Page 7 of Wildflower (Tales of Tavamara #8)
The frog book somehow proved so popular that he was privately commissioned by five of Lady Hedieh's friends to make them copies.
Thankfully, he had so many sketches of them that he had a veritable reference library, so all he really needed to do was recreate the drawings and then copy so much text it felt as though his hand might fall off.
Normally he did not work late, or at least, only by a little bit.
Havarin firmly believed that only the wealthy were allowed to relax, and everyone else should work as often as possible.
Here, no such expectation existed, and anyone who tried to encourage overwork was looked at askance.
It was a luxury he was happy to enjoy.
This week, though, with so much writing to do, he had worked a few hours late each night, hoarding extra servings of lunch to eat for dinner in the workshop over a quick break.
Right now, stomach growling, he wished he'd held back a little more.
Ah, well.
He could have all he wanted at breakfast, another luxury he would always respect.
He tidied up the workroom, put out the lamps, and finally headed off.
A yawn overtook him, cracking his jaw and watering his eyes.
Though it was late for him, the banquet in the grand dining hall had not yet even started, though it would very soon.
He knew very little about it all.
That was a place for the true residents, the nobles and other wealthy who rented rooms and even entire suites in the palace, or staff of high enough rank, like the Steward or Master of the Treasury.
He could not begin to imagine what such a dinner must be like, with all the dancing and poetry reading and music always playing.
Concubines serving wine to their respective royals and other guests, carrying conversations that Aaralyn would never be smart enough for, sometimes even performing…
Another strike against him, not that he was stupid enough to ever think, for a single moment, that he could… What would he do, stand in the middle of the room drawing people? Give a bookbinding demonstration? No, his skills were humble and uninteresting.
Even if King Shahjahan had given the greatest possible compliment in the world to one of his drawings.
He yawned again, more tears watering his eyes—and oofed as he ran into someone.
"My apologies,"
he said hastily, backing up a step and rubbing the water from his eyes.
Dropping his hands, he looked up—and went still, icy fear filling his veins.
The man looked down at him in that cold, imperious way every Havarin nobles possessed.
All noble heirs to a title had their left cheek tattooed when they came of age at sixteen.
When they took up the title, their right cheek received another tattoo.
By his markings, this was the Duke of Novellius, which made him Lord Lucius Nigidius.
As people to accidentally bother went, he could not have done much worse.
"Present your brand, boy."
Because of course he would immediately know that Aaralyn was from Havarin and not Tritacia.
Of course that would be his luck.
Keeping his gaze on the floor, and his trembling hands hidden in the folds of his robe, Aaralyn said quietly, "I am a citizen of Tavamara, your grace.
My brand has no bearing here."
Novellius backhanded him, exactly as Aaralyn had anticipated he would, then grabbed his wrist in a painfully tight grip and yanked at Aaralyn's sleeve so hard he tore it, baring the mark that had been branded into his arm when he came of age at sixteen.
By Havarin law, anyway.
By his own people's laws, another thing Havarin had taken from them, children were not considered fully adult until they had reached their twenty-first year, the beginning of their third decade of life.
Aaralyn looked away, the brand curdling his stomach, a constant reminder of all that Havarin had taken from him, from his people, all he'd left behind so they could not take more.
As long as he lived, he would remember the pain of someone pressing glowing hot iron to his skin, the way they laughed and mocked him and the other children, for that was what they'd been, called them weak and pathetic.
"A crocus boy,"
Novellius said, then narrowed his eyes.
"Wait.
There was word spread some time ago that a harem bitch from Resarn had run away, a pretty little thing with Tritacian-orange hair."
He let go of Aaralyn's arm and wrapped his hand around his throat instead, squeezing not quite tight enough to choke him.
"Did not think to find you here.
Your Margrave will pay me handsomely to have you returned."
Tears fell down Aaralyn's cheeks, but he replied, "I am a rightful citizen of Tavamara now.
You have no power over me, your grace.
Let me go."
"Uppity bitch."
Novellius let go and lifted his hand for another strike—and bellowed in outrage as he was grabbed and thrown to the floor.
Aaralyn gasped and stepped back, looked up, finally registering the rest of the hallway.
Several people were frozen in shock, but his attention was captured by the pair in the middle: King Shahjahan and Prince Bakhtiar.
King Shahjahan had an arm out, as though holding Prince Bakhtiar back, and His Highness looked ready to kill Novellius with his bare hands.
Novellius, meanwhile, was pinned to the ground by a concubine with frankly ridiculous muscles, his back covered with a beautiful tattoo of the sun.
At a sharp gesture from His Majesty, the concubine hauled the man to his feet and relinquished him to a pair of guards who came forward.
Shahjahan looked to a servant standing nearby holding an empty tray.
"I want the names of every single person in this hall, so I know who to punish later for standing by and doing nothing while a man was terrorized and abused."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Guards, nobody leaves this hall until their name is on the list, and if they try to sneak away or hide, make certain that is noted.
Why did no guards come forward?"
"We were pulled away by a brawl down the green hall, Your Majesty,"
said a woman who seemed to be in charge of the guards present.
"I should have left a couple behind here, and apologize for that failure."
"I would like a report on that brawl as well,"
King Shahjahan replied, "so I might have a full image of what happened here tonight.
Get witness accounts as well from all these cowards who did nothing.
The very least they can do is relate honestly what happened, and see what happens to all of you if I catch you in a lie.
Am I understood?"
The hall resounded with a chorus of "Yes, Your Majesty."
King Shahjahan did not seem even slightly appeased by the obedience.
"Fetch me the Havarin ambassador and escort him to the peacock room,"
he said to another guard.
"If he tries to argue or take his time, drag him.
Witcher, if you please."
He turned sharply, taking Bakhtiar by the arm as he strode off, bending his head close to speak to him, so no one else could hear.
What were they saying? Did Aaralyn really want to know?
The beautiful pale and golden concubine from the garden stepped forward and wrapped an arm around him, making several of the people in the hallways gasp.
Aaralyn sensed touching him was a huge breach of etiquette, but he just couldn't bring himself to care.
His face hurt, his throat hurt, even his stupid arm hurt where Novellius had gripped it so unnecessarily tight, and it was taking everything he had not to burst into tears.
Was this it? Was he going to be sent home to appease angry Havarin nobility? No, no.
He was panicking.
He was a Tavamaran citizen now.
He had the papers to prove it.
But powerful people always found ways around those kinds of laws.
Sending him back, keeping Havarin appeased, would probably be wiser.
Easier, certainly.
"All will be well, Master Aaralyn,"
Lord Witcher said.
What a strange name, but then again, he knew little of naming conventions in other countries, and Lord Witcher must come from one of the three countries north of Tavamara.
The peacock room lived up to its name, and ordinarily, Aaralyn would be thoroughly distracted taking it all in, but as it was, he could only keep his eyes lowered as he was escorted to a large, soft cushion.
It was only as he sat down that he realized he was seated right next to Prince Bakhtiar.
He looked up, accidentally catching Prince Bakhtiar's eyes, and dropped his gaze again.
Across the room, King Shahjahan stood in front of a painting of a beautiful man captured in the middle of a dance, arms extended into a near straight line, hands holding large fans made of peacock feathers.
The enormous, muscled concubine with the tattoos stood beside him.
Novellius stood by a lattice window that looked out onto the hallway, letting more light into the room.
Aaralyn could not help but stare a moment, because none of his earlier anger or arrogance from before was present.
Instead, he almost looked afraid.
The door opened, and Aaralyn tensed anew, but it was only a clerk who hastened over to His Majesty, bowed low, and handed over a stack of papers before slipping back out of the room.
The door had not even closed when guards entered followed by another man with stomach-churning tattoos.
Not just a duke, but a grand duke.
There were only five throughout the whole of Havarin, controlling the five major provinces into which the country was divided.
Three of those provinces contained all of the colonies.
By his marks, this was Grand Duke Seius, who commanded the province in which Resarn was located.
Because of course, out of just five people in the whole damned world, the one most dangerous to him was the one assigned as ambassador to Tavamara.
Aaralyn was going to be sick.
Angering a duke was bad enough, but inconveniencing a grand duke? Besmirching his standing and thus humiliating him? As soon as he was handed over to Havarin custody, he was a dead man.
His body would be in the harbor before sunrise.
If he was lucky, killing him was all they'd do, but when it came to the Havarin ruling class there was no luck but bad.
He kept his head lowered, focused on not crying, but a couple of traitorous tears splashed onto his hand anyway.
Then a warm, heavy hand covered his, and Bakhtiar's voice, gentle and reassuring, murmured, "Be at ease.
No further harm will come to you, I vow it."
Despite everything, Aaralyn did calm down.
Not completely, but enough, because he trusted Prince Bakhtiar, despite a lifetime's experience in knowing better than to trust any noble or royal.
The same way he had trusted Lady Hedieh against all instincts and taken her offer of employment.
A glint of metal caught his eyes, and he turned his head to just behind Prince Bakhtiar, where Lord Kurosh stood with a long, thin knife in his hand, hidden from the rest of the room by the folds of his skirt.
He smiled at Aaralyn in a way that was somehow both reassuring and terrifying, and for the first time, he was willing to believe the rumors this man had once been an assassin.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Seius demanded, looking between King Shahjahan and Novellius—and then stopping as he saw Aaralyn.
"What did you do, you branded bitch?"
"That is enough,"
King Shahjahan said, voice cracking out with the force of a whip.
"Speak to Master Aaralyn like that again, and you'll be having this discussion from behind bars, do you understand me, Ambassador?"
Puffing up like a spike fish, Seius replied, "What is going on here?"
"What is happening is that Novellius assaulted a man for no reason,"
Shahjahan replied in a voice so frigid that Aaralyn shivered.
"He accosted me first!"
Novellius bristled, and made to step forward, but a guard went for his sword in warning, and he fell back.
"He ran right into me, not paying attention in the slightest.
I have the right to discipline another countryman all I like, especially a branded."
"Branded,"
Shahjahan repeated softly.
"Of course you brand your people.
I don't know how I didn't know that."
He glared as Seius started to speak.
"It doesn't matter, because he's not your countryman.
As of more than a month ago, he was officially made a citizen of Tavamara."
He threw the bundle of papers at Seius, who scrambled to catch them and only barely managed it.
"So I repeat: your man assaulted one of mine.
According to my servants, he backhanded him, injured his arm, and attempted to choke him.
I have countless witnesses who are giving their reports now.
Would you like to go speak with them directly?"
"No, Your Majesty,"
Seius said tightly.
He turned to Novellius.
"Is this all true?"
"He ran into me because he wasn't paying attention and spilled my wine all over.
Not that anybody has bothered to notice or care about that.
I saw he was a branded and disciplined him accordingly.
How was I to know he spread his legs for citizenship? This is all stupid."
"I didn't whore my way into citizenship,"
Aaralyn said, eyes on the floor but voice firm.
"I applied for it fairly, following all the rules.
I didn't see you in the hall, and I apologize for that, your grace.
But even if I were still a Havarin slave, I don't deserve to be struck and humiliated for a genuine mistake."
"Uppity,"
Novellius hissed.
Aaralyn was going to throw up, and probably the entire room could see he was trembling, but he wasn't a glorified slave of Havarin anymore, damn it.
So despite the terror filling him, he dragged his eyes up, stared into Novellius's eyes, and held his gaze as he replied, "It's not uppity to defend myself.
But it is cowardly to beat down those beneath you just for spilling a little wine."
"That's enough,"
Shahjahan replied.
"You are both confined to your chambers until I say otherwise.
Be assured that tomorrow there will be much debate as to whether you will be allowed to remain in my country.
Havarin's presence here in my court is tolerated at best, and you would do well to remember that.
Havarin needs Tavamara far more than we need you. Guards, escort them to their chambers and place a watch."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Ignoring their protests, the guards hauled the pair away.
Silence fell in the wake of their departure, until another came at the door, and the palace healer stepped inside.
She went straight to Aaralyn, making low, angry noises as she examined him and gently applied ointments to his bruised arm, face, and throat.
She lingered briefly over the brand, the anger a thunderstorm on her face, but only handed him a small box of familiar powder.
"Until the bruising around your throat has faded significantly.
Hopefully I do not see you again anytime soon, sweetheart. You've been through quite enough."
"Yes, Mistress,"
Aaralyn replied with a wispy smile.
"Good lad."
She rose, went to speak quietly with His Majesty, and then departed.
King Shahjahan crossed the room and crouched down, stopping Aaralyn's heart all over again.
"I apologize profusely this happened to you.
I am ashamed of my court that nobody defended you.
Be assured, nobody else will be laying a finger on you."
He smiled ever so fleetingly and looked briefly at Prince Bakhtiar before turning back to Aaralyn.
"Especially if Bakhti has anything to say about it, I suspect.
Whatever you decide going forward, you will receive full pay for the rest of the year, and are not to do any work for at least the rest of the month, with re-evaluation from a healer before taking up any duties."
"Y-Yes, Your Majesty."
Aaralyn felt he should be protesting, but it was just so much.
King Shahjahan cupped the back of his head, thumb stroking his cheek comfortingly, so much like his father in that moment that Aaralyn ached.
"You will be all right, little flower, I promise.
Get some rest."
He dropped his hand, rose and left, his people with him.
Which meant Aaralyn was left alone with Prince Bakhtiar, Lord Kurosh, and two guards.
Prince Bakhtiar surged forward as soon as Aaralyn had stood and hugged him tightly.
"Are you all right? Truly?"
"I've had better days,"
Aaralyn managed, desperately ignoring that he had just been hugged by a prince.
How nice that prince smelled, how very warm and safe… He gave himself a mental shaking.
"Sadly, I've also had much worse.
If— if I hadn't been a Tavamaran citizen…"
"It would have been their bodies in the harbor, not yours,"
Kurosh said idly.
"Depending on how they behave and what stupid actions they decide to take, it may yet happen anyway."
"You aren't supposed to say those things where the guards can hear,"
Bakhtiar said in amusement.
"It causes them significant distress."
One of the guards said dryly, "We've mastered the art of being selectively deaf where Lord Kurosh is concerned, Your Highness."
Kurosh grinned, all menacing delight, and Bakhtiar sighed while not looking even the slightest bit bothered.
Aaralyn wished, uselessly, that he could listen to them banter every single day.
"How is the new leg?"
Bakhtiar asked.
"Such things are new to me, sheltered little prince that I am, but I tried to make certain you would receive only the best."
That made Aaralyn laugh.
"Has anyone ever tried to fob off their worst on you, Your Highness, that you have to worry about the possibility?"
The others laughed, and Bakhtiar grinned sheepishly.
"All right, fair enough.
So it pleases?"
"Yes, of course it pleases.
Thank you.
I wanted to tell you so in person, but I did not want to bother you."
He also hadn't even known where to start with finding Bakhtiar to do such a thing, but he wasn't going to say that aloud.
Bakhtiar's eyes burned, and he smiled softly as he said, "You could never bother me."
Kurosh, looking amused, said, "I'll see you back in your chambers, my prince."
Then he and the guards were gone.
Being alone with a person of authority, especially such great authority as Bakhtiar possessed, had never gone well for Aaralyn.
Margraves were cruel, and their spoiled despot heirs crueler still.
Also, he was still learning a great deal of Tavamaran customs, especially all the complicated layers and nuances of court life, but he was absolutely certain he should not be alone with Bakhtiar.
"Your Highness?"
"I should probably wait until at least tomorrow to have this conversation,"
Bakhtiar replied, "but you have been badly hurt twice now, and I am tired of it.
I dread what they might yet try to do to you, as offended Havarin nobles are malicious at best.
We permit them to be here so we can keep an eye on them, but… Nevermind, none of that is important right now."
Aaralyn stared in awe and stupid, futile hope.
"I don't think I've ever seen a nervous prince before.
Well, I'd never seen a prince at all before I saw you…"
Bakhtiar smiled sweetly, almost shyly.
"In the garden with my harem? By the false roses and honeysuckle?"
"How—"
Aaralyn's face burned hot.
"My drawing.
My missing drawing."
He covered his face with his hands and begged the gods to vanish him from the earth with all haste.
Gently tugging his hands away, Bakhtiar held fast to one and used his other to nudge Aaralyn's head up with that same gentle touch.
It left Aaralyn aching all the way down to his bones.
"You drew them so beautifully, my harem.
Like you saw them as I saw them.
I was entranced, and wanted to know more about you. Kurosh insisted on verifying you first, as I've had trouble with people in the past, a man who was besotted and was complicit in almost killing me."
"I understand,"
Aaralyn said.
"They should be careful and suspicious anyway.
That's what they're for, right? To protect you.
I didn't want anyone to see my drawings because I knew they would assume the worst.
But I never… I'm just an ugly third-tier from Havarin, a slave with extra privileges really. And missing a leg besides."
It wasn't at all hard to see how somebody might become besotted with Bakhtiar, grow angry when his so-called affections weren't returned, and… He had seen and heard of similar before, though it was usually a spoiled margrave who grew enraged when a slave wouldn't love him as he wanted and had her killed—after making her suffer.
Bakhtiar stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Ugly? Havarin is even stupider than I already thought if they have you convinced of that.
You're one of the most beautiful persons I have ever seen.
Hair like a captured flame and eyes like the finest peridot.
A life that should rightfully turn you angry and hostile has instead made you gentle. You must be close to me in age, but your eyes hold wisdoms I will never truly understand. Even when you are in immense pain, you think of others. You told Grand Duke Seius, a Havarin Untouchable, that he was a worthless coward. You're a wildflower, beautiful and tenacious."
"Your Highness…"
Aaralyn said, voice barely above a whisper.
"As I said at the start of this conversation, I should wait to ask, but I cannot bear to let you out of my sight.
You fled Havarin to avoid being a concubine…"
"I fled Havarin to avoid being raped and murdered.
The harem I would have been forced into and trapped in until Pollux finally killed me is nothing like what I've seen here."
"Still, I am the most selfish and spoiled of brats in asking if you would agree to be my fifth and final concubine.
It would be the greatest of honors."
Even though it had become obvious where this conversation was leading, still the words came as a shock.
He genuinely couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying when he replied, "Yes, Your Highness.
It would be my greatest honor."
Bakhtiar cupped his face, thumbs wiping away tears.
"May I kiss you?"
"Whenever and as much as you wish."
Bakhtiar did so, soft and sweet at first, but deepening it quickly, like Aaralyn was something to be slowly savored.
Like he was something precious.
Aaralyn had never been precious before.
He thought he rather liked it.
When they finally drew apart, Bakhtiar took his hand and led him across the room to the painting.
He touched something behind the bottom edge of the frame, and Aaralyn gasped as it swung outward.
"Is that a secret passage?"
Bakhtiar grinned boyishly.
"Yes.
Don't worry, you'll learn all of them.
Soon, you won't want to travel the palace any other way because this method is so much more peaceful."
Aaralyn laughed and followed him into the tunnels.
Though they were completely dark, or near enough, Bakhtiar seemed to have no trouble wending his way along, holding fast to Aaralyn's hand the whole time.
Eventually, they spilled out into what seemed to be a storeroom, and from there into an enormous open room divided into sections by furniture and plants.
In one section sat the rest of the harem, three of them playing taaki, while Taher read a book.
Reza saw them first and grinned.
"They're back."
"They?"
Kurosh echoed in delight even as he turned.
"You're here! Finally!"
He was across the room so quickly that Aaralyn felt slightly dizzy.
"Welcome, wildflower.
Can I finally be impertinent with all that lovely hair?"
"Yes? It's the color of carrots, hardly…"
he forgot what he was going to say as long, deft fingers combed through his curls, nails scraping along his scalp. "Oh."
Reza kissed Bakhtiar softly.
"We told you he would join.
Nobody who draws you like that is adverse to the idea."
Aaralyn groaned, head dropping—and colliding with Kurosh's bare shoulder, which made it easy for him to stroke those evil fingers along the back of his neck.
"I cannot believe you wound up with that drawing.
I'm going to have words with Rostam about running into me that day."
"I think he'll like what Bakhtiar has to say better,"
Taher said with a laugh.
"We're all extremely grateful to him for the mishap that allowed that drawing to find its way to us.
A servant brought it assuming one of us had done it and dropped it somehow, or that we'd had it commissioned by an artist who lost it."
"My breath was quite taken,"
Bakhtiar said, that barest hint of shyness re-emerging, such an endearing quality in someone who had no reason to be shy at all.
An arm slid around his waist and pulled him free of Kurosh.
"You have to share."
Kurosh grinned lazily and leaned over Aaralyn's shoulder to kiss Farrokh—then kissed Aaralyn before rising back to his full height.
"We're happy to have you with us at last,"
Farrokh said from behind him.
"I knew the moment I met you in the garden that you would fit right in.
Kurosh had already said as much, and his intuition is flawless, but meeting you for myself really made it obvious."
"It was just a drawing,"
Aaralyn whispered.
"It was much more than that,"
Reza said, taking his own kiss.
After a lifetime of so little, only stolen moments with virtual strangers or sort-of friends behind buildings, the surfeit of affectionate kisses was dangerously addictive.
Taher kissed him next.
"Your drawing showed caring, when often any stray drawings that come to our attention are…not fit for public viewing.
People make many assumptions, and have vivid imaginations.
It can be quite upsetting."
"Yes, that's quite disgusting."
He would never have even thought to draw erotic imaginings of Bakhtiar and his harem.
Just the idea of doing so made his skin crawl.
Farrokh gently kissed the side of his neck, above where he'd been bruised, then said in his ear, "If you wanted to draw such things for all of us, though, I think we'd quite enjoy that."
Aaralyn shivered.
"I've never drawn anything like that. It—"
He licked his lips, staring at Kurosh, those pale, sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
"It would take a lot of practice."
"There is that spark I saw hints of.
You burn softly, wildflower, but you burn all the same."
Kurosh stole him back, kissing him much more ardently while the others looked on.
"Nothing at all like the rest of us: bossy and greedy and taking our prince as we please."
Aaralyn shivered.
"No, you're much too sweet for that, another pretty thing for us to play with.
Once you are healed up, that pretty throat no longer covered in Havarin abuses, we will play thoroughly."
Aaralyn's stupid, useless skin was red all the way down his neck, he could feel it.
"I don't— I've never done much of anything.
There was never much time, not for me with all my studies."
There was no way he could match them in knowledge and skill.
He'd probably look quite fumbling and silly.
"Don't worry, the rest of us are more than slutty enough to teach you whatever you want to know,"
Farrokh said dryly.
"Especially our errant prince, who used to sneak out and pay whores to fuck him."
"I will never hear the end of that,"
Bakhtiar said, while Aaralyn gaped, not certain if he was horrified or aroused or both by the images in his mind.
"You're alarming him.
Quit it.
He's had quite enough excitement for one night, and the gods alone know what other trouble Havarin will cause before we can finally get rid of them.
Not that kind of get rid of,"
he added, glaring at Kurosh.
"We'll see.
Come along, wildflower, how about a hot bath? Then you will probably crash quite hard from the night's events.
Everything else will keep until tomorrow."
"All right,"
Aaralyn replied, smiling as they dragged him away, scarcely daring to believe this was real and not a dream he would soon wake up from.
Though reality returned, harsh and sharp, when it came time to remove his leg.
Everyone around him was so beautiful and flawless looking…
"Do you need help?"
Farrokh asked.
"No, it's all right, I just…"
felt hopelessly out of place, despite the fact they'd made it very clear they wanted him here.
"He had two of these made, you know,"
Kurosh said as he knelt and began to remove the leg and layers of protective padding.
He handed it all off to Taher, who took it away somewhere out of his line of sight.
"He called this the 'plain one,' and pouted that he couldn't give you the 'proper' one."
"Plain?"
Aaralyn asked in bewilderment.
"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever owned, including the family mirror I had to give away to make it here."
Reza chuckled and prodded Bakhtiar in the chest.
"See? Only you thought it wasn't good enough, Your Highness."
He winked at Aaralyn.
"The proper one has more elaborate, bejeweled flowers and actual gold.
Befitting a concubine, hmm? Yes, flowers for you, from head to toe.
I know just the sets to pull from storage, and my prince will no doubt commission piles more."
Aaralyn had no idea what to say to that, and his burning cheeks seemed to be saying enough anyway.
Farrokh and Kurosh washed him, a strange experience to be sure, and something that ordinarily might have him embarrassing himself, but right then he was simply too overwhelmed by everything, and wrung out from the confrontation with the worst of Havarin.
As Kurosh had promised, by the time he climbed from the bath, he was all but asleep.
They dried him off, and then Reza carried him to the back of the room and settled him in the enormous bed there.
He'd never slept in a bed so soft and cozy.
When he'd first arrived in the palace, he'd thought the bed in his room was the finest thing ever, but this one left that bed in the dust.
Bakhtiar settled beside him, sitting up against the pillows and pulling Aaralyn to lie so his head was practically in his lap.
He stroked his hair in a gentle way Aaralyn hadn't felt since his mother had done it when he was a child.
Would she be happy he'd found such a good life, or resent him for it?
Nearby, Taher picked up his book and resumed reading, but aloud this time, and nearby Kurosh and Farrokh started a new game of taaki.
Aaralyn drifted off to sleep smiling.