Page 2 of Wildflower (Tales of Tavamara #8)

The palace gardens were divided into three sections: the public gardens that anyone at all could visit, be they resident, staff, or visitor.

They were the vast majority of the gardens, and nearly twice the size of the palace itself, arranged into all manner of sectioned tiers.

Then of course there was the section restricted to nobility, so the poor things would not have to be constantly troubled by the riff-raff in the public spaces.

Last was of course the private gardens of the royal family, who from what little Aaralyn had seen, more than deserved it.

Unlike back home, the royal family here seemed to work, seemed to care, instead of spending their time carousing and tormenting slaves.

On the hunt for yet another flower, this time with special permission to go into noble spaces, Aaralyn of course managed, despite the sprawling mass before him, to stumble across the one asshole who could not bear to leave him alone.

Lord Feyz only ever seemed to be happy when he was ruining Aaralyn's day by either asking rude questions, looking him over lewdly for reasons Aaralyn had never understood, or trying to bully him into doing things he either couldn't do or wasn't obligated to, since Lord Feyz wasn't his employer.

"As I said, my lord,"

Aaralyn replied, keeping his eyes lowered, "I do speak multiple languages, but Lavarren is not one of them."

He did copy it fairly often, amusingly, but that was really just a type of drawing at the end of the day.

"I would be honored to help you if I could, but I cannot.

Lady Hedieh employs a different translator for that language."

A really kind woman who spoke Rittuen, Gollen, Lavarren, and Hodgish, in addition obviously to Tavamaran and all its many beautiful dialects.

Aaralyn covered the onerous undertaking that was the Havarin Empire, but also Petchin and Tritacian.

Lady Hedieh herself spoke Pelennish, as her husband hailed from there.

The man scoffed and had the audacity to reach out and grab the front of his tunic, giving him a hard shake.

"I've seen all your fancy books.

I know you damn well can, boy."

"I do copy many things for Lady Hedieh, but I do not understand everything I copy."

He'd just wanted to find that stupid flower and then retreat to the safety of his workshop.

Instead he'd gotten hopelessly lost, could not find the flower, and could not be rid of this asshole who reminded him far too much of the miserable home he'd fled.

"Just translate it already,"

the man snapped, giving him another shake for good measure.

"What is going on here?"

asked a voice as sharp and cool as fresh water on a hot day.

Lord Feyz let go of him and retreated a whole three steps.

Aaralyn stared at him in shock before dragging his bewildered gaze to the source of the voice—and immediately dropped his eyes, heart racing.

One of Prince Bakhtiar's concubines.

The tall, slender imposing one that everybody said used to be an assassin.

It was a favorite story whenever the subject of concubines came up, the wild tale of a killer who fell in love with his prey instead of taking his life.

Nonsense, of course, but it was a fun tale, he couldn't deny that.

He was impossibly beautiful, with gold-toned, light brown skin and short brown hair so dark it nearly passed for black.

His eyes by contrast were an extremely pale brown, and seemed to miss nothing as he looked between them.

He had a long, lean build that certainly leant itself to stories of stealthy assassins creeping through shadows, though the sapphires and gold that adorned him spoke to entirely different nighttime activities.

"Why are you accosting this man, Lord Feyz?"

"He was being impertinent and refusing to translate something for me,"

Feyz replied.

"Does he work for you?"

"No, my lord, but I—"

"If he does not work for you then he owes you nothing,"

the concubine said.

"Even if he did, that still does not give you any right to manhandle him that way.

You have been warned before about such behavior.

Be certain this will be reported and a second mark put on your record.

If you need something translated, there are plenty available to do it. Be on your way."

"Yes, Lord Kurosh,"

Feyz muttered, and bowed stiffly before storming off.

Which was astonishing, because if he had done that in Havarin, left without permission and with so much attitude, he'd have been dragged back and publicly whipped, noble or not.

Eyes still on the ground, Aaralyn bowed.

"Thank you, my lord.

I apologize for interfering with your day."

"Feyz interfered, not you.

Has he done that before?"

Aaralyn hesitated, but finally nodded.

"Yes, my lord."

"How often?"

"I have not kept track, but several times since I moved into the palace."

"I see,"

Lord Kurosh said.

"What brings you to these gardens? You work for Lady Hedieh, correct?"

Shock jolted through Aaralyn, and he reflexively looked up before recalling his manners and looking down again.

Why in the world would a royal concubine know who he was? "Yes, my lord.

She has bid me create a personal compendium on the healing properties, known and potential, of a particular flower.

I was told it grew in the noble gardens, and had permission from her to seek it out to ensure my drawings are as accurate as possible.

I was still searching when Lord Feyz requested my services, mistakenly believing I could read Lavarren."

Too much, he'd talked too much, he always did when he was nervous or excited.

Instead of the expected reprimand, however, Lord Kurosh said, "What flower are you looking for?"

"Uh, I believe the Tavamaran name is False Honey Flower, though I don't know why it's called that as…"

He pinched his mouth shut.

Stupid.

Be clear and brief.

He'd been admonished on that a thousand times.

"This way,"

Lord Kurosh said, and only when he stopped several paces away and looked back in faint amusement did Aaralyn realize he was supposed to follow.

The stupid flower wasn't even far off.

If he hadn't been interrupted, he'd have found it on his own.

"T-thank you, my lord."

Some sly amusement threaded through Lord Kurosh's voice as he said, "It's called False Honey because when slipped into food or drink, it leaves a faint honey-like taste, the only warning the victim gets before they fall over dead.

It's most often used as a potent, fast acting poison.

Good day to you, Master Aaralyn."

He left, bodyguards flanking him, and Aaralyn had to sit down and scrub at his hot cheeks.

Another curse of his, to have bone-white skin that turned red at every possible opportunity, be he exerted or embarrassed or whatever.

Pulling out his sketchbook, he stared at the flower for a few minutes, then promptly ignored it in favor of capturing Lord Kurosh's beauty on paper as best he could.

Eventually, he drew the flower too, in all manner of ways so that it was captured from every angle in the book.

As there were at least a hundred of the little things scattered about this section of the garden, he did not feel bad about stealing a couple, wrapping them in a kerchief and carefully stowing them in a pocket so he could dissect them back in the workroom to capture all the inner details as well.

Amusing that this job was giving him a particular expertise in drawing flowers, and teaching him more than he'd ever thought he would know about them.

He would never complain about more knowledge, though, not when most of the people he'd grown up with could not even read.

To this day, he wasn't certain what had set him apart in such a way that he'd been granted such a thorough education.

Even his parents hadn't understood.

They were saffron farmers like everyone else in the colony. You didn't need to read to do that.

Back in his workroom, he made a pot of tea and then settled into drawing the flower in earnest, until he had a pile of sketches good enough to turn into final line art that would then be painted with watercolor before the papers were added to their respective locations in the book that he would then finally bind.

Yawning, he closed up the workshop before heading off to the dining hall in search of dinner, stomach growling all the way.