“Worried about being enough for you,” Deiq supplied, and sat down on a stone bench with a sigh. “She won’t be, Idisio.”
Idisio jerked a protesting stare up at Deiq, then away again, his blush somehow managing to deepen. Deiq regarded him with amusement; he’d never seen another ha’ra’ha blush so easily and violently.
“You’re leaving soon,” Deiq pointed out. “And you’ll be gone years, at best. Even a young human male would have difficulty staying faithful under those circumstances, Idisio. For a ha’ra’ha growing into his strength . . . it’s impossible.”
Idisio turned in place, paced a few steps, then turned to face Deiq again. “Are you saying I’m—” His voice broke. “Some kind of animal? That I won’t be able to control—”
Deiq blinked and reared back, astounded. “What? Gods, no!”
“Then I could wait. If I wanted to.”
Deiq stared, utterly bemused. He hadn’t even considered that concept until he was over two hundred years past Idisio’s current age. He blurted, “Why in the hells would you want to?”
Idisio opened and shut his mouth a few times, apparently at a loss for an answer.
Deiq drew a long breath and said, as reasonably as he could, “Idisio. You’ve known her less than a month.”
“So?” Belligerence lined Idisio’s jaw now; Deiq resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.
He tried a different tack. “Idisio, you’re not human. You’re not going to have a human life span. By the time you start to slow down, Riss’s grandchildren will probably be long in their graves. And you’ll drive yourself completely crazy if you try to hold to human notions of faithfulness. It’s too damn difficult for us.”
“Have you tried?” Idisio challenged.
Deiq set his teeth in his tongue, counted to fifteen, then said, steadily, “Yes. Several times over the years. It never works out well in the end.”
He tried not to think about the promise he’d made regarding Alyea. The challenge issued by the Qisani ha’reye had seemed deceptively simple: Stay only by her side, as though locked into the human concept of marriage. He’d accepted, like a newborn fool, forgetting all the times he’d failed at self-assigned versions of that task in the past.
He’d thought it would be different with Alyea, gods help him. Somehow, he’d thought that she might turn to him out of true interest, not compulsion alone. He wanted it to be different, and it was; she showed no compulsion yet, but no interest either.
Deiq had stuck himself in the hells’ own corner.
Foolishness. Yes . . . and with a high price attached to failure this time.
Or return to us, and remain with us, for a span of at least a hundred human years.
And then there was the question of whether the Qisani ha’reye had tried to stack the deck on that deal, as the human saying went, with their thorough approach. Deiq shut his eyes for a moment, blocking that memory before Scratha ha’rethe could notice his distress and rouse again; if Meer was a topic fraught with danger, the bloody disaster that Alyea’s second trial had turned into was ten times more so.
“Why didn’t it work out? What happened?” Idisio demanded.
“That’s a fairly personal, and rude, question,” Deiq remarked cooly.
Idisio shrugged and faced him, rebellious as any young human male could be: squinting, lips pursed, hands on hips. “How am I supposed to understand, if you don’t explain?”
Deiq snorted, amused by the ridiculous stance and expression, and said, “All right. I’ll indulge you the once, and tell you about Onsia. She was in her thirties at the time, and thought me a rich merchant. She’d been through two other husbands, both sailors, both dead; they’d worked on my ships, as it happened. We met at the land-remembrance ceremonies, and liked each other; she liked the notion that I wouldn’t be going out on the ships, and I liked that she wasn’t entirely innocent about men, as was the fashion for women at the time.”
“So you liked her because she was a good fuck. Great.” Idisio scowled as though disgusted over such a shallow attitude.
Deiq regarded Idisio with strained patience. “No,” he said. “You’re obviously too young to understand that part of it. Never mind. We got along well for a while; she wasn’t worried over reputation and wasn’t looking for a permanent relationship. Then her children started pressuring her to formalize the arrangement. She dropped a few hints, and I decided it was worth a try; I’d never bothered with marriage before, and I was curious to see what it was like.”
“You married her because you were curious? Not because you loved her?”
Deiq shook his head slowly; Idisio’s expression hardened into deep distaste.
“You were raised in a very different place and time, Idisio,” Deiq said before the young ha’ra’ha could say something monumentally stupid. “It wasn’t important to Onsia whether I loved her. Not after two husbands. She wanted someone to put food on the table. Which I did.”
“So what went wrong, then, if it was so perfect?”
Deiq bit his tongue against an urge to slap Idisio back to sense. Granted, Idisio was upset over Riss, and bewildered by the sudden changes in his life; but there was no need for him to be this stupid. How had he survived a day with Cafad Scratha, let alone earned the man’s respect?
Idisio glanced up and caught Deiq’s expression. The color washed out of his face, and he seemed to shrink into himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, barely audible. “Everything’s just upside-down right now. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”
Pale and miserable, the younger ha’ra’ha resembled the starving street-child he had once been: it was impossible to be angry with such a woeful countenance. Deiq was impressed by how quickly Idisio had been able to call that expression up; no wonder Scratha had never been able to throw a real temper tantrum around him.
“I’m sorry,” Idisio said, ducking his head to stare at the floor. “Please, tell me the rest of it.”
“Stop that,” Deiq said. “I’m not Scratha.”
Idisio stayed still for a moment, as though thinking about that; then slowly straightened, not quite looking Deiq in the face.
Deiq smiled, genuinely amused, and said, “As it turned out, Onsia did take all the marriage vows seriously: especially the one about monogamy. I didn’t expect that. I thought all she wanted was security, and I didn’t mind that; but at the time I wasn’t inclined to restrict myself to one partner—”
Idisio’s face wrinkled into a stern frown.
“Don’t judge,” Deiq said before Idisio could speak. “And I did try. To see if I could. But in the end, I couldn’t; wouldn’t, if you prefer.”
He’d almost wrecked more than one of his carefully-arranged alliances while trying to hold to Onsia’s demands, but Idisio wasn’t likely to understand that, either.
Idisio chewed his lower lip, visibly restraining more rude comments. “So you left her?”
“Yes. With enough money to keep food on the table for the rest of her life, and some for her children.”
“But you never really cared about her?”
“I wouldn’t say that. She was a good woman.”
“Did she love you?”
“I doubt it. She was also very practical.”
Idisio shook his head and began pacing, muttering to himself; at last he turned and said, “So what do I say? What do I tell her? She’s been crying. . . .”
Deiq grimaced. “Of course she is,” he said under his breath. The entire conversation abruptly annoyed him; Idisio was far too young to be tangling himself up over a human he’d met just over a tenday ago. And his questions about love and caring were all human, and juvenile at that. “Tell her whatever will make her happy, Idisio.”
Idisio’s grey eyes widened in shock. “That’s cold!”
“That’s reality,” Deiq shot back, standing.
An uneasy shiver ran across his back. He closed his eyes, seeking out whatever had provoked that reaction. It only took a moment to see that Alyea
had woken, and was not happy about something. Three guesses what, Deiq thought, but didn’t smile; Idisio could only take that expression personally at this point.
He spoke without really paying attention to his own words: “Stop worrying about her so much, Idisio. She’s young, and lonely, and latched onto you as the closest thing to a kind hand she’s met lately; but you’ll likely forget about her within a tenday after we leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
He flicked a hand to release the wards, then stepped sideways, pulling on the shimmering power of the ha’rethe below their feet as he would pull on a rope. A moment later he emerged into the outer room of Alyea’s suite.
All three kathain bolted out of the inner room a breath later, their expressions sullen and offended; spared him a brief glance, then dove into their room without pausing.
Deiq pursed his lips against a wide grin, forced a sober expression, and went in to explain.
Chapter Eight
Alyea woke to someone breathing in her ear and hands—more than two—wandering over her body with far too much intimacy. Aqeyva-trained reflexes cut in; she shoved in one direction, kicked in another, then twisted around into a compact crouch atop the bed.
Blinking sleep from her eyes, she followed the sounds of multiple thuds and yelps of aggrieved complaint to find the three kathain sprawled on the floor around the low bed. They stared at her as though unsure whether to be upset or shocked at the rejection. The strange white light of the oil lamps spaced around the room drew slanted almost-shadows across their expressions, making the entire moment surreal.
Her initial rush of panic slid into anger. “What the hells!” she blurted.
Then another detail came clear: they were all naked, and had been well on the way to removing her clothes.
She yanked her garments back into place and snapped, “How dare you!”
Their stares turned to bewilderment. They glanced at each other, then slowly climbed to their feet and moved into a huddle, the boy in the center. She couldn’t help staring at him; the dark gloss of his skin and the muscle beneath were far more adult than the still-soft angles of his face and hairless body admitted.
Her gaze moved sideways, taking in darker striations along the lower stomach of the woman to the right and her equally hairless body: they had all been shaved. Even the hair of their heads was cropped shorter than any she’d yet seen in the southlands; when presented, they’d been wearing wigs.
“Lord,” the younger woman said, dropping to her knees. “We not please?” Her pale blue eyes anxious, she slid her hands under her breasts as though offering them up for appraisal.
Alyea just stared, at a loss for words. The youngest woman had the lightest skin and most delicate build of the three, along with ash-blonde hair.
“What are you doing here?” Alyea blurted. “You’re northern!”
The young woman stared at her, uncomprehending. “I am yours, Lord,” she said. Her hands slowly moved from her chest, sliding down her stomach. “You want?”
Alyea choked off her first response: Hells, no! She couldn’t figure out how to get out of this without offending some stupid southern custom, and found herself wishing Deiq were around. He’d know how to sort this out.
Then it occurred to her that he’d probably left her alone on purpose, to force her to deal with this on her own: it was exactly the manipulative sort of thing he did. Anger began to simmer again.
Mistaking her hesitation for interest, the kathain began to smile. The older woman dropped to her knees and reached for the boy’s groin with hands and mouth; the boy tilted his head and arched his back in near-theatrical appreciation.
“Oh, gods,” Alyea breathed, horrified, and found she didn’t care about offending custom any longer. “No. No! That’s enough. Get out. Out!”
They scrambled to their feet, bewilderment returning to their expressions, and retreated a few steps.
“Out! Out!” She found herself on her feet, a heavy wooden bowl in her hand, with no memory of having grabbed it from the side table. She raised it to throw, too angry to consider common sense; their expressions went sullen, and they bolted from the room without further argument.
She threw the bowl anyway, just to relieve her too-tight nerves. It hit the wall by the door as Deiq stepped into the room. The bowl cracked into three splintered pieces; he ducked just in time to avoid the fragments.
Her fury turned scorching at the sight of his ever-smug face. Untrustworthy, manipulative, deceitful bastard—
“Out!”
“Alyea!”
His expression was honestly shocked. She took a savage satisfaction in that, and threw a thick-walled glass vase. This time he snaked out a hand and caught it, wincing a little.
“You’ll run out of objects soon enough,” he observed, his dark humor returning, and set the glass vase carefully aside on the floor.
She glared at him. “Get out,” she said again, low in the back of her throat, as near to a growl as she’d ever come. “I will not talk to you right now. And take them—” She pointed a shaking finger towards the outer room. “Take them with you! I’ve had enough. Enough!”
He studied her face for a long, intense moment, as though judging her sincerity; Alyea gave him back the most menacing glare she could summon.
“You have a great deal to learn,” he said at last, clearly disapproving.
“Well, that won’t happen tonight!”
“Obviously,” he remarked. With a shrug that came as much from his eyebrows as any shoulder movement, he retreated from the room. She stood still, listening; heard him, low-voiced and entirely too calm, urging the kathain from their quarters out into the hallway.
The door shut behind them. In the silent relief of being alone at last, she dropped to sprawl across the rumpled bed and promptly burst into tears.
Desert Pride, Honor, and Death
(excerpt)
Another area in which the southlands differ dangerously from the kingdom is in the matter of death. Take, for example, Pieas Sessin’s death. One accustomed to northern ways might think that his uncle, Lord Eredion Sessin, would be furious; that Lord Eredion might set out to exact vengeance upon Lord Alyea. This is absolutely not the case. In fact, if you were so crass as to ask him directly—which I strongly, most strongly, Lord Oruen, advise against doing—more on that advice shortly—but should you speak with Lord Eredion regarding the matter, I am quite sure he would express honest relief.
Pieas Sessin acted the wastrel and fool for some time, shaming his Family despite all attempts to recall him or redirect his overfull energies. Therefore, his life, at the time of his final encounter with Lord Alyea, was of far less value than his death. Pieas understood this and knelt as sacrifice, offering no resistance whatsoever. I can speak to this: I witnessed it myself. Pieas chose to end his life in the service of a ritual which cleared his name and any prior shame to his Family immediately and irreversibly; so now, the only public words you will hear regarding Pieas Sessin will be positive ones, and any who publicly challenge that memory may find themselves, in turn, challenged to a blood-right duel.
Few northerners can grasp this concept. You will probably not fully grasp the treason I commit merely by explaining this on a durable medium which, no doubt, you will save and store in your library. Others than you may one day read it, which doubles and even quadruples my offense, as I have no control over what these potential readers may do upon understanding that the official history of Pieas Sessin, as it is even now being penned by Sessin Family loremasters, to be so highly glossed as to perpetuate a fiction upon the ignorant. This is why speaking directly to Eredion regarding the crimes of Pieas would be, now, highly inappropriate and display only your terrible ignorance.
I am not myself afraid of the wrath of the other Families; but for your own sake, I would advise against aggravating the southern loremasters if you can possibly avoid it. They are a stronger force than you can possibly understand at this point, and you can ill afford the
ir collective ire. So hide these letters well, and let not a hint regarding the source of your new knowledge slip from your lips until you are thoroughly and unmistakably secure not only in your own recollection of the words in these letters, but in your position as leader of the northern kingdom as well.
From the collection
Letters to a Northern King of Merit
penned by Lord Cafad Scratha during the reign of King Oruen
Chapter Nine
Spread out around Scratha Fortress was a landscape of opposites: great rocky ridges covered in scrub flattened out into desolate sandy patches dotted with spindly devil-trees, gigantic desert-sage bushes, and a dozen varieties of cacti. A few areas of thicker growth spread improbable splotches of green against a bleak landscape of brown.
“I thought it would all be sand,” Idisio said in a muted voice.
They stood looking down at Scratha lands from the highest point of the fortress, the great—and, as yet, empty—Watchtower. Deiq tried to remember the last time he’d stood this high above the ground and studied such a large sweep of land at one time; the only place he could think of was the Northern Church Tower in Bright Bay.
But this was not the place to brood over the memories that roused; he turned his attention to Idisio’s comment instead, pleased that at least Idisio’s overly emotional attitude of the night before had disappeared.
“Hardly,” he said. “Only the deep stretches of the central desert are sand, and even there you’ll find some growth and rock.”
He fell silent, thinking of what those sands covered, and sighed.
“And ruins,” Idisio said.
Deiq jerked a startled glance at the younger ha’ra’ha, wondering if he’d broadcast his thoughts accidentally. “What?”
“Well, it’s a standard in every desert story, isn’t it?” Idisio seemed to be watching a great red-tailed eagle soar on the rising dawn breeze. “The ancient city, buried under the sands. And then there’s a wanderer who stumbles into it, and finds a trapped spirit, and talks to it . . . and there’s usually some sort of treasure involved. Or a quest. Or something.”
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