In Service to the Beast King [18+]

Vizier

Chapter Three

  

        Because her mother was busy caring for the young children with the other surviving adults, Breya went into the town, accompanied by the man of whom she was certain was their leader. He’d fully cleaned the rest of his body, revealing numerous odd markings that traveled up his neck and all the way down to his knees, dark lines in varying widths. She offered him different clothing, draping over his leather a cloth to protect him from her people’s curious gaze. It would also protect him from her own daring eyes. 

        She met with the Old Mothers and explained in detail what had occurred in their section of the large village. She even spoke of the fear she saw in her neighbors’ eyes and worried for the safety of the survivors. The Old Mothers gifted her with a cart full of spring vegetables, cheeses, seven live chickens and a whole stag to supplement her family’s food stores. For the small children, she stopped at a market stall to purchase little sweet candies and a special cake for her mother.

        Everyone stared at the tall stranger as he helped her pull the cart home. He ignored them as they pointed at him, turning his gaze away even though Breya could tell that he was seething with anger and embarrassment. He was too proud to act upon his emotions, or perhaps it was for her sake.  When she saw that the strain of the cart was causing him to cough, they stopped to rest. 

        “My name is Breya,” she said, once his dry coughs eased. They’d rested past the market place in a lush clearing beneath the shade of Creaking Trees. She’d given him some water from her canteen to sooth his dry throat. He’d looked at her curiously when she’d spoken but did not offer a reply or convey that he needed her to repeat.

        Breya placed her hand on her chest, over her cream colored smock, “Bre-ya.” She pronounced slowly and clearly. She placed her hand on his chest, over the opening of his shawl so that her hand rested right on the leather tunic he wore beneath. She looked expectant and placed a hand to her mouth, gesturing for him to speak. 

        He looked down at where she touched him then gazed back at her with serious eyes. She’d done something wrong; she knew it. If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t be looking at her so strangely. She felt a blush rise brightly to her cheeks as she pulled her hand back. He reached out for her retreating hand, held it firmly as he brought his other hand up to stroke her red cheek. 

        “Bre-ya,” he murmured gently. Her body hummed in response to his keen eyes and sweet touch. When he leaned toward her, Breya was certain that he would kiss her but he merely rested his forehead against her own and murmured her name again. He smelled of sweet smoke from the fire he’d escaped from. She wondered than if he’d lost his family in the blaze. He’d cared for the others but he paid no one any special attention, except for the very frail young girl.

        Breya pulled back from this unusual affection with her dark blue eyes wide with wonder.

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        “Your Majesty, Mira will not survive, she has struggled to breathe for too long,” said the older man. He closed the door to the room where she wheezed on a bed of furs. “She needs a healer, I can do nothing for her now,” he added when they’d walked further from the room.

        Rok cast his gaze toward the older man, worry hidden just behind the anger of youth. He could not save Mira, his vizier. She had been too frail at birth but had a strong will to survive.  And like all women, was wise and ambitious enough to become the future vizier of the young prince. No, young king, he has inherited the title through death, still fresh and unworthy.

        “I will seek out our hostesses,” Rok replied gravely. When he turned to leave, his kinsman touched his arm to halt him.

        “Be wary, Your Majesty, these women are wise and kind, but their men are foolish and afraid. I saw the way you looked at the younger woman…” His kinsman squeezed his arm as if to emphasize the warning but Rok tore free roughly and marched along to find Breya, flushing profusely at the thought of his apparent affection for the hostess. 

        He found her with the older woman at a strange contraption with a multitude of strings. They worked like spiders, nimble fingers entranced him and he moved closer to watch. Breya said something to him but he did not understand her. He made a gesture that they both understood as confusion. She showed him the hem of her dress, the shawl she’d loaned him, and the tapestry on the wall. 

        “Weave.”

        His people sewed tunics from soft deer hide, made thicker wear from boar skins. This technique seemed very arduous to him, but this cloth did not take as long to break in as the hide tunics did. These clothes were also very colorful, with yellow being a favorite among her people from what he could tell during their morning trip into town.

        Now that he was on the subject of learning language with her, he could begin to explain his need of a doctor with her. Unable to mime a sick person successfully, he took her and the older woman into Mira’s room. The young girl opened her large pale hazel eyes and murmured her greeting to him. Other than that, she was still, her breathing loud and rattling as if there was an iron ball rattling against her tiny ribs. 

        Seeing the state of Mira seemed to connect with Breya and she rushed out of the room, leaving the older woman in charge of finishing dinner. She moved outside of the house and was out of site before he could follow her. It was unusual in his culture for women to move about unattended. It wasn’t because they needed to fear men, but the wild boars and the silver wolves that roamed in packs, hungry. 

        He didn’t think they had wolves in the valley. It was too open and windy for animals to hunt and too bright and sunny during the daytime. That would explain Breya’s warm tanned skin. 

        She returned well into suppertime with an older woman and a very young girl, perhaps Mira’s age, just before her first bleeding. They carried baskets full of herbs and looked very sullen. The small brunette girl looked very scared but Rok assumed it was because of his people and not the situation at hand. 

        Rok had not eaten despite the looks he garnered from the three other surviving men and their wives and his only surviving royal guard. He ignored his kinsmen, but could not ignore his mounting worry for Mira. She’d been trapped under the beams of her bed during the fire, trying desperately to save the historical texts she was studying to succeed his father’s current vizier and mentor. Had she been stronger, the canopy of furs would not have held her hostage. Had he remembered her sooner, she would not have breathed in so much black smoke.

        He reassured his people, allowing him to finish their meal while he followed Breya and the wise women up the stairs. He could hear Mira’s death rattle even before he reached her door. When he entered, she was rolled over on her side. Her body seemed so much smaller than it really was, making her look as vulnerable as an infant. 

        Rok turned her toward him and saw that she was pale and her lips had lost their rosy pigment. Her breathing took the most out of her, which was why she spent all of her time lying still in the bed.  He’d checked up on her several times during the night, truly horrified at the prospect of losing his vizier. A king without vizier was a body without a soul. Mira was a part of him and seeing her dying was akin to losing his own self.

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