‘Lords, but I am stuffed to bursting,’ Marek commented to no one in particular.
‘Try one of the pink ones, dear.’ His mother wiped puffy cream from the corner of her mouth. ‘They’re quite light.’
‘Maybe later,’ he answered, loosening the belt around his tunic.
‘I’m having a brief meeting with Prince Markon in his audience chamber,’ his father said from across the table. ‘I’d like you to join us.’
‘Of course,’ Marek said, trying to hide his disappointment at missing his evening rendezvous with Anis.
Helmat looked askance. ‘You can’t seriously tell me you’re going to miss Anis for a meeting with Markon about politics,’ he said through a mouthful of cream-filled pastry.
‘Sorry, Helmat, duty calls – but I’ll expect full disclosure in the morning.’
‘Outstanding,’ his cousin replied, all of a sudden re-energised. ‘I’ll meet you for breakfast.’
The thought of yet more food made Marek wince. He was about to comment on the impending tryst when Markon rose to address his guests.
‘Good evening one and all,’ he started. ‘I am so very pleased you were able to join us here at Riverend, to discuss a proposal of monumental importance to all our people of Eldarn.’ He paused, looking around the room, then continued, ‘It is wonderful to have you all as our guests: I trust the accommodations and food are to your satisfaction.’ At that, a smattering of applause ran through the room, like so many children in hard-soled shoes. ‘Danae and I are excited to have our family, the descendants of King Remond Grayslip, here on hand to witness this summit, this recognition of critical common values that will guide us into a new era of peace.’
Markon paused again for effect.
Looking across the Pragan table at her daughter Ravena, Princess Detria frowned. She doubted her Ronan cousin was blessed with the leadership necessary to see his vision realised. Ravena shrugged and turned her gaze back to Markon.
‘I have been-’ Markon stopped his speech and looked down at the floor in consternation, as if trying to recall a line from a poem memorised too long ago. ‘I have been-’ Again the prince paused and, flushed from the heat in the dining hall, absentmindedly wiped his brow. ‘I have been able to work with-’
Tenner stood and approached the prince nervously. Princess Danae took her husband’s hand in a show of support. Reaching Markon’s side, Tenner handed his friend a goblet of wine. Markon reached for it, managed a partial smile and raised his head to continue. His face was pale and damp with beads of sweat. He blinked several times in rapid succession as if to clear his vision, and took a long sip from Tenner’s wine goblet before clearing his throat.
Marek wasn’t sure if he heard Princess Danae scream first, or if he saw Prince Markon collapse to the stone floor. The room erupted with the concerned cries of family and friends. Scores of people rose to aid the fallen prince and Marek’s view was blocked until he jostled into position near the head table. He watched as Markon, looking horribly lifeless, was carried from the grand dining hall to his royal apartment, attended by his wife and physician.
Marek’s father stood up purposefully. ‘Come,’ Prince Draven commanded his son, ‘let’s see if we can help.’ He was already moving towards the exit; Marek looked over at Helmat before rising to follow.
Later that evening, Helmat lay beneath Anis. Her exquisite body glistened with perspiration as she breathed heavily down into his face. Her warm breath smelled of stale wine, but Helmat found it the perfect aphrodisiac.
‘Lords, my dear cousin, but we must do that again, immediately,’ he told her, already beginning to feel his body respond to his desire. They had taken each other furiously, without care or compassion, both fighting a selfish battle for physical pleasure.
‘Oh yes, my dear cousin…’ She leaned into him, her breasts brushing against the sides of his face. ‘But first I need a drink.’
Helmat watched as Anis rose and walked to the armoire against the far wall of his suite. She poured two goblets of dark red wine, drank one nearly dry, refilled it and drank again.
Helmat smiled. ‘That’s my girl. You know that’s from my family vineyard.’
‘It’s good,’ she answered, ‘much better than the horse-piss we ferment in Praga.’
Helmat stared at her in the flickering candlelight, excited at the thought of taking her all over again. ‘You have perhaps the most perfectly formed backside of any woman walking the known lands,’ he said softly. ‘Do you know that? It’s perfect. And trust me, I know; I’ve examined plenty of backsides in my time.’
Anis said nothing, but turned and slowly approached Helmat’s bed. In one hand she carried the wine bottle. ‘Oh, that’s better,’ Helmat said, laughing, ‘bring the whole bottle. It cuts down on all those unnecessary trips back and forth. We don’t want the sheets getting cold, do we?’
Anis didn’t return his smile. It was only then that Helmat noticed the small wound forming on her hand.
‘Rutting whores! What is that?’ he asked, sitting up and reaching for the bedside candle. ‘Come here and let me see – it looks like it might be infected.’ Suddenly concerned, he sobered somewhat and repeated, ‘Come here. Let me look at that for you.’
Moving with unexpected speed, Anis shattered the bottle against the headboard and drove a broken shard of thick Ronan glass deep into Helmat’s neck. Blood spurted from the wound as her cousin choked out a guttural plea for mercy. His eyes bulging in terror, Helmat reached for her. In his last moments he ran his fingers over those perfect breasts he had been lusting after all evening. Wine mixed with blood: a sanguine vintage that soaked the bedding as Anis Ferlasa of Praga, naked and spattered in red, stared for a moment at the twitching corpse of her fallen cousin and lover before collapsing to the floor herself.
EMPIRE GULCH, COLORADO
September 1870
Henry Milken, the mine foreman, carried four broken shovels as lightly as an armload of firewood and tossed them into the wagon. A cramped muscle in his back ached momentarily, and his right knee reminded him it was still before dawn on the western slope of Horseshoe Mountain. Milken could see the sun’s earliest rays cresting the rocky ridge above Weston Pass and illuminating the mountain’s peak with a golden edge. The darkness spilling westward below made the valley look like an artist’s unfinished painting. It was his favourite time of day, and he rarely missed an opportunity to watch as the dawn’s distant glow heralded the new morning in Empire Gulch.
Milken looked at the flue vents that jutted like silent sentries above the whitewashed plank workroom adjacent to the men’s barracks. They had been active in the past several weeks, exhaling great clouds of acrid black smoke. Nothing billowed from them this morning, but Milken could still detect the faint, dank aroma of burning quicksilver. He breathed in the fresh, cold air.
Henry Milken missed sluice-mining. It might not yield all the precious metals and stones he and his men were able to glean from a rich vein deep in the mountain, but the work was cleaner. Water danced through the sluice boxes, dropping irregular bits of gold or silver into small mercury reservoirs: at least there a miner could walk about upright, enjoy a smoke from time to time and feel the sun on his shoulders. He grinned as he remembered working in the valley; he’d been young then. Streams crisscrossed the valley floor like an intricate Roman highway system; Milken had once built himself a sluice box nearly three hundred yards long.
These days Milken was certainly richer, but sometimes he felt as though he went from the stifling closeness of the lode shaft to the foul stench of the refinery stoves without drawing one clean breath.
But now it was Sunday morning. Milken, Lester McGovern and William Higgins had stayed behind when the other mine workers rode into Oro City for their Saturday night off. Whiskey and whores were Saturday night staples, but Milken knew he would see his entire crew this morning at Pastor Merrill’s church service. Horace Tabor, who owned the Silver Shadow Mine, expected every one of his employees to be in church on Sunday mornings. Milken grinned to himself at the thought of his men grumbling as they dragged themselves from warm beds and the warm arms of the whores to make it to Mr Tabor’s barn by 7.30 – there was no church building in Oro City yet, the barn served Pastor Merrill well for the time being. He arrived a few minutes early each week to construct a quick altar out of two hay bales and a length of old lumber. It did not look like much, but the pastor didn’t appear to mind.