I hold my hands up, and see that they are clean. Thoughts whirling, I look around me, panicking even more by the second. Where am I? Who put me here?
The where seems to be the ‘palace’ the general spoke of, and I have to say, it’s not bad. I’m in a cavernous bedroom, my body sinking into mounds and mounds of pillows and sheets. There is a fresh scent in the air, but I’m at a loss to put it into a category: it smells like no aroma I have ever smelled before.
It’s this scent, and the humidity of the air, that brings the recent events to the forefront of my mind and orients me to place and time. I’m on another planet, almost certainly. I rack my brain trying to remember the name of it.
The ceilings, which are so far above me that shadows swallow them in gray light, are certainly palatial. Architecturally, this place looks a little like something from Old Earth, before the Final War: arches abound, including a massive arched window. The light from outside the window is odd: it’s sunlight, a solar glow, but the sky that I can see is incredibly strange, almost cut in two, one side of it an ethereal green-blue, the other a much more pale blue, washed out by the bright sunlight. Tree branches crisscross the lower portion of the window, which comes to the floor, and I realize that I’m several stories above the ground.
Even though I know it’s odd to be curious about such a thing, given my predicament, I can’t help taking more interest in where I am than how I got here or what’s to come. Ilovegoing to new planets and seeing interesting new life, new views, new horizons. Anyway, maybe I’ll get some clue once I see the geological formations or the trees. I’m an astrobiologist, after all.
I suck in my breath when I get to the window and look out: wherever I am, it’s a building at the edge of a very steep cliff. The rocks and soil that are visible through the vegetation are black as night, glassy reflections indicating that large veins of obsidian run through them. A cacophony of colors springs from the vegetation; wherever we are, the plant life is not limited to green or red chlorophyll. There are purples, sages, yellows, reds, and oranges, even if the dominant color is green.
The mystery of the sky becomes clear: we are not on a planet, but a moon. A moon orbiting a very immense planet, probably a gas giant filled with methane. My jaw drops. It’s beautiful.
But enough of that. I put a finger out to touch the clear material of the window, then tap it to see what it’s made of. Sounds like glass. I lean my forehead against it to look down. Not that I’m really thinking of busting out of here, at least not yet. For all I know, the atmosphere is unbreathable or the radiation would kill me. You can never be too sure, even if you see what looks like trees.
I take stock of things as I look down. Wherever we are, we must have traveled a long way to get here. The skin on my bottom is not even sore. Someone has bathed me, which I don’t remember at all, and a wave of humiliation crashes against a sense of relief in my chest.
I think of the Kerz who spanked me, and my spine tingles and my stomach knots in a not entirely unpleasant way. Memories come back to me in lurid detail, but my mind skips quickly away from the horror of Petlola’s murder and the scene at the ballroom, to the hot sting of his hand on my bottom and the warm comfort I felt with my arms around his neck as I drifted away to my sedated sleep in his protective embrace—
I shake my head rapidly, like I believe that I can shake these stupid thoughts out of my head. What, I wonder for the umpteenth time, am Ithinking?
I’m not thinking, I conclude. I had better start. I’m a prisoner of a ruthless Kerz—if there is any other kind—and apparently, a bride-to-be.
And anyway, the Kerz who spanked me is not my future husband. The maniac is.
I turn around and survey the room as panic begins to flower in my chest. The memories of the terrible party they crashed push away my sappy feelings and crowd my mind. I try to convince myself not to panic, not to do anything rash, but I have a hard time. I start walking around the room, opening the doors—surprisingly old-fashioned doors, with no electronic locks on them. Just handles, as if we really are on Old Earth.
The first door opens to a bathroom. No surprises there, although I have to say it’s a much nicer bathroom than I’m used to in my dorm-style outpost, and even nicer than my parents’ many bathrooms in their many houses all over the universe. At least the ones I’ve seen. The bathtub could seat ten people, and it’s filled, churning with sweet-smelling bubbles. A frosted window, arched like the big one in the bedroom area, lets in light, and large potted plants that look like ferns abound. There is a huge shower area behind glass, set in a brownish stone with veins of turquoise and gold. Even though I hate to be here and hate to admit it, I’m looking forward tothat.
I move to another door. Inside is an empty closet of some kind. The next door opens to a room as big as my dorm room, which I often share with a visiting scholar, and it’s stuffed with what look like dresses.
Speaking of dresses… my gold dress is gone, and I look down to see that I’m clad in a flowing robe that feels like silk. It’s white and partially transparent. It feels delicious, and expensive, like it costs more than all of my belongings put together.
I start to take a step forward, putting my hand out toward a red material that invites me with its strange and alluring smoothness, when a voice behind me makes me jump, and then freeze.
“You have discovered your wardrobe.”
It’shim. I know before I turn around. Ice and fire burn in my veins. I turn slowly to face him.
He is wearing much the same clothing as when we last saw each other: black, with a long, fitted robe. This one is embroidered intricately along the collar in gold and green that match his reptilian markings, but it’s also sleeveless. The hard contours of his immense biceps—the kind of biceps that any human man would murder himself building—are crisscrossed by the gold and green markings. I can almost feel them pulsing beneath my fingertips when I think of them.
“Where am I?” I say. I had hoped to sound assertive, but my voice is barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t answer immediately, only looks at me without changing his expression. He is standing in front of a closed door, hands crossed at his waist. I’m about to give up and ask more questions just to bug him, when he says in a flat voice, “Zastrathk Mor.”
I raise my eyebrows and make a face. “And that is…?”
“Where you are,” he responds immediately, before moving on. “I’m here to inform you that your presence is requested at dinner.”
My hands, which I only now notice I’m wringing together nervously, drop to my sides. “Dinner,” I repeat tonelessly. Again, I hear myself talking, like someone else has taken over my body. Even though the mention of the word ‘dinner’ has made my stomach growl, almost audibly, I’m saying, “Well, I decline.”
As soon as I’ve said it, I feel a pinch of regret. First of all, I really want some food, whatever kind is on offer. But also, a visceral memory of what happened last time I declined to do something makes my cheeks redden and the skin of my bottom burn in the shape of his hand.
He inhales, tipping his head slightly back as he does. “Anya Mann. Perhaps you misunderstand my English.”
“You said my presence is requested at dinner,” I shoot back. “And I respectfully decline.”
To make matters worse for myself, I curtsy.
