by Astrid Amara
It was enough.
Since Tarek’s return to Prasta, he had spent most of his time working with Darvad to prepare Darvad’s allies for the impending war. But the little time he had to himself, he saved for Anant. There had been no need for apologies with him, no need to prove his worth. Even when Tarek did something as disgraceful as brand a friend for acting honorably, Anant forgave him. Anant accepted Tarek wholly. Knowing that someone loved him, unconditionally and truthfully, gave Tarek the strength he needed to sit through the countless meetings and strategy sessions with Darvad and his commanders.
Of the eleven states of Marhavad, six would fight in support of King Darvad. Only five states allied with the Parans, giving Darvad the advantage, especially since some of the Paran allies had little or no military experience at all.
Priests in Prasta identified an auspicious date to begin the war. As if knowing that time was short, the monsoon finally arrived. The skies burst and rains drenched the north of Marhavad with endless torrents of fresh water. Streets turned into rivers. Splashes of mud appeared in the driest of places. The world seemed to weep for the fates of the 100,000 men who would fight and die to decide, once and for all, the king of Marhavad.
The numbers overwhelmed Tarek. There had never been a war this large in all of Marhavad’s history. Even Tarek’s warrior’s blood chilled at the thought of so many men, in such a small arena of combat.
Tarek had tried to impart upon Darvad the importance of changing those last few laws regarding caste, now, before the war. With the laws as they currently stood, the Suya and Chaya would only be able to fight men of their own castes. But the Triya would have uncontrolled reign to slaughter the lower-caste men at will. It was as tradition as old as the Triya. But after Tarek’s own humiliation with Lord Sahdin, when he stood practically defenseless before the man’s attacks, his will to change the law was paramount.
Darvad nodded and agreed that the rules should be changed for the war, but when it came down to actually making it into law, Darvad never had time. No matter how hard Tarek pressed him, Darvad found other preparations to take precedence. Not for the first time, Tarek thought of Keshan Adaru, and how he used to hound Darvad. The thought made Tarek try harder. He had to pass these laws, if only to help assuage his guilt over ruining Keshan’s life.
As the first harvests came after the swelling monsoon, Tarek refocused his energies into organizing the Dragewan soldiers to assist with the harvest. Even he took part, traveling to Dragewan to confirm enough food could be collected to feed the massive beast that was becoming Darvad’s army. Grains and hay were loaded onto hundreds of carts to be taken to the battlefield. Horses began their journey to Terashu early, to set an easy pace that would not exhaust the animals before the battle had begun. The armory worked day and night forging shields, swords, and helmets.
And in the evenings, after an exhausting, endless routine of tense preparation, Tarek would return to find Anant waiting for him, eager, eyes wide and bright, ready to take Tarek’s mind off the future, and what predicaments awaited within it.
Now, on the morning of his departure, Tarek roused to the smells and sights of his lover, and found that he was pleased with his decision. Anant had been the right choice. Anant did not instill in Tarek the kind of dangerous obsession Darvad did, but Anant reciprocated. He understood.
Tarek rarely had the luxury of addressing his morning desires. But now he could. He reached his hands down, under the sheets, and watched Anant wake up slowly, his eyes shooting open in surprise when Anant realized what Tarek was doing.
They smiled at each other. Quiet, safe, sweetness.
Tarek rolled Anant over, stroked his back tenderly, his powerful thighs, the musky darkness between. Tarek started their lovemaking tenderly enough, but he was always consumed with a desire to ravish Anant by the end of it, take him forcefully, almost violently. There was something about Anant’s passivity that brought brutish desire to the forefront of Tarek’s mind. He bit at Anant’s skin, his hands groping him fiercely in the morning light, and Anant became still, his eyes dilated, his own member heavy and demanding attention.
Tarek tried to remember the delicacy of Keshan and Jandu’s secret kiss. The sweetness of their embrace. But when his hands touched Anant’s flesh, his senses enflamed, and tenderness fled from his mind. He forced himself upon Anant, taking what he needed greedily, slamming his body into Anant as Anant responded with utter acquiescence. When Tarek came, he flushed with immediate guilt, and sought to pacify his lover by gently returning the favor.
But Anant’s eyes burned with a fiery, injured intensity, and Anant pushed himself into Tarek’s mouth savagely, encouraging Tarek to continue with his frenzied assault. Anant liked it rough. He wanted Tarek to treat him wildly. Tarek’s fingers clawed into Anant’s thighs, he used teeth, he attacked Anant with all of his fury until Anant wept and cried out and came at the same time, his whole body shuddering.
Tarek panted, ashamed at what he had done to such a quiet, beautiful morning.
But, amazingly, Anant reached down and gathered Tarek up into a tender embrace. Tarek almost wept for joy. That he could be so brutish, and get such love and understanding in return—it was more than he had ever dreamed of. Anant accepted him, in all his berserk misery. Anant understood him. This potent embrace was the greatest gift Tarek had ever received, and that included his title, his Triya caste from Darvad. Nothing had made Tarek feel so safe, so wanted.
“I’m not lonely,” Tarek said to himself, amazed with the realization. Like the slow easing of a chronic pain, his mind was whole. Tarek laughed and held Anant to him.
Anant wore a puzzled grin. “You have me, my lord,” he said finally.
“Tarek.”
Anant blushed. “Tarek.” He kissed Tarek’s neck slowly, his tongue gently darting out to touch Tarek’s skin. Even though he had just finished, Tarek felt his body stir once more. “Tarek,” Anant whispered, as if testing out the word, his lips traveling downwards, his tongue quick and searching, and Tarek closed his eyes and listened to Anant whisper his name as he kissed Tarek in places he never imagined to be kissed, as he showed a gentle trust and openness that Tarek had only dreamed of.
“Any man who kisses me there gets to call me Tarek,” Tarek said, smiling. Anant snickered.
“That’s the first funny thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Anant told him. He grinned seductively and leaned down to continue his kiss.
Tarek smiled to himself, proud to have been funny for once. Life was so sweet and sexy and hilarious and comforting and beautiful, in the arms of this man. He laughed himself, and opened his body up to his lover, and realized, that no matter what happened from this point forward, with the war or with Dragewan or with Darvad, Tarek had, at the very least, this one perfect, happy moment.
Chapter 48
KESHAN CARRIED A BUCKET OF WASTE FROM THE KARVAZI Bazaar outhouse into a waiting cart, to be hauled away by Tamarus Arundan’s son Lazro. He kept his grip on the bucket’s handle light but firm. He didn’t want to drop it in the crush of busy people. He slopped the filth into the stinking cart and turned to go for another. He dodged shoppers and the other Jegora who also worked this job. That he had adapted to his job surprised him. He’d never thought the stench of human feces would ever be bearable.
Of course, the knowledge that he would only be hauling shit for a very short time helped his attitude. The battle for the throne of Marhavad was only a week away and after that he would be a Triya or he would be dead. It was a comfort that he was lucky to have. His fellow Jegora had nothing but a lifetime of such drudgery to look forward to.
Lazro looked over his shoulder as Keshan banged his bucket on the edge of the cart to knock a recalcitrant lump free.
“Don’t you know some magic that will make outhouses clean themselves?” he asked.
“I prefer not to use shartas unless I have to,” Keshan replied. Only Jandu and Iyestar knew about Firdaus’ curse, and Keshan preferred to keep it that way,
knowing that fear of his Yashva powers kept him safe.
Lazro owned the cart and was popularly known in the impoverished district of Prasta as the “vanishing man.” He made things disappear, whether broken axles, burned coal, or excrement. Jegora from all over the city adored him, because he owned his own mule, dumped their refuse, and treated them decently.
Keshan liked Lazro because he was a prolific conversationalist, and a young man fascinated with the world outside his own Chaya caste. As Keshan struggled with the other three Jegora responsible for keeping the outhouse clean, Lazro leaned against his cart and chatted with Keshan, seemingly undisturbed by the stench, the filth, or their untouchable status, as long as they never physically touched him.
“Are you really going to be Jandu Paran’s charioteer and fight King Darvad?” Lazro asked him.
“I’ll be charioteer, but it’s against the rules of war for me to fight Darvad.”
“So what happens if two Chaya meet on the battlefield?” Lazro asked.
Keshan dumped another bucket into the cart and wiped his brow.
“All the rules are established in the Book of Taivo,” Keshan told him. He smirked. “Didn’t your father make you read them?”
Lazro scuffed his bare foot on the ground. “I don’t read much.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t read them to you, then.” Keshan picked up his bucket. “Your father has a love of reading long passages to anyone in his company for longer than five minutes.”
Lazro laughed. Keshan smiled back, and then turned once more to make the trek through the alleyway to the back of the public market.
The main streets swarmed with shoppers. With the battle to begin in less than a month, people desperately purchased essentials in fear that the war would lead to shortages. Keshan remained out of sight of the Chaya and Suya caste citizens, sticking to the narrow alley with the rest of the Jegora as he completed his filthy task.
At the outhouses, an older man handed Keshan two more buckets. Keshan nodded and then trekked back once more to Lazro’s cart.
“But I don’t understand how Chaya are supposed to fight if they can’t fight the warriors.” Lazro picked up the discussion as if Keshan had never left. He liked Lazro’s conversational style. Lengthy pauses meant nothing to him.
“According to the rules, no Chaya warrior can fight against a Suya or a Triya, which means they will be relegated to foot soldiers,” Keshan explained. “They can fight other Chaya foot soldiers only.”
“But a Triya can fire upon them?” Lazro asked.
“Yes.” Keshan dumped his buckets. “The Triya can shoot you with arrows, and cut you down with swords, or club you with maces. And you can do nothing to them, on pain of death.”
“But that’s madness!” Lazro spat the betel leaf he was chewing on the ground. “Why even have Chaya and Suya soldiers?”
“To create larger forces, and to provide physical barriers against the other Triya.”
“So Chaya and Suya are just human shields.”
“Essentially. It’s just a reinforcement of the same pecking order you’ve always known, Lazro.” Keshan looked at his hands, and shivered in revulsion. Even though he had been meticulously careful about not sloshing the contents of his buckets, a trickle of sticky urine dribbled down his palm. He crouched and scrubbed it off in the dust at his feet.
“You’re too fastidious to be good at being a Jegora,” Lazro teased him. “Or even a Chaya.”
“I’ve improved greatly over the last month.” Keshan smiled mirthlessly.
“But this war could change everything, couldn’t it?” Lazro asked.
“Yes.” Keshan retrieved his buckets and headed back to the latrines.
Lazro’s curiosity bothered him. As he made several round trips to the cart, Keshan realized that Lazro must be considering joining the battle. He would have to talk him out of it. Most of the lower caste soldiers were conscripts, forced into service by the lords of their state as part of their servitude. But the Chaya and Suya of Prasta were exempt, as they served no lord other than the king. It was one of the few benefits for the lower castes living in the crowded capital.
By the time dusk approached, Keshan was exhausted, both with his job and with Lazro’s conversation. He never thought he’d grow tired of explaining things to anyone, but the last month had been hard on him, and he was a different person now. Bitterness crept into his soul, only amplified by the suspicion that, despite everything he told Lazro this day, the boy would probably join the soldiers anyway. There was glory to be had in war, and enough money to last a poor Chaya a lifetime. If he survived, Lazro could look forward to more respect in his community, and enough wealth to support his father and all of his sisters.
But the risk was monumental, and Keshan feared for him. He worried what Tamarus would do, if his only son went to war. Tamarus’ wife had died a few months after Keshan last saw her, and now his old friend lived alone, supported only by Lazro and his garbage-hauling business.
“Do you want a ride home with me?” Lazro asked Keshan. Keshan used the precious gourd of water he had with him to wash his hands. He looked at the heaping wet refuse in the back of Lazro’s cart and grimaced.
“After I dump this, of course!” Lazro laughed.
Keshan smiled. “No, but thank you. I’ll walk.”
Lazro waved and then moved to the front of his cart. He sat in the high seat and cracked his whip, forcing the old mule forward.
Keshan watched him go. His body ached. He stank. He couldn’t wait to get back to Tamarus’ house and take a bath. His friend’s unexpected generosity had given Keshan the little comfort he needed to endure this month of hardship, and his friendly, light-hearted conversations had helped ease Keshan’s loneliness. But what Keshan appreciated most of all about staying with Tamarus was the bath. The bath was everything to him now, now that he spent every day feeling so unclean.
Keshan mostly walked alleyways to return to Tamarus’ house, but there were a few public streets that he had to cross. He slunk in the long shadows, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
A man dumped a bucket of waste water out into the street and nearly splashed Keshan. He turned to rebuke Keshan, but then saw the small blue ribbon sewn on Keshan’s shirt, and quickly looked away. Keshan darted across the street, smiling to himself.
Everyone in town new what that ribbon meant.
Four weeks ago, after Keshan had been assaulted by Draya children on the street in front of Tamarus’ house, Jandu had made a city-wide proclamation that anyone harming his cousin would be cut down like a dog. To assure there would be no confusion, Jandu personally stitched the symbol of his arrow onto Keshan’s shirt, warning the public that Keshan was protected by the prince himself.
Keshan thought the gesture was sweet but pointless. He never imagined anyone would abide by it. And yet here was more proof that the declaration worked. People feared Jandu’s wrath, and stayed as far away from Keshan as he tried to stay from them.
As Keshan headed down the muddy alley of Tamarus’ house, he saw men fleeing the road rapidly, and heard whispers so frantic they echoed like shouts. He looked up and saw Jandu himself, arms crossed and glaring, as he waited outside Tamarus’ door.
“Jandu!” Keshan called and hurried to him.
Jandu’s mouth curled up in a smile. “There you are. I’ve been waiting here ten minutes. Why is the door locked?”
“Tamarus is helping a family move,” Keshan said. He quickly fumbled for Tamarus’ large iron key. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I suppose if I said I was just in the neighborhood, you wouldn’t believe me.”
Keshan laughed. “No.” The keyhole was rusted, and Keshan struggled with the lock. When he finally got the door open, he waited for Jandu to enter, but Jandu didn’t follow him. Instead, he scowled at a group of Jegora across the road.
“What’s wrong?” Keshan asked.
Jandu jerked his thumb towards t
he Jegora. “They’re wearing my symbol.”
Keshan swallowed. “I know. Are you angry?”
Jandu frowned. “Just puzzled.” He stepped inside, and Keshan closed the door quickly.
“Once word got out that you were protecting me from assault, other Jegora began to make counterfeit symbols and wear them as well, in the hopes that they too would not be beaten.” Keshan watched Jandu for a reaction.
Jandu continued to frown in silence.
“I don’t think I can stop them,” Keshan continued. “But if you want, I could—”
“—No.” Jandu shrugged. “Let it be. If something as simple as a fake badge can keep them from harm, let them have it. No one else is doing anything to protect them. I might as well.”
Keshan felt stunned. Jandu stood there in Tamarus’ courtyard, as he had all those years ago, and look at him now. He was willing to let the untouchables wear his personal symbol, to keep them safe.
Keshan bathed in the courtyard, filling Tamarus’ narrow iron basin with water heated from the fire. As he lathered and washed his hair, Jandu leaned against the courtyard wall, filling Keshan in on all the details of the war preparation that was taking place in the palace.
Before, Keshan had felt a great sense of loss whenever Jandu discussed politics. It was once Keshan’s world, a world he was no longer part of, and he missed his old life like a phantom limb. But now, as Jandu leisurely chatted, and as Keshan bathed, Keshan felt a soft, easy contentment he didn’t think he could find in such a situation. He felt at home.
And Keshan came to the truth. He had thought that his mission was to change all of Marhavad society. But really, he only ended up changing one man.
But at moments like this, when Jandu yawned and gossiped and told rambling stories, absent-mindedly weaving strands of long grass from Tamarus’ garden into some form of dinner plate, leaning against the wall and smiling at Keshan in the bath, Keshan realized, yes, it might all be all right. This one man might be enough.
Chapter 49
