Page 3 of Wildflower (Tales of Tavamara #8)

He was in the noble gardens again, this time to sketch a tree, when he encountered another one of Prince Bakhtiar's concubines.

This was the one that was older than the rest, who'd been His Highness's tutor.

He hadn't been happy to hear that, initially, because that sounded like the worst sort of abuse of power, and he'd stupidly thought His Highness better than that.

As he gleaned the whole tale, though, he learned not only that he'd been right all along—Prince Bakhtiar was not the type to abuse power—but that there were incredibly strict rules involved with joining the harem, all of which revolved around preventing things like coercion.

So nothing like back home, where he'd arrived to work one day to find an imperial clerk waiting for him with a special summons from Margrave Consus informing him he had three days to settle his affairs before he was to report to the Margrave's estate to join the harem of his son, Lord Pollux.

Three days.

He'd only recently turned twenty-four that day, and a stupid fucking letter was all the warning he got that he would lose his life, one way or another, in three days.

He had never been so angry, and living under the crushing heel of Havarin produced a lot of anger.

That had been a little over two years ago.

For most of that first year, he had lived constantly on edge, even though logically no margrave would spend the money, time, and resources needed to track down one little forgettable bookbinder.

Lord Pollux had probably picked a different victim and swiftly forgotten about him.

It didn't sit well with Aaralyn that his escape meant someone else would suffer his fate, but he had no control over that, and the right to put himself first.

If only that hadn't meant endangering others. But…

It didn't matter.

He'd made his choice.

Because of that choice he was here, sitting beneath the branches of a small Wise Elder tree meticulously sketching berries and leaves.

Unlike most of the books he made for Lady Hedieh, this one would be a gift to a friend of hers.

She'd actually paid him additionally for it, since such things were technically outside the scope of his work. Another difference between here and his homeland, where he'd been paid little better than a pittance for at least twice the work.

He'd just finished on the leaves when he heard a voice say, "Damn it, these pages aren't cut.

I'll need to—"

"I have a paper knife,"

Aaralyn said, immediately reaching for his bag and pulling it out before he looked up—and nearly dropped it in his shock.

Up close, the man was of course as beautiful as all the others.

His skin was slightly darker than Lord Kurosh's had been, and his long hair fell loose over his shoulders.

He wore diamonds and opals set in white gold, including jeweled hoops in his nipples, which were incredibly difficult not to stare at.

Aaralyn dropped his gaze, hoping he'd not accidentally stared so long as to be disciplined for it.

"Thank you,"

the man said.

Farrokh, he thought.

Lord Farrokh.

Aaralyn listened as he cut the pages, and then that lovely voice, which would be so pleasant to listen to during a lesson, "Here you are."

He looked up, took the knife that was held out, and dropped his gaze again.

"Happy to be of help, my lord."

"You're the one that Kurosh spoke of, the bookmaker hired by Lady Hedieh."

Why in the world did they care? "Yes, my lord.

She reads and writes a great deal, always studying and sharing knowledge.

I compile the scattered pieces into private books for her use."

"What are you working on today?"

He almost looked up again, but they would only forgive sort of rudeness so many times, and he'd already been caught gawking.

Logically, he knew nobody would hit him for such things.

He'd seen evidence of that aplenty in the ten months he'd lived in the palace, but it took more than two years away to overcome a lifetime of fear.

"Her Ladyship made a personal request for a book for a friend, a compendium of all his favorite plants and flowers.

I was granted approval to be in these gardens for the project. I promise I'm not trespassing."

"May I see your sketches, if you are comfortable sharing them? You can say no.

I know artists often do not like to share their works in progress."

Aaralyn did look up then, too astonished not to, because nobody ever asked.

Even here, curious people would often come up and just help themselves.

Always with compliments and praise, of course, but they never asked.

It was why he normally tried to be alone when he worked.

Flushing at his own behavior, Aaralyn dropped his gaze again and fetched the sketches neatly piled on top of his portfolio and held in place with a paperweight that had been left behind in the office that was now his workshop.

His heart was racing as he listened to Lord Farrokh go through the pages.

The book would contain thirty items in all, a full spread for each, combined with unique front and back matter, as well as poems and other text written by Lady Hedieh, about a hundred and twenty pages in all.

The Wise Elder tree was the tenth set of initial sketches finished.

"Beautiful work, Master Aaralyn.

You have an elegant hand and a skill for bringing even simple pencil sketches to life,"

Lord Farrokh said, handing the pages back.

The way he said Aaralyn's name sent a shiver down his spine, for while he was used to the longer, softer way people here said it and had never minded, to hear it said properly after so long was still nice.

"Thank you, my lord,"

he said, focusing hard on holding the paper carefully instead of clutching it tightly.

"Kishir, let it be known Master Aaralyn is hereby granted full and permanent access to the private gardens.

Anyone who takes issue with that may bring their complaints to my prince."

"Yes, Lord Farrokh.

I'll attend it the moment you're back in your chambers."

"Goodnight, Master Aaralyn.

Do not linger here so long you miss dinner."

Then he was gone, and Aaralyn dropped back down on the bench, hands trembling faintly as he set his papers aside.

Praised by a concubine for a bunch of drawings of flowers.

Given unlimited access to the noble gardens.

Why? Did that mean something? Was something expected of him now?

Gathering up his things, concentration far too broken now anyway, he headed off in search of the dinner he'd been admonished not to forget.

Another strange thing for a concubine to trouble himself with.

"Aaralyn!"

a voice called.

He lifted a hand in greeting, got in line for food, and then joined the trio at a table in the corner.

"How was your day?"

the same woman asked, sipping at a cup of watered-down wine.

Many of the wines decanted for use by nobles and royalty were not always used up, and they obviously could not be put back in their casks or barrels.

So if it had not been requested again after a day or two, it was watered down and put out at mealtimes for servants to drink.

There was never any telling, from one day to the next, what sorts of wines would be available.

"It was all right,"

he said quietly, sipping at a thinned purple wine that tasted shockingly sweet.

He preferred the bitter ones, but wouldn't dare to complain about such an extravagance.

"Something strange just happened to me in the noble gardens, though."

He explained, but when he'd finished, they all looked as shocked as he felt.

"So what do I do?"

"Do?"

the man beside him snorted.

"Havarin, your empire is showing.

You don't do anything.

You enjoy the gardens.

Something you said or did pleased him enough to grant you a fancy privilege.

The concubines have a lot of power, though it's often overlooked, even by most of us in the palace because their duty and pleasure is to serve, above all else.

An order given by a concubine is an order given by the royal family.

Enjoy the gardens.

Brag about it a little to that uppity little brat Davud, because he's been vying for such a thing for years, and you did it in mere months."

Aaralyn's cheeks flushed.

"It's not like I was seeking it, I was just working."

"Was he as beautiful up close as he seems?"

the other woman at the table asked.

"Even more so,"

Aaralyn admitted.

"He and Lord Kurosh are lovely."

That, of course, made them demand to know when he'd been close to Kurosh, which led to outrage at how he'd been treated by Feyz and further stories about how awful he could be to everyone in the palace who didn't outrank him.

By the time dinner ended and he was able to retreat to his room, Aaralyn was exhausted and in pain.

He stripped off his clothes and then sat down to remove his leg.

It was a cheap thing that still had taken him months to save up for, but he had refused to sacrifice his mobility and independence more than he strictly must.

Unfortunately, cheap meant that even with padding, it rubbed painfully in places, and after so many hours, the weight became a strain as well.

He'd lost his leg when he was seventeen, still three years away from formally finishing his education, when some jealous assholes had thrown a snake at him to scare him.

They had succeeded too well, as the snake had landed in the grass at his feet and, instead of fleeing, had struck him.

Thankfully, the idiots had possessed enough sense to get him help, the only reason he had lived.

There'd been no saving the leg, though.

In the end, he had left the story at not seeing the snake in the grass, because bullying dumbasses they might be, their families depended on their income.

Getting beaten nearly to death, if not actually to death, for a stupid prank that had gotten away from them would have hurt far more than those three.

Anyway, one of them had helped him escape years later, and for that, Aaralyn considered all debts cleared.

Pulling on a bathing robe, he fetched his crutch and went to get a bath.

If there was one thing he had quickly come to love about Tavamara, it was that the baths might be public, but they were not open air public.

Havarin nobles did not trust any but first tier citizens to bath entirely in private, and the lower your status, the more public your bathing, so that there was no place you could quietly plot rebellions or do other nefarious things.

A bath with four walls was a luxury most of the world didn't know it had.

When he was clean and relaxed, he returned to his room, treated his leg with the special lotions that helped with redness, bruising, and pain, then pulled on a nightshirt and finally crawled into bed.

If he fell asleep to wistful fancies regarding a certain harem, that was nobody's business but his.