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How bewildered is he? And aye, he more than half believes himself enchanted, as if the youth’s Keltoi looks are the sign of ancient, half-savage magic that has torn the heart from his breast. Yet Soran -- sweet, confused, bemused Soran! -- is far from the halfwit; he knows the truth.
He recalls well enough how he chose the Zehefti, seduced him and overcame the arrogant pride … and how the hunt was hard won. Faunos gave nothing freely: Soran worked to earn every caress, every kiss. Spellcraft was never thus for the enchanted one, whose falling would be made easy and glorious, a tumult of desire.
Today, every mane of copper-red hair, every long-limbed youth, every green-eyed water gypsy makes him see Faunos. Every day the wanderers come into Vayal looking for work, the chance to labor for a day and earn a few honest coins to refurbish a boat or buy the fripperies for which this city is so famed. Our silks are the finest, our jewelry the grandest, our food the most delicious, our houris the most delectable.
But none of them is Faunos. Soran watches the common folk from the terraces bellow the palace while Helios rides his blazing chariot to the zenith of noon, and on -- and the crowds gather for the games. They stream in from the palatine, with their bondsmen and parasols, prized hunting dogs and painted amphorae -- all for show, each trying to out-do the other and be noticed at court.
None of their display interests Soran. He had one consuming thought: Where is Baobo, with news from the waterfront? Has the mongrel let a ship escape? A single ship would be enough, sneaking out of the bay while the soldiers stand idle. Soran threatens beneath his breath, monstrous curses which Baobo has doubtless earned in his long and contemptible career.
Yet ... if Soran would but walk into the temple of Mayat -- shuck his cloak and sandals, enter bareheaded and barefoot, humble as a common man, which is the way of my house -- he would step into the chill embrace of marble and crystal and might call upon the Oracle.
He never thinks to speak with Iridan, and beyond the vault, which is prison and tomb, Iridan can only watch the travels and industries, the joys and sorrows of men.
O, that I were mortal flesh! Or that I were truly dead, the ashes of my bones scattered upon the waters, the part of me that is moonlight and stardust and pure thought cast upon the ocean of the air, to wander where I will.
And would the Oracle speak plainly, if Soran were to enter into the House of Mayat, humble, even contrite, and petition for my knowledge with pretty words?
Mayhap I would … mayhap, I would not. The chore of making mortal lives easier is not mine, for I will not have it, I reject it -- I who was punished like the vilest criminal, and was innocent!
Go, then, sweet Soran, whose mind is filled with doubt, whose heart belongs to another, and whose limbs move, today, without real purpose or will, from task to task. Go thou, and hunt down a dream. Find the Zehefti youth -- he is still on Atlantan soil. Find him, and discover the feeling of suffering, as others have suffered in the name of Imperial Vayal.
Witchfinder. Witchtaker. The words strike dread into the hearts of even the most brave. And how would Soran feel, should he learn that he spent his passion upon a witchboy born from a line of kings far older and more magnificent than his own line? Would Soran care, when his pulse races at the imaginings of a white marble villa set amid olive groves, above the bay, and Faunos for his pleasure, captive upon silk sheets!
The crowds gather for the games and he listens to their idle chatter. They speak in hushed tones of Zeheft and of Ilios, and he hears terror in their voices. Many of them have come from the temples of Gaya and Volcos and Aeolus, where they paid for prayers, candles and joss. Priests will be singing long into the night, begging the gods to hold the contagion away from Vayal, lest the City of the Sun darken with plague, like the crow-shadow that has settled upon Ilios.
The ruins of Zeheft are filled with the dead and already stinking. All the long island lies between this shambles and Vayal, but when fear is rife, distance is never far enough. Soran hears all this and thinks only that the doom of Zeheft will make his task easier -- for Faunos cannot return there.
No one will approach the old city now; the west is deserted, and Faunos will be simpler to find. Soon, Soran promises himself. In a matter of hours it will be Faunos on warm crushed silk, crying out his pleasure in the moonlight where he vowed to dance to the glory of Selene. He will dance still, Soran thinks with dark satisfaction -- but it will be the kind of dance performed by two, upon cushions, while the white face of Selene dwindles into the west.
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