Snowmancer

Chapter 3: Jem

Jem

There wasn't much of a difference between Prince Heir Ilyas standing before his harem, and captured Ilyas on the verge of being sold into slavery. Even locked in a cellar, he ordered me around.

I carried a pair of thick quilts I'd found in the corner of Prince Hemi's wardrobe, smelling of mould and dust from being left unused for so long. I'd hung them from my tower window to air them out, letting the salty breeze seep into the cloth, but the smell hadn't improved much. Ilyas wouldn't like it, but he was also welcome to sleep on the cold, hard stones, so long as it didn't wreck his beautiful exterior.

He had to be healthy. He had to be perfect. Or this would all be for nothing.

As I descended into the underground corridor, my footsteps announcing me like a Nuriyite chorus, I heard the metal plate sliding against rock.

I paused at the cellar door. Ilyas had to eat. I couldn't allow him to starve himself, not when so many Lumians would lick the crumbs from the dirt. Ilyas' rations might not be Nuriyite curry, a hodgepodge waste of a dozen spices, but they were plentiful and healthy.

He'd better not have thrown them on the floor again.

I unlocked the door and angled my body away, should he decide to attack. The door swung open, and I glanced inside.

I dropped the blankets. He wasn't sitting in his usual spot, and a cursory glance found neither him nor the plate. Was he waiting for me to step inside so he could tackle me from the side? It wouldn't do anything but leave a bruise. My expression blanked. A bruise was inexcusable.

I kicked the blankets inside, and guessing he would hide on the right side of the door, stepped to the left of the pile. If he tried to attack, his feet would tangle in the cloth.

But no attack came. Instead, I heard an amused chuckle behind me. I whirled around. Ilyas leaned against the wall, smirking at me with his hands tucked under his sash. His robe hung down around his legs, leaving his chest bare and framed by his well-muscled biceps.

His eyes met mine.

I stumbled back, my feet tangling in my own trap. With a few curse words, I kicked my feet free of the quilts and stumbled onto bare flagstone. My eyes darted to his bare midriff, his thumbs and index fingers forming a diamond around his belly button and the trail of dark hair descending below the sash.

Ilyas openly laughed at me, the sound of his voice light, as if amused at the silly mistake his pleasure slave had made.

Ah, that's where I'd seen that pose before. Ilyas slinking into the harem, leaning against the wall, eyeing his slaves as they tittered and fawned over him, waiting until one pleased him enough before taking that slave into his private bedchamber. In Nuriya, the heat would have slicked his skin with a sheen of sweat. In Lumi, goose pimples dotted his skin.

"Blankets?" Ilyas asked. "They will be hard on your knees."

I cocked my head. Had I misheard him? 'Your' referenced me, did it not? Or was this some less common meaning of the word? "Softer than the stone."

He eyed the blankets again, and I waited for his lip to curl up in disgust. He hadn't liked his travel cloak either, a dull brown. But then everything in Nuriya had been turquoises and reds and greens. Why make something practical when it could be ostentatious? "I'm not sure how to lay them out."

I tilted my head the other way. That was not expected.

"My servants did my bedroll back home."

"You mean your slaves," I said.