hand, the invitation plain. It wasn’t the first hint that Rami would like to explore their relationship beyond their already warm friendship. Rami was a couple of years older, but Kanthe sensed nothing predatory or manipulative. It was simply an open invitation.
Kanthe had already known about the changeableness of Klashean relationships, both inside and outside of wedlock. Hálendiians ridiculed such behavior and considered it further proof that the Klasheans were immoral. Kanthe had always found such an aspersion to be hypocritical, especially considering the abundance of whorehouses throughout Hálendii, not to mention all the men and women indentured into sexual servitude. Even his father kept a palacio of pleasure serfs at Highmount.
If anything, Kanthe found the openness here to be more honest. He had talked to Frell about it in their rooms. The alchymist had theorized that the fluidity found here might have something to do with the Klasheans’ strict caste system, one that was rigid and overly complex.
When one screw tightens, another often loosens, Frell had offered.
Kanthe patted Rami’s hand and turned to lean against the rail. While Kanthe had been in these lands for a season, he still hadn’t found his way to becoming that loose.
Rami grinned and took a matching position against the portside rail. He clearly took no offense at Kanthe’s rejection. Aalia’s brother likely had no trouble filling his bed. He was tall, straight-backed, with the same handsomely dark eyes as his sister and a complexion like steeped bitterroot with honey. But more importantly, Rami had proven to be a good friend, acting as guide and teacher on all matters Klashean. And if Kanthe was honest with himself, Rami’s attention was flattering, a boost to his own esteem.
Especially considering Aalia’s abundant disregard.
Kanthe glanced across the barge. Aalia stood on the starboard side, shading a hand over her eyes to stare up at the next god gliding past their boat.
The purpose of the morning voyage had been for Kanthe and Aalia to spend time together, to converse politely under the gaze of a trio of chaperones, to perhaps get to know one another before the solstice. Aalia had only spoken one word to Kanthe: mashen’dray, which meant step aside. He had been blocking her view of one of the Stone Gods. He also noted that she used the word dray, an appellation when one addressed someone of a baseborn caste. It seemed not everyone was willing to accept Kanthe’s honorary imri status.
Kanthe couldn’t blame her.
No one who truly knows me would consider me “godly,” certainly not the Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka.
He gave a shake of his head. Even as a prince of Hálendii, he was held with little regard in his homeland. For all his life, Kanthe had lived in the shadow of his twin brother, Mikaen, who had shouldered out of their mother’s womb first, earning his birthright, destined from that moment for the throne. As such, Mikaen had been doted upon and cherished, readying him for his fate as future king of Hálendii.
Kanthe had a far less illustrious upbringing. He was delegated to being the Prince in the Cupboard, whose only use in life was to be a spare in case his older twin should die. His lot was to sit on a shelf in case he was ever needed. Still, to be of some usefulness to the kingdom, he had been trained at the school of Kepenhill, to prepare him to serve as future adviser to his brother.
Not that such a fate will ever come about now.
As he stood at the ship’s rail, Kanthe flashed to Mikaen lunging at him with a sword. Despair weighed heavily at this memory. Worse, it hadn’t been the first time that Mikaen had tried to kill him.
Kanthe sighed, still finding it all hard to fathom. As children, the two had been boon companions, as close as only twins could be—until their destinies inevitably pulled them apart. Mikaen was sent to the castle’s Legionary to be trained in all manner of strategy and weaponry. Kanthe was expelled beyond the castle walls to Kepenhill, forbidden to even wield a sword.
A gulf eventually opened between them. How could it not? They became as different as their faces. Though a twin to Kanthe, Mikaen looked as if he had been sculpted out of pale chalkstone, sharing their father’s countenance, including his curled blond locks and sea-blue eyes. Kanthe took after their dead mother. His skin was burnished ebonwood, his hair as black as coal, his eyes a stormy gray. He was forever a shadow to his brother’s brightness.
And now here I am, exiled among the kingdom’s enemies.
Kanthe had thrown his lot in with Nyx and the others, intent on stopping the doom to come. He searched the skies and spotted the full moon sitting near the horizon. It shone within the smoky haze of the Breath of the Urth, which marked the boundary between Hálendii and the Southern Klashe. The haze—made up of ash and fumes—rose from Shaar Ga, a massive volcanic peak that had been erupting for untold centuries, creating a natural smoky barrier between kingdom and empire.
Kanthe tried to imagine what was happening back in Azantiia. He suspected word of him reaching these shores had made it to Highmount and his father, King Toranth. Such a landfall would be taken as a betrayal, one to be stacked upon the others. They would assume Kanthe was siding with the Southern Klashe as war drums grew louder across the northern Crown. But again, that was not why he had come here.
He scowled at the smoke-shrouded moon.
It’s all your fault.
As if scolding him for this thought, a blast of thunder boomed in the distance and echoed across the forested shores. It was so loud the waters of the bay trembled.
Kanthe straightened, shaken out of his dreary reveries. He stared up at the clear blue skies, then down to the northern horizon. A patch of the Breath’s haze had darkened, blackened by fresh smoke—but the new pall hadn’t been belched out by Shaar Ga.
