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Chapter 4: The pirate queen
Megara lounged on her bed with a stack of notes. She lay atop piles of soft, fluffy flokati sheepskins which were laid across a frame olive wood. The furniture craftsmen had laced a web of leather rope straps across the frame, and given it legs of silver, on which they had etched intricate carvings of death. Double axes lodged themselves into backs and skulls, and seas of blood spilled down the leg settling into a reservoir of skeletons at the feet.
Her feet kicked happily as she plotted the weights of the mice she saved from earlier. Megara excitedly jotted down the resulting dosages.
“Boukris, tell me a story.” The man turned out of the sun he was bathing in by the sill. He told her of a pirate, who unapologetically took from every ship she passed. She had a crew, who’s loyalty was unmatched. She wore an Imperial Hawk on her shoulder, which had been known only to perch upon royalty. She was forever after known as Queen of the seas, for she and her crew conquered all, even the military.
“It must be wonderful to do what you want, to be who you want.”
“Megara, you miss the point. She worked to carve a kingdom out of nothing, a followership out of nothing. The eagle does not simply land on you because you’re destined. It recognizes the heart of a conqueror, and has no other choice but to flock to that heart.”
“Boukris, do you miss the sea?” The man looked up from
“I miss the sea like a part of my soul is still there.”
Megara recognized that feeling. She wondered where the missing splinters of her soul had gone. She never could explain why she was so sure she was broken, she only knew that she was. “Does it make you different? Being on land instead?”
“I have my wife. That is enough to keep me changing for the better. Sure it’s different, but not worse.”
“I wish I could’ve been born to a pirate. I think I’d rather like the sea.”
“Megara,” Boukris said sadly, “someday you will find your pirate ship, and you will know that you need not give another piece of yourself away. Instead you will take it, because that is what you’re owed.”
Megara hummed in thought. She sketched a tiny ship in her notes, a promise to herself that she might find a life in which she unapologetically took.
Megara was exploring the magazines on the west side of the palace. There were nineteen in all, each full of the palace reserves. She skipped the room of empty vessels, the one of leather, the one of ivory, and landed in the magazine of wine. She stole a stirrup vase from its stores, and continued on to the magazine of oil stores. In there she had stashed her devils ivy. She splashed a bit of wine onto the soil, and took a swig of it for herself.
The wine stained the linen shift, which has been embroidered with a meander of brilliant reds. The repeating pattern made a boxy path along the edges of the shift. It hid the shape of her body and no one complained of the color, for most of the shifts in her room had appeared under the direction of her father. Boukris had kindly delivered her newest lot of clothing from recipe 123β as well, but Creon would hardly notice a few extra pieces in her chest.
A scuff of a shoe startled her, and she took another swig of wine before turning around.
“Which pet is that?” the priestess said, she loomed in the entryway of the magazine, not bothering to step inside.
“The ivy.” Megara stood and sauntered over to the entryway. She leaned against the wall with a laziness she didn’t feel. Telestai reached for her, slipping her fingers along the embroidery at Megara’s collar, feeling it from both sides as she slipped the fabric between her fingers and thumb, grazing a the soft swell of breast and the tight peak of nipple before settling at the bottom of the vee of Megara’s neckline. Megara forced herself not to lean into the touch, not to react in any way, for fear that the moment would end.
Megara forgot to fear Telestai reaching her belly. She wouldn’t physically notice, for she was not that familiar with Megara’s body, but who knows what the Serpent Goddess hisses in her ear. Who knows what she sees during a Rite. She forgot about the danger of a priestess, because this baby was making her so godsdamned aroused. She clenched her thighs in an attempt to chase a little bit of the feeling.
“Come with me to the throne room, we have work to do.”
Megara walked just behind the Priestess, in her best attempt at staying out of the sun, but it was like the Priestess intentionally forced Megara into the light. Where they could have slipped mostly through a maze of rooms at the northwest corner of the palace, and only had to be in the heat of the central court for a few moments before access to the throne room, the Priestess headed south so they had the entire length of the court to walk down. It was poetic, she mused, as that was sort of the job of a priestess, to provide light to her flock.
“Everyone out,” the priestess all but whispered. The palace dependents still scurried out of the throne room as if she had lashed each of them.
“What work do you have for my soul today, oh holy one,” Megara deadpanned. She was proud of herself for not cracking a smile during the delivery this time.
“I am to prepare you for your Rite.”
“I’ve seen twenty-five autumn harvests. I think I’m a little old, no? If I was a dependent, I’d probably be dead by now.” Megara was intimidated by the Rite. She’d watch from the dais with her family, while other high-ranking officials watched from benches along the wall. The Priestess’s throne loomed over the room, the two stone griffins carved on either side only making her appear larger when she was seated.
“Rites are not based on harvests, as you know. They’re based on the soul, and I think you’re ready. You will bathe.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Megara shifted on her feet, uneasy. It seemed she was destined to be uneasy in the presence of the priestess. She didn’t move to undress, however. Afterall, she wasn’t sure if her Rite would include undressing completely.
The Priestess circled her. Megara was reminded of a large cat, gracefully stalking its prey. The Priestess stopped behind Megara, their bodies a hairsbreadth from touching. Megara didn’t dare to turn, she stared straight ahead at the throne of the Griffins. She felt palms cup her hips, moving upwards to measure her waist, upwards still to feel each embarrassing rib. As the Priestess measured her, Megara focused on the throne, and focused on the breasts pressing into her back, the soft give of them. She felt the priestess’s hands feel along her first ribs for the outer swell of breast, then slide to her sternum to find the inner swell. She surely felt the goosebumps along Megara’s skin, and smelled the desire seeping from the flesh between her legs. Damn baby, Megara cursed internally.
The priestess finished with her measurements, or whatever she meant to do. Maybe she just meant to torture Megara. Her final touches were to gently sweep the hair from Megara’s neck, sweeping the locks to her other shoulder, the priestess’ breath soothing the nape of Megara’s neck. In a jarring change of pressure, she took Megara by the shoulders and spun her around. She freed Megara’s breasts so swiftly Megara hardly noticed, for they were staring eye-to-eye, sharing a single slip of air. “Into the bath, Megara.”
Megara stepped forward into the lustrial basin that took up the center of the throne room. She kneeled in the very center of it, her shift floating around her, the water settling at her collar bone. She slipped under the water, until her shift floated over her head and released her arms. She surfaced, face turned up, and allowed the water to rush past her. She wiped the water from her eyes, to give her time to collect herself. She opened her eyes, and from there didn’t dare look away from the throne.
“I will bathe you in saffron and honey, and then I will dress you in snakes.”
Megara shivered, for the snakes didn’t scare her in the least. She was comforted by the soothing circles of Basil around her ankles, and he was big enough now to even wear around her neck. The priestess took the bowl of spiced honey, and cupped a healthy portion of it as she waded to Megara’s front. The priestess started with her face, rubbing the honey between her palms before smearing it tenderly over Megara’s cheekbones and jaw, then down her neck. She massaged the honey into each shoulder, bicep, down to her palms. She circled around Megara with the floating bowl of honey, applying it liberally to every inch of her body.
Megara kept unnaturally still, not even allowing herself to shiver, or rather her body wanted to purr under the care of the priestess.
“Stand.”
Megara obeyed, her body reacting to the air rushing over her wet skin. It was deliciously cool, which calmed Megara’s nerves, centering her. The priestess made another round, spreading the honey over her breasts, then shoulder blades, then her stomach, and then the dimples above her buttocks. She stopped where the water did, and said “Well, you get the point.”
Megara was shaken out of her trance, “We won’t practice the dressing?”
“We’ll save that for another time. Go. Pray. Drop an offering to your gods.”
Megara skimmed her shift from the surface of the pool and dropped it over her head as she stepped out. It clung and stuck to her body, gooey from the honey. She’d have Boukris draw her an actual bath to get all of this crap off of her. She turned to the court and sprinted.
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