Liatra

Pasha Acremodios grew greedy, discontented with the domain he dominated, so he turned covetous eyes toward Farabia, sending his soldiers to seize this ripened plum Spoiling for a fight and fighting for spoils, his army swept across Farabia like a bloody broom, brushing it clean of plunder, bringing back abundant booty– orichalcum and gnometal, moonweed and nightpetal, elf dust and faerie dew, witchwood and devils yew, dragonelles and goblinettes, clever brass gadgets and striking statuettes... And slaves, a multitude of slaves. Acremodios paraded them through the streets of Posbala– cooks and cleaners, miners and gleaners, gladiators and prestidigitators and... Liatra Fey-Nachni! A terpsichorean treasure who delighted beyond measure Yet one dance she never did, except in solitude, for it was too fine for mortal eyes, reserved for the gods alone, and in fruitless frustration men desperately demanded the Dance of the Lavender Veils, to no avail But Acremodios commanded her with a clear and veiled threat: “You shall dance at the end of a rope, a twitching jig of death, or else show me your lavender veils and continue to draw breath.” And Liatra bowed her head and began her finest dance, and the pasha sat upon his dais, clad in his grand attire, lustrous brocaded robes bristling with diamonds, sapphires, gnome stones, his fingers encircled by rings sporting gems of unmatched clarity and cut, yet this gleaming, glittering, glimmering array, which always bedazzled his gaze, now seemed dim as a new moon bescudded by clouds, compared to the eyes of She He regarded a nearby bowl filled with peaches, plums and pears, a mouth-watering repast– palpably unpalatable compared to Her succulent lips His thoughts strayed to the market square in Posbala, where serpents rose from their baskets to sway so sinuously, coaxed by the charmer’s pungi, and he thought of the hawks and falcons which wheeled betwixt the clouds in the skies over lofty Talcyata, yet the graceful, supple movements of these beasts were like the clumsy jitterings of hobbled beggars, compared to the undulations of Her body Acremodios glanced at his guards, six strapping men in scarlet pantaloons and crimson vests, with ruby-handled scimitars ensheathed upon their waists. But those curvy, flashing blades were no match for Liatra’s legs, which pierced pasha’s heart with longing far fiercer and too deep She wore a pink choli embroidered with golden needlework, and a sky-blue skirt, slit daringly down the sides, in the Farabian manner, and her nimble fingers held two veils, which she flicked with a conjurer’s skill, gauzy lavender wraiths doing their own frenetic dance And the bells on her wrists and waist, her ankles and earlobes, tinkled together like giggling fairies. And the tinkling turned louder, growing to a gonging, pounding within the pasha’s head, as the stiffness in his loins spread down to his legs, up to his stomach, out to his arms, into his heart The music ended with a frenzied flourish and Liatra Fey-Nachni lay splayed upon the floor, head bowed, bosom heaving, sweat beading her flesh as her rouged eyelids closed, concealing the triumphant gleam in those violet orbs And the pasha did not clap his hands nor voice his admiration, but stared at her ceaselessly, his eyes fixed upon the spot where she lay, long after she’d scurried away They took Acremodios to his bed, laying him on a mattress stuffed with the hair of beheaded monks, and covered him with a quilt patched together from sundered vestments, and there he lingered, wasting away for weeks, as ghostly gnostics urged his spirit to trod the blazened path And Acremodios’ soul journeyed to the caverns of inflamed fates where sulfurous clouds scud across black orbs and the shades of the damned promenade in tunnels of molten memory. But the impish barbs and demonic lashings troubled him not, and the scalding pathways merely trifled with his toes, for such torments paled compared to one terrible Truth: He would see Her no more, and when next She danced, other eyes than his would behold a hint of heaven