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Déárán clutched his light cloak
tighter as the lifeless breeze picked at his face. He did not like the place;
too much land was lost to the dead. Khálíd spoke up to as if to answer the
unspoken question – without even turning back, “Sometimes the dead are buried
with secrets so terrible that would need leagues of ground to cover.” Déárán only
nodded in response. He did not know how the young Zhunite did it, but Khálíd
could always tell what went on in his mind.
After a few minutes’ brooding gait the two men came upon an opening. To Déárán’s
relief this patch was not packed with a myriad of graves. Even the moss here was
different. No longer did voracious squrim roots fracture the ancient stones.
Thin blankets of sou’cald grew to compensate for the gray patches of stone moss,
their dark blue formations almost unseen to the itinerant eye. If they had not
been walking towards the setting sun – or rather the dimly lit scrap of clouds
where the Injèrá should have been – the immaculate white veil would have easily
blended in with the gentle marble of the statues; and the dark blue with the
rolling shades.
Déárán had been taken aback at the sight of the squirm when he first entered the
burial ground. It seemed like ages to the young Krean since then, but at the far
edge of his awareness Déárán knew that it could not have been longer than a few
hours. Three bells at most. Possibly. Nothing here looked – or was – like
anything he had expected. A short walk along a few gravestones, that, Déárán
could tolerate; an endless stride along what seemed like an imperial burial
ground, not something he would normally look forward to. He had not anticipated
a tiptoed ramble amid toppled statues that extended for strals lining a maze of
pavement.
As if that was not enough, there was this alien moss that he knew almost nothing
about. All those hours spent with the Master Herbsman had not prepared him for
the uncanny flora of Khálíd’s family necropolis. Yes, necropolis. That’s the
word I’m looking for, Déárán thought as he struggled to place the uncanny
grounds he walked on into the appropriate category. The closest thing he had
heard to the dark gray moss was in a crazy bard’s story, who claimed to have
seen patches of this ‘squrim’ moss in his courageous venture to the Stone Fields
of Peat in Northern Sarvonia! The young Krean did not like to be thrown off
balance in anything, especially in herbiology, which was his tribe’s foremost
field of study! If not for the puzzling plant, Déárán would have returned to the
mansion not a minute after he took his first step into the cemetery. Observing
the flora in its natural habitat would plausibly give him a head start with his
analyses once he got back to the Gardens. Checking for the hundredth time that
the exemplar he obtained after half an hour’s painstaking peeling still rested
in a tiny glass tube in his pocket, Déárán hurried to catch up with his friend.
Any cemetery when wandering alone in the dark with a tad of shifty wind was
creepy enough. For this one, two younglings in semi dark were sufficient to
scare one off his wits. Déárán assumed a whole legion of champions strapped in
the finest armor the Empire had to offer would make little difference. And the
thought of possible assassins lurking in the shadows and behind the fallen
boulders did not lighten up his mood a tad. He tried to push the pressing
question out of his nervy wits; after all, weird was accustomed in this place.
When he caught up with Khálíd at last, Déárán was surprised to find his friend
kneeling by a large statue in the center of the terrace. Déárán realized that he
had not really paid much attention to the courtyard. In one relieved breath he
thanked Ankriss that the Watch Master was not around. For all Déárán cared the
man could spend an entire century patrolling the halls of the Senate with his
Blue Wardens. Upon closer examination, the courtyard was indeed a large one;
almost sixteen pens across from where he was. In the heart of the patio stood a
larger-than-life sculpture of a slender lady dressed with spilk. He had not
known they had spilk this far in the east. The details on the statue looked so
exceedingly real that Déárán was sure he would feel the thin veil the woman had
around her shoulders if he came near enough to touch it. Her right hand held
onto the tip of the veil and the curves on the cloth looked as if it would start
rippling with the quiet zephyr any instant. The marble lady made a show of her
beauty and in doing so confirmed the genius of the hands that carved her fair
form. She stepped lightly on the white platform. The soft outline of the muscles
on her legs as one was frozen halfway in its step made her seem as if she might
decide to complete her gentle move any moment. Even the subtly stretched tendons
of her back leg were clearly defined. Déárán had never seen anything so graceful
in its stand, not even the brilliant sculptures donning the marble halls of the
winter palace in Rháásthár came close to the workmanship of the smiling lady.
The curl of her lips was so subtly delicate that Déárán wondered if she was
petrified in her tracks by the High Goddess herself in envy. He could not
imagine what kind of people could work stone into such an art.
Sleek avenues ran from the grand sculpture to the north, south, east and west.
Déárán and Khálíd had come from the east, but upon closer inspection Déárán saw
that the same statuettes that striped the road they followed on either side were
also present in all the other paths. They were smaller in size compared to the
majestic statue positioned at the core of the courtyard; figures of handsome
boys no older than him or Khálíd gazing at the way they came from with cheerful,
welcoming gestures. On their heads rested crowns of laurel leaves – a typical
characteristic of Zhunite sculpturing, that Déárán could tell. The last on each
row faced the opposite direction, leaning towards the courtyard on one foot,
blowing a refined horn.
When his eyes shifted to the raised feet of the marble lady and then to the
somber expression on Khálíd’s face Déárán noticed that his friend was still lost
in thought, repeating some ancient inscription carved at the base of the statue
over and over to himself:
Lánghk térá chín oriáhé árá.
To see the shadows, seek the light.
Or “Lánghkhá térá oriáhé chíní árá” as Khálíd pronounced it. Thankfully his
Zhunith accent was light enough for Déárán to comprehend what he was saying
without much trouble. Much trouble. To top it all, as if it wasn’t Déárán’s folk
that conceived the language, Khálíd would often frown at the young Lillivear’s
pronunciation – and correct it in a teasing manner whenever he could. Déárán
knew long hours of articulation practice with Speech Master Aristár would be
waiting for him as soon as he got home. To get rid of the stains in his
perfected speech, his mother would assure him. Déárán wondered just how badly he
had already been affected by the Zhunith dialect. Ask his mother and she would
definitely say, “Well why, enough to make a larkentir seep blood of course.”
Since he had nothing better to do, Déárán started scanning the courtyard again.
The floor tiles were all grey stone, perfectly suiting the gray atmosphere of
the graveyard. Nonetheless, even they were ornamented in strange curves and
vines stretching all the way to the central dais. Now that he was next to the
white lady, Déárán noticed that the entire quad, no, the entire burial ground
was built sprawling around the statue. And now, Khálíd and he stood in the eye
of the vortex. Déárán’s head swirled when he noticed the flawless symmetry in
the construction. Chaos in a higher sense of order; everything just where it
should be yet still quite not there... Remove one piece and the entire structure
would fail, no matter how subtle the connections seemed. It seemed… It seemed
like the work of the ancient Krean; but how could that possibly be? How old is
this place?
“This place was built during the First Age of the Colonies by your people. Ever
since, it has served our family - along with many other Tiaras – well,” Khálíd
spoke over his shoulder without lifting his eyes from the marker on the
platform.
He must have some hidden sensors, reasoned Déárán grimly. First Age of the
Colonies he said, did he not? How could it be; that was over two thousand years
ago! It was a strange way for the young aristocrat to put it that way, reflected
Déárán. Served them well? A graveyard? He knew the Zhunites were a peculiar
people, but even then Déárán could not envision anyone that believed a graveyard
to have “served” his family well.
Almost when Déárán was about to protest, Khálíd turned to face him. “I believe
it is this way we seek. Shall we move on?” was all he said. Despite the
mischievous smile, those blue eyes seemed distant and somewhat dulled today.
They started a disturbed amble toward the direction Khálíd pointed at. North,
Déárán believed.
Finally, after another quarter bell’s walk, Khálíd decided to stop for a tea
break. Their quiet stroll had brought them to yet another courtyard. This one
was smaller than the one with the posing lady, slightly larger than the guest
room Déárán stayed in. Nine pens at most. In the center was another statue. This
time it was a man tossing a white dove into the air. Contrasting the joy on his
contours were tears streaming down his cheeks. He wondered if the man was
rejoicing over the past hard times or mourning for the bliss to come.
Both seemed
equally likely. Déárán wondered for the second time within the same hour how the
sculptors had managed to capture the moment so dearly. The bird looked as if it
would suddenly take off anytime.
Sprinkled methodically around the statue were four decked benches facing
outward. The first courtyard had none. Upon Déárán’s suggestion, the two
reasoned that this patio was good as any other and they might as well use those
ornate benches to rest on. Thus they settled around the crying man.
Yet something was not quite right with that statue. Déárán opened one of the
many silk pouches from under his shirt to get a handful of nightshimmer petals
and freshly picked waterstar blooms to prepare tea. He would not let anyone
touch his herbs nor would use any that he had not picked up himself. He had
spent an entire morning trying to harvest the blooms and could positively not
risk some dimwitted farm boy to ruin them. Not even Khálíd was permitted to lay
a hand on the pouches. The young Lillivear sighed; if they had been in his
family’s garden… If only he had some elyá on him to scent the tea… But “if
only”s did not help; what he had at hand had to do.
When realization of what had been bugging him about the statue hit him at last,
Déárán almost dropped the precious waterstar blooms he was examining for
bruises: The dove had no connection – none what so ever – to the main body of
the sculpture. It was suspended in mid air, with wings stretched at its back!
However, the bird was not very far away from the man. The statue had indeed
captured the moment! When he voiced his recent discovery to Khálíd, his friend
merely shrugged. “Told you the place was old,” with a playful wink he added,
“Your people constructed this place; you should know better than I.” Patting
Déárán on the shoulder, he went back to the ‘demanding’ task of resting under
the statue’s shadow. His hands were his pillows. Then out of the blue he pulled
the inscription carved under the mystifying sculpture:
Evád’érá lárs’ílá tayzá’rayh
Sometimes to lose is to triumph.
Déárán would have translated it as “At times losing in itself is triumph”, but
who cared about linguistics? Nevertheless, he delighted in lecturing Khálíd on
the subtle pun present in the saying. In ancient Aesteran the rune for ‘lose’
was visually homonymic; it signified “to set free” as well as the various
negative denotations. Thus, the play on the word “lose”, tied in pretty well
with the statue it was carved under. The response Khálíd got for his grumbled
“Many thanks to BélDéárán” was a cheerful “Always a pleasure to instruct our
Zhunite brothers in the finer arts”.
Déárán gulped when he saw the half crying man for the second time; he had
remembered the incident with Sunshine earlier that week. When Khálíd spoke,
Déárán could not tell whether it was his last comment or what darted across his
mind that the Zhunite was responding to: “Indeed.” He blushed nonetheless.
Four days ago during one of the many ostentatious parties held among the noble
men and women of Kimbar was when the awkward incident had happened. Normally
Déárán would not have attended the festivity since he was not feeling entirely
well that day, but a special invitation had arrived three days prior to the
party in his name at the Rhuníth estate. The past days had been full of physical
labor at the Golden Coronet and Déárán did need a little time off his tough
schedule. Hence, he had accepted the summons without further contemplation.
After all, “to observe and appraise the Zhunite character” was among the duties
the Assembly of the Thousand Eyes had assigned to him.
The party had set off pretty well at the Káyíuk residence. The gardens, the
estate, the walks… All had been decorated in contemporary Zhunith style by the
finest draftsmen in the entire region. There were even rumors that Gérán
Fleetfoot had constructed the two swan shaped ferries! All morning long the
graceful boats carried people to and fro the party across the Kúhú. There had
even been water dancers greeting the guests before the ornate anchorage. The
aged stone stairs leading up to the outer ring of the gardens were literally
bathed in rose petals, red and pink and crimson and cherry alike dressing the
walkway. Judging from the hundreds of bird chirpings that accompanied the
visitors on their way, a hoard of Birdsingers had been employed. Déárán was
ashamed to admit that this party far surpassed any other he had seen in his
entire life. And the common belief among the Krean was that the Zhunites did not
know how to party! He wondered what color Aurellian’s, the personal celebrations
advisor of the Queen, face would take if the haughty counselor had been there
with him…
As if that had not been enough for a reception, there were dozens of lovable
little children singing and offering them a variety of fruit liquor. The honey
drink Déárán tasted at least as sweet as the voice of the young choir boys. Lady
Akánthá herself greeted every single guest with warm welcomes and a small bar of
láváno scented Khofúhshátí! Two female attendants no older than seven summers
made sure that their mistress’ hands never remained bare for more than a mere
blink. Three terraces above stood Akánthá’s parents, Lord Cyrús and Lady
Aleríssá, hand in hand, addressing everyone at their adorable daughter’s coming
of age celebration with kind wishes and sunny smiles.
Akánthá herself was dressed in a beautiful white dress. Déárán could not tell
what the fabric was. It seemed as light as cotton and at least as smooth as
silk. Her attendants were dressed in a similar fashion; in light pastel colors
with pale pink silk cords embellishing the sleeves and tails of their dresses.
They all wore translucent gemstones matching the color of their dresses in their
hair, but nothing that would overshadow their mistress.
To Déárán’s surprise there were no adults attending the celebration except Lady
Akánthá’s parents – and they stood a good distance away from the youngsters,
doing their best not to get in their way. He guessed that was to allow them
space enough to breathe without the pressure of constantly being under
surveillance… and some other things… Déárán mulled over what would have been
different if this party was held at his city. Apparently the taste in his mouth
after he envisioned the throng of consultants - as well as the heaps of
relatives - that would have accompanied each guest was not truly pleasant, for
Déárán hurriedly halted chewing on the spoiled meat. It was only a gathering
among the youth, or so it seemed. Even so Déárán, as a cultured member of
Lillivear aristocracy, was quick enough to realize that every man present at the
so-called “get-together” had their best outfits on. Although he had been sharp
enough to pick one of his exquisite party attires he could still not tolerate
the disturbing fact that Khálíd had simply forgotten to inform him about the
majesty of the celebrations.
The handsome Zhunite was practically on the threshold of receiving a proper
chastisement when Déárán heard a very high-pitched lady’s voice
screeching his name: "Sir Déárán! Siiiiiir!" The irritating voice almost pierced
the skin on his ears. Although “Thank the bloody woman, Khálíd! But don’t think
I’ll let this go so swift…I’m not done with you yet!” was what passed his
mind, Déárán’s long-practiced smile said nothing of the sort. This time he would
fancy the Zhunite acknowledged his thoughts.
The irksome voice belonged to a noblewoman with a heavy built. The lines on her
face – or rather the lack of them – placed her somewhere between nineteen to
twenty three human years. Before Déárán had time to put together a proper bow
and a few formal greeting words the plump rucksack was all over him again. Her
dithering voice topped the repulsively taut dress she was squeezed into. Never –
absolutely never unless you have a very good reason to be revolting – wear
orange with brownish plum; what is so arduous about this that half the
aristocracy here cannot bear this in mind? Déárán feared the buttons on her vest
would burst any moment and choke him in his speech. Caring little for whatever
fatal mishap her dress may lead to, the woman went on with her yelping:
"Appraiser Déárán, you were absolutely marvelous yesterday at the Grand
Reception! That was the most rousing speech I have heard in my life! Everyone is
talking about you. For the love of Kibele Anuviss, it indeed is a great honor to
meet you Appraiser! You cannot possibly believe how all the rage you are
considered here in Zhun! The entire ladies’ balcony was drooling after you as
you walked off the stand to shake hands with Senator Rhuníth!"
At the top of her yelping she realized what had just come out of her mouth and
abruptly paused. No wonder why there are so few Zhunites in the Higher Councils…
Trying not to stare at the bursting breasts too much, Déárán replied in the most
affable tone he could handle:
"Your words lighten my earthly spirit; the honor is mine, Lady?"
He slightly stretched that last word to remind the fat aristocrat-will-be that
she had forgotten to introduce herself as kindly as he could manage. At the cue,
the overloaded waterskin flushed a sicker scarlet than her exaggeratedly tight
dress - if such a thing is possible... reflected Déárán – and staggeringly
responded:
"Aááánézhá. Yes, Anézhá is what the stars have named me."
The name in itself was a parody. Anézhá, Kind and slender? This over-sized wheat
basket? And she said ‘the stars have named me’, did she not? Déárán scribed
another note in the stral-long mental study list of his.
"Ah, Lady Anézhá! Always a pleasure to see you, yet I’m afraid my friend and I
have some very pressing dealings we must attend. May the Earth swathe you in
your direst hour."
Khálíd had spatted the words in a highly disgusted manner, with every line in
his face mimicking his sincere repulsion. Something in his tone had clearly
illustrated that the young Zhunite literally meant what he verbalized. He did
not make any further explanations. Déárán had never known his friend could be so
heavily toxic. Like an onion, Khálíd had more layers waiting under each one
Déárán painstakingly peeled.
His friend then hurried him into a more pleasant corner of the party. The people
here seemed to be deeply enjoying themselves. Among splashes of scarlet wine
hovered roaring laughter. Déárán could even make out a few shapes endeavoring in
a decidedly merry dance at the distance. As they drew nearer, Déárán began to
distinguish some of the people on other end of the third floor terrace. Most of
them were from the Golden Coronet, a local club of martial competitors whose
members were for the most part sons of the wealthy families of Zhun. Déárán
could spot the tall, lordly figures of Aléron and Cyr, Endré’s muscled build. He
could even hear Gálen and Aláír’s laughter…
In a few minutes Déárán found himself engaged in a hot discussion on whether or
not the impositions enforced on the Anpagan trade delegations were enough with
Evásn and a couple of other Zhunite nobles he had just met. He could not believe
that most of the Zhunite aristocracy was in favor of further custom reductions
for Anpagan merchants. While the majority of the group gossiped about the
catches of the month, drank and danced Déárán had to spend a good portion of his
time preaching the obstinate gentry on what would befall the Empire – Earth
forbid – if the obligations were trimmed down.
It was almost noon when he realized Lady Akánthá eyeing him from the cage of
noblewomen she was locked up in. On a mutual exchange of glances both muttered
courteous apologies and headed towards a less active part of the garden. Just as
Déárán was preparing to praise his amiable host and compare her to at least a
dozen moons and stars he heard or sensed somebody approaching from his back.
Judging from the way the wean grass stirred under his sandals and the cloud of
Anpagan fragrance coiling around him, there was little doubt that it could be
anyone but Célérés. Déárán tried to reach to him through the green and yellow
blades of the grass he walked over. Once the young Appraiser was more or less
persuaded of his friend’s whereabouts, he asked without lifting an eye from the
lovely lady he faced, “What do you want, Sunshine?” That was what everybody at
the Golden Coronet called him. See, the first time he appeared at the training
grounds – which was well past midbell, which then meant he missed the
wonderfully festive hours of morning exercise led by Swordmaster Elí – he had
long blond hair flowing almost all the way to the blade under the shoulders.
Déárán, of course, had rightfully gasped at the sight and firmly announced that
he was not moving a single grain until the boy was separated from a good portion
of his golden locks – just as he had been forced to do. If he was not allowed to
wear his tresses the way men of his stature fittingly should, he would certainly
make sure that no one else did either. Well, when all was added and stripped,
the man was very handsome; losing a few wisps of hair would not hurt his
appearance much. In fact, he might even look better with that bird’s nest
suitably removed. Manes like that were soooooo obsolete nowadays in western
Krath.
As the handsome man was arguing with Masters Elí and Dérus about why his
striking hair should be left as it is – after what appeared like a life time of
course – Déárán decided to step in. He might have accidentally called the young
aristocrat “a blond, clucking taenish”, but still Déárán did not see any reason
as to why the man had made such an issue of it and challenged him into a mock
duel. Never the least bit reluctant to give these indecent Zhunites a lesson in
proper attitude towards Krean Appraisers, Déárán had gladly accepted the
challenge. The chap had been daft enough to offer the choice of weapons to
Déárán – but then again, there was no way he could always be there to show men
like him the right way, so Déárán let the man make his own decisions for a
change. All for his gain; sooner or later he will have to learn how to decide
for himself, the Krean rationalized. Hence, Déárán picked the quarterstaff as
his weapon of choice and proclaimed the use of martial arts and magic eligible
for the rest of the fight.
The next thing Déárán knew was being on some very familiar terms with the muddy
lawn. The little rascal – well, he was not very little but that was beyond the
point Déárán was trying to make at the time - had started before the horns were
sounded. Bones and ashes, how could the trainers possibly miss that? His only
consolation was that he had had just enough time during his fall to raise plenty
of nightshimmer tendrils to take the man with him. At least he too would not
have the pleasure of spending the rest of the day’s training in dry clothes.
But the Appraiser would not be caught unprepared this time. The reply came
almost instantly from the blond aristocrat leaning against an elaborate column
with one arm, "You know what I want."
Putting up a quick ward around his feet – just in case – Déárán donned the
puzzled look he had practiced in front of the mirror for hours. Of course the
young Krean knew what the Zhunite had in mind: Toppling him in front of Lady
Akánthá to make a fool of him. But there was no point in letting the blond man
learn that, was there?
Before Déárán had time to know anything else, he found himself on some very
familiar terms with the grass – again – and Célérés’ strapping form. He had
plunged straight into his lips! The move had completely tackled Déárán in
surprise, utterly knocking off his guards. It was true that he had made a very
inspirational speech on how people should pursue their right to seek happiness,
yet he had never expected to get results this fast – at the very least not of
this sort.
In a blink he was heaving for breath – which was, as one would appreciate, quite
challenging with a gigantic man-of-war covering half his face. Déárán was
frantically kicking the air – although he had aimed for the blond man jamming
him on the ground - for release. Alas, Sunshine had muscled arms twice the size
of his and consequently his hysterical attempts to kick the man off himself did
not help much. Déárán had tried lashing out at him more than twice, but each
time – after rolling on the grass a couple times - he found himself at the same
position; pinned down to the ground with Célérés on top.
He had already muddied his clothes enough; if wrestling only meant more mud,
Déárán certainly was not attempting further rounds of keeling over in soggy
mire. He made a great effort – the best he could manage under the weight of the
havach ox sitting on him – to dip into the life force of the soil beneath. His
body was pulsing with energy after a few breaths – or to be more precise, after
what should have been a few breaths; it was hard to breathe when someone swathed
your face with their mouth. As always the young Krean’s eyes were sparkling with
a dark, eerie green light whilst gathering enough force to perform one of his
tricks. Soft green light escaped his closed knuckles. In a blink the light was
intense enough to blind a Darksinger in the middle of the night – if it could
see in the first place, of course. In an effort to push the strong man off
himself, he placed his fists roughly between their bellies and hove with all his
might, at the same time opening his knuckles. In a flash Sunshine found himself
flying half the way across the festive terrace, smashing into the nearest tree,
which was a good ten peds away, with a vulgar thump. Déárán half lay on his
elbows, panting.
Khálíd appeared out of nowhere as he habitually did; taking hold of Déárán’s
outstretched arm just at the right time. If he had not intervened… His friend’s
cold stance had prevented Déárán from wrecking the whole party into shambles on
Sunshine’s head. He silently wished that he had not caused any terminal injuries
in anyone. What was happening to him here in Zhun? Must be the sun, he reasoned.
Back at home, he was always the one telling everyone off on “why in Ankriss’
tremor” could they not use their brains “for a change” and “think before diving
head long into sheer idiocy”. The Zhunites somehow always managed to catch him
off balance. As if nothing had happened Célérés resumed the conversation in a
lighthearted fashion:
"So, growing vines isn’t your only flair…"
Déárán could not believe how the blond man could handle everything with a smile.
He had hurled him half the way across a massive terrace and smashed him into a
colossal silken tree in front of the entire Zhunite nobility! Suddenly Déárán
recognized the full extent of what he had done: Smashing a respected member of
the aristocracy into a tree in front of the entire Zhunite nobility! Councilor
Vorán’s, the man in charge of the escort ushering Déárán to the High Gates,
words upon his departure reverberated in his ears:
No matter what happens, do not arouse trouble within the city states. We do not
know how deep the Anpagan sway is. The last thing I want is marching the
imperial army all the way to the plains to save a Krean emissary’s corpse from a
mob of farmers intent on torching the whole town.
Bitter sweat slithered down his neck, sending shivers that rang deep within his
bones. He wondered how long it would take before the Council was informed of his
latest ‘exploits’. A week or two perhaps? Earth, it had to take some
time for
word to reach the northern jungles. It had to… But then there was also the petty
question of how he would live long enough to tell the tale before the Council –
not that he wanted to, mind you. Déárán was sure House who-knows-what and
you-name-it would be on him with a legion of armed guards any sandfall. Truly
heartening indeed.
If he was going to be lynched, at least he was going to do it Krean style;
securing a thorough admonishment for the dimwitted geese that thought of
themselves as nobility. If it had not been for his people, they would still be
running after bears in the mountains! The Lillivear had built all this – at that
point he would make a sweeping gesture including the stunning city beneath – for
them! What had they been before Krean men taught them the finer edges of life?
Nothing but sheepherders! Much to his disappointed they had not progressed much
in two millennia of Krath shielding…
Déárán straightened his soiled garments as much as he could, drew a deep breath,
pointed an accusative finger at the closest mass and prepared for his extensive
rebuke. As soon as he opened his mouth, though, he found Lady Akánthá’s cool
hands resting on it. The touch of her lavender-scented hands was even gentler
than he had imagined. In a soft whisper she recited an old saying, “When in
Zhun, behave the way Zhunites do. He did you great honor today by conveying his
affection towards you the way he did.” Sighing she continued, “You are a lucky
man.”
The handsome Krean could not believe his ears; that weasel had done him honor?
"This is an honor? This is an honor? Lady Akánthá, I am afraid your people’s
pecularity frightens me."
Simultaneously he could hear Khálíd steering Sunshine into a corner behind the
wine casks and addressing the blond man in a harsh tone, “O árwín, he is mine.”
Certainly that was not what the Zhunite had meant. Perchance it was an
abbreviation of “he is my friend” unique to Zhunith dialect. Yes. Yes, that must
be it, reasoned Déárán.
Without saying another word to Akánthá he charged towards the wrought iron gates
located three levels below; leaving a much shaken Khálíd rushing and at the same
time uttering a full score of apologies behind. Although most of the crowd was
unaware of what happened upstairs, Déárán was sure word would spread like
wildfire the next day. He did not want to think about that at that moment. He
did not want to think about what his actions would bring about. Earth, it must
have some consequences, right?
Quiet descended on the partying gentry as he stormed past them, in dirty
clothes. Answering their stares with a chilling stare of his own, Déárán had
little trouble carving a clear path. The silence was contagious. Laughter and
natters here and there began to cool down and a disturbed stillness fell over
the crowd. So much for Krean revelry, Déárán bitterly thought. Following the
stillness came an escalating commotion; the nobility chewing over the spreading
rumors like vultures feasting on dead flesh. Hundreds of them all eyeing him and
talking at once. He could not tolerate the clamor anymore. Earth it hurt! Quickening his steps, almost erupting into a scurry, Déárán fought the stirring
throng to reach the honeysuckle covered entry. The guards there were wise enough
to let him out without further ado.
Two scandals in a week; congratulations Appraiser Déárán! At this pace you’ll
make yourself into a Senator in no time.
Putting a gold coin into the boatman’s hand, he took a seat in the swan shaped
ferry and waited for his friend to catch up. Once both were seated, the boat
began a gentle glide down the lake. The sound of the oars sliding in and out of
the serene lagoon, splashing sparkles of cold water drops here and there would
have been sufficient to unwind the dark clouds gathering in Déárán’s head any
other day. But today not even the pleasant afternoon sun cheered him up. A mild
breeze stirred the rows of river birches surrounding the lake, causing a gentle
fall of yellowish green leaves on the tranquil waters. Those drifted with the
subtle current of the ferry, straying away from the livid look of the Krean
Appraiser. Far below in the docks a seagull’s shriek for a nyjae lost pierced
the clear sky.
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