Commandment by Daryl Chestney Read Free Book Online Page A

lily-white toga. His bald head glistened in the flickering brazier light. Lakif braced herself; a reprimand for trespassing in the solemn hall was surely imminent. But much to her surprise, she was greeted with a warm smile and open arms.
    “Welcome, traveler!” The man threw his arms around her. Lakif started at the emotional reception. She had never been hugged by a complete stranger. She didn’t know how to respond to the profuse welcome.
    “It’s teeming out! You must be sodden. Come into the atrium and warm your limbs! Let me take your cloak and travel sack.” He patted Lakif on the shoulder in an avuncular gesture.
    The Acaanan nodded nervously, questioning the authenticity of the invitation. Humans, as a rule, were lukewarm toward Acaanans. But perhaps this hall was a fountain of enlightenment and as such a home to spoony avant-garde socialists who accepted all races as equal.
    Lakif didn’t feel comfortable shedding her cloak before the stranger, but it was sodden and she didn’t want to snub the host’s friendly gesture. Perhaps if she went along with the charade she could snare one of those glasses of ale. She complied and handed over her dripping cloak. The Rare Earth Stone was now safely tucked away in her belt pouch, so it was in no danger of being separated from its owner.
    The elder hung the drenched garment on a stand near the braziers. The hall was so regal that even the cloak hook was silver! Lakif stowed her travel bag underneath the cloak. Anybody could take it, but she had little of true value within.
    “Come!” The man gestured for the Acaanan to follow. Lakif wanted to adjust her scraggly hair before entering the hallowed hall of academia, but no mirror was at hand. Therefore, she simply ran her fingers through her mop and matted the locks behind her ears. Afterwards, she timidly followed the toga-clad elder into the midst of the pantheon. Pots of warmed spices suffused the court with a rich fragrance.
    As Lakif followed, her eyes darted around, assessing the assembly’s take on her entrance. Curiously, it caused little stir. Most seemed to be too thoroughly engrossed in their personal activities to pay her any heed. Garbled conversations on lofty subjects rose from every quarter. Occasionally, she overheard discrete tidbits of conversation. But she couldn’t appreciate the topics through the highbrow language. Lakif had never heard such swollen, foot-and-a-half-long words in her whole life.
    The guide led her toward the center of the hall, where two small divans flanked a glass table. A shallow spoon housed a burning pool of incense. A second scholar was seated on one sofa. He lay as leisurely as any of the others. His arm was draped over the sofa, and his hand feathered through a washing basin. This academician was dressed identically to Lakif’s guide, with a bleached toga. But he was many years older than her benefactor. Most striking was his ridiculous wig. The article gave him a neatly permed mane of thick black hair that clashed sharply with the map of wrinkles creasing his face. A conspicuous jeweled hairpiece added insult to the gaudy wig. The hairline was unnaturally low, a mere thumb’s width above his hoary eyebrows. The apparent abundance of hair looked preposterous on the crony. Furthermore, he wore blush in a vain attempt to cast the illusion of a rosy-cheeked youth.
    “What have we here, Lysander?” The diva bubbled with delight at their approach. He then held up a small trumpet to his ear.
    “This poor Acaanan was shivering in the vestibule,” the guide answered, speaking clearly into the ear horn. His voice now resonated with sympathy.
    “Dear me!” The second acted galled, as if that were the worst state of Human suffering. He freed his hand from the tub and sucked on a dripping finger.
    “Please sit.” Lakif’s guide smiled and gestured to the sofa, although his tone was more of a command. Lakif obediently sat down on the edge.
    “I am Lysander, and this is my