Rithard knew his first question would be insulting, and yet it was the question he most wanted to ask. He tried to keep any mocking tone from his voice as he asked, “How did you know to come here? Does your god appear to you and speak? Send notes of some sort, emissaries, animals perhaps?”
Ahmed raised an eyebrow, a skeptical expression on his face, but he was smiling as well. “Come here, today, or come to this land?”
Rithard sat back in his chair. “So your god sent you in both things, then?”
“Aye. He even shipwrecked us when we tried to turn aside from his will. Many good men perished.”
Rithard was fairly certain his disdain was written all over his face, but the Southlander had yet to leap from the table and pummel him, which was a good sign. “You dodged the question.”
“Aye, I did not intend to,” Ahmed replied. “Ilaweh speaks to me in dreams, and sometimes in overwhelming feelings. I do not think gods visit the mortal realm often. It would be most dangerous for the world.”
“Dangerous how?”
“Gods are immense, energetic beings. I think it would be like stuffing a tiger into a backpack.”
That actually sounds somewhat sensible, if one believed. “How do you know this? Does it come to you in visions as well?”
Ahmed chuckled. “Ah, no. If I am anything beyond soldier and prelate, it would be student. I studied long under my master.”
Rithard said nothing for a while, his mind racing as he made several connections. The Southlander gave him an odd look, one Rithard was familiar with. Violating social norms and expectations again. Rithard held up a hand. He could usually follow one thread of intuition without stopping a conversation, but now he had two. Well, let's sort one of them out, then the other.
“Your master. The empress murdered him, yes?”
Ahmed's eyes darkened at the thought, and he answered with a curt nod. “It is so.”
“Would you have the bodies of your men to returned to your land? I preserved them.”
Ahmed's eyes grew wide in shock. “You work with the dead,” he said, making the connection. He sat bolt upright in his seat. “Do you say truth? Why would you have preserved them at all?”
Rithard shrugged. “For research, of course. It seemed only prudent to know all I could about potential enemies.”
Ahmed eyed him suspiciously. “You cut them open and looked inside?”
Rithard shrugged, well aware that an autopsy might seem a bizarre thing, depending on the Southlanders’ cultural norms. “Being fair, they were already cut open. I merely widened some of the wounds in most cases.”
Ahmed stared at him a moment, eyebrows raised. “And what did you discover? Are we different?”
Rithard snorted. “Of course not. I knew it all along, but given the opportunity, one should be certain. Same organs, same blood. A few differences in size, but all within reasonable variance of normal, nothing that would indicate a different species. We are the same.”
Ahmed looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “It would be a great gift if you could help us recover the remains of our fallen. It would go far in mending things between our people.”
“I suspected as much. We shall see to it before you leave, but there is another, more pressing matter.”
“Speak, and I will answer.”
Rithard steepled his fingers and put them to his nose, letting his eyes lose focus. “You claim a god sent you here. And I have been pondering something that may seem minor, but feels of great import. I recently discovered there seems to have been a sort of doomsday cult amongst the founders.”
Ahmed shrugged. “No doubt. Amrath would surely have told them of the prophecy. It is why we have come, after all.”
Rithard blinked at this sudden news. “I don't—” He ran a hand over his face. “That is to say...” He found himself blinking uncontrollably. “Swear it's true. Did a god truly send you?”
“There is no doubt.”
“And you came here because...?”
“We aim to thwart Elgar's prophecy of doom, if men are able. If not, we will die well, along with everyone else.”
Rithard took a deep breath, regretting the second coffee now. His pulse was pounding in his head. “Did your education by chance include foreign languages?”
“I can read and write eight languages, though they are mostly old and unused. I know many a musty tome by heart. Fat lot of good it's done me.”
Rithard shot to his feet and beckoned. “Come with me!”
Suddenly, I am his new best friend. Ahmed found it amusing how quickly the cold, pale stranger had gone from languid and disinterested, serving a duty he did not relish, to near frantic excitement.
Rithard led him through the manse in tow, the look on his face so intense that the servants trying to speak with him instantly thought the better of it. Well, perhaps the large, armed black man has something to do with it, as well. Ahmed chuckled as Rithard tore down the hallways, and moved quickly to keep up with the fellow. His legs may have been spindly, but they were long, and his pace breakneck.
As they approached a large set of double doors, an elder slave, unintimidated, called out, “Master Rithard, this is highly irregular, bringing a Southlander into the library!”
Rithard produced a key from his robe and unlocked the doors. “The game is afoot, Slat! Unless I miss my mark, there will be all sorts of irregularities in the near future.” He patted the old fellow on the shoulder. “See to it we're not disturbed.”
“Of course.” As Rithard started again toward the library, the old man grabbed at his sleeve to stop him. “Master, you do know you are frightening the other slaves, yes? I hope this isn't just some errant notion or foolishness?”
Rithard laughed as he opened the doors. “You mean you hope it's got nothing to do with Meite influence I've caught from The Papers like some contagion, I presume?” He laid a calming hand on the old servant’s shoulder and assured him, “I am innocent, sir, and I am well. The worst you'll see from me is a few corpses dissected on Mistress Narelki's desk.”
Slat sucked in an offended gasp. “You would not!”
Rithard gave the old fellow a slight bow. “Very well, I'll promise not to do so, and in exchange, you'll smooth things over with the rest of the house, yes? Hand out some bonuses or something. Or cake. I always liked cake as a child.”
“I whipped you for stealing cake once, as I recall.”
Rithard snorted laughter. “So you did. I'll not steal cake again, I promise. And we'll keep out of sight.”
The old slave smiled. “I will see to it you are undisturbed.”
Ahmed followed Rithard into the room and stared about in amazement as Rithard closed the doors behind them. “Ilaweh is great,” he muttered. “There must be ten thousand books here!”
“More, I should think, but I have never counted them. I have other matters in mind for now.” He strode to the great desk and took up a packet of papers.
“I will not sleep with you unless you can beat me in a fight,” Ahmed said.
Rithard whipped around to face Ahmed, eyebrows practically hovering above his forehead. “I beg your pardon?”
Ahmed could not hold his serious face, and began to snicker.
Rithard smiled back, looking abashed. “Ah, I see. A jest.” He produced a paper from the packet and presented it gingerly to Ahmed. “It seems solid enough, but it should be nearly a thousand years old. Treat it gently. Can you read it? I don't even recognize the letters, much less the words.”
Ahmed raised one eyebrow, then both, as he felt an almost electrical surge run through him. “Ilaweh is great! This is ancient Ilawehan. What your people called mine when we first met.”
“What did they call themselves?”
Ahmed shrugged. “I do not know. We took a new name, after Xanthius. 'Xanthians' are the only name I have ever known for my people. And we took your language too. My people have not used such writing for nearly a thousand years.”
Rithard waved hi
s hands, almost jumping up and down with excitement. “Go on! What does it say?”
Ahmed read further, and laughed out loud. “They used it as a code! This is a message from Yorn to Amrath! The blood is even more potent than we feared.”
Rithard's face fell in disappointment. “That's all? Bah! I thought I'd found something, but apparently they were still hung up on the ignorance of nobility. 'The blood'. Fools!”
Ahmed, however, did not think that was the whole of it. The paper felt heavy to him, important. “Why would they have written this in a language they knew no one else could understand, except for security? Are there more?”
“Several.”
“Then let's see them!”
Prandil had left word with his slaves that he was not to be disturbed, and was consequently furious at the knock on his door
“I asked not to be disturbed!” he shouted. “Illiterates! Imbeciles! Shall I hurl dictionaries at you until you find comprehension in your pain?
Thrun's impish face peeking from the barely cracked door mollified Prandil somewhat. The young slave raised an eyebrow as Prandil's tension fled. “Enraged to grinning in a half second?”
“You've just reminding me of something terribly amusing. I have a surprise waiting for you.”
Thrun stepped in and closed the door, a look of amused suspicion on his face. “I have a really bad feeling about that.”
“You should, wretch. It will more than make up for this interruption, you can be certain.” He waited for Thrun to speak, but the boy remained cunningly silent, waiting for an opening, and very obviously full of himself, his eyes positively brimming with some secret he held. “Well, out with it! What, pray tell, was the purpose of ignoring my clear instructions to fuck off and leave me be for the evening?”
Thrun took a pose of mock sheepishness and looked at the floor, rubbing the toe of his shoe against the carpet, a look of bliss on his face. “Oh, I was just trying to help my master get laid, but, hey--”
“Mei! This is a practical joke to 'snap me out of it', isn't it?” Prandil cackled. “A damned intervention!”
Thrun gave him a broad grin. “You might think that. But you'd be dead wrong.”
Prandil watched her enter his chambers with a mixture of awe and amusement. You're a bit young for my tastes, and a bit flat, too, but Mei you have grit, girl. Let's test you, shall we?
“How did you get in here?” he asked, feigning surprise and annoyance.
Kariana offered him a catty, sexy grin that couldn't have fooled a lovesick teenager. Presumably you'll get to the point of what brought you here soon enough.
“I lied to your slaves and told them we had plans. They didn't seem to find spiriting a young, pretty woman up to your private quarters as anything unusual.”
Prandil folded his book and placed it on his polished mahogany nightstand. “So that's the shape of things, is it?” A bribe. But for what? That bit of information is considerably more interesting than the bribe itself, though she isn't clever enough to realize it.
Kariana gave no answer but her grin.
Ah, perhaps she is! This might at least be entertaining! “Oh, by all means. And do lock the door behind, won’t you?”
Kariana did so, then moved forward and took a seat at the foot of his bed. She said nothing, simply waited, presenting herself as a display model. She was far too young, and her waifish figure did nothing for him, and yet…. There is something about her, something I've sensed since the business with Maralena.
“I would have come to you, eventually, you know,” he said.
“Does it bother you? The role reversal?”
“Not at all. I find it rather refreshing.” The first rule of being a Meite is, after all, not being afraid to reach out for what one wants.
“You’re very certain of yourself.”
Prandil chuckled softly. “My dear, you have no idea.” He hesitated, though not long enough for her to notice, trying to decide if this was the right course. His own thoughts came back to him: to try and fail was so much worse than to never have tried at all. It was a risk for both of them, and yet, it seemed correct, symmetrical.
The loss of Narelki was a stark reminder that the order needed students, a steady supply of fresh blood. None of the elders seemed concerned enough to bother, and Sadrik needed more experience before he could be of much use in that area. Very well, then, child, I will consider a second pupil. Let us test first your passion.
“You’ve shown quite a bit of mettle of late,” he told her. “But not nearly enough flesh for my tastes.”
Kariana stretched her arms high and yawned, giving him a nice view of her breasts. “You might have joined one of my orgies.”
I might have let Narelki put an end to me, too, and both are of similar appeal. His laugh had a bit more contempt than he intended, but then if she quailed at a little snark, she was definitely the wrong material. “Do I look like a juvenile to you? I am a man of taste and discretion. You should try it sometime. It might suit you.”
Kariana stuck out her tongue at him, a gesture Prandil found quite disconcerting, coming from someone who seemed so childlike, both in body and mind. Am I really considering this? Admittedly, she was attractive. It would hardly be a great sacrifice, and for Prandil, at least, it was the best way to be certain, to take her measure and see if she could likely weather the training. He would learn much of her spirit, enough to know if going further would destroy her.
“Maybe you’re too reserved,” she shot back. “Are you sure you're ready for my brash, classless youth?”
Good. Fight. Show me that you know more, your way is better. “I’ve had more women in my life than you’ve had men, I’ll wager. Women are like wine: age adds things, even as it takes others away. Perhaps if you’d experience with men of actual ability instead of boy toys, you’d appreciate that.”
Kariana tittered. “I could have one of them right now, and instead I’m here. What does that tell you?”
“That perhaps you are smarter than you seem.” And that our thinking is aligned.
Kariana leaned forward and crawled to the head of the bed. She propped her chin with an hand as she locked eyes with Prandil. “It’s nice to be given some credit now and then.”
Prandil once again took the measure of her as best he could. Bold. Fearless. We've seen that over and over. Foolhardy, even, though that's not necessarily a bad thing if one has the power to back it up. Ah, well, if it doesn't pan out, it's not as if either of our chaste reputations will suffer. “I think I should prefer to withhold true judgment on the meal until after dessert.”
It was, he had to admit, a more pleasant dessert than he had imagined. The girl had skills, certainly, but the physical aspects were minor. She had passion, deep wells of it, enough to carry her through. But will she fight for it? If not, the training is likely to kill her. He lit his pipe and leaned back, considering how he would proceed. I need to be very careful.
Even as he was mulling this over, she spoke his thoughts. “Will you teach me?”
I will. This is your first lesson, though you don't know it yet. Prandil turned to her, feigning confusion. “Teach you? I doubt it. I’m fairly impressed with your skills, actually. Much more than I expected.”
Kariana blushed. “That's not what I meant.”
Prandil waited a moment for her to continue, then prodded. “What did you mean?” Don't be shy! You've never been before!
Something in her seemed to hear his silent pleading. She plunged forward, almost stammering as she spoke, “Teach me to be a Meite.”
Good. Knowing what you want is important. Now, let us see if you will fight to get it. Prandil gaped at her as if shocked, then laughed loud and hard. At last, he wiped tears from his eyes with the edge of the bed sheet and chuckled, “Oh, my dear, you are ambitious, aren’t you? So here’s the bill for the evening’s entertainment?” He took a pull at his pipe and blew out the smoke, regarding her with the gravest expression he could muster. “Seriously,
you? Preposterous.”
He almost laughed and spoiled the game as Kariana's face fell like a child’s who was disappointed in a gift, but she quickly mastered herself, fury growing in her eyes. Yes. Push on, girl! Fight! “Why not me?” she asked, her voice husky with rage.
A small coal. Now we kindle it. Prandil rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, don’t tear up about it.”
That insult clearly hit home. The muscles in her jaw bulged, and Prandil fancied he could see flame dancing behind her eyes. I've given you what you need. Now, use it.
She asked him again, punctuating each word with a pause. “Why…not…me?”
Wonderful! Prandil let himself flow into it now, allowing a bit (but just a bit) of the mood he wanted become reality. Now was the time to push the student, to let them actually feel the power, the strength of emotion. He summoned his guilt and grief, allowing just a fraction of it to leak into his soul, and turned toward Kariana, knowing he must look a true fright. “You would hear truth? Why not you? Mei! Because you’re weak, pathetic, and foolish. You've come here with the notion of replacing a woman you could never match, and it offends me! Whatever made you think being a good fuck qualified you to be a Meite?”
Prandil saw Kariana's jaw bulge once again, and then she was turning away. No! You're so close! But no, she had given up. She was gathering her clothes, preparing to slink away. I was wrong. You're not quite right. Ah, well, you already hated me. It's not as if much has changed. You'll live, which is more than I can say if we continue down this road. So close. So damned close.
Prandil picked up his book again and began reading, already losing his passion for the entire project. Kariana was a dud, and he was a fool, and this was all a tremendous waste of time.
He was surprised when she spoke again, and turned to her, watching her eyes. Perhaps... But he saw nothing there, no flames, nothing but stupid, cow-like banality. Courage, yes. But not quite, my dear. I won't watch what happened to Narelki happen to anyone, ever again.
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