Page 68 of A Cursed Son

Why do I notice how close he is? Why does it feel so intimate even if we aren’t touching? Those stupid dreams have definitely polluted my mind.

I step away, and he opens it without difficulty, then passes me the jug. I take it to the table by the window, and he’s right behind me, holding two cups.

“Where’s Nelsin and Ferer?” I ask as I sit down.

“Busy. Don’t worry, they’ll be back before I leave.” His tone is reassuring, his voice calm, that soothing baritone that’s not quite like in the dreams, but too dangerously close.

I wonder why he’s being nice and if he’s just going to pretend that the dream didn’t happen. Perhaps he doesn’t remember it. Or didn’t dream it.

He sets his dark eyes on me. “Happy with the reading?”

“Yes. Interesting books.” I decide to take the opportunity and ask a question that has been bugging me. “Why did you bring the Tiurian history?”

He eyes me for a second longer than I’m comfortable, then takes a deep breath. “You said you wanted dictionaries. Tiurian is the only language that has one—other than the runes. I assumed you were interested in that civilization.”

Civilization. An odd word to describe a group of people who were far from civilized. I nod. “Everything is learning, right? What about you? Any interest in languages?” More specifically, in certain Tiurian words, but I’m not bold enough to ask that.

“Aramids uses some Tiurian words.”

Panic hits me as I realize I don’t know what he’s talking about, as if this was a question in a test, and I was about to fail it. No. I know it.

“The poet! Died fifty-three years ago.” Only after I say it, I realize I shouted it.

His eyebrows raise. “You like poetry too?”

“I…” Again I feel like I’m about to fail, like I won’t be worthy of my position, my title, but then, I need to tell the truth. “I’ve studied about him, and read a few of his pieces, but Aramids wrote popular poetry and I didn’t study that.” It feels like a deficiency, in retrospect.

The corners of his eyes strain and he gives me a look that feels like an odd mix of pity and puzzlement. “Did you ever read for fun?”

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. “I didn’t have free time.” Why is it that something that always gave me pride is now tainted with a hint of shame? There’s no shame in working hard.

That look again. I hate that look.

“But it’s fine,” I add. “I love history…”

“Yes, I know. You had a blast reading dictionaries and history books.” He has that neutral tone that I can’t quite figure out, even though I’m sure he’s being sarcastic.

I smile. “I did.”

He looks at our empty cups, apparently only then realizing he hasn’t filled them, and then proceeds to pour milk, like usual. His expression is focused, thoughtful.

At least that pitying look is no longer on his face when he looks at me again. “I’ll have Nelsin bring you Aramid’s Song of Despair. I think you’ll like it.”

I try to recall what I learned about that poem. “It’s… about a war, right?”

He chuckles. “Wife. You don’t have to know everything. Did you know that?”

I don’t want to argue and I keep my tone light. “I’m saying I haven’t read it. It means I obviously don’t know it.”

He sighs. “Well, it’s a story. A made-up story. I read it once and thought it was fun.”

“I didn’t know you had time for fun.”

“I know, right? Kind of hard to squeeze it in between all the evil scheming.”

He chuckles but I don’t, even though I realize I should be laughing at his jokes, but then if I laughed too late, it would be strange.

I decide to ask a genuine question. “What’s the point in a story that’s not real?”