“Yes.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “You have never taken a lover, have you, Azaiah?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why? You must have had offers, pleasing as you are.”
He blushed. “Yes. But I… It has never felt right. To kneel for any who asked me.” He had found pleasure alone, thinking of someone who was strong enough, dominant enough, to make him want to go to his knees for them.
“If you wish it, I will send a priestess to you. Elya, perhaps? She is also a submissive, so you need not kneel for her to know pleasure. Or a priest, if that is more to your liking. Jael. I heard he cried when you were chosen for the Harvest.”
Azaiah had heard that, too; this was a small village, people talked, and Jael had always been quick to sit by Azaiah on feast days, even before the ceremony that marked him as the Harvester’s flower. “I do not think it would be kind to be with him, only to go forth tomorrow to the altar.”
“If you are sure,” she said, and he smiled to show that he was. “Then enjoy your night. Nothing in this place is forbidden to you. There are sugared candies, honey, tea if you want it. I would only suggest not eating too much. Tomorrow will be weighty. Even for one as peaceful as you.”
Azaiah didn’t doubt that. He thanked the Oracle, then removed his clothes and climbed into the bath that had been prepared for him. Flowers drifted serenely on the surface, and the steam smelled faintly of the oils that had been mixed into the bathwater. The smoke from the sacred incense was starting to fill the room, making him feel hazy, even if he didn’t particularly wish to sleep.
Azaiah washed himself, and when the water had cooled, he climbed from the bath and used the linen sheet to dry himself, then sat naked before the hearth with a wide comb. He combed his hair there, content to let it dry by the fire in soft, white tendrils. He had some tea and a little bit of the food, as it had been prepared by the village elders, and it seemed wasteful, or rude, not to taste it.
And then he waited for the sun to rise and, with it, his last day to arrive.
* * *
Despite not wanting to sleep, Azaiah dozed a time or two before dawn. And while he didn’t live a lifetime in his dreams, theywereinteresting.
First he dreamt of standing on the banks of a river at night, with a boat cutting silent and swift down the current, a hooded figure at the prow, the gleam of a scythe at their back. He woke sprawled naked before the fire, half-hard, understanding that had been the Harvester, heading to the reaping.
Then he dreamt of the sea—but not the cold winter sea near his village. This was the warm southern sea, the one where pirates fought kings and soldiers rode wyverns into battle, inspiring songs the traveling minstrels sang at the summer festivals. He dreamt he stood on a sandbar, his hair in his face, staring at a place in the sea where the water was darker than the rest—navy blue instead of turquoise, in an improbable, perfect circle. The sea was not wild the way it was near Azaiah’s home, but tranquil, making that strange, dark well stand out even more.
Aren’t you pretty,said a sly voice, a whisper on the wind. The water rippled, as if the well itself was speaking, or maybe laughing.What a waste that your heart’s desire is a knife at the throat. Come visit, winter flower. We’ll have much to speak about.
When Azaiah woke from that dream, he was touching himself, halfway to coming on his stomach. That felt wrong, somehow, so he drank some cool water and combed his hair again, then let the smoke carry him gently into yet another dream, though he was beginning to suspect they weren’t dreams at all.
The next was of a forest, full of thick trees, and it was twilight. Azaiah stood in a clearing beneath a crescent moon. Black rabbits dashed about, paying him no attention. In the center of the clearing was a throne hewn from onyx, and a figure sprawled upon it, but the figure did not move, and Azaiah did not feel as if it were right to approach it. That was the shortest dream, though he thought perhaps he’d been riding on a horse at the end of it, which made no sense to him at all.
The next dream was of the sea, again, but this time it was the one he knew. Dark gray clouds swirled overhead, and he was swimming, or trying to, but the rain lashed at his face and the undertow was too strong, pulling him down. Before he was taken into the depths, though, a shadow moved below him and a pair of great, wide wings broke through the water, lifting him and carrying him to the shore.
Chaos isn’t your thing, is it,a voice said, but Azaiah woke before he could sayNo.
After that, he dreamt of a woman in a room full of statues that came to life and began to whirl about her in a dance. The woman was laughing, her hair a rainbow of colors, a paintbrush in her hand.
“Greetings, pretty rabbit,” she said. “They knew what they were doing when they painted you, didn’t they? What a palette your soul is.” She lifted her hand and blew a kiss at him, and colorful stars swirled around and around, blanketing her in bright shades until he couldn’t see her anymore.
In the last of his dreams, he stood in a field of wildflowers.
There was another person in the dream, but they stood too far away for Azaiah to make out their features. They were tall, with hair that looked like a flame, and they wore strange clothing that made Azaiah think they were a soldier. They did not approach, but Azaiah felt an urge to go to them, as if they were in truth a flame beckoning him on. The figure caught sight of him and raised what looked to be a sword… and fire flared up around them, sweeping forward, turning the wildflowers into so much ash.
Azaiah did not fear the fire as it moved closer to him, merely raised his own hand in greeting as they faced each other across a field of flame.
When Azaiah opened his eyes, he was staring into the hearth, and he watched as the flames grew hotter and brighter and then finally faded into embers.
He stood, stretched, and padded over to the door. There were no windows in the small building, and he felt as if he should not open the door, lest anyone think he was trying to escape. He went back and contemplated the food, opting for cold water and a little fruit. The taste was sweet and spicy, a winter berry, and perhaps he felt a pang that he would taste no other fruit again.
The door opened, and while his heart gave a kick, he merely watched as the attendants scurried in with their faces wrapped in damp cloths to shield them from the smoke that filled the room. They bowed to him, which made Azaiah feel very strange, and went to add more coals to the braziers. When they left, he could see it was still dark outside—not yet dawn, but likely close.
He did not sleep again.
By the time the Oracle came for him, the smoke was thick and he was humming some old song his mother used to sing to his sister when she was fussy and didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t resist when the Oracle led him, naked, to a wardrobe near the door—which was now open, the smoke dissipating, the braziers finally snuffed as there was no more need of the smoke. Azaiah drifted pleasantly as the attendants combed his hair again, braiding flowers and little bits of sea glass into it, rubbing his skin with cream, anointing his forehead with oil that smelled like a fire newly lit.
The Oracle spoke, and it took some time for Azaiah to drift back enough to listen to her. She helped him into a soft white robe and knelt, herself, to wrap garlands of flowers around his ankles and up his legs, in lieu of sandals. As the time drew nearer, the sun beginning to brighten the winter sky, Azaiah wondered why he was not afraid. Perhaps it was the smoke, but he didn’t think so. He had always felt a bit like this, hadn’t he? Removed, distant. As if he weren’t really here, not a part of this village or even a member of his family, but something separate, alone. He had never felt anything asrightas the moment the Oracle put the crown on his head in the spring. He’d always known, somehow, that he was not meant to live in the village. Only to die for it.
