The stare Aniz leveled at her first minister would have stopped an autumn elk in mid-charge.
"What? What do you mean 'not enough men'?" The flash from her dark eyes caught everyone's attention and the dozen assembled men and women in the room held their collective breath.
Rothner returned her gaze, level and even as hers. His sharp chin jutted forward, the weight of his body supported by wide-spread hands resting on the long wooden table between them. Hot desert air from a midday breeze ruffled the russet-brown linen draperies of the narrow windows of the summer palace. He had known the news would not sit well.
"Your Highness, one of the villars, it appears, is disqualified."
Silence hung heavy in the hot indoor air, eyes darting from one to another.
"Only seven then, you say? A most unlucky number." Aniz went on, gathering her thoughts, as if not quite believing her minister. "Tradition dictates an even eight men, or the challenge is invalid. We would have to wait another year."
"Another year," she repeated.
She stopped, eyebrows furrowed, arms crossed, and her eyes went to each of the men and women assembled around the table. Her grey-streaked but still flaxen hair was distraught, and the linen fabric of her long crimson garment moved slightly from the open-window breeze while she strove to take in the minister's statement.
"Disqualified? How so? What has he done? How is it he does not measure up?" This made no sense.
How did this idiot minister, supposedly acting in her interests, not understand the magnitude of the situation and the consequences?
"What is this 'disqualification' about?"
"The villar from my district has sired a daughter." Shana, Fernwood 's governor, tall and stately with her swept back salt-and-pepper hair, spoke quietly. "We only just received notice. The consul there is quite certain."
"The fellow simply won't do as a candidate."
Aniz stared back at her, then looked at the rest of the room, her husband and the other ministers, all tense and unnaturally silent.
"We can produce the mother of the child if you insist, and her story is convincing enough," Shana continued.
Aniz raised her chin.
"This cannot happen. There can't be a child. Such a daughter would jeopardize everything." She paced the length of the table.
"Ah, but the wench, this 'mother,' may be aggrieved." She spoke rapidly, urgently. "She might be lying. Have a reason to slight this villar, deny his chances for a place in our house. Was the fellow married? Surely you would have checked."
"No, but of course that part does not matter. The girl is almost two, the mother's story is corroborated by multiple sources from their region. The fellow has been seen holding the youngster in his own arms."
Aniz frowned.
"Is there no alternate? The second villar from Fernwood? Someone to replace him? No other way to proceed? We cannot postpone another year, Darya is only just past twenty summers now. We are overdue."
"The provinces aren't always perfectly standardized in their competitions. Sometimes the villars fade back to their villages straight after the contests have ended. The focus, as it should be, is on the winner, it isn't always clear who was second."
Aniz turned her gaze to Shana and raised an eyebrow. She did not need to voice her request.
"Yes. I will make inquiries, see what we can do." Shana bowed.
"I need another villar! Time is crucial. Don't just 'make inquiries.' Furnish me with a candidate!"
****
In the adjacent room, two young women could scarcely avoid overhearing the tumult next door, if not the exact words. The late summer sun slanted in through the windows of the summer palace, the hot desert breeze pushing the red linen drapes ever so slightly.
The vast playa, that wide, dry, fine-dirt basin that sat between the Black Mountains and the Elkhorns, was searing this time of year, the dust always rising in the afternoon heated breeze. The rocky hilltops in the distance gleamed an ominous dark in the wavering, heat-stoked, air.
Alya spoke quietly to Darya, as they gazed out over the playa, trying not to eavesdrop.
"Your mother does not sound happy. There may be troubles, again, this year."
Darya nodded. "These times are frightful for her. This would be three wasted summers in a row now. Mother does not take well to delays, the heaviness of events, squandered opportunities of fate."
"I believe I heard something about an insufficient number of villars."
"Again? This was an issue last year as well. Surely there is some way around it all."
"Timing. It is all timing. Everything has to happen before the New Moon, not but ten days away."
They stared at each other, but activity outside on the playa caught their attention.
Alya nudged Darya, "See, there they are now, the first practice," pointing out the window.
The two moved to the window and looked down at the dusty playa.
Several men were crouched at a line drawn across the hard-packed sand. Various heights and weights, barefoot, all without clothes, all with erections, sky-clad only, tense and ready in the midday sun.
"Look at them. There's only seven."
They were a sight, some beards sparse and patchy, others quite full. Skin tones from dark to pale, but all with taut sinews, limbs accustomed to exertion. Eyes were bright and directed towards the race official.
"We missed seeing them getting their staffs stiff," laughed Darya, pointing. "Almost always the most entertaining part of the short race, at least in the practice runs."
Perhaps half of the men had cock-rings of various types, usually just a knotted leather string, accentuating a pair of pulled together balls and pushing an erection forward. But one fellow, stocky and muscular, wore some sort of white, bone-like encasing around his staff, a polished white circle with odd projections that squeezed a hefty pair of balls together and pushed forth a thick member, the head just visible behind the sheath-skin.
This one event, unlike all the rest for the villars, was held naked and with erections. The long races, the strength and wrestling competitions, all the other events happened with loincloths. But this race, to determine the fastest of them all, was a favorite for the crowds who were to come -- strong, handsome, aroused men were always a charming sight.
Alya nudged Darya.
"A unique arrangement on that one! Not the usual look! What must it feel like to run with a stiff shaft? I don't even like hurrying with swaying breasts." Darya looked at Alya, whose soft chest was far heftier than her own.
"I cannot imagine," said Darya
"For the short time of the race, discomfort likely matters little. Yet it drew your attention, does it not?"
They both laughed.
A middle-aged toadstool of a man in a loose red tunic, squat and supercilious, raised a short flag.
"Ready!" He shouted, gazing down the line, checking that all toes were safely behind the line.
Tense, the men steadied their positions at the starting line, each set of eyes, each erection, pointing forward, down the playa.
"Go!" He dropped his flag, and the men hurtled off, limbs churning, thighs rippling, staffs wagging, aiming for the finish mark several hundred paces down the playa.
A tall lean fellow had taken the lead. Alya pointed at his heaving haunches.
"Some serious meat there," she said. "Impressive."
The backs of the men were an appealing sight, their arse cheeks dimpling in frantic contraction to gain speed and arrive first.
Arms waved in geometric arcs, hamstrings tensed and released, calves contracted, bare feet rose and fell.
The tall straining leader was challenged by a smaller lean man with dark, well-corded thighs and a long and skinny wagging member. Alya held her breath.
The race lasted but the shortest of times, a dozen heaving breaths. After crossing the finish line, the men bent over, panting, their ribs expanding and contracting as they drew in the dusty air. The tall one had retaken the lead and won by a half a stride. Several of heavier men looked particularly fatigued.
"It will be a long and entertaining week," said Darya, examining each of the villars. "This is but the first exhibition."
"Let us hope all goes well."
"Do you know any of them? Their names and provinces?" Darya asked.
Alya shook her head. "We should get a list tonight perhaps, it is only the first day of practice and they've only just arrived."
"How I wish there were eight! This all may be for naught."
The runners bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard.
Darya lingered at the window. Such handsome bums, all of them different. Smooth, hairy, well formed, lean, they came in every shape. She examined the now wilting staffs, depleted from their owners' exertions. Would one of them find a home within her shortly, as tradition dictated? As her mother sought? She shuddered. All of this was unsettling and all of it completely out of her hands.
****
Aniz and her husband exchanged glances when Darya arrived at dinner. While early evening, there was still sunlight. Only two tapers were needed for lighting the long oaken table.
"Sorry to be late," Darya mumbled, sliding into her seat.
Aniz watched her daughter closely, her thin light hair tied into a knot at the back of her head, the scarce down on her forearms the same color as her fair skin, not sun-darkened like the working girls of the palace, whose efforts took them outside. Aniz tried to remember herself at that age, and shook her head. Had she been that handsome? Others had told her so but it was hard to tell. Darya was smaller, with angular features and a sharp nose. She lacked both patience and common-sense.
If only her precious daughter didn't rail against the restrictions normal of her station, if only she knew better the importance of her future.
"The first sprint was today, the first trial anyway," Darya said, starting the conversation before anyone else could begin.
"They looked good, although it is even hotter than usual. Handsome, vigorous." She dipped a piece of bread into a lentil spread and chewed quietly, but she noted that eyes were downcast. She was undone by the silence.
