Page 6 of Wildflower (Tales of Tavamara #8)

"Look at you, Havarin,"

Mehr said in delight as he reached their table in the corner.

The others there whistled and teased as well.

One of them said, "Almost worth getting beat up to have His Highness buy you pretty things, eh?"

Mehr cast him an unimpressed look.

"All right, all right,"

he said.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine,"

Aaralyn replied as he took his seat.

"Three different people have already called me a harlot today, and Davud glared at me like I'd murdered his firstborn."

The man beside Mehr, Hamed, snorted derisively.

"Davud couldn't make it in even the shittiest whorehouse because the man comes faster than the tax collector when your payment is overdue."

Aaralyn choked on his tea as he laughed at the wrong time.

"That's not very nice,"

said Nima, the man next to Aaralyn.

"My uncle works in the tax office, and he never rushes anything."

"I have questions about your relationship with your uncle,"

Mehr said dryly.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it,"

Nima said with exaggerated primness.

"Oh, do I?"

Aaralyn shook his head and ate breakfast while he continued to listen to their teasing and ribald jokes, until Mehr nudged him.

He looked up in silent query.

"What are you drawing today?"

"Nothing, actually.

I'll be copying text over the next few days.

Eventually, I'll need to draw a special type of frog, but I've no idea where in the world I would ever begin to find any frog, let alone a specific one.

Likely just go to the library and hope I can find books to copy reliable sketches from."

"Frog?"

Nima asked.

"Why on earth do you need to draw a frog?"

"It's called a poisoned dagger frog, and apparently it has many medicinal uses, though working with them is exceedingly dangerous because it takes the very smallest dose to kill someone."

He shrugged one shoulder and tossed back the rest of his cooled tea.

"If there is one thing I've learned doing this work, it's that the difference between poison and medicine is a mere drop."

He stood and picked up his tray.

"I'll see you all later at dinner?"

"Oh, probably, unless I'm arrested for finally choking Lady Atousa with her own hair ribbons,"

Mehr said cheerfully.

"You certain you're feeling well enough to get back to work, Havarin?"

"I know I'm sick of sitting in my room all day."

They laughed and bid him farewell, and he headed off for his workroom.

He was accustomed to being stared at.

Back home, it had been for his shockingly bright, out of place hair that his mother said came from his great grandmother, or because he had worked such a specialized, 'fancy' job instead of anything to do with saffron, because he'd gotten above himself, like that wasn't twisted, depressing thinking greatly encouraged by the Havarin ruling class.

Still, the staring had never been this bad.

Outside of a few bullying nobles, largely Feyz and anyone who happened to be with him at the time, he was more or less ignored.

Tavala, the royal capital, was an international hub.

Even with his obnoxious hair, Aaralyn did not stand out terribly much, especially as the hair made everyone think he was from Tritacia.

Now, though, the eyes never left, and whispers often followed.

Because Prince Bakhtiar had bought him a new leg? Because of what Feyz had done to him, prompting the kindness from His Highness? He was known for his exceeding kindness, though, so surely this wasn't remarkable? Was it something else? That made even less sense, because there was nothing else.

Closing the door of his workroom behind him, he leaned against it and sighed in relief.

Thank the gods today would be nothing but sitting here carefully copying over text.

He'd already done the translations of a few of the articles being compiled, as that was easy enough to do while sitting in bed.

Now he just had to copy everything over to the signatures that would become the pages of the finished book.

It was slow, meticulous work, because if he messed up even a single letter then he would have to start all over.

Mistakes were permissible here and there, but given the importance of the information involved, and his own stubborn determination to present only a book as close to perfect as possible, he gave himself no leniency.

After a couple of hours, he stood and stretched, then decided to go for a brief walk in the gardens.

He had learned the hard way—several hard ways—that generous breaks were necessary to keeping focus and lessening the chance of mistakes.

He walked through a section of the public gardens that was comprised entirely of roses, breathing in the lightly perfumed air, almost wishing he'd brought his sketching supplies along, but then he would have gotten distracted, and there was far too much to be done.

"Aaralyn!"

He turned and watched as Lady Hedieh came striding toward him, eyes bright with excitement.

"Good afternoon, my lady.

I've begun the final copying for the frog volume.

I should be done in three days and ready to move on to the drawings."

"That's why I came to find you!"

she said, gripping his arms excitedly.

Touch had always been a complicated thing for Aaralyn.

Too many people touched him as though they had the right to, especially back in Havarin, but also here.

He did not mind Lady Hedieh, his friends, who all had earned the right.

But Lord Feyz and others of his ilk, random people who wanted to touch his hair or prod at his leg or poke at his freckles… It was tiresome.

He wished he could scream in their faces to stop touching him.

If he had remained in Havarin, had accepted defeat and become enslaved in Pollux's harem, his body would have never been his again.

That more than anything had given him the courage to flee.

Others had already taken his leg from him; he would not let anyone take more.

"Oh?"

he asked with a laugh.

"Did you come with a poisoned dagger frog in your pocket?"

She giggled.

"No! But I know where you can find some to sketch!"

"What? Really? Where?"

"The royal gardens!"

she said excitedly, grabbing his arms again and all but dancing in place.

"I was speaking with Prince Bakhtiar this morning during a special breakfast in the garden.

He was giving me tips on playing taaki.

One thing led to another, and I mentioned the frogs.

He said his mother—"

she broke off giggling again.

"Well, let us say, only her eldest son would be brave enough to say such things about Her Majesty! He's so charming, even when claiming his mother is evil incarnate, as though the Jewel of Tavamara could ever be any such thing!

"But I am meandering, the point is that she apparently has a special section of the royal gardens where she keeps several poisoned dagger frogs, in all different colors! Prince Bakhtiar has granted you permission to visit them for your work.

Here you are."

She thrust a piece of paper at him, one of the special writs needed to enter various parts of the palace, mostly places like the treasury or anywhere at all in the royal wing if you were not part of the staff that worked there exclusively.

There was a section on the writ for the length of time permission was granted, but Prince Bakhtiar had only drawn an X.

He had no idea what that meant.

"I'll retrieve my sketching materials and get to work immediately, my lady."

Normally he did the sketches last, after he'd copied all the text and had a solid idea of how many sketches, what kind, and where exactly they would go, but he would make do.

At worst, he could do tipped-in pages, though that wasn't his preferred method.

She smiled and pinched his cheek in a way that reminded him so much of his mother, made him wonder what she might have been like had she not been beaten down and broken by the iron fist of Havarin and the particular cruelty of Margrave Consus.

"Take your time, dear.

I'm going to be in tiresome meetings arguing with tiresome men for the next few days and will scarcely have time to read my own notes, nevermind anything else.

Have fun in the royal gardens.

To be permitted to see them is quite the honor."

She smirked and winked.

"You do seem to have made an impression on His Highness, though, hmm? Not surprising, as sweet and pretty as you are.

Get along with you, then.

I'll see you in a few days when I'm free again."

She strode off, like flower petals blown away in the wind, leaving Aaralyn red-faced and flustered.

Tucking the writ into his pocket, he hurried back to his workshop, gathered up his portfolio, plenty of blank paper, sharp pencils and, at the last minute, his watercolors, and headed out.

His first stop was the dining hall, where thank the gods Mehr was eating an early lunch, as she often did.

"Mehr, Mehr! I need your help."

She laughed.

"What did you do now, Havarin?"

"I didn't do anything! Lady Hedieh somehow got me permission to enter the royal family's gardens to draw those frogs I was talking about this morning."

Her jaw dropped.

"You have the luck of the gods! Oooh, if you thought Davud was mad at you this morning, just wait until this information reaches him! He's going to drag you down to laundry and smother you in dirty linens."

"I don't think he'd go to that much trouble.

He'd probably just smother me with my own pillow after I went to sleep.

Anyway, I don't know where to go.

You have to help me."

She burst into giggles, finished her tea and a last hastily-shoveled bite of food, then stood and all but threw her dishes into the washing bins.

"Come on, then, Havarin."

She looped her arm through one of his and dragged him off through the palace.

As they ventured through hallways he'd never seen before, except very vaguely as he was carried around like a child, he was even more grateful he'd asked for help.

Eventually, they came to a set of heavy, ornate doors carved all over with birds.

The guards loomed over him, at least a head taller and practically twice as wide.

Though he knew it was simply part of their job to look fierce and intimidating, that they would not actually harm him, still he tensed the closer they got.

When they reached them, Mehr strode up to them as though she was a queen.

Prodding the slightly taller of the two in one of his very well-muscled arms, she said, "Muscles, Havarin here has a writ to get into the gardens to draw frogs for Lady Hedieh.

Let him pass, and don't any of you tease him, understand? Or you'll be hearing it from me."

The man's intimidating demeanor fell away like a dropped cloak, and he rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Mehr, when don't we hear it from you? The real trouble begins when you actually shut your mouth."

The other guard laughed as he pulled a key from his belt.

"What's your name then, Havarin?"

It was somehow endlessly amusing so many people called him that, and yet so many of the actual residents insisted he must be mistaken when he said he was from Havarin.

"Aaralyn Caulfield."

The guards stilled, clearly surprised, and shared some silent conversation.

Then 'Muscles' said with a soft, amused huff, "So you're Master Aaralyn.

Guess I see what all the fuss is about.

On with you then."

He waved off the writ as Aaralyn held it out.

"Keep it.

Some of the other guards or servants will demand to see it."

"Definitely Omid, officious brat thinks he runs the place,"

the second guard added.

"Feel free to tell him to stuff his face."

He pulled the door open and swept an arm out.

"To the end of the hall, turn right, you'll practically run right into the main portion of the most royal of the royal gardens."

He grinned.

"I assume you're here for those pretty little rainbow colored frogs that we're told are fatal to the touch? Just follow the path, go over the first bridge, you'll then see a little pond protected by a rock wall.

Can't miss them, they're the color of jewels.

Just absolutely do not touch them."

"Why they keep those things around is beyond me,"

said Muscles, "but royals do as royals please.

Enjoy your visit."

"Thank you,"

Aaralyn said.

"Thank you, Mehr."

She grinned and playfully pinched both his cheeks.

"I expect a full report later.

In front of Davud, so I can see him explode from jealousy."

"Get back to work, woman,"

the second man said.

"I can practically hear Lady Atousa shrieking your name."

"She'll be screaming your wife's name later,"

Mehr replied tartly, then turned on her heel and strode off.

Amused, Aaralyn thanked the guards again and finally set off, heart in his throat as he traveled a hallway he had no business being anywhere near.

This section of the palace humbled the beauty of the rest of it, and the royal palace of Tavamara was already breathtakingly beautiful.

If there was one thing he missed about home, other than his family, it was all the green.

Long grasses, towering trees, endless fields of vibrant royal crocuses awaiting harvest, rain showers…

The royal gardens as a whole always reminded him of home in comforting ways, but these gardens held plants that actually were from his home.

Including crocuses, and not the saffron ones his people harvested their entire lives, but the bright, sunny yellow ones they had preferred before Havarin came in and reduced them to saffron farming.

There was also a spread of paper flowers, because the petals looked like slightly crumpled and curled scraps of paper.

The shop he'd worked at had used a stylized paper flower as their official mark.

Though he would have loved to linger amongst the little reminders of his homeland, he was only allowed in this space because he had work to do.

He was not here to linger like a guest, and would not reflect poorly on Lady Hedieh by doing so—or abuse Prince Bakhtiar's generosity, especially when he'd already done far too much for Aaralyn.

So you're Master Aaralyn.

Guess I see what the fuss is all about.

What did that even mean? What did they see and what fuss?

The questions were still turning over and over in his mind when he found the pond.

As the guard had said, there were many of the little frogs, and so many colors and patterns! An orange one with blue legs, one that was a brighter blue with black freckles all over its back.

One that was green with black splotches that looked like water currents.

Red with black spots.

Another with an orange body with black stripes, but legs that were blue with black dots. That wasn't even all of them.

How in the world was he to draw so many? And he would need to make extensive notes on the patterns and colors.

Perhaps he should start with that.

So he did.

Pulling out his watercolors and pen, he drew every single pattern he could find—not helped as the frogs liked to jump and swim about—coloring in each one as he finished, until he had three whole pages of just the colors and patterns.

His favorite was the one that had a body that started orange, faded to yellow, with black vertical bands down its length, and bright blue-green legs covered in black spots of various sizes.

Borrowing some rocks from the water's edge, careful to avoid touching the frogs, he set his watercolors to dry in the sun while he turned his attention to finally sketching the frog bodies in all sorts of poses.

"You are quite good at that."

Aaralyn jumped, crying out, tried to stand and turn at the same time, and only succeeded in dropping his work, knocking his portfolio across the grass, and nearly falling into the pond.

A guard caught and righted him, expression concerned as he asked, "Are you all right?"

"I— I'm fine, thank you.

Sorry to be such a twit.

I was clearly in my own head…"

he trailed off, staring in horror at the man who had spoken.

The king. The king.

He started to drop to his knees, but King Shahjahan lifted a hand to stop him, even as the guard held him in place.

"Please, that is not necessary.

I would not have you trouble yourself so.

I apologize profusely for giving you such a bad scare.

I did not realize you'd not heard me approach."

Next to the king was a man with sun-warmed white skin and hair so fine and pale a blond it was nearly white, drawing sharp attention to his vibrant blue eyes.

He was adorned in sapphires, and wore harem black.

Aaralyn had never seen any of the king's harem, he'd scarcely ever seen the king, but he'd heard that one of them was a foreign prince who'd given up a throne to be King Shahjahan's concubine instead.

Looking at the man, he would believe it.

"Are you certain you're all right, Master Aaralyn?"

"I really am fine,"

Aaralyn said, hating his stupid skin that he could feel was as red as some of the frogs.

"I was so focused on my work, I probably would not have heard a traditional harvest festival spring to life behind me."

He wanted to curl up and die the very moment he said the words.

Why did he never think.

From the barest hint of sly grin curving one corner of His Majesty's mouth, Aaralyn did not need to explain that a traditional harvest festival in his part of the world entailed orgies.

Havarin had outlawed such things—for everyone but themselves, of course—long before he'd been born.

Just one of the many things he only knew about his own people through the stories of elders.

"So why are you drawing my wife's precious, deadly little frogs?"

Haltingly at first, more terrified than he'd ever been in his life, but with slowly growing confidence, Aaralyn explained the book he was working on for Lady Hedieh.

"That is why Fahima keeps them, actually.

The temple healers learned of their usefulness in healing a long time ago, and like to always have some available, but even the private portions of the temple are not safe from stray guests who might do something ill-advised.

So my jewel keeps them here, and the priests request the poison as needed."

"That is amazing, Your Majesty."

None of the ruling powers in Havarin would do such a thing.

Maybe keep them for their own private use, or to turn a profit, but not simply because it would help and was the right thing to do.

As they spoke, the concubine gathered up the scattered papers. "Oh,"

he said softly.

"My king…"

he held something out, and Aaralyn wanted to cry as he realized one of his drawings of Bakhtiar had escaped his portfolio when he'd knocked it.

When was he going to learn to leave those drawings in his damned office?

King Shahjahan took it, and his face softened in a way that stole Aaralyn's breath and made him forget his terror.

"This is lovely,"

King Shahjahan said, every stitch the loving father.

"You've captured him perfectly.

May I keep this? I can pay for it, of course."

Aaralyn was going to pass out.

Possibly expire.

He barely noticed as the concubine handed him his portfolio, the scattered drawings tucked neatly and safely back inside.

"C-consider it a gift, Your Majesty, if you like it that much.

Though there must be plenty of artists who can draw His Highness much better."

"Many people have done beautiful portraits of Prince Bakhtiar,"

King Shahjahan replied, handing the drawing back to his concubine to hold, "but you have drawn my Bakhti, and that no one has done.

Thank you.

I will leave you in peace now, before I cause you further distress."

He winked, motioned to a servant standing several paces away that Aaralyn hadn't even noticed arrive, and walked off further into the gardens.

The servant approached and pressed coins into his hands.

"For the drawing, His Majesty insists.

I've never seen him smile like that with anyone other than family and his concubines.

You're Mehr's friend, right? The one she calls Havarin?"

"That's me."

Giving him a sly look and wink, the man replied, "Been lots of talk about you in these halls."

"Why? I haven't done anything,"

Aaralyn said.

"Prince Bakhtiar was extraordinarily kind to me, though, is that why? I know the leg was far too much."

It was truly beautiful, far and above what he would ever be able to afford himself.

A combination of metal and wood, carefully crafted to be sturdy but lightweight, the actual leg portion hollow, the metal shaped into flowers and vines, each of the flowers somehow gold in color, some metalsmith technique quite beyond him.

Having it was as close as was possible, it felt, to having his actual leg back.

"It does pertain to His Highness, yes.

Would you like some tea or anything brought?"

"Oh, no, I would never impose so,"

Aaralyn said, horrified at the idea of being so impertinent.

Him, demanding a servant who worked solely for the royal family in their private quarters, bringing him tea.

His mother would reach across the ocean to whack him with her broom.

"I should get back to work.

I do not want to linger overlong and get in anyone's way."

"As you wish,"

the man replied, and bowed slightly before striding off whistling.

Aaralyn had managed to get most of another frog done, this one diving into the water, when the man returned with a tray of tea.

He winked as Aaralyn struggled for something to say.

"Enjoy, Havarin."

Then he was gone again, his whistling fading soon after.

Why did it feel like either he or the rest of the palace had lost their minds? Whatever, the tea was here, so he wouldn't waste it.

And if he occasionally looked up to see if maybe Prince Bakhtiar might be passing through, thankfully no one else did either to catch him at it.