This work is a product of the author's imagination, places, events and people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you like it!
Acknowledgement: Thanks to Richard for editing this.
The Gift of Ys
By
Jae Monroe
Chapter 12
Many hours later Isidore felt it safe to emerge from his library, hastening up the halls to the Svarya's chambers and not looking at any as he did. Somehow the whole experience had left a sinister feeling in his gut, and he wanted nothing more than to never see that Tanjan Daja again. He knew he shouldn't let the man affect him so much as to make him run like a fugitive towards the safety of the Svarya's chambers, and yet he couldn't raise his head or slow his step while he did.
Well, at least he had not cried, though he had spent a good part of his day shaking off the jitters after the encounter. Half his mind chastised himself for being so affected by such an insignificant man; the other half accepted that he was justified in his perturbation. Growing up in a castle, even living his life in court as he had, Isidore had never been truly hated by anyone. Spending a good deal of it in the library had helped in his quest for inconspicuousness. However, even when he was not secreted away, he had never raised anything like the hatred that he had seen in the eyes of that man in the parlour. Why someone would be so hateful and so dead-set against him he had no idea, but he forced himself to stop worrying about it as he walked through the doors to the chambers that were held open by attendants. Gomar il Barin, he decided, really was an insect and not worth the time it would take to stamp him under his foot.
Later, as he stood in his chamber, about to undress and bathe from the ewer, he was interrupted by the door being opened. Silently thanking the gods that he had got no further than undoing the ties on his camic, he turned towards it.
"I have come too soon," Kerim said, noting the untied front of Isidore's camic. "I might have seen you naked had I but delayed a few minutes."
"What do you want?" Isidore was in no mood for banter.
Kerim hid his frown. "To see you," he said after a moment's pause. "But I see your mood has in no way improved since last night."
Gods, he could barely remember how he had felt last night. How he felt today had eclipsed it. "I am in no worse or better mood since last night, and that is no mood at all. I only wish you would respect my desire to be left alone this night as well. I do not wish to be bothered."
Something in his tone must have made the Svarya take pause, and not dismiss this as coyness. "What ails you this day?" he asked, coming into the room.
"Nothing, so do you leave me be," Isidore said, his tone revealing his disquiet.
"Was it me?" Kerim asked, stepping towards him.
"No," Isidore shook his head, wishing he could be left alone at this time for he felt the tears were close by. "So unless you wish it to be, you will leave now," he repeated urgently.
Kerim stopped, seeing there was not a scrap of coyness about that response. "Something has upset you; I wish to know what it is."
"Can you not go?!" Isidore yelled, sucking back the tears that threatened. The last thing he needed was to be bothered by another arbitrary Daja, even if this one had his interests, rather than his destruction, at heart.
"Do not hide secrets from me," Kerim warned. "I told you what the consequences of that were."
Isidore looked at him, aghast. "Lodur help me, you will torture me further?" he asked incredulously.
"Well, if you would tell me the reason for your upset, I would not have to resort to other tactics to extract it from you," Kerim said, a little chagrined.
"Would...you...just...leave?" Isidore enunciated each word in a tone of waning forbearance, placing a hand to his temple which had started to throb from the tension of the day.
Kerim looked at him for a long moment, and then he finally sighed. "Very well," he said, turning towards the door. "But you will tell me when you are ready?"
Isidore nodded, not really caring what the question was, as long as it got the man out of his chamber so he could be at peace; though it would now be marred by the throbbing between his temples.
When he was assured that Kerim had gone far away he finished removing his camic and laid it to the side. Then he unbound his hair, shaking it out and exhaling deeply.
"Do you know, if you would just--" Kerim came back into the room, obviously not pleased about something, but his blustering was interrupted when he saw Isidore standing half-naked. Without a thought, he marched up to him, his eyes not straying from the purpling marks on the boy's upper-arms. "Who put his hands on you?" he asked, lifting one arm gently and examining the bruises marring the creamy flesh.
Isidore looked down, his own eyes widening at the appearance of the bruises now. His arms had ached when they had first been released from the man's grasp, but the pain had dissipated after that. Now, looking upon his injury, he felt it anew.
"'Tis nothing," he muttered. "I must have bumped into something; I cannot remember how I got them."
Kerim lifted his other arm. "These are handprints," he said, looking at the thick purple stripes. "And I want to know whose," he demanded, his voice low.
"Perhaps they are yours," Isidore said, trying to pull away from the hands that held him now.
Kerim looked insulted. "I know my strength; I know how to hold you so that you don't get hurt. So I ask you again, who was it that put his hands on you?"
"I'd rather not say," Isidore said, feeling guilty that he had thought to make Kerim think it was his doing.
"Tell me," Kerim urged. "If you are in danger from abuse in the castle, I must know, otherwise how can I protect you?"
Isidore sighed. "I like not to point the finger," he said uncomfortably. "And risk making an even greater enemy."
"Do you know why this person was your enemy, then?" Kerim asked when he saw that Isidore was not going to budge.
"I imagine 'tis because I am a Sheq-Kis-Ranian," he offered.
Kerim frowned. That narrowed it down to a few within the castle.
"And he is perhaps rather tired of all things Sheq-Kis-Ran," Isidore finished.
"'Twas my envoy?" Kerim asked incredulously. Gomar il Barin had a vicious hatred for Sheq-Kis-Ra, after having been there a few scant months; but for all his unpleasant demeanour, he was a fairly quiet sort, and hardly peeped around the Svarya.
Isidore said nothing, which was answer enough. "What will you do?" he asked after a time.
"I will have words with him about putting his hands on that which belongs to me," Kerim replied.
"I do not belong to you," Isidore said, pulling back from Kerim's grasp.
"Regardless of how you'd like to view yourself, to Sherim-Ranians you are my property," Kerim told Isidore, "and 'tis best they view you thus, which makes touching you in any way highly inappropriate."
"I suppose," Isidore murmured; he could accept such terms if it prevented a repeat occurrence.
"It will be dealt with," Kerim continued. "But you need not fear that such treatment will ever be visited on you again."
Isidore shut his eyes. He had manage to avoid tears so far, and did not want to let go of the floodgates now. Fortunately they did not burst when he was pulled close for a hug. In need of comfort as he was, he did not pull back and instead wrapped his arms around the man's firm waist and buried his face against the hard abdomen. Just as he used to hug his father or brother, a nice, warm, and safe embrace. And for now, warm and safe was exactly how he felt.
"You requested to see me, Svarya?" Gomar il Barin entered the Svarya's office somewhat hesitantly. The room was empty of all but himself and the Svarya, and felt cavernous. He walked up to where the Svarya was seated, stretched out on the large chair, his long legs before him, his chin in his hand as he regarded Gomar with a penetrating dark gaze. He was the image of Vemiyar da Jaal, it was said, though with far more of the brute in him. Kerim da Jaal was the picture of Dajan self-possession and Gomar had to feign an interest in the large desk beside which the Svarya sat, so that he did not get caught devouring him with his eyes.
"Yesterday, I noticed some marks on the Sheq-Kis-Ranian who is my property," Kerim said, rising to his feet and striding across to the window so that he did not have to watch the man blush and stutter. "Did you put them there?" he asked, turning from the window.
Gomar flushed and cleared his throat. "I may have, majesty; there are many times when a Dara does get in the way and must be moved, or somesuch."
"By the looks of the bruises, 'twas that he wanted to do the moving and you did not want him to," Kerim said, stepping over to where the man stood and standing more than a foot above him.
Gomar gulped as he looked up, feeling the same flush of heat as he did when he was faced with all that Dajan splendour. But, he suppressed it, for the Svarya's expression was black. "The Dara did try to leave my presence without a word, or seeking permission to do so, 'twas necessary to hold him still while he was instructed in the way of things here. If there were marks, 'twas that he refused to be held that caused them, for I certainly did not intend to give him any such."
Kerim folded his arms across his chest. "'Tis not your role to discipline my household, and especially you are not to instruct those in my possession, regardless of their behaviour. Do you understand?"
"I do, majesty, and I apologise profusely. I only thought to make your life easier by giving the boy some instruction; for his etiquette is sorely lacking after his liberal Sheq-Kis-Ran upbringing, 'twas not--"
Kerim stopped the man's rambling apology with an upheld hand. "Whatever were your intentions, and no matter your justifications, you overstepped yourself," he said sharply.
Gomar gulped and nodded. "Be assured I would never make the same mistake, majesty," he said earnestly.
Kerim held out his hands and Gomar relaxed, clasping hands with the Svarya. His eyes rose in surprise when Kerim maintained the grasp longer than was necessary for a typical display of courtesy. He had to mentally shake away the flutter that went through him when his hands were held lightly, one in each hand of the Svarya which were much larger than his own. The Svarya regarded his hands, and Gomar licked his lips which had gone dry with anticipation. Heightened as his senses were, he felt every inch of the other man's hands on the backs of his.
Kerim raised his black eyes to meet those of his former envoy. "It is hard," he said, "to imagine that these soft, doughy things could have left such marks on my property."
With every fibre of his body so aware of the presence of the Svarya while a foot away from him, Gomar's mind had entirely deserted him and it took him some moments to recollect it, by which time he was beyond laughing off the insult and instead a deep flush stained his cheeks.
Mumbling something, unintelligible to both of them, he made to withdraw his hands, but the larger ones around them tightened, the fingers intertwining with his own, so that each hand was locked in place.
"I did never like to see marks on the Darani in my household," Kerim continued and Gomar gasped as the larger hands tightened, squeezing his fingers until they were numb. "Not so much because of the eyesore, though that is a shame in itself, but for what it bespoke of those men who put the marks there."
Gomar groaned as the clasp became tighter; a far more biting grasp than ever he could summon and a sweat broke out on his upper-lip as the bones of his hands were squeezed and yet separated painfully within the clasp of the larger hands.
"A weak man who can only secure victory over one who is much smaller, and not only that, puts his hands on one who belongs to me to do so, is not one I want in my service."
A half-groan, half-yelp escaped the throat of the smaller man as his hands continued to be squeezed, tighter and tighter so that he could feel every bone grind together.
"It occurred to me to challenge you," Kerim continued, maintaining his grasp, "as I did challenge another for punishing my property out of place; but I am not in the habit of engaging those so much weaker than me."
Through the pain that had begun to cloud his vision, Gomar vaguely registered the words. He was perversely grateful, though he knew that he was far more shamed by not being challenged than had the Svarya challenged him and won.
"You, however, are not of the same opinion," Kerim continued, seeing another wince and ignoring the man's continued groans of pain: he knew his grip was enough to be painful but not injurious. "So, fond as you are of uneven matches I invite you to challenge me."
The former envoy squeezed his eyes shut, recognising that it showed such weakness as the Svarya was at present denigrating, and shook his head.
"I can't hear you. Would you like to challenge me, or not?" Kerim asked, tightening his grip further, and twisting slightly so that the pain migrated up the other man's hands to his wrists.
The smaller man shook his head desperately, only managing to gasp out: "No majesty, I do not wish to challenge you. I should not have touched him, it shall never happen again, majesty."
"Be assured that it does not," Kerim said coldly, his grip remaining excruciating. Then he tightened it further, twisting the wrists sharply, so that pain shot up Gomar's forearms, a forewarning of what would come. "Because if you ever put your hands on him again, I'll break them off."
Gomar's vision was black-spotted with pain and his breath came in short panting gasps by the time his hands were given release, and he stood by, shaking, too afraid to move until he was dismissed.
"You may visit the physician before you go," was all Kerim said, waving the man off as he went back to his desk.
Gomar gulped and nodded, and hurried out of the chamber, humiliated and cradling his injured fingers.
Gossip, in a castle, was a precious commodity. Not only did it provide a break from one's labours while it was shared and alleviation from the drudgery thereof while it was digested, but it was, in general, fodder for the day's activities; so it would be transacted regardless of its value to the recipient. Servants in the castle would receive both types of gossip during the day: that which mattered to them, and that which didn't. Very often the latter type prevailed, but as Eyon pushed open the great door to the library he was sure its occupant would find this tidbit to be of utmost concern.
Isidore was aware that he was about to be treated with some piece of castle news by the way the servant stood attendant after he had brought him the fresh bottle of ink he had requested. Again, he could not but notice how different things were in Sherim-Ra, compared to Sheq-Kis-Ra. In his former home, none had ever dared to bother him in his library, and it had been joked that the walls of the castle could have fallen down around the room and he would not much be aware of it. In his new home, however, he was almost loath to ask for anything; for it would involve at least a thirty minute long interruption to his work, while he was fed the minutiae of the castle life.
Still, one never knew when a bridge built would come in handy, so he looked up from his work with an expression of attentiveness, if not interest.
"You shall not believe what has happened, highness," the boy, (who couldn't be much past fourteen,) spoke as Isidore opened his mouth to invite him to do the same.
"Shall we see then?" Isidore asked, schooling away his amusement.
"See what, highness?" the boy asked with a frown, completely diverted from the telling of his news.
"If I can believe what has happened; speak the news," Isidore instructed, giving in to a smile and resting his chin on his palm as he regarded the boy.
"Well," the boy looked non-plussed. "Well, anyway, you shan't believe it, but I saw when I was gone to get the ink for you - I had to beg some of the doctor, and he was happy to oblige of course, but anyway - when I was in the doctor's room, who should come in but old lemon-face. You know the one; Barin, who used to be one of Svar Yoen's men, but then came to the castle, Lodur take pity on us all. But anyway, he was all broken fingers and in some sorry amount of pain, and then as I left the surgery - he sent me out, the toad - but then Evan, who works in the doctor's rooms, told me on my way to here, that it looked as if all ten of his fingers were broken. And then Arron, who caught up with me further on my way to here, said it was after having been in a private meeting with the Svarya..." The need for air superseded the need to gossip for a moment, and Eyon drew breath.
"Well indeed," Isidore mused.
Eyon was waiting anxiously, and at Isidore's questioning expression, he finally burst out. "We're all dying to know what he did to you."
Isidore fixed the boy's hazel eyes with his own darkest blue ones. "Nothing that warrants such speculation, I assure you," he answered.
The boy looked sorely disappointed. "Oh," his voice was as dejected as his expression and he picked at the fabric on his vest, his brow creasing as he considered how he might extract more detail from the close-mouthed Svaraya.
"You have torn your vest," Isidore pointed out, noticing as Eyon plucked the front of the vest he wore, that where there ought to be three ties there were only two, and the small gash rent in the fabric seemed to be the result of one of the ties missing.
Eyon looked up, his cheeks flushing. "Oh, that happened an hour ago; I did not have time to repair it ere I had to be back about my duties."
It took Isidore a moment to figure the boy's words, and his eyes widened as he did. "Oh," he couldn't help that exclamation escape his lips. "You had an assignation an hour ago."
The boy giggled. "Well I wouldn't call it an assignation, just a quick tumble and quite unexpected."
"And you don't mind that?" Isidore asked after a pause of surprise.
"Well, it wasn't too quick." Eyon allayed what he thought to be Isidore's fear. "It lasted long enough. Just, I meant quick because...we...were..." the boy trailed off when he saw Isidore's frown. "I'm sorry highness, I've been presumptuous." He flushed scarlet. "I'm sorry, my tongue runs away and I've been slapped more than once for not being able to catch it."
"No, 'tis not that," Isidore said reassuringly. "I just wondered how you could want to be tumbled quickly and unexpectedly, then have to go back about your duties."
"Oh, well, I suppose," the boy bit his lip thoughtfully. "I don't really know."
"So you don't mind that you've no choice?" Isidore asked curiously.
"Well, you sort of do..." the boy said thoughtfully. "I mean, you get clever about things; try not to look inviting around those you don't want to invite. So far I've not had to bend before any that I'd rather not."
Isidore decided that this boy would not benefit from a discussion of the inherent merit in choice. So he replied: "And what if you happen to be caught in such an unfortunate circumstance, despite your best efforts to avoid it?" At the boy's frown he reiterated. "Supposing one you don't like decides to tumble you?"
The boy shrugged. "I suppose 'twill happen," he agreed. "But hopefully not often. And soon enough I shall get myself a warrior who will not want to share me with others."
Isidore remembered Laien's words, about protection arising from bonds one forged for oneself. "And until such a time?" he asked curiously.
"Well, if mostly I get sex I want, and once or twice, sex that I don't want, I am happy enough, I think."
"Happy enough," Isidore murmured, but not loud enough to elicit much question from the boy who stood before him. "Well, I thank you for the information, and the ink, and hope you get a chance to mend your vest before too long."
"He shall do so now." Both Isidore and Eyon turned in surprise at the voice that came from the door, and Eyon paled somewhat.
Isidore took a moment to place the Dara who entered; then he saw it was the same one who had spoken to him some time ago when first he had sat in his library, considering his return to Sheq-Kis-Ra.
"Eyon, you have been missed about your duties, do you spend no more time in getting back about them than it takes to fix your vest. It is unseemly to be running around with your clothes torn in such an obvious way."
Eyon ducked his head and scurried out of the room. Isidore, meanwhile, turned to the Dara who had entered, his expression curious.
"You were hard on him," he mentioned, though with no degree of accusation.
"He wastes time if not kept in check, highness," the young man replied.
Isidore nodded. He got the feeling this young man was in authority to Eyon, and so was tasked with keeping the boy in check.
"He seemed to mind little that his clothes were torn," Isidore commented. "And less for the reason why."
The Dara nodded. "'Tis a common enough occurrence," he said.
"I suppose for the simpler ones, for those who do not think, 'tis not so much of a burden," Isidore mused.
The Dara turned his sharp grey eyes on Isidore, his expression serious. "'Tis a burden, aye," he replied. "Though perhaps 'tis the smartest of us who have learned not to think."
Isidore was left considering his words some time after he had left. Two opinions in the space of his few minutes of interruption. The one who considered the attentions of the Dajani to be a burden, and not worth the pleasure that might accompany it. The other whose attitude seemed to suggest somewhat of a philosophical acceptance that the bad must be had with the good, and that there was enough of the latter to make the former bearable. Isidore could not but wonder on which attitude was for the best in a place like this.
He was interrupted in his thoughts when the one who had caused this morning's most exciting news came to bear it to him somewhat belatedly.
"You need not worry about the envoy." Kerim entered the library not half an hour after the ink-bearer and his supervisor had both left it, to deliver Isidore this information. "He has been dismissed from my service."
"Dismissed, you say?" Isidore asked, looking up from his books. That had not reached the gossipers' ears.
Kerim frowned at the nonchalant response. "You are not curious as to why he was dismissed."
"'Twas partly for my benefit, I assume, and largely for yours," Isidore replied in a somewhat prickly tone.
"'Twas solely for your benefit," Kerim replied with a frown.
"Rubbish," Isidore sat back, fixing Kerim with a penetrating gaze. "You would not dismiss a man from your service because I might fear him. To do so suggests that you are incapable of protecting me from his threat and had to remove it. Therefore, I would surmise that 'twas because you were irked by the notion of another man putting his hands on what you consider to be your property, and 'twas not enough that you broke them; you then had to send him away."
"What I consider to be my property," Kerim said, kicking the door shut behind him and walking into the centre of the room, to stand before Isidore's desk, "is indeed my property." Then he frowned. "And I didn't break his hands...and how do you know of that, anyway?"
"Down here much castle gossip passes my way," Isidore informed him casually. "And, accurate or not, that was the news of the day. So speculation is rife that he did make advances towards me."
Kerim looked chagrined. "So you find it amusing?"
"Most jealousy is, my lord," Isidore replied, though his tone carried little amusement.
Kerim did not miss the coldness in the boy's demeanour, but he passed it off merely as a disdain of violence (though a few broken fingers - if even that - could hardly be construed as a violent response) and shook his head at the ingratitude. When Isidore's mood was like this, it was best to leave him to himself, so he decided to dispense quickly with his other reason for coming. Walking to the desk he dumped the item he had bundled in his grasp upon it. Isidore looked at it a moment, before flushing when he realised what it was.
"I thought you might want this back, now that it has been laundered." Kerim referred to the cloak that Isidore had discarded when he was about to make his escape.
"Are you thinking I might have occasion to use it again?" Isidore recovered from his embarrassment after a moment to ask.
Kerim scowled at him. "You have been warned that if you ever even think of escaping again, you shall be far sorrier than you were when first you were apprehended in doing so."
Isidore managed a faint smile in the face of the Daja's black look, rising from his seat and walking to where there was a coat hook by the door. "I shall hang it here," he told the Svarya who watched him suspiciously. "As a reminder of the events that finally induced you to behave decently towards me."
The boy's belittling demeanour would have added to Kerim's dissatisfaction, but he was distracted from both by the rather tempting sight of Isidore reaching up to hang the cloak on the hook, his body stretched out enticingly, his firm buttocks curving deliciously. When Isidore turned back it was to be caught up for a kiss, to which he was at first too surprised to react. But when it appeared to be leading to more, when he was shoved on his back on to the desk, he wriggled away from it, separating his lips from those intent on ravaging them.
"Not here," he urged, attempting to extract himself from the man's embrace.
"Why not here?" Kerim asked, pushing him back on to the desk then resuming the kiss.
Isidore pulled back. "Because this is my place of work," he hissed, trying to escape the lips that continued to wander maddeningly along his neck, and pushing away the hands that were intent on divesting him of his clothing.
"You are too prudish, my little Sheq-Kis-Ranian," Kerim whispered, succeeding in opening the ties and slipping his hands inside the opened garment, so they could creep up the silken skin of Isidore's chest.
"No really," Isidore grabbed the hands securely and bringing them out from under his clothes, and drawing himself back up to a sitting position. "If we fuck in here, I'll never get any work done afterwards for thinking of what has taken place. You shall render my mental sanctum entirely impure."
"No, we would render your sanctum impure," Kerim argued, trying to sneak his hands out of Isidore's grasp and back under his clothes.
"No, we will not," Isidore said firmly, finally succeeding in wriggling off the desk and keeping hold of the large hands so they could stop working their magic on his body, which was all for forsaking his mind at that stage. With difficulty, he half pushed, half pulled Kerim towards the door.
Then he was caught, Kerim deciding that he no longer wished to go towards the door instead took hold of Isidore's arms, securing both his wrists in one hand, while he manoeuvred him back against him.
"I said no!" Isidore said sharply, his tone halting the hand that crept down towards his trousers, intent on removing them.
Kerim released his grip, more out of shock than anything, and turned Isidore around to face him, his expression concerned.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I said no," Isidore repeated. "Why should it surprise you that I do not wish to fuck in the place where I work? Or do I not have a choice?"
He ducked out of Kerim's embrace, walking around him and back to his desk. Kerim turned around to face him, his expression still confused over the cold response. Confusion quickly turned to ire, however, and inwardly he muttered a curse to Lodur that the boy continued to turn him aside when he was throbbing from two nights without any release.
"You always have a choice," he gritted out. "So what bothers you now?" He clenched his fist in irritation that it seemed every other day Isidore was finding some reason to spurn him.
"You, and your suppressive pleasure, bother me right now," Isidore replied stonily.
"Suppressive pleasure?" Kerim asked, then he sighed in frustration. "Gods, I will take my leave now. I didn't come in here to have yet another debate with you. If you will not fuck, then I have other things I might be doing."
Isidore's eyes narrowed. "So you only made time for me when you thought it might lead to fucking?" he asked.
Kerim flushed slightly. "'Tis not that, but...I am getting sorely tired of fighting with you, Isidore." And sorely tired of the cold bed that resulted from it.
"I thought you enjoyed feisty prey," Isidore replied derisively.
Kerim's eyes narrowed at that tone. "Aye," he replied, his own voice unpleasant, "I enjoy hunting them and catching them, then mounting them on my wall. Now you have been hunted and caught, but refuse to be mounted, so you have gone beyond being feisty and are now just frustrating."
Were Isidore's cheeks capable of a scarlet hue they would have worn one. As it was he flushed deep rose while the rest of his whole body prickled with humiliation.
"No, you don't look at me like that," Kerim ordered. "I am sick of your using every excuse you can to reject me."
"Well, I am sick of this place; so we are even then," Isidore said furiously.
"You chose to stay here," Kerim reminded him coldly. "But I should not be surprised that a Dara does not know his own mind; I only question myself for letting him make it up for himself."
Isidore bristled, and though he should perhaps have known Kerim well enough by now to know that he said such things specifically to elicit such a reaction, the knowledge, or the presence of mind to recall it, failed him and he simply pointed at the door, and ordered the Svarya from his presence.
"First you want me out, then you want me to stay, now you want me to go again?" Kerim said, folding his arms over his chest and not budging. "And you expect me to believe you know your own mind."
"Go!" Isidore ordered. He would not bother arguing with bigotry which, by its nature, was so arbitrary as to make it impossible to debate.
Kerim did not move. "Make me," he replied smugly.
"Make you?" Isidore could do no more than repeat the words, his brow creased.
"Make me go," Kerim said simply.
"You know I cannot," Isidore replied in a low voice.
"And that is why we are not equals," Kerim said and then he had the audacity to ruffle the boy's hair paternalistically, "so we need discuss it no further."
"Then no men here are your equal," Isidore pointed out, ducking out of the way of the hand with a furious look.
"And I rule all men here, do I not?" Kerim asked.
Isidore gritted his teeth, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he continued to regard Kerim. Then, finally, he turned and walked back behind his desk. "Fine," he said, his voice cold. "If all the respect I am to receive is to be got from my strength, then that is little respect indeed, my lord. So you may go and be about your business and I shall be about mine, and we shall not speak on the subject again."
"And you suspect I shall not find this to my liking?" Kerim asked, standing with his arms crossed, before Isidore's desk.
Isidore looked up. A man who cared for another man would certainly find such resignation of spirit to be far from his liking. That Kerim didn't further sank Isidore into dejection. "No," he said sadly, "I suspect you shall find it quite pleasing."
Kerim did not miss the sadness, but he ignored the way it bit into his conscience. To indulge Isidore in this could only make the boy more miserable. There would never be equality in Sherim-Ra; he could not foresee that a nation built on strength and power would raise those who had neither to any more than they were: a race in subjection to another. He had considered enabling Darani to read, and had not yet come to a decision on that. But the matter required careful consideration, so he would not stick around for Isidore to push him on it.
Isidore watched Kerim turn and leave, going back to his books, and though his heart weighed heavily in his chest, there was enough ire in him to mutter: "Amoral bastard," under his breath.
"What did you call me?" Kerim turned on his heel to face the boy and Isidore cringed, kicking himself for not remembering that Kerim had excellent hearing.
"You heard," he said, meeting Kerim's eyes unflinchingly and not allowing any of the regret he felt to enter his voice. "If you would like me to repeat myself, then I shall do so, and with relish. I have a stack of other names I'd like to call you also, so I can indulge you with those too, do you but give the order."
"An amoral bastard?" Kerim said, suppressing his grin that Isidore had not resigned his spirit just yet. "Is that what you think of me?"
Isidore jumped up from his chair, watching warily as Kerim stood on the other side of the desk which was large enough so that if Kerim went one side and he the other, there was a chance he could make it to the door.
"A moral man would alleviate the suffering of those who could not do so for themselves if he had the power to do so. That you have the power, but not the inclination, suggests that you are not such a man."
"Clever boy," Kerim replied. "But that's what you excel in, is it not? Prettily framed statements to make a man feel a fool for doing aught but that which you would prescribe for him. Well I have a mind, Isidore, and can make it up for myself as to how I should rule my own nation. And I have morals, which is why I do not create unrest simply to appease my bed-mate."
"It is not for my APPEASEMENT that you should do this!" Isidore said. "And it is not as your bed-mate that I petition you. It is as one who cannot bear to see such suffering of a group of people, regardless that he does not suffer the same."
"But you could," Kerim said knowingly. "Do not pretend that you would be so fervent in this cause were it not possible for you to have been born to the life you consider all trial and tribulation."
"Perhaps I am aware of the fortunate accident of my birth," Isidore replied. "But only to make me more aware of the unfortunate trick of nature that makes a man Daran and not Dajan. And for that which is not his fault, for that which he has absolutely no control over, he must spend his entire life as a servant. No matter my birth; I cannot think it fair that such suffering should hang on the barest thread of being descended from the west and not the north."
"But it is not for merely an accident of nature," Kerim replied. "'Tis because, though a man might have no control over how he was born, if he happens to be Daran he is smaller and weaker. Therefore he must submit to those larger and stronger in exchange for their protection; as did the Dara-ya submit to the Daja-ya."
"So; happenstance and religious doctrine," Isidore said, unimpressed. "These are what a man must look to when he asks why he is relegated to a lifetime of slavery."
"There are reasons--" Kerim attempted to explain.
"Aye, there are reasons," Isidore interrupted. "Accidents of nature determine into which class one is born and then religious or secular bigotry - ofttimes of untraceable origin and twisted and warped in such a way as to suit the priests, the rulers, or both - form the basis upon which some are given massive amounts of power, and others relegated to ignominy and servitude. So yes, there are reasons, but no one much cares for them as long as they avail the dominant class of what it wants. And as for the dominated class? Well no one much cares for them, not even they themselves, if they listen to the words of their loving big brothers."
"Well, much as you hate us you can't live without us," Kerim replied brusquely. "We could talk around in circles about this, the same as we did two nights ago, and still be at cross-purposes, so I can say only this: no matter how clever you are, Isidore, you are still a small man in a world which is ruled by might."
Isidore sucked in his breath. Though Kerim did not speak as he did to insult, he felt the words as a slap in the face, stinging as any cruel slur could.
"And you should bear in mind," Kerim continued while Isidore was subdued into a rare moment of silence, "that, ardently as you pursue your cause, you are not to be its champion, are you?"
"I CAN'T!" Isidore replied, feeling near to tears. "Do you think I would not love to? Do you think, if I had the means to engage in challenge, that I would not meet every man therein, and expend my last breath in championing the cause of my people?"
His tenuous hold on his emotions was lost, and he knew that if he spoke any more, it would all come out as unintelligible sobs. It was always the same two things Isidore felt when he considered his position in this society: misery that his kind were subjected to such injustice, and humiliation that he was too ineffectual and weak of body to bring about change in what Kerim had rightly pointed out was a world ruled by might. Stepping backwards and retreating closer to the window, he held out a warning hand to halt Kerim's approach. "Just go," he ordered, his voice choked up.
"Not when you're like this," Kerim said gently.
"You only add to it, so just leave," Isidore said once more, sucking up his tears and turning to look out the window as if unaffected by their discourse, but the tears that continued to run down his cheeks belied that.
Kerim was about to argue when the door opened suddenly and one of the council's errand-runners came just inside it, bowing his head deferentially. "Svarya, your presence is required in chambers," he said in a quiet but urgent voice.
It was on the tip of Kerim's tongue to send the boy on his way with the message that his council waited on his leisure, not he on theirs, but he realised he had stayed longer than he had intended. That Isidore had succeeded in making him do so, he did not fail to note. When he looked to Isidore, all he got was the boy's profile and a reiteration of the entreaty to leave him be, so Kerim pushed himself away from his perch on the desk. But he would not leave him with such distress, so he waved the errand boy out of the chambers and then wrapped his arms around Isidore's stiff form.
"Do not be sad, Darima," Kerim said, leaning down to kiss Isidore's head. There was little else he could do, and he'd never had any great skill at soothing away tears, so after several more hugs and kisses, which Isidore passively received, Kerim reluctantly took his leave.
After growing tired of the watery view outside the castle window, Isidore dried away his tears, still cursing himself that he'd shed them when he was trying to be strong, and went back to his desk. It was a very sore point with him, the nature of his birth. Rule in both the nations of Pasia was first and foremost by might, and it hurt to be reminded of his inability to be champion of the cause for which he felt so deeply. But Kerim was neither lacking in sense, nor impervious to it, so Isidore took what comfort he could in the fact that every word said, every meaningful dialogue engaged in, must be for the betterment of his cause.
After an hour of reading, and when the heat had risen so well as to make Isidore consider quitting the library and finding some dank, cold part of the castle to which he could retreat, he was interrupted by another visitor.
"You have it well here." Isidore's expression registered considerable surprise at that voice, seeing Jalen standing by the door, watching him with an unreadable expression.
"Your friend has been kind to me," he said after taking a moment to recover himself.
"And so he has," Jalen agreed, coming into the library. "Though I suppose you see it as your right."
Isidore sat back with that response. "If you have come here to insult me, do you cease wasting your time, I already know what you think of me and my kind, so save your breath."
To Isidore's surprise, Jalen did not look in the slightest bit indignant after his biting retaliation. Instead, he looked all around him, at the shelves of innumerable books, his expression thoughtful. "You like to read?" he asked.
"That should be obvious," Isidore replied dryly.
Jalen looked back at him, his expression conflicted. "You should not hate me for trying to see that you behaved appropriately; though you might scoff, 'twas truly in your interests that I acted."
Isidore did scoff. "I see," he said disbelievingly. "Well, as you can see, my interests are just fine, and can do without your guardianship."
Jalen sighed. "I know you dislike me..." he began.
"You saw to that pretty well," Isidore filled in.
"Perhaps I did, and perhaps I overstepped myself in doing so," Jalen admitted. "Though you'd try even the most patient man."
"We have that in common then," Isidore replied, going back to the book on his desk.
Jalen smiled, out of the boy's sight, and then his smile faded as again he felt that horrible stabbing regret that he always did around Isidore. He thought, as he did many times, of the shame to be a Dara in Sherim-Ra, cursed with the ability to think.
"You were right," he blurted out suddenly and Isidore looked up in surprise, half at the admission, and half that Jalen was still there. "You spoke true, when you said there was somewhat else motivating me, besides my general malicious disposition."
"I know your brother was Daran, and he died." Kerim had told him in passing the day when Isidore had been caught escaping; when Isidore had railed at Jalen's general dislike of anything smaller than him. "I'm sorry for that. And I must apologise if anything I said during our discussions upset you," Isidore said sympathetically.
Jalen's expression flickered and his lips tightened. "Perhaps I disliked you a little for speaking honestly," he admitted after a moment.
"We tend not to like those who do so, and who force us be honest with ourselves," Isidore agreed.
"Aye, and especially when--" Jalen stopped abruptly, thinking the better of what he had been about to say.
Isidore looked at him steadily. "And especially...? When that one is Daran, yes? Weak, simple-minded beings that we are."
Jalen shook his head. "I do not believe Darani are simple-minded," he said.
"Only weak?" Isidore asked, with a raised midnight brow.
"Perhaps of body, though there are some more so than others," Jalen admitted with a pointed look at Isidore's small form.
"And you would have me believe you are not come to insult me?" Isidore asked.
"You are smaller than most," Jalen said, refusing to retract his statement. "But you are far stronger than most in mind, where you might be lacking in stature."
Isidore said nothing, wondering why Jalen had turned from defensive and insulting to endeavouring to compliment him, even if it was in his gruff and uncomfortable manner.
"I would wish you had known my brother," Jalen said after a minute. "He would have liked you, and you him."
"Indeed," Isidore murmured. What a strange man this was, all discomfort and defensiveness, delivering careless insults and incapable of diplomacy, and now he speaks of his brother with such regret. "How long ago was it?" Isidore asked.
Jalen frowned.
"When he died," Isidore clarified. "How long ago since he passed?"
"Five years," Jalen answered, his expression hardening to the cold ice-blue gaze that he frequently got.
"I am sorry for it," Isidore replied, seeing the frosty, indifferent expression on the face of the Daja and imagining their confidence was over.
"'Tis for the better," Jalen murmured, walking to the window and staring out of it.
It was several moments while Isidore spent wondering about it, and Jalen's incongruous reactions to things. He remembered their conversations on horseback, particularly the one that had seen Jalen tie him to the back of the horse and make him follow it home on foot.
"We tend to dislike those who remind us of our own failings," he mused aloud.
"We do," Jalen agreed from the window.
"So I cannot but wonder: of which of your failings do I remind you, that you must dislike me so?"
Jalen turned abruptly from the window. "You remind me of naught more than that my brother had a sad little life ere he was snatched from it."
With that, Jalen turned and strode from the library, leaving Isidore to wonder at the man's words. For some reason, he felt encouraged by them, though he was certain that was not Jalen's intention. His regret at what he had called the sad little life of his brother proved that there were Dajani who cared for the plight of the Darani, even ones who seemed to espouse the view that such a life was the lot of the Dara. Likewise, Jalen had informed him that being weak of body could be counteracted by mental strength. Dajani, it would seem, did value both types of strength, and the greatest barrier was that they had trouble admitting that Darani could have either.
Gomar il Barin entered the tavern, his expression dark, though none saw given it was hidden beneath the hood of his mantle. Taking his seat at a table in the far corner, he placed the rolled up case of his possessions next to him. Since his fingers were splinted and bandaged, he did so clumsily and he scowled to see the damage the Svarya had wrought. Even more, he scowled at his reaction, which was a confusing mixture of lust and hatred. He hated the Svarya for shaming him, injuring him, and then making him admit that he was too cowardly to engage the man in challenge. But then, he could not help but admire, and envy, such a display of raw strength and brutish power. And, for some unfathomable reason, it had him uncomfortably straining at his trousers.
If only the Svarya knew whom he engaged, Gomar thought, his expression hardening. He knew Kerim da Jaal thought he was a pathetic weakling, too insignificant to be bothered challenging, but he was no one to be trifled with. He was no sniveling servant. He was...
A loud voice interrupted his inward rant and he turned furiously in its direction.
"What is it, boy?" he demanded, his expression dark.
"I asked ye what ye wanted to drink, sir," the serving-boy repeated, his expression bored.
"Ale, and be quick about it," Gomar replied. Uncouth brat. Interrupting his thoughts like that. Well he would remember that boy, as he remembered everyone who did him a bad turn; as he stored up a ledger of all who looked at him askance. Dajani who sneered at his size, Darani who failed to render him the proper respect and subservience. It was no trifling enemy they engaged. No, it was not. He was...
He whirled around in his seat, demanding, "What is it?!" to the voice that interrupted his musings for a second time. Then his expression sobered realising it was not the stupid brat who had interrupted him the first time.
"'Tis some sorry business this." Roth dal Moran clucked his tongue as he sat down opposite his friend. "First me, now you, get dismissed from the castle, and when things were going so well..."
Roth dal Moran was one of the first to be expelled from the Svarya's service for failing to heed his instructions regarding appropriate discipline of the little-brothers. But Roth was philosophical about such things, he still had contacts, both within the castle and without, and was finding his obscurity to be somewhat of an aid, rather than an impediment to their cause.
"He is a fool and addled by his lusts," Gomar said disgustedly.
"Aye, 'tis said he cannot keep his hands off the black-haired boy," Roth mused.
"Disgusting," Gomar spat, his expression dark. "How some become so overcome by their lusts that they put themselves so in the power of another. His lusts are his weakness, 'tis plain to see, and put him in the power of one so weak. I tell you 'tis his folly, but 'twill be a blight on us all."
"Aye, we are aware of your feelings towards the little-brothers," Roth chuckled. "But you must admit; a nice young boy, a hot tight arse; they have their benefits, no?"
"Aye," Gomar lied. "Aye they do. But they must be kept in their place. The day a man is ruled by a hot young arse, we shall rue it."
"And that day shall not come," Roth replied in a placating tone, then he attempted to veer his friend away from his familiar topic. "And you are not too greatly injured?" he asked.
"I'll survive," Gomar replied, injecting considerable disinterest into his tone. "'Tis a pity he held off challenging me."
Roth's brows rose, but he said nothing.
"Aye, he did. I was all for challenging him, but he said he felt it would not be seemly," Gomar informed him grandly.
Roth sat forward, considering his words carefully. Gomar il Barin was a valuable ally, he continued to maintain, but in addition to growing a little too fervent in his dislike of the little-brothers, (some of which was justified and some of which went too far even by their standards,) he also had a habit of boasting so optimistically as to be unbelievable, and it was this Roth set about amending.
"My brother..." Roth said in a measured tone. "The Svarya is many things that we worry about in a leader: he is young and brash and inclined to be far too lenient on the little-brothers, as we have all seen, (though we must praise Lodur that his undue lenience goes no further than his own household,) but..." He drew a breath, his eyes holding those of his friend steadily. "He is not a man who backs away from challenge."
Gomar held the eyes of his brother in the Eight for a number of moments, his own defiant and challenging before he dropped them to his bandaged hands that sat, palm-up, on the pitted wood table-top before him. "Aye, as usual, you see right through me, brother, and I am subdued by it."
"It is well, brother," Roth told his friend kindly.
"It was at the behest of the black-haired boy that he did this to me, I am sure," Gomar said, his eyes still on his bandages.
Roth considered the possibility. "He is fiercely jealous of his possessions," he said thoughtfully. "How do you know 'twas not just his anger?"
"His anger would have had him challenge me. He did not. He broke my hands and held off challenging me. Indeed, it must have been at the behest of his Sheq-Kis-Ran whore; the boy must have demanded that I have my hands broken, after which time the Svarya certainly could not have engaged me in challenge."
"Think you he has become so subdued by him?" Roth asked in concern.
"I am sure of it. I would wager...well I have little to wager NOW," Gomar said this with eyes cast to his small bundle of possessions, "but I would wager my remaining unbroken fingers that we will begin to see how greatly the boy sways him. Mark my words we will see."
Roth looked extremely troubled as he considered this. "We must watch this carefully," he said, stroking his auburn beard. "We must ensure that he becomes our puppet and not the Sheq-Kis-Ranians'."
"And if 'tis the latter?" Gomar asked.
"We must deal with it, if 'tis the latter," Roth replied.
"I say we kill the whore now," Gomar said, spitting disgustedly on to the floor beside the table. "Ere he sinks his claws too deeply into the Svarya and we find our heads on pikes, we should impale his head thereon."
"No..." Roth said slowly. "No: remember the whore has powerful allies."
"No one would wage war over a Dara," Gomar said, his expression derisive. "Even if his father loves him, as is reported, months without such a pretty toy to grace his presence will have seen that love dim considerably. Not to mention that a nation would not fight for a Dara, especially one who is dead anyway, and his father would know that."
Roth frowned. "This you learned from your stay in Sheq-Kis-Ra?" he asked doubtfully.
"That and more I learned," Gomar replied, though he was careful to keep his tone measured and unaffected, so that Roth could attribute none of his words to the fervent hatred he had for the Darani. "They are not so different from us, the Sheq-Kis-Ranians. 'Tis all appearance, this esteem in which they hold the little-brothers. In reality they are whores one and all. This we have seen, have we not? For the better or worse of our cause, his father whored him to Sherim-Ra, so we have seen."
Roth tapped his fingers on the table. "This goes against much intelligence I have collected from Sheq-Kis-Ra," he said, his brow creased.
"I can tell you only what I saw during my commission," Gomar said, continuing to keep his manner off-hand. "But the greatest intelligence required no spy to gather. When push came to shove, and they very nearly did, 'twas the Dara that Kenit da Jornn sacrificed to secure peace. What makes you think he will not do so again to keep it?"