aprelin_writes

Autumn Bird - Chapter 3

2008-08-19T19:03:05Z

Chapter 3
Yasi Returns

"Three gold pieces for the painting," offered the Jarmedi merchant with pale suspicious eyes. "And this little bird here; he can sing beautifully."

"I only want two messenger birds," said the hooded man selling paintings. "You can keep the gold pieces. Do you know how rare this painting is?"

"Hanuo, please, you're killing me. You Shayanis are known for trading, but this is too much. You've taken eleven of my best messenger birds in the past month and now you're after my last few. I've raised these since they were fledglings. It takes years of effort just to train one of them."

But Hanuo only shrugged and rolled up the painting. "I only have a few of these scrolls made by Febras, you know. Senyas is nothing, nothing, compared to Febras, and you expect me to charge you the same price for a Febras painting? I'll take two messenger birds and no less."

The merchant was on the verge of tears. "Look," he said. "My mother is old and sick and these paintings are the only things that give her comfort. She won't even talk to me. Please, if you could just lend me the painting for three gold pieces—"

"Lend me one messenger bird," said Hanuo. "I only need him tonight. When you return the painting, I will return your bird."

Without hesitating, the merchant gave up a messenger bird and eagerly took the painting before hurrying off. Hanuo smiled and waited for the merchant to leave before disappearing into his tent with the bird. A few moments later, a different middle-aged man with a lame left leg emerged from the tent, carrying the same bird and a message. This man had lighter skin and his head was uncovered, revealing messy colorless hair, and he had on loose pants instead of the dark robes Hanuo wore. He marked the bird's forehead with white powder, placed the message into the bird's claws, and released the bird.

Then, the man stumbled away, toward the center of town, where a prizefighting match had just ended. Several of the defeated fighters sat on the ground, drinking hot wine from wooden bottles, bought with their last few bits of money. The man came up to one of the older fighters and lowered himself with some difficulty until he was sitting next to him.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Sure," said the old fighter. "I'm always tired. Who are you?"

"My name is Hasaj. And you?"

"Hah, another Jarmedi," the fighter grunted. "I thought you were Krasi for a moment. I'm Garin."

"Garin," Hasaj repeated. "Well, I don't need to be Krasi to make a Krasi friend. Not all the Jarmedis had wanted to go to war, and I was one of many who resisted. They tortured me, separated my family, did everything they could to make me join the army, but I refused. And this was my reward." He pointed to his leg.

"What's your point?" said Garin, unmoved.

"I'm asking for your alliance," said Hasaj, lowering his voice. "There are countless others like us: people who are dissatisfied with the emperor, who want their old lives and nations back. I've gathered over five hundred of us and others have gathered more. Will you join?"

Garin stared at him, the lines at the corners of his lips making it seem as if he had a permanent frown. "How do I know you're not a spy?"

Hasaj shifted closer to him. There were few people around, now that the next match had begun, and he lifted his sleeve to reveal a small red symbol of the sun tattooed to his inner arm, so small that Garin had to squint to see it. "You'll see this symbol many times again," said Hasaj. "I promise you. There's a woman named Cirena who often comes by this place, disguised as a fortuneteller. She wears a gold shawl around her head with this same symbol on the back. If you tap her left shoulder three times, she will tell you everything you need to know, but it's your choice. You can fight these Krasi and Shayani men for money, most of whom suffered through the same as you, or you can join with them against the emperor. What do you have to lose?"

But before Garin could reply, Hasaj stood and began to limp away. When Garin looked up again, Hasaj was nowhere in sight. Other than several exhausted fighters scattered in the area, there was only an old woman draped in a long white cloth hobbling past, her back hunched almost as high as her head.

- - -

Senyas was used to crowds, used to being ignored and having to shove his way through, but today was different.

"Do you need some help, grandmother?" a deep voice asked. "Where are you heading?"

The voice belonged to a tall young man, and from his bare feet and the severe bruises on his side, Senyas knew he was one of the fighters. Although he appeared Shayani, Senyas immediately caught his faint Krasi accent. He had golden skin from being out in the sun for so long, dark brown hair, and a handsome kind face that made Senyas ache to think that he lived to injure other men for sport.

Senyas began to thank him, but another man had appeared, an older man, taking the young man by the arm and dragging him away. "What are you doing?" the older man scolded. "You're up next! Get ready!"

The young man gave Senyas an apologetic look before he disappeared through the crowd. Some of the spectators punched him affectionately, yelling words of encouragement.

Senyas continued on his way, but after he managed to get a few hundred steps away from the area, he suddenly had the urge to see the young man again. He began to slowly make his way back, but halfway there, he straightened his back a little more and eased into his normal walk. By the time he reached the crowd again, he was going as fast as he could, no longer hunchbacked.

The young man was grappling in the dirt with a much taller and wider man. Senyas was suddenly afraid for the young man—he was obviously stronger and healthier than most, but next to the other fighter, he appeared almost ordinary.

However, after a long while, it became clear that the larger man was getting tired, while the young man continued to fight with a restless sort of energy. Senyas watched as he avoided punch after punch, retaliating with almost twice as much speed and accuracy. Finally, he managed to easily pin the other fighter to the ground. The spectators chanted to ten and the young man stood, pumping his fist victoriously, almost angrily, and did a somersault in the air.

"Just watch him!" shouted the older man whom Senyas had seen with him earlier, who turned out to be the young man's patron. "He's still a boy now, but in five years, he'll be invincible! No one can stop him!"

After five more matches, Senyas couldn't help but agree with his patron. The young man was incredible, matching his opponents in strength and exceeding them in endurance, fighting match after match without any sign of exhaustion. Finally, on his eighth match, he was brought down by a more experienced fighter, who was as solid as a rock and looked as if he could lift someone twice the young man's weight without a flinch.

The sun was just starting to set and half the crowd had already left, but Senyas stayed. To his relief, the young man slowly lifted himself from the ground and walked over to his patron, who embraced him like a son and slapped him proudly on the back.

Senyas followed them. He had never done anything like this before, but the young man had him completely mesmerized. They passed the markets where several people stopped to congratulate the pair, then came to an area right where the town ended and the farmlands began.

Suddenly, the young man stopped and whispered something to his patron, who continued down the path toward the field of tents where landless families and travelers lived. He remained motionless, as if listening or feeling for something. Senyas wondered if he should talk to the him, and if he did, what he intended to say.

To his surprise, the young man turned around and looked right at him. "You're not an old woman at all," he said, coming toward Senyas, apparently aware that he had been following him. "I've seen you before. You were that hooded figure standing right outside my tent four nights ago, talking to two children. Am I right?"

Senyas stiffened as he recalled that night. He had felt as if they were being watched and left quickly. Could he really have been reckless enough to make himself so recognizable in the dark?

"Don't worry," said the young man, as if he read Senyas's mind. "I doubt anyone else saw you and I won't ask why you were there, but perhaps you could tell me why you're following me now."

For the second time in his life, Senyas found himself feeling trapped and helpless. "I saw you fighting," he said honestly. "I was impressed."

"That's all?" The young man smiled playfully. "Who are you anyway? You're just a boy! Or maybe not. Take off that sheet so I can see you."

Obediently, as if under some sort of spell, Senyas pulled back his hood.

The young man observed him for a long time in an endearing sort of way, even reaching out at one point to touch his hair and face. "Why do you hide your face?" he asked distantly, still smiling. "It's so lovely. You remind me of a little bird I once knew."

He said the otherwise strange comment in such a simple manner that Senyas was touched. "That's part of my name—" he started to say, and gasped as he realized who he had been watching all this time.

But the young man had figured it out before him. "Yasi, is that you?" he whispered.

Senyas nodded, unable to speak. He hadn't heard that name in a long time.

"My Yasi? My little Yasi?"

Senyas buried his face in his hands, weeping silently, but soon he felt his hands being pulled away and the young man was kissing him everywhere—his eyes, his cheeks, his lips—holding him in a tight embrace. After so many years, he had given up hope for any sort of miracle, and now… this. He felt as if he could die and it wouldn't matter, except now it was the most wonderful feeling. The earth had stopped moving. He sighed, collapsing into those familiar arms, inhaling the familiar scent, feeling whole again at last.

"Vari," he murmured. "Vari. Varivarivari… Why didn't you come to see me? I thought they killed you."

"I didn't want you to worry all the time. I wanted you to forget me."

"I would have escaped with you. I would never have become Endar's scribe. We could have been together."

"What are you saying? That's exactly why I never went back. Look at you, Yasi—you're one of the most respected men in the empire. Imagine, the Jarmedi emperor has a Krasi scribe because he values your talent. You're so tall now; they must have fed you well. And you can walk!"

"I don't care," Senyas moaned. "I don't care. When you didn't come back, I wanted to die. For months, I thought you were happy to have finally gotten rid of me, and by the time I came to my senses, I was certain that you were dead."

"Shhh…"

"Let me stay with you—" Senyas began, but checked himself. He had gone back twelve years without even realizing it, as if those twelve years had done nothing to change him from the selfish spoiled child he once was. After a while, he straightened up a little, looking into those brown eyes, which had once been soft, now hardened by years of embitterment. "I'm sorry, Invarin. Do you still go by that name? Let's talk by the lake. I'm not supposed to be seen outside the palace."

Invarin laughed a little, lifting Senyas's hood and draping it over his head for him as they headed for the lake. "You've grown up. Did you recognize me? Is that why you followed?"

"I had no idea. I didn't even suspect it was you, but I can see you now."

"The other day by the tent, I almost mistook you for our father."

They reached the lake and Invarin helped him sit down on the grass. For a long time, they simply looked at each other without words, sometimes smiling and other times crying silently, until the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. They could hear the children's laughter in the distance dying away, the adults coming to the lake for an afternoon bath, the birds flying back to their nests.

"I thought you wanted to talk," Invarin finally said.

"Tomorrow," replied Senyas, taking his face in both hands and kissing him again and again. "And every day after tomorrow. I have to leave now. Meet me here at the next sunset."

Invarin nodded his promise. Senyas took about a hundred steps before looking back again, half expecting it all to be a dream, but Invarin was still there, leaning wistfully against a tree. He smiled and waved at Senyas, who waved back.

As he headed for the palace, Senyas suddenly felt like he could run again, but his left leg continued to drag along. It didn't matter. The cool breeze blew his hood back and he closed his eyes briefly, not caring if the entire world was watching him, raising his arms against the wind.

He wasn't running at all; he was flying.

Autumn Bird - Chapter 2

2008-08-18T14:28:59Z

Chapter 2
Sajma

Senyas made his way through the crowds of people, clutching several scrolls in each hand, occasionally looking up to see if he was still headed in the right direction. Endar was sitting on a high platform, far above the other spectators watching the match, laughing and feasting with several of his servants and advisors. The stairs to the deck were steep and no one came to help him, not even the guard who bowed to him, but Senyas was undaunted, taking one step at a time.

"The final drafts you wanted, Your Majesty," said Senyas, finally holding out the scrolls.

"Not now, my dear Senyas," said the emperor, waving him aside. "Sit down here next to me and watch with us. Oh, that looked painful! Is he dead, or just knocked out?"

Senyas took the seat gratefully, afraid of having to go back down the stairs alone carrying all the scrolls. The two men in the ring below were both tall and heavy, with many bloody cuts and bruises, but Senyas avoided looking at them, choosing instead to focus on the food on the table. He could still remember when the arena used to be a public courtyard, where citizens gathered to hear the Krasi king speak.

"You're hungry?" Endar asked, finally giving Senyas his attention now that the match was over. "Help yourself to some meat and fruits. What was that about the drafts? You finished? So quickly? Well, have Shorty here take them." He waved to a chubby servant in the corner, who bowed before Senyas and received the scrolls.

"Thank you," said Senyas, deciding it was better to not call him anything at all. He doubted Shorty was the servant's real name.

"So you don't like to watch prizefighting," said Endar conversationally, reaching for more food. "Afraid of the blood?"

"Yes," Senyas lied.

"Well, here comes the next match. You should watch, Senyas. I know it doesn't seem appealing at first, but it's somewhat of an acquired taste."

The next opponent was an even heavier man with strangely-shaped scars all across his chest and arms. Senyas decided he would rather not stay and gave a respectful nod to the emperor before he left, but Endar was too focused on the match to even notice. The crowds had loosened a bit since he came, and he easily made his way through without having to carry all those scrolls. But just as he was about to leave the stadium, he heard someone calling his name.

"Senyas! What are you doing here?"

"Sajma?"

The fifteen-year-old was casually dressed, wearing short pants and sandals, her curly blond hair completely unadorned. She was grinning and her voice sounded hoarse, which Senyas guessed was from cheering on the fighters. "Have you been watching?" she asked. "That's so cool! I would never have guessed!"

"Actually, I was up on the platform with His Majesty," said Senyas, humoring her. "I just came down."

"You were what?" Sajma shrieked. "And you're just going to leave? I'd do anything to get up there!"

"I would take you, but I'm tired from all that walking."

"I'll carry you," Sajma offered immediately, completely serious although the idea was obviously unrealistic. "Anything. Just get me a seat. I can't see anything from here."

Senyas laughed. "To be honest, Sajma, I would rather not watch anything like that ever again," he said, continuing on his way. He came to the guards by the North Door and they let him pass. Even then, he could hear Sajma boyish voice, yelling something about how he just didn't believe she was strong enough to carry him that far.

As he entered the palace, he noticed that Sajma was still behind him, but he didn't say anything, wondering how far she would follow. The palace was almost empty; everyone was outside watching the match. The sound of Sajma's stiff sandals hitting the floor echoed clearly through the corridors.

They passed the Great Hall, the Dining Room, and the Painting Room. Finally, Senyas took a loop around the Garden, into the hall that led to his study.

"Hey, are you just going to pretend I'm not here?" Sajma called. "I know you can hear me!"

Senyas didn't respond, disappearing into his study but leaving the door open. To his surprise, Sajma took the invitation, slipping into the study and closing the door.

"You always ignore me," she accused.

"That's because you stand out so much," Senyas pointed out, relaxing into the seat behind his writing table. "You're so bold already, you don't even need my attention."

Sajma chewed on her lower lip. "Fine," she said. "You just don't like me. Give Boshui and Besmarya extra lessons. I don't care."

"You can't even sit through your morning lesson and you want more? Or perhaps you just want me to take theirs away."

Sajma didn't respond, watching Senyas stubbornly, unwavering.

Senyas sighed and began to rearrange the neat stack of books and scrolls on his desk. "I'm sorry, Sajma. You want my attention, but I don't know how to make you happy without it seeming unfair to the other children." He paused, his gaze falling on a wooden pen on his desk, still clean and unused. "Would you like this pen? I carved it early this morning. You can have it if that pleases you. And don't let me stop you from watching the match outside."

She took the pen without a word, turned on her heel, and left so quickly that Senyas felt as if he had just lost something. He stared at the spot where she had just been standing, wondering if he had been too harsh or not harsh enough.

- - -

However, Sajma did not go back outside to watch the match. Instead, she headed straight for her room and pulled out a box beneath a loose stone tile filled with pieces of paper, small vials of clear liquid, her baby teeth, a necklace from her grandmother, and the head of a spear that belonged to her father, still stained with blood. She added Senyas's pen to this strange collection and closed the lid, placing the box back in it's proper place.

Suddenly, she removed the tile and opened the box again, almost desperately, and took out the pen. It was still there, in the same position she had carelessly tossed it, with its elegant carvings. The Krasis were the first to invent the wooden pen, perfecting it over the years. Sajma knew they were precious to Senyas, each delicate stroke of the knife an expression of his otherwise suppressed Krasi spirit.

"What's that?" asked a voice behind her.

"Nothing," Sajma murmured, dropping the pen back into her box. She stood and turned around, holding the box in both hands. It was her older brother, Erudam. "I thought you were watching the match."

Erudam shrugged. "It's boring, always the same men. I want to see what goes on outside, even if the fighters aren't as good. Did Senyas give you that pen?"

"If you knew what it was, then why did you ask?" Sajma shot back.

"I figured," said Erudam. "You probably harrassed him into it. The poor cripple is too kind for his own good."

"He is not a cripple. If he's a cripple, then you must be retarded."

"He's my friend. I'll call him whatever I want."

"Some friend you are. He probably thinks you're a nuisance."

"Me? A nuisance?" Erudam laughed. "So what are you? You're just a big baby, always crying for attention."

"I'm not a baby," said Sajma loudly. She hardly cared how childish she sounded. Being called young was the one thing that could truly anger her, and her brother knew just the right buttons to push. He always knew and she hated him for it. "Get out. I want to be alone."

Erudam left, looking smug and victorious. It made Sajma wonder even how Senyas could tolerate him at all.

Sajma didn't stay in her room. Instead, she headed for the Sculpture Garden, hoping that the white marble and cool water might give her some comfort. These sculptures reminded her of the ice sculptures in Endar's previous palace, which were some of her first and only memories of home, a single ray of light bent in every direction by the ice like little stars, similar to the way the sunlight gleamed off the marble.

Raona was also there with her daughter, saying something to Aisha that didn't interest Sajma. Secretly, Sajma thought Raona was weak, especially for a Shayani woman. The other Shayani women in the palace were strong and able, doing moving and cleaning jobs, while Raona sat in the spinning room with Krasi and Jarmedi women, weaving and sewing. Although it was now forbidden to hail any nation that wasn't Jarmedas, Sajma deeply respected Shayanas, where women were more valued than men, at least in the old times.

Suddenly, Raona saw Sajma and she fell silent, leading her daughter away. Sajma also turned away and told herself she didn't care, but in truth, she was sick of all the Shayani and Krasi servants in the palace treating her as if she had been partly responsible for their pain. She had told this once to Senyas, who was surprisingly sympathetic and admitted he had seen the same behavior toward other Jarmedis. This meant a lot to Sajma; to her and most children in the palace, Senyas's word was law.

She whistled an old Jarmedi song as she left the Garden, heading back toward the south end of the palace, in the direction of Senyas's study. She passed it, continuing down the hall as quickly as she could walk, until she saw an unusual sight.

An old Shayani man walked in her direction, lugging a heavy bag. When he saw her, he nearly toppled over, but regained his composure and kept on walking, avoiding eye contact with her.

"Hey! Who are you?" Sajma demanded. "Where are you going?"

"I'm a toolmaker," said the old man without stopping. His voice was just as dry and cracked as his skin. "I sell my tools right outside Endar's Palace and I'm going to see your scribe."

"Who let you in?"

"Why, the guard at the door."

"There is no guard at the South Door," Sajma snapped, standing in his way. "It's been sealed for years. Now, tell the truth."

"It is the truth," the old man insisted. "I came in through the East Door, but took a wrong turn and got lost."

Sajma examined the old man through narrowed eyes. He was in his eighties, maybe even nineties, with thousands of fine wrinkles in his dark leathery skin. His eyes were so black that she couldn't see his pupils and his eyebrows had grown to continue down the sides of his face. "Fine," she finally said, crossing her arms. "I'll take you to the scribe. But if you make one wrong move, it's over for you, understand?"

The old man nodded.

Sajma began to lead him toward Senyas's study, but stopped as she reached the familiar hall, turning around to face the old man again.

"What is it?" he asked her. "Are we here?"

"I need to check what's inside your bag," said Sajma importantly. "You could be carrying knives for all I know."

"The guard at the door already checked it," said the old man, but from the way his eyes darted toward the exit and the way he wiped the sweat from his eyes, Sajma suspected otherwise.

"Just open it. If there's nothing dangerous inside, what are you afraid of?"

"Please, little girl, just let me see the scribe. I'm—"

That hit a nerve. Sajma grabbed his bag and ripped it open, holding back a scream as hundreds of gleaming daggers spilled onto the floor in a clatter that echoed through the hall. "You!" she cried, pointing a finger at the old man, who was holding up his arms in defeat. "Murderer! You were planning to murder him! Admit it!"

"No, no, no!" said the old man, covering his face with both hands. "I would never even dream of murdering him! Never!"

Suddenly, the door of the study opened and Senyas appeared. He looked from Sajma to the trembling old man to the knives on the floor and frowned. "There's nothing to worry about, Sajma," he said. "I'll take care of this."

"He was planning to kill you!" said Sajma, her eyes widening.

"With a thousand knives?" Senyas asked. "Not likely."

"But—"

"Let me talk to this man alone and find out why he is really here."

"I can't leave you here by yourself!" Sajma bursted out, and blushed when she realized what she had said.

"Please, Sajma, just leave," said Senyas, giving his final word. "Even if he was really here to murder me, there's nothing you can do to help."

Sajma stormed off, running as fast as she could until she finally reached her original destination, a small square window a few meters from the ground at the south end of the palace, made from hammering out a piece of the wall. She easily climbed up the wall and squeezed through the window, landing on the other side.

An abandoned temple lay in ruins. Parts of it had been destroyed by men and others eaten away by vines. Wild grass and flowers grew through the cracks. A small pond had formed on one side and butterflies flew there in the shade, but today, Sajma was too upset to appreciate the strange beauty of this place.

Instead, she sat down on the broken steps and cried.

Autumn Bird - Chapter 1

2008-08-18T14:26:43Z

Chapter 1
The Brothers

Raona stood behind a pillar near the edge of the Garden, watching the scribe Senyas go through the ritual of welcoming a new student. She had seen it several times before, including the first time it was ever held, but today, it was her own daughter's ceremony. Aisha was turning five, beaming with pride as Senyas lifted her into his lap and explained to her and all the other children the meaning behind her name.

"Aisha's name means 'ocean' in the old southern Shayani dialect," said the scribe. "Today, the word for ocean in Shayani is acha, but Aisha still remains a popular name for girls because of the five thousand-year-old maritime tradition in Shayanas."

Raona sighed and closed her eyes. It had been a long time since she'd heard anything in her own tongue spoken so openly in the palace, unaccented and with such respect.

Suddenly, she noticed Senyas was looking at her and smiling, and she quickly slipped behind the pillar again, her heart pounding wildly against her chest. Only Senyas could make her feel this way. He was three years younger than her yet sounded much wiser, his voice timeless and genderless, as calm and crisp as a lake on a windless day. Although his face appeared smooth and young, his short hair was almost silver, shimmering under the rays of light that came in through the high windows. At first glance, there was nothing vibrant or outstanding about him, nothing to reveal his nationality or identity, like both the purest and most encompassing being, which was perhaps what made him so unique to Raona.

Aisha was going around the circle of children, handing out flowers in order from the oldest to youngest child, finally keeping the smallest flower for herself, the youngest. Last time, three years ago, they had handed out apples, and before that, peaches. Senyas had only been eighteen years old then, his speech quiet and sometimes pedantic, but no less captivating.

"I know everyone is tired of hearing this from me every day," he said, after Aisha took a her seat on his lap again, "but it's part of the welcoming ceremony and I want you all to remember for the rest of your lives: Respect your elders and be kind to those younger than you; always put others before yourself."

"Respect my elders and be kind to those younger than me; always put others before myself," the children chanted in unison. Aisha mouthed the words, hearing them for the first time and learning them by heart.

Senyas nodded. "Good. And now for the part of the ceremony that I don't need to remind you about: you're free to play for the rest of the day. Go, have fun, but don't play too hard—you'll need the energy for tomorrow's lesson."

The children scattered and Raona finally came out of her hiding spot to meet her daughter, who didn't have anyone her age to play with and hadn't had the chance to make any new friends yet. Senyas stood and greeted her as Aisha slid from his lap and ran to embrace her mother.

"I saw you listening from behind the pillar," he said. "You could have joined us if you wanted."

"Oh, no, it was nice to just watch all of you," said Raona, hiding her blush, noting that Senyas was taller than he appeared from far away. "Thank you for being so good to Aisha. She thinks you're wonderful and she can't wait to start learning to write."

"That reminds me," said Senyas, lowering his voice. "Would you like me to also teach her to write in Shayani? I've been teaching Boshui for a long time, and Besmarya is just starting to learn how to read Krasi. When the children get to a certain age, they naturally want to learn more about their own background."

"I don't know what to say," Raona whispered. "Is that even allowed? What would happen if someone discovered it?"

Senyas looked at her with his steady gaze, smiling as he always did without moving his lips. "That's why I'm asking your permission. It's certainly not allowed and I don't know what would happen—I only hope that we won't have to find out. I trust the children. And you."

"What are you two talking about?" Aisha interrupted loudly. "I'm bored."

"Think about it," Senyas said to Raona. He reached down to stroke Aisha's hair. "I'll be in my study."

Raona watched as he walked away, wondering for the thousandth time why he had that slight limp even underneath all those layers of robes, as if he were dragging his left leg along. She had never seen him wearing pants, as most men in the palace did, and suspected that the limp was much worse than it seemed. It made her want to protect him, even though she needed his kindness more than he needed hers.

Later that day, during Aisha's afternoon nap, she paid Senyas a visit, entering his study as quietly as she could. The moment she stepped inside, he turned over the page he had been writing on and tucked it into a book on far end of the table. "Oh, it's you," he said as he looked up, visibly relieved. "Could you close the door?"

She closed it gently.

"I'm working on Krasi history," Senyas explained. "The archives were burned after the invasion and they were all the records we had. My father had written a part of it and my grandfather before him. Some books were thousands of years old, but now they're gone. It's as if Krasas never existed."

"And how will you finish it?" Raona asked.

"Well, some of it is here," said Senyas, pointing to his head with his pen. "I have most of my father's volumes memorized in his original words and I'm familiar with the history of Krasas, but it's impossible to replace what Endar destroyed. The richness of our old language, the life and wisdom our past scribes have given to our history… these are things I can't and won't attempt to recreate. I can only write about Krasas from today's perspective, and fill the pages with our loss and our hope for the future." He smiled. "But I don't think you came to hear about my secret projects. Have you thought about my offer?"

"I… yes," said Raona, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. "It's more than I could hope for. I wouldn't know how to repay you."

"Why?" Senyas asked. "It would be my pleasure."

"You've done enough for us already."

Senyas laughed, almost childishly, taking her hands in both his own. "I sit in my study for a good portion of the day, translating manuscripts and official orders, rewording Endar's superfluous laws, and working on the entire history of the Krasi people. Are you going to deny me this one relief?"

- - -

Invarin cried for the first time in twelve years that morning, when he discovered that he could no longer think in Krasi. When he told this to Turman, his third father, the Jarmedi man grinned and patted him on the back, saying, "Today, you are my true son. Tomorrow, the whole empire will be chanting your name. We need to give you a Jarmedi name."

He was twenty-five years old, only a few years from what was considered the ideal age for a man, so naturally, he was surprised to learn that he could still cry, and even more surprised when he hadn't forgotten that morning by nightfall. He had made at least two hundred silver pieces for Turman that day, fought eleven different men, and won every match. His right shoulder was badly bruised, but he didn't care. There had been a time when Turman was the only person willing to believe in him. Now, his father had stopped gambling, and others paid him just to make a bet on a man who had once been a helpless child. There were so many people willing to bet on his victory that Turman began to insist that he fight in the Palace Arena before the emperor.

As Invarin came back from his bath in the lake, a small bird flew past his tent, disappearing into a nearby tree. "Yasi," he whispered. "Olyen." Then, he began to name all the things around him and all the things he ever knew, until he finally fell asleep. He would need his energy tomorrow.

But later that night, he awoke from a bad dream and couldn't fall asleep again. He could see Turman's sleeping figure a few feet away, illuminated by the moonlight coming in through a slit in the tent. He felt incredibly sad, although he didn't know why. Everything was so still at this hour that he could almost feel the earth's spin around the sun, around itself. Suddenly, more birds flew by, their wings fluttering like little whispers.

It took Invarin a while to realize that what he heard hadn't been birds at all, but human voices. He moved quietly to the tent entrance, lifting the flap slightly. There was a cloaked figure hunched over two children, both about ten or eleven years old. At first, Invarin made a move to interrupt, thinking that the children were being threatened, but soon noticed that they didn't seem afraid at all. Curious to hear what they were saying, he pulled the flap back a little more. The whispers died away and the cloaked figure slowly raised his head.

Invarin quickly closed the flap. He could've sworn that those shadowed eyes were looking straight at him, but he wasn't as afraid as he was embarrassed at being caught. There had been something familiar and benevolent about him that reminded Invarin of his second father, the kind yet strict old man who found him and raised him as a son for the first thirteen years of his life. He had a younger brother too, his father's real son, who was everything he wasn't and whom he worshiped. Those were the days he had a real home and family.

Could it be the old man? No, that was impossible—his father had been dead for twelve years. Invarin could still remember his limp contorted body being carried away, swung carelessly over the shoulder of some nameless Jarmedi soldier; his nine-year-old brother's hysterical screams as they crushed his leg so that he would never run again, and afterwards, the empty haunted gaze that made Invarin wonder why they were still alive.

He suddenly had the urge to see the cloaked figure again, but when he looked outside, it was already gone.