Chapter 7: The Forbidden City

 

Zara couldn’t believe her eyes.  The Forbidden City sparkled as if bejeweled.  Colors appeared more vivid and intensely saturated.  The dome was the culprit.  It permitted light through at wavelengths uncommon to the eye, multiplying the hue of everything.  The world looked dreamlike, the color so overwhelming that some level of depth perception was sacrificed.  

The lane the hoverbarges traveled deviated not a single centimeter in its straightness, and the road was lined with Leonara trees so alike in size and shape that Zara thought it impossible for them to not be holograms.  And yet, when the breeze hit them, petals broke away and swirled in the air, showering the barges with their blue confetti.  

The hoverbarges approached the gates of the Outer Court, accompanied by drum and flute.  Exotic offworld animals wandered the enormous immaculate gardens, never tempted by the nearby hedges and trees, as they had been conditioned to only eat in a certain area, out of view.  Zara watched as a pair of what looked like crystalline ‘giraffes’ from ancient lands loped across the garden, and then stopped, watching the passage of the hoverbarges with mirror-like eyes.  In another area, she saw a herd of obsidian black Onelphants wandering slowly toward a massive array of fountains.  Weren’t black Onelphants extinct?

“They call this area the War Garden,” Tython explained.  “In times of peace, it’s made into this lovely oasis.  But if the planet Viverides is ever under attack, it’s here that the Emperor’s forces will prepare for the battle.  But, since nobody has ever been stupid enough to try to attack Viverides directly, it’s always been a garden.  Pretty, isn’t it?”

“But it’s beyond the walls of the Outer Court.  Does anyone ever even see it?”

“Just visitors to the Forbidden City.  Mostly offworlders summoned to the palace.”

Zara was stunned.  The War Garden stretched for miles and miles.  Endless beauty sat here, likely never enjoyed by most of the denizens of the Forbidden City.  It existed only to impress upon visitors that the Emperor commanded such incredible resources, he could own a whole herd of rare Onelphants, perhaps the last ones alive, and completely forget about their existence. 

On the journey through the Periphery, the hoverbarge had been quite loud, as various Hostage Concubines tried to get the attention of the media.  They all wanted to be in pictures and videos and holographs of the procession that made it back to their homeworlds.  But now, with nobody watching their progress, the voices had grown silent.  Music took their place as the barges approached the great gates of the Outer Court.  The walls of white Biraki steelmarble towered into the air.  Zara knew, from her reading, that the Great Gates were the heaviest known doors in the galaxy, but that they were crafted so precisely and hung with such efficiency that it only took three men on each door to push them open from the inside.  Beautifully handcrafted from the silvery metal known as “Dalumin”, the panels on the doors displayed scenes from the history of the Galactic Empire.  

Zara didn’t have time to examine them as the hoverbarges passed through the gates, however.  Her gaze was drawn instead to the impressive lines of Forbidden City Korkudai, all in their black uniforms with purple sashes and silver cording.  Each one carried two swords, one at their hip, and a longer one on their back.  Though they alone could carry firearms within the Forbidden City, they only rarely did so, usually only when the danger had been confirmed, and the Commandant signed off on it.  

“There’s so many of them,” Zara murmured to Tython.

“Yes.  Hostage Concubines are considered dangerous enough to warrant the full force of the Forbidden City Korkudai to be stationed at the ready.”  

Zara couldn’t fathom any of the Hostage Concubines wanting to take their chances with causing trouble.  Any who were caught would be tortured and killed.  Their families would be tortured and killed.  And their entire home planet could possibly be destroyed if the Emperor commanded it.  Of course, sometimes there was leniency.  Sometimes the Emperor would only demand one in ten of the populace killed, and a new Hostage Concubine sent.  It really just depended on the situation.

The procession wove through pavilions and courtyards, down wide lanes of cobblestone between fantastic old buildings with peaked roofs and wood-carved walls lovingly painted by the greatest artists in the galaxy.  Zara lost track of the number of reflecting pools, fountains, gazebos, canals, and archways they passed.  Her mind became a blur of marble statues and sculpted trees, wrought iron gates, and fancy lamp posts.  The enormous Outer Court housed not only a number of the mid-ranked Concubines, but also artisans and officials who tended to the Royal Family.  Despite this, not a soul appeared to be out and about.  No children played.  Every inch of the Outer Court looked as if it had been scrubbed and polished, so clean that Zara’s mind rejected it as Outside of Reality.  It reminded Zara of the ancient video games her cousins used to play, the graphics never quite high enough to permit the true texture of age and grime.  But no, this was real.  This was the perfection of the Forbidden City.

It took the Adjudicants an hour to arrange all the Hostage Concubines where they’d sit during the ceremony, and an additional hour and a half for a rehearsal.  Eventually, Zara found herself sitting on a satin pillow, one in a row of twenty similarly dressed Concubines, in an enormous open courtyard surrounded by raised daises for the attendees.  Somehow, Tython had contrived for them to sit near to each other, but Zara wasn’t certain how he’d managed it.  As far as she knew, you couldn’t bribe the Adjudicants.  They didn’t have the same desires as people and were seen as highly incorruptible.  She made a mental note to ask him later.

If the Outer Court had been beautiful during daylight, when the sun finally set, the entire place took on a whole new incredible aura.  The dome rippled with waves of purples, blues, and greens projected from below, the ribbons of color creating a mesmerizing aurora.  Many of the larger walls made from steelmarble displayed projections as well, mostly of Leonara trees or petals blowing in the wind, but occasionally showing portraits of the Royal Family, especially the Empress Dowager as a young woman.  Music accompanied the show and provided an opening interlude for those who would sit and watch the performance to enter and get seated.  Tython pointed out the important ones as they arrived, though at such a distance, Zara couldn’t make out many of their features. 

“See the areas on the right and left?  Those are for the Noble Ministers.  You should know the main ones.  Duke Kaison is the High Minister of Trade.  Duke Alminetra is the High Minister of War.  Duchess Wyrth is the High Minister of Law.  And that empty seat is for Duchess Charon, High Minister of Advancement.”

“Advancement?”  Zara glanced at Tython, but tried not to move her head too much.  They had been instructed to look straight forward and remain still.

“Sciences and technology.  Education.  And also, most believe, propaganda.  Duchess Charon controls the core-net.”  

Zara couldn’t make out much about the various ministers, other than that they wore elaborate robes and complicated hats with long veils.  In her reading about Viverides, she’d learned that many politicians covered their faces here.  They claimed that they wished for their voices and words, rather than outward appearance, to speak for them.  But, most believed they actually wanted to hide their microexpressions from those with augments designed to read lies.  

“Look there.  The Dowager Empress.”

The mother of the Emperor commanded great respect across the galaxy.  Everyone knew her to be one of the major powers behind the throne.  Rumors abounded that because, in her youth, she had been celebrated as the greatest beauty in the galaxy, and she now went to extraordinary lengths to maintain her looks.  At this distance, Zara couldn’t make out her face distinctly, but tell that she had puffiness under her eyes and a few wrinkles around her lips.  Her body showed the slight rounding of age and rich foods, but her magnificent seamstresses accentuated every inch of it with a sumptuous dress in cerulean blue.  Zara did wonder how she walked so gracefully with such an incredibly tall wig, however.  Behind her entered two women.  Zara had expected them to be the twin princesses, the younger sisters of the Emperor.  But, the two looked as unalike as night and day.  The first was a waifish pink-skinned beauty who seemed like she’d blow away in a breeze.  Behind her, with confidence and power, strode a woman who must have been nearing seven feet tall.  She wore a modified Korkudai outfit with elaborate silver pauldrons and knee-high black boots.  Her dark skin, brown as aloewood, glowed with the health of someone in peak physical condition.  Zara found her vaguely intimidating.  

“That’s Princess Narisa,” Tython explained, “And her wife, Commandant Moira Reyphine.”

“Where’s the other princess?” Zara asked.

Tython didn’t immediately reply.  And because he didn’t, Zara blinked and then turned her head to look at him.  One of the Adjudicants watching the group made a hissing noise at Zara, but before she could turn her head back in the proper direction, Tython mouthed, “Don’t ask.”  

Next came Prince Senthir.  He looked slightly different to Zara than he had when she’d met him, but only because he wasn’t wearing riding clothes and someone had forced his wild black hair into a ponytail.  She couldn’t gauge his expression from where she sat, but she imagined he looked as melancholy as he had the day she’d met him.  Well, before he’d laughed at her for awkwardly carrying a wheel of cheese anyway.  

Tython continued telling Zara of others who entered.  Ministers.  Royal aunts, uncles and cousins and in-laws, ladies and lords, counts and countesses, and titled folk from dozens of important planets.  She knew she wouldn’t be able to identify all of them the following year.  

Finally, the trumpets blew, and drums beat, and two high-ranked Consorts moved through the aisle, tossing Leonara petals.  The Emperor followed in their wake, surrounded by a dozen Korkudai.  Zara did her best to get a good look at him from as far back as she was.  She could tell he didn’t look as gangly as he had in Lady Kessandra’s wedding portrait.  He’d filled out, with his jaw growing stronger and his body far more muscular.  His hair looked familiar, too.  The style was similar to Lord Astor’s, though rather than blond, the Emperor’s shiny black hair took on tones of the dome above as it cycled through its aurora color scheme.  

Zara tried to examine her feelings about the man she could now see, a tiny figure so far away from her that she couldn’t make out many details.  Perhaps this would be the only time this year she’d lay eyes on him, a man to whom she had dedicated her life, a man who now all but owned her like property.  She tried to have dutiful thoughts, to think of her family’s welfare and how she should venerate this man for their sake.  But, she couldn’t find it in herself to be as devoted and reverential as she would have liked.  As much as she tried to cast emotion aside and settle into her fate, something in her mind railed against this situation.  Would her life be nothing more than a series of moments like this?  Moments where she’d be one in a sea of similarly dressed Hostage Concubines, nothing but another pinprick of color dancing through the bored vision of a man who commanded the galaxy?  Zara briefly considered falling during the dance on purpose.  At least then, the Emperor would have to see her, even if he laughed, or showed her scorn, at least then he’d have to confront her presence in some sort of personal manner.  She didn’t want his love.  She just wanted to be something other than a number.

Zara zoned out during the speeches.  She tried to pay attention, at least for a little while, but these things were always the same.  Before the war, she’d sat through numerous diplomatic functions at the behest of her parents.  Everyone always said the exact same things.  “We should work towards prosperity.  The future is bright.  Everyone here will give their utmost to bring about change that will benefit generations to come.  Those who have been involved are pinnacles of generosity and wisdom.”  After you heard the same thing enough times, it just became airy filler, like eating cotton candy labeled ‘steak’.  It didn’t help that the speaker system had been placed in such a way that the words reverberated in the courtyard, making them difficult to understand.  The only thing Zara managed to hear and found interesting was that, for her birthday, the Emperor had given his mother one of the ocean moons of Uskrar, where he planned to terraform a series of islands for her to have as an offworld beach resort.

Eventually, the program moved into the dance section.  The opening dance showcased a singular dancer, striking in her grace, who did not whirl, or gyrate, or leap.  Instead, she moved excessively slowly, occasionally stopping in elegant poses with her arms or hands angled with such precision that she looked like a painting.  She wore a white dress with a high collar and a lengthy train embroidered with a scene of a black peacock among a garden of blue Leonara branches.  Most striking were her fingernails.  At this distance, Zara couldn’t tell if they were only temporarily affixed to her hands for the dance or if she’d had augments to successfully grow them to that length.  Each one appeared to be at least four inches.  Both the nails and her hands, had dazzling little lights affixed to them, which would change colors or pulse in time with the slow music.  Zara felt both enchanted and daunted.  How could she ever hope to dance with even a fraction of the grandeur and sophistication of this woman?

“That’s the Supreme Imperial Consort,” Tython whispered.  Zara glanced again at the woman, now understanding her to be the highest-ranked of all the Consorts and Concubines kept by the Emperor.  “They call her Princess Aiya.  Very little is known about her.”  

Princess Aiya didn’t take her place among the other high-ranked harem members but instead disappeared completely after her dance.  Zara assumed she’d have to change out of the elaborate dance outfit before rejoining the Emperor.  

The other performances were lovely, but none could compare to that of Princess Aiya.  Zara wondered if she’d been chosen singularly for her beauty and grace, or if other factors influenced the Emperor’s decision to take her as his primary consort.  Her musings drew her away from paying attention to the proceedings, and soon she found that everyone in her group was rising to head to the stage to perform.  

Anxiety flooded her, so much so that she took a tiny stumble while heading to the stage.  Thankfully, she managed to right herself before ending up face down on the ground.  The brisk night air was a blessing, cooling her heated skin.  If it had been warmer, Zara knew she’d be slick with sweat, and that her makeup would be running down her face.  

Afterward, Zara would have little recollection of performing the dance.  Her only memory would be the thrumming of her blood, the pounding of her heart.  But, she knew she didn’t fall.  She may have made mistakes, but none of them were so egregious that they’d be remembered by onlookers.  A hand three inches too high.  A foot movement not quite in sync with the others.  A whirl that ended a half-beat too soon.   Mistakes were made, but she didn’t fall on her face.  And, thankfully, as far as she could tell, most of the onlookers at the raised tables had, by this time, become engaged in conversation.  Even the Emperor spent most of the time speaking quietly with Commandant Reyphine.  

As she marched back to her seat, Zara’s relief at the dance being completed bolstered her mood.  Even the disappointed face of Lady Astrid, giving her a pointedly sour look as she passed, couldn’t diminish her feeling of accomplishment.  She’d managed not to make too much of a spectacle of herself. 

Now she just needed to make it a few more hours, through the feast, and she could go home and rest.

 

-*-*-*-*-

 

The feast, Tython informed her, was one of the few events of the year where an unknown Hostage Concubine might make connections that could, eventually, raise their status.  The concubines were seated at round tables, twelve to a table, with a further three seats reserved for important guests.  For each new course, the VIPs would switch to the next table down, rotating them through the company of a great many of the Hostage Concubines.  Savvy concubines had tucked away a number of calling cards to give out to those they wished to make connections with outside the festival later.  But, Zara hadn’t known to do so.  Astrid had cleverly left that detail out, and Edi had never mentioned it.  She nervously hoped that no one asked for her card.

Zara found herself at a table with a bunch of concubines from all over Ebonrue, many from far beyond Ward 43.  Although a few gave off a chilly air, likely influenced by Astrid, others were pleasant enough, and one, a freckle-faced woman named Madame Lisette, even gave Zara her card in the hopes of learning some sewing techniques from her.  Another, Lady Vivenne, invited Zara to a book club.  However, when Lady Vivienne asked for Zara’s calling card and found she hadn’t brought any, several of the other concubines at the table snickered behind their hands.  Thankfully, Lady Vivienne gave Zara her card, instead.

Feeling pleased that she might be finally making some more friends, Zara turned her attention to the food.  Each plate or bowl brought out by the hundreds of Forbidden City servants contained only a few bites of food.  Most of it, Zara didn’t recognize.  She’d never really eaten offworld food, and at home Trisla always made the same dishes she’d made in the bunker.  A few times, as children, Zara and her sister had tried to make offworld dishes from recipes on the core-net, to the delight of absolutely none of the servants cleaning up after them.  When she thought about it now, and all the wasted food and effort by the servants, Zara felt more than a little ashamed of her behavior.  

Ankalian food was simple and hardy.  Before the drought and war, they’d had an abundance of food, like roasted pears and thrice-spiced goat, cherbber pie, and fermented eel.  During the war, meals had become simpler.  Hardy breads and spreadable canned meats.  Trisla made an incredible onion soup that warmed a person to their very soul.  And Xaz had shown them how to eat wild honeycane harvested from the banks of the nearby river.

Zara not only didn’t recognize the food set before her, but she also had no idea how it was even supposed to be eaten.  She couldn’t look to Tython for advice, as he’d been placed at a different table, across the dining courtyard.  The first item set before her was a bowl of cream-colored liquid with faint black specks.  She assumed it to be a soup, and had, without a thought, picked up a soup spoon.  The woman sitting next to her, a Countess Kthekra, laughed deeply, her whole bosom jiggling from the hysterics.

“Don’t you know how to eat whipped osolsta?  Goodness, they must be conquering some truly backwater worlds these days.”  The woman clicked her tongue and then took two fingers pressed together, daintily dipping them to the first knuckle into her soup.  When she pulled them out, the liquid congealed on her fingertips began to turn a faint blue color.  “It has to be the temperature of your specific skin, otherwise it won’t be at peak flavor for your tongue.  Everyone knows that.”  Zara watched, shocked, as the woman began to lick her fingers.

Was Ankali really considered so backward?  Zara’s cheeks reddened with the embarrassment of her situation.  So many of the Concubines intimidated her with their sophistication and skill.  They knew the etiquette, food, fashion, and culture of dozens, if not hundreds, of worlds.  They understood the intricacies of politics.  They spoke multiple languages.  They could hold conversations about important celebrities, games, films, books, and music.  They had wit and subtlety.  

Back on Ankali, both Zara and her sister Thalia, had been considered proper ladies with impeccable etiquette.  Even during the war, when priorities shifted, she’d heard servants whisper about what fine manners they had, how refined they were, how they should be commended for their charitable actions and sacrifices…  Zara had taken great pride in thinking herself ladylike.  But here, Zara felt like a pig among the roses.  She began to believe that maybe Astrid had a point.

Several courses into the meal, Zara found herself becoming slightly forlorn.  She let the buzz of the conversation wash over her and made certain to watch the other concubines before eating anything placed in front of her.  Without realizing it, she’d been staring at the newest course somewhat absently, not really paying attention to anything but her own sudden self-pity.

“You don’t like flanha eggs?” a familiar voice asked from right beside Zara.  

She looked up suddenly, her heart beating fast both because she’d been caught zoning out and because she hadn’t even noticed when Prince Senthir sat down next to her.  

“I love flanha eggs!” Countess Kthekra said, putting a hand on Prince Senthir’s arm to try to redirect his attention her way.  Several of the other concubines had stopped eating and watched the interaction with jealousy, all hoping to find a way to get Prince Senthir’s attention, except, Zara noticed, for Lady Vivenne.  She had her nose in a book despite the Adjudicants having been quite clear that the concubines could bring nothing but themselves into the Forbidden City.  Countess Kthekra continued attempting to charm Prince Senthir, “My cook makes incredible flanha eggs.  She uses purple truffle from Corbanos-3.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Senthir replied crisply, shifting his arm so that the Countess’ hand fell away.  His demeanor had turned from melancholy to steel in an instant.  The festive atmosphere at the table soured immediately, with many of the concubines who had been making eyes towards Senthir now pretending to mind their own business.  Nobody wanted to be snapped at by the Emperor’s brother.  Or worse.

Prince Senthir’s attention went back to Zara, and because she hadn’t replied yet, he prompted her with a slightly annoyed, “Well?”

“I’ve…  I’ve never had one, your Highness.  I’m not sure if I need to peel it, or…”

The servants had put a little metal implement beside the plate, something that looked like tongs in miniature, and Zara assumed she needed to use it in order to eat the flanha egg.  But, that didn’t answer the question of whether she needed to crack and peel the egg, or…  

“Open your mouth.”

Zara hesitated.  Even though protesting a command by the royal family could bring devastating consequences, he’d said it so abruptly that she froze.  Did he really mean to…?  In front of all of these people?  “I’m not sure that it would be…”

“Open your mouth, or I’ll have it opened by force,” came the impatient, though somewhat amused reply.  

The unnecessary threat immediately put Zara on guard.  She opened her mouth as commanded, and tried not to look as irritated about it as she felt.  

Prince Senthir picked up the flanha egg from his own dish by gingerly pinching it between his finger and thumb.  “You can use the tongs, but it’s complicated.  This way is easier.  Don’t chew.  Just let it dissolve.”

Zara felt the warmth of Senthir’s fingers juxtaposed with the cool egg as both pressed carefully into her mouth.  Everyone at the table stared as he deposited the egg carefully on her tongue and then swiftly withdrew his hand.  Afterward, she felt the brush of something warm under her chin.  Fingers.  Senthir slowly pressed her mouth closed.  Just for the briefest moment, Zara thought he might slide the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip.  It hovered near the corner of her mouth due to the positioning of his hand.  But, that hand retreated swiftly, not overstaying propriety any more than it already had.  

First, Zara felt a tingle on her tongue akin to the faint bubbles of carbonation.  Something on the outer skin of the flanha egg was dissolving.  Then, suddenly, the entire structure of the egg collapsed, spilling out flavorful liquid into her mouth.  Shocked by the sudden flood, she grabbed at her napkin and pressed it to her mouth, worried that some of it might spill from her lips.  The divine flavor coated her tongue, tasting of sweet cream, cinnamon, truffle, and caramel.  All of this mixed with the outer ‘shell’ of the egg, which continued to bubble and dissolve, infusing an airyness into the concoction.  

“It’s good, is it not?” Prince Senthir asked, a victorious grin barely touching his lips.  

Zara nodded, unable to speak with her mouth full.  She had to swallow twice to get it all down.  “It’s incredible.  How do they make…?”

She would have been able to finish her question, if at that moment a bomb hadn’t gone off in the feast courtyard.