Servants of the Sands, page 46
No, he said, unsmiling. I’m not. And shut up. Don’t let her know we can talk like this despite the aenstone!
She looked back at the mahadrae reflexively, her mouth thinning; Kalla was watching her with narrowed eyes. “Seeing a Darden male sprawled like a pet asp-jacau in front of you, while he performs the role well, is very distracting, Kallaisin,” Azni said. “Kindly send your new amusement away, so that we may speak in peace.”
Irrio’s face darkened. He stood, shoulders stiff. “I’ll remove myself, by your grace,” he said, bowing to the mahadrae. “I have no interest in sitting still under constant insults.”
“No,” Kallaisin said. “You will stay, Lord Irrio. I’ve endured enough rudeness myself.” She raised a hand, beckoning someone forward. “Azaniari, you may retire to your room until I’m interested in seeing whether you’ve remembered basic courtesy.”
Azni bit her lip, annoyed at the mistake and hoping that Irrio’s glare was mainly for show. She hadn’t intended for the words to come out quite that harshly, but done was done.
“Mahadrae,” she said, bowing, and followed the servant from the room with as much unyielding pride in her posture as she could summon.
Chapter 57
You killed for your own pleasure, a sourceless voice whispered in the amber-hazed darkness. You are a kin-killer.
I did what I needed to do, Cafad retorted, blinking hard, and finally shut his eyes against the disorientation of seeing both yellow and darkness at the same time. He was already dead inside. It was a mercy.
It made your own claim to lead Scratha Family secure, the voice replied. You killed from ambition and pride, not mercy.
Someone has to step up to the task! Cafad’s whole body tensed as he threw his head back and shouted the words without sound into the darkness that wasn’t darkness. He was not fit to lead! He was nothing but a—
He caught himself there, tried desperately to stop the next words, but in this shifting not-place they were already floating into existence:
—A broken Darden puppet....
An amused chuckle eddied warm currents along one side of his body. I am very aware of what he was, Darden protector said. I helped to break him, after all. Will you now attack me?
The pain hit a moment later, ripping past flesh and bone to tear at the inside of Cafad’s mind. He choked, breathless, unable even to scream, and hung in torrential agony for what seemed eternity. At last the blackness solidified, the yellow tinge fading, and pain inverted to physical pleasure as abruptly. He did howl, this time, as his body shook with orgasms too fast and ferocious for sanity to endure.
Yellow replaced darkness. He sprawled limp into a hazed half-reality, trembling all over, panting like an overheated asp-jacau.
I could break you easily, Darden protector mused. I have been told I may, if I wish to. Your seed is useless to me. I have no need of your issue. I could turn you into a Darden puppet instead....
Cafad tried to sit up, reached for strength to fight and couldn’t so much as move a hand, let alone gather willpower to resist. Tears leaked down his face, utter humiliation running a searing trail along his spine. If anything had been in his bladder when this ordeal started, he’d long since lost it. He could feel drool smearing both sides of his face, and his hair matted into rough clumps like tiny rocks against his skull.
I think it would amuse me more to allow you to live, Darden protector said. You have a native viciousness that will be entertaining to watch, over the coming years. Remember, always, that I could have killed you this day. And—you are a kin-killer... which does require punishment.
A prolonged moment of silence hung. Cafad sensed that Darden protector had already decided on the punishment, and only paused out of pure malice.
You may live, it resumed at last, voice smooth with venom now. You may take your title as head of Scratha Family. But you will never produce viable heirs, Cafad of Scratha. You will be dependent on the offspring of others to continue your family line.
A flaying, shredding pain seemed to turn his groin inside out a moment later. He shrieked, convulsing, retching—then fell into merciful unconsciousness as body and mind together simply gave out.
Relief proved short-lived. A new voice, familiar and strange, silky and acidic all at once, murmured: You have killed. You enjoyed it.
A face formed from the yellowdark mist: puffy, scarred, broken by heavy veins across nose and cheeks. The stench of living on the streets for only the gods knew how many years filled Cafad’s senses, nearly overwhelming.
Answering and remembering overlapped:
“Enjoyed? No....”
Cafad? the man said, astounded. I never thought to see you again! —will of the gods, I’d say, us running into one another just now. Say, let’s go catch up—over a drink, maybe. I’m not half thirsty and I can tell you’ve tales to share!
“No, not enjoyed, that’s not the right word....”
I only have one word for you, and that’s traitor!
“He’d earned a worse death than the one I gave him....”
Oh, now, look, you were a boy then, you don’t understand how it was—
“No... I didn’t enjoy killing him. I was....”
The stench of blood and feces joined the aroma of ground-in dirt and sweat.
“I was satisfied.”
He’d always shied away from the term enjoy for such things. He’d seen men who enjoyed killing. F’Heing, in particular, carried a zeal for mixing blood and lust. Cafad had been a weakling to them, too easily repulsed: but then, that’s the Scratha in him, they’d said with laughing contempt. We’ll never get it all out of him.
“I don’t get aroused by violence. I never have.”
That is not the enjoyment I speak of. Your mating ritual is one of the trivial human concerns tharr spend far too much of their time chasing after. That ritual, like all things concerning the tharr, are a distraction at best. Thinking of such things, thinking of the tharr, only keep you from reaching your full potential. Without their constant presence, you would be so much stronger and see so much more clearly.
“They serve me, ha’inn—I need them.” The scent of marjoram, the feel of thick dark hair in his fingers—smooth skin, large dark eyes, a crooked smile—a tall man whose straight-backed confidence felt like an anchor that kept Cafad from floating away on waves of uncertainty and confusion. Names wouldn’t attach, for some reason, but face after face swirled by, tugging at memory, pulling at connections.
You do not need them. They are occasionally useful resources, but you are my bound lord. I am here to supply everything you might require.
A heavy wave swept across his entire body, nudging intangible threads free. Faces slowly disappeared, connections fading into a familiar, aching loneliness. He remembered now: nobody really wanted to be around him. He was a pawn, only as welcome as the political advantage he brought to the table. None of them truly cared.
Someone did. Someone. Who? Faces, names, all receded as though on an outgoing tide. It didn’t matter any longer. They weren’t here now, and that meant they were never really there in the first place.
Cafad blinked, turning his head to study the yellow-grey mist coiling around him. “Where are you?” he said. “Where am I?”
That is irrelevant, Scratha ha’rethe said. Listen to me. The tharr around you are nothing more than conveniences. You think you need them because everyone around you believes this. It is not true. I have everything you need. You must trust me and release your emotional attachment to the tharr.
Cafad shut his eyes. He felt an odd, disconnected headache begin at the back of his skull, as though tiny, ghostlike barnacle-worms were slowly drilling through bone in search of the meat beneath. Gods, where did that image come from? He swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over his face. “Where am I?” he said again. “Why can’t I remember how I got here? Am I dreaming?”
You are dreaming, and this is also real, Scratha ha’rethe said. I maintain your body as you rest. I remove your toxins. See—like this.
Cafad became aware of an achingly full bladder. A heartbeat later, the pressure eased, draining away without the accompanying sense of urination. Abrupt disorientation made him retch. But even as his stomach and throat began to sour, a smooth, liquid sensation spread throughout his insides, removing every acid pocket of anxiety.
He breathed in deeply, then breathed out, feeling his flesh draped over bone like a shirt over a rack. The impression of standing disappeared. He hung in empty space, weightless, for a breath... then up went sideways, leaving him cradled in a warm, invisible hammock, rocking gently back and forth.
You see, Scratha ha’rethe murmured. I am here to care for you. I will handle all your needs if you allow me to do so. The tharr are not relevant to you. They will betray you, as they betrayed me. You cannot trust them.
Cafad turned his head, lifting a hand in vague protest. There was something wrong with what Scratha ha’rethe was saying, something he was missing—but gods, it felt so good to just—rest—and be held—and—
—And loved, Scratha ha’rethe whispered.
Yes. Loved. He was loved. He had never been so thoroughly surrounded by contented, peaceful love before. He could rest. He could stay here—
—Not forever, Scratha ha’rethe murmured. Not long at all, by my count. Only long enough. Just a little while longer... The child is almost old enough. Trust me. Stay with me. I will care for you. I will love you.
The child? Cafad struggled to sit up. Soft arms drew him back down, and he relaxed, not sure why he’d tried to move at all. Everything was... perfect.
Yes, said Scratha ha’rethe, almost humming. Perfect.
It seemed, paradoxically, like both eternity and less than another heartbeat before Scratha ha’rethe stirred, releasing him.
It is time, it said. Rejoin your tharr, and send me my given. I am ready.
Send me my Given. Send me my Given. Send me my—
“Yes, lord,” someone said nearby. “We hear you, lord. We all hear the call. She will be sent tonight, at the dark of the moon and the end of the sun. You can wake now, lord.”
Cafad rolled, blinking witlessly, trying to fix time and place and identity: Who had spoken? Where was he? Why did he feel so—so empty, so abandoned, so unloved?
“Wake, lord,” the voice said. Identity cleared: Seg. His s’e-kath. Safe. While Seg was nearby, Cafad was safe. He clung to that, used it as a rope to haul himself up into awareness, into an uncertain sitting position, blinked vision into focus.
“Given,” he said, unable to stop the word from emerging once again.
“Yes, lord,” Seg said, infinitely patient, and handed Cafad a cup of tea. “Drink, lord, and return to us. Everything is being handled.”
Cafad pushed himself more securely upright, leaning against the wall, and took a sip. Thopuh, of course. The taste seemed smokier than he’d expected, and sweeter. It came as a shock to his tongue.
“Did you add something to this?” he muttered. “It tastes strange.”
“No, lord. It is merely tea, and you are merely waking up. You will find your balance shortly.” The sturdy serenity in Seg’s voice eased Cafad’s anxiety more surely than... something... dashaic? No, aesa. Why had he thought of dashaic? He’d always stayed away from the more powerful drugs, wary of losing control, afraid to be that vulnerable.
Aches began to emerge, hammering against joints and nerves in random, sharp bursts. Cafad sipped thopuh tea and tried not to wince visibly. Every movement hurt, from toes to hair, as though he’d been through a severe beating. What the hells happened?
Memory seeped into place. Lichni. She hadn’t been available when he’d wanted her, and he’d gone insane over the insult. He barely comprehended that anger now. It seemed a cold, pale matter to have been so upset over. She was his kathain, not his lover, not his friend. He had no right to claim her for his own, whatever their history.
More horrifyingly, he’d attacked Seg. Dashaic. Gods, Seg had been mad, feeding him that. Although the man seemed unharmed, Cafad clearly recalled lashing out in reckless abandon.
Gods blessed lucky I didn’t kill him. How to apologize for such loss of sense? No useful words came to mind. Fortunately, Seg didn’t seem to expect any. The man had moved to stand by the door, appearing to stare at nothing, but Cafad could feel his s’e-kath’s attention. Seg was aware of Cafad’s least twitch. There was something surprisingly reassuring about that unemotional dedication.
You cannot trust them. The tharr will betray you in the end. They always lie. The words faded, like smoke, like ghosts, as he tried to focus on their source. It was his own fault, in any case. He shouldn’t have given me dashaic! He pushed aside that petty whine with distaste. Seg had done what he considered best. That was his job. More words echoed, a surprisingly strong memory of the s’e-kath insisting: Let me do my job, lord.
Cafad rolled his hand, working stiffness out of one wrist, then switched the cup to the other hand and repeated the motion.
“I suggest taking the time to work through some aqeyva exercises today,” Seg commented.
“Yes.” Cafad drank the last sip, then put the cup aside. A short woman with skin as glossy-dark as Seg’s refilled it, then withdrew to the kathain room. “Is that a new kathain?” He tried not to make it accusatory or sour and almost succeeded.
Without apology, Seg nodded. “I have arranged for a more appropriate staff for you, lord. You now have ten kathain. Six women, four men.” Seg motioned in the direction of the kathain room. “Tarva is the only one I’ve sworn into your direct service so far. Now that you’re awake, I’ll arrange a presentation of the others for their formal oaths.”
Cafad looked at the tapestry to the kathain quarters, frowning. “Are all my previous kathain gone?”
“No, lord. Mei remains, and Gano. Norau I sent out to continue his research into surviving Scratha Family members. He reached the limits of what he could usefully discover here. Lichni remains, in guest quarters. She has been released from her oath to you but chose to wait until you awoke to see if you wished to send her away. I have taken Retiae, with Lord Darden’s permission, as s’a-kenath.”
Cafad blinked, distracted from asking after Lichni by that last statement. “You’ve what?”
“I decided I would like companionship, lord.” Seg’s eyes slid half-closed, and he looked directly at Cafad. “Retiae was the most convenient and pleasant option to hand.”
“Congratulations, then,” Cafad said after a moment’s struggle over what to say. “Is she your first s’a-kenath?”
“No. I have bound myself twice before. This is the first female I have taken, however. I have hopes it will turn out... better this time. I had to remove her from s’a Riss’s service, of course, but Mei moved into her place and has been handling matters very well. S’a Riss has not been left unattended, and her sleepwalking seems to have ceased.” He paused, as if giving Cafad a chance to speak.
Cafad looked at Seg’s deceptively sleepy expression and didn’t ask after what happened to his previous s’a-kenath. Supporting a s’e-kath in active service held as much danger as the s’e-kath’s own job, and for similar reasons.
“I hope Retiae eases your path,” he said. “About Lichni—”
“Lichni is not the most important matter to hand, lord,” Seg cut in. “You may of course address that first if you so choose, but I believe it more appropriate to speak of s’a Riss and of the daimaina.”
Cafad took a sip of tea, closing his eyes, focusing on the taste, the smell, the evocation of hundreds of years of history and culture. Annoyance at Seg’s peremptory authority—and, for some reason, a pang at Norau’s absence—faded into a more rational calm. People never stayed long in his life, and he never stayed long in theirs. No doubt Lichni would be on her way soon enough. Foolish of him to expect otherwise.
He opened his eyes and motioned with one hand. “Very well. Please finish telling me about Riss.”
“She has been learning her new role with relative grace, although the daimaina is frequently less than pleased with her questions and observations. S’a Riss and the numaina have been spending rather a lot of time together. I’ve tried to prevent that, as per your wishes, but they are both a touch headstrong. I am reluctant to interfere to a point where they would become irritated with me.”
Seg paused, then added, “They’re also better at staying out of the daimaina’s way when they’re together. The daimaina can be... forceful... in her direction at times, and that doesn’t work well with the numaina and s’a Riss.”
Forceful? She’d always been assertive, certainly, but Seg’s inflection gave that word a troubling implication. “Is Nissa irritating the staff or household at large?” Cafad said, lowering the cup to rest on his thigh and frowning at Seg.
Seg held up a hand, shaking his head as though to apologize for unintended emphasis. “No, lord. I don’t mean forceful in that sense. She is doing an admirable job overall, but she is sharper of manner than Lord Darden. The two northern-born women tend to misinterpret her intent, and she tends to misunderstand theirs. S’a Riss is also increasingly moody and disinclined to eat properly. Retiae, the numaina, and Mei are helping as best they can, but the daimaina tends to make matters worse without meaning to.”
Cafad shut his eyes and drank some more tea, then said, “You haven’t mentioned Azni.”
After a brief hesitation, Seg answered, “She and her kathain have departed to seek aid from Aerthraim Family.”
That hurt. As soon as he couldn’t argue the point, she’d skipped on out the door without so much as a proper goodbye, or even a letter. To hide his agitation, Cafad scowled at Seg and said, rather sharply, “You’ve stirred things around while I was asleep.”
Seg’s voice was equally curt, his return glare as fierce: “I did what was needful, lord, as is my job.”
In his expression, Cafad saw a distinct shadow of knock it off.
They will betray you.
Let me do my job, lord!
Frowning, Cafad set the not-quite-empty cup down. Tarva emerged from the kathain room as though summoned by the tiny clicking sound, collected the cup, and left the room through the outer door.
