Page 36 of The Second Marriage

All the talk was of Skopa. Sejun had no interest in politics and only knew about the war in vague terms, from overhearing discussions he didn’t bother to take part in. The Skopai and Chedai had been fighting over some hills along their shared border, which seemed like a stupid thing to go to war over. Possibly some type of metal was involved. But he tried to listen now, although his attention kept wandering, because he would be in the thick of it soon and should at least know enough to avoid making an absolute fool of himself.

When the conversation turned from the war between Chedi and Skopa to the other, even more tedious and apparently now finished war between Chedi and the seafaring Tihasai, Sejun finally hit his limit and said, “But how did they ever decide to stop fighting? If they both want these hills so badly, it makes no sense for them to simply lay down arms.”

Everyone laughed, making Sejun scowl. Old Dhriti, who came from a steading in Merek and had known Sejun all his life, said, “My dear, a war can’t go on forever. It’s expensive, not least in men to do the fighting. After three years, I believe both sides had reached their limit.”

“I don’t see how we’re supposed to help them settle their dispute. Who’s to say how the hills should be distributed?”

“Directly down the middle, I should think,” Dhriti said, and everyone laughed again, this time as if she had said something clever, although Sejun didn’t understand the joke.

“Poor Sejun, this is nothing you need to worry about,” said Utsang, and Sejun scowled and went back to picking at his food.

Taral was in and out of the hall, talking and smiling. Every time Sejun caught sight of him, he was speaking with a different person, all of them well-dressed and presumably important. Sejun wished he could join Taral’s conversations, but he would have nothing worthwhile to say, and would only impede whatever important political business Taral was conducting.

He was too stupid for any of this. He should have gone home to Merek while Taral was in Chedi. But it was too late for that now, so he would have to do his best to behave and keep out of trouble.

He picked up his cup of wine and went out into the courtyard. Jaysha was talking with the queen beneath an overhanging lantern, his elegant face cast in dramatic shadows by the light. In the years before his marriage, Sejun would have tried his luck at tempting the prince away from his conversation and into Sejun’s bed. Now he could only see Jaysha as a rival instead of a conquest.

He watched Jaysha gesturing as he spoke, his expression serious. Little wonder Taral couldn’t stop thinking about the man. Every time Taral looked at Sejun, he was mentally comparing Sejun to Jaysha, and Sejun had no doubt who came up short every time.

As if Sejun’s thoughts had summoned him, Taral came out of the hall, deep in conversation with a steader from near Tadasho whom Sejun didn’t know well. Sejun saw Taral’s eyes land on Jaysha, and in the next moment he was speared through the chest by Taral’s intense longing, sorrow, self-recrimination, and regret.

Sejun’s hand flew to his breastbone, where the ache had lodged. When Taral had first seen Jaysha on the road below the fortress, his primary reaction was shock. Now, having had some time to absorb the situation, the full range of his emotions had surfaced from his confusion. And there it was: everything Taral felt, neatly laid out for Sejun to pick over.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to know how Taral’s heart leaped in his chest at the sight of Jaysha. He would have been much happier not knowing that.

Taral went on talking to the steader as though he were carved from stone. Sejun would suspect him of being cold and unfeeling if he didn’t know that in truth Taral was the exact opposite. He felt so much, at least in this specific case; more than Sejun would like him to.

Sejun drained his cup and turned away from the light and laughter. He had lost any interest in celebrating.

The upper levels of the fortress were quiet and dark. Sejun found his room by the painting of a parrot hung from the door handle. He went inside and opened the shutters to let in the faint moonlight and the night air. He had drunk enough wine that his head felt fuzzy, but not so much that he could forget the look on Taral’s face when he saw Jaysha beneath the lantern.

There was no hope for him. Taral would never love him. Not in the way he had loved Jaysha—the way he loved Jaysha still. Sejun had peered down that deep well of heartache and seen how the shaft plunged all the way down into the earth. He and Taral might be friends, but they would never be lovers, not the way Sejun longed for.

Give me time, Taral had said, but no span of years could bridge the vast chasm between what Taral felt for Jaysha and what he felt for Sejun. Friendship, mutual respect—yes, that Sejun could have. But not love.

The scriptures were wrong. Bonding was no perfect joining of hearts. It was a thing two bodies could do together with no regard for the wishes of the people involved.

He stood at the window, staring blindly across the dark mountains. There were worse things in life than a loveless marriage. Most marriages were for practical reasons: land, alliances, money. Sejun’s was no different. If he had dreamed of something else, that was because he was a fool who read too many books. But he knew better now.

The skin around his eyes felt tight and hot. He took slow breaths until the ache eased. It was better to know; it was better to know what he could expect, so that he didn’t waste his life waiting and yearning, and could harden himself to the realities of the world. He had been too soft and hopeful all his life, and it had done him no favors. Better to learn now what the limits of his marriage would be.

He undressed and got into bed. It was too early to sleep, so he lay there beneath the blankets, gazing out the window and thinking of Merek. He could be home before nightfall if he left in the morning. The route was safe and direct, so he wouldn’t need an escort or a guide. Taral had gone through heat alone for years, so he wouldn’t be distressed by Sejun’s abandonment. Yes, it would be best for everyone if Sejun didn’t continue on to Chedi.

Just as he made up his mind, he heard the door opening and smelled Taral’s scent as it wafted into the room. He turned to see Taral’s silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the lanterns outside.

“Sejun?” Taral whispered. “Are you asleep?”

“No. My head was hurting. I thought the quiet up here might help.”

The black outline of Taral’s body moved into the room and closed the door. Sejun’s eyes, which had only begun to adjust to the brightness outside, had to adjust again to the renewed darkness. “I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. Can I bring you some water?”

“I’m feeling better now, thank you,” Sejun said, already rueing his lie. “You’re coming to bed so early?”

A beat of silence followed. Taral’s emotions churned like flood water. “I thought I might. If you don’t object.”

Sejun stared toward the ceiling, invisible in the night. They were as formal as strangers—they weren’t even friends. “No, I have no objection.”

He listened as Taral undressed. The blankets rustled and the bed frame creaked as Taral lay down beside him. Sejun wondered, not for the first time, what Taral could read of his emotions, and whether Taral only pretended to be ignorant of them or in fact, somehow, was.