Hunger

Part II - Chapter 31 - Distorted Definitions - Part 3

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Hir’at dressed with care.  She had bathed and Ahme had carefully arranged her crimson tresses in the most flattering manner.  Delicate curls were piled on top of her head in the semblance of a crown and tiny teardrops of jade had been fastened throughout.  Traces of the curls had artfully been pulled out of the style to frame her face.  Hir’at sat in front of the mirror with a silken robe draped artfully about her shoulders while Ahme finished tying a black ribbon about Hir’at’s slender neck.  The dark ribbon contrasted her pale complexion, and the large jade jewel dangled alluringly as it caught and reflected the light of the room.    

Hir’at stood and the robe fell to the floor.  She admired herself in the mirror.  Tiny waist, amble yet perky bosom, flared hips—Hir’at clothed was a sight to turn heads, let alone clad only with that which she’d been born. She allowed Ahme to help her into a complicated corset compromised of dark lace and cream colored silk.  Hir’at gripped the bedpost while Ahme pulled the laces tight enough to suffocate a weaker woman—or a woman who wanted to breathe deeply, Hir’at thought. 

 Soon enough, I can dispense with such preparations.  Hir’at admired her reflection once more with satisfaction. Then again, perhaps not—perhaps it shall be all I wear.  Hir’at fought back a burst of wicked giggles at the idea of the Council gawking at her in such adornment, or rather, the lack thereof.  

Ahme held out a vibrant blue silk gown with a deeply cut neckline that provided a generous view of her undergarments.  The gown hung gracefully off her shoulders, and clung tightly to her waist.  The sleeves were gathered at the elbows with pearlescent white ribbon, and amble folds of cloth flowed with every movement of her slender arms.  The hue of the gown matched the exact color of her cerulean eyes.

Hir’at shrugged into her fur-lined cloak.  The nights had become cold of late.  Though, providing such a view to those about the palace was not yet on the agenda.  As she swept out into the hallway, she tucked the Myriad into its customary spot, smiling to herself.  The Myriad had been most pleased with the newest addition and thrummed pleasantly at her touch. 

Entering the Chancellor’s chambers, Hir’at was careful to keep the overwhelming sickly sweet smell of decay from showing on her face.  A gaunt skeleton of a man sat in a high-backed chair and stared into the fire.  Chancellor Ilyasov had been thin to begin with, but now his gaunt cheekbones cast deep shadows upon his face.  The knuckles of his hands stood out like turrets on the castle of his clenched fist as he repeatedly stabbed his dagger into the arm of his chair.  Flecks of wood splintered off the chair with every strike.

“How fares my Lord Chancellor Ilyasov this evening?” she asked, dropping into a deep curtsy.

“How fares my Lord Chancellor this evening?” Ilyasov mocked her with a sneer. He stood and turned slowly toward her.  Hir’at could count his ribs through the opening of his robe.  “How fares your Lord Chancellor?  Bloody awful!  That’s how your Lord Chancellor fares!”

Ilyasov whirled and stabbed the dagger into the headrest of his chair.  It sunk to the hilt.

“You are as incompetent a healer as you are a stupid whore,” he gritted through clenched teeth, still facing away from her. Hir’at moved from her curtsy which she had held throughout his outburst, and let her cloak slide to the floor.  She moved to stand behind Ilyasov, and wrapped her arms around him.

“Your stupid whore is most grieved to hear her Lord Chancellor is unwell,” she said softly, her voice laced with concern. She nestled her head between his shoulder blades, and ran her hands across his emaciated chest.  Her touch went a long way to soothe his temper, and eventually he grasped one of her hands and twined his fingers with his own.