Date: Tue, 29 Aug 2006 12:43:46 -0700 (PDT)
From: Jae Monroe <jaexmonroe@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Gift of Ys Chapter 2

This work is a product of the author's imagination, places, events and
people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to
real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you
like it!  If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then
email me at: jae.monroe@yahoo.com

Acknowledgment: Thanks so much to Richard for all his editing.

The Gift of Ys

By

Jae Monroe

Chapter 2

The next day saw Isidore in the library, as was his habit on most days,
continuing his studies into the ancient scrolls.  Barik's chamber was empty
in the morning and his horse was gone from the stable.  Several of the
other finest mounts were also gone, so it was not hard to guess where he
was heading.  Isidore's father had spoken to him about the hunt upon which
Barik was embarking; he often wondered how much his father knew of it,
given the way he said 'hunt' as though it was a little joke.  In all
likelihood his father knew exactly what his eldest son was doing, but for
decades since the last great war, the raids had been tolerated as a means
for young warriors to let off steam and prevent tensions from precipitating
anything more serious than the odd skirmish.

Isidore looked up when Ryal shuffled past him with a stack of books to add
to their collection in the palace library.  "Anything worthwhile, Ryal?"
Isidore asked him, his jet brows raised.

"All knowledge is worthwhile." Ryal admonished him.  "But amongst these
there is little of the sun-legends I'm afraid, my boy."

Isidore's brows fell but they still retained their slight arch.  It was a
pity, for he was almost through his latest scroll, searching for traces of
transcription errors.  But whoever had transcribed it had done a thorough
job, and there were no mistakes.

It was one of these transcription errors that Isidore had discovered when
he was studying the sun-legends three years ago as part of his tuition.
The passage had held that it was the Dara-ya who had given their people the
ability to translate thought to writing; that it was the little-brother god
who gave them the gift of writing, drawing, recording music and the like
and not the Daja-ya, which was as they had learned it in all the legends.
He would have passed it off as a simple mistaken letter, but his interest
was piqued, and from then on he began to enquire into the writings of the
Dara-yan and Daja-yan priests, and he had found wide discrepancies.

All the oldest tomes of the Dara-yan brotherhood held that the Dara-ya had
brought the gift of written thought, and all but one of those of the
Daja-yan brotherhood held that this was a gift of the Daja-ya.  It was that
one old and forgotten Daja-yan tome which Isidore kept locked in a
strong-box in his chamber, for it was the key.  Of course those manuscripts
from the Dara-yan brotherhood might be considered biased, and passed off as
wishful thinking; but that Daja-yan tome, signed by the conscript elder of
the highest Dajan religious order, could not be so discounted.  What this
meant was that big-brother did not always, and in every way, lead
little-brother; that in the area of knowledge and enlightenment it was, in
fact, little-brother who came first.  Quite a shake-up for the fabric upon
which generations of their society had been woven.

Isidore had recruited his brother's help to get hold of those manuscripts
from the temple of the Daja-ya, since no Dara would be given such
liberties.  Even a Svaraya could not obtain them for, in such matters,
religious order outweighed the secular.  Of course Barik was irreverent as
any Daja not of the priesthood, so he had gladly retrieved those books and
scrolls his little brother requested, Lodur bless him.  Isidore did not ask
this of the all-father in jest, either.  Given that his brother would be on
the raid, he hoped Lodur blessed every hair on his brother's head.

The Sherim-Ranians deserved all the unrest they got, Isidore thought in a
rare moment of vindictiveness at the memory of the previous night and the
unpleasant diplomat who still retained in his appointment in the castle.
He hoped his brother and his party gave them what-for.  Except the temples,
Isidore remembered, praying to Lodur that his brother would have the
presence of mind not to attack anything sacrosanct.  From the point of view
of his research, it would actually be the Sherim-Ran temples that could
hold more clues.  Isidore believed that, because Sherim-Ra was a city that
cared little for knowledge, its unused libraries would probably be troves
of ancient writings.  That is if they hadn't used the scrolls and tomes to
light their fires, the bloody barbarians.

Isidore shook himself when he realized he was getting mired in his thoughts
of the Sherim-Ran lack of enlightenment, which never failed to steep him in
gloom, and decided to leave his study for the day.  He knew that the Darani
of Sheq-Kis-Ra did not suffer under the rules, other than the fact that
they tended to be preyed upon by lusty Dajani.  This was a feature of their
society that his friends would have him believe was in fact a huge benefit.
His brother, his father, his friends, all told him to not think about it;
but Isidore hated injustice; he hated to think of those in Sherim-Ra who
lived under nothing but injustice.

Walking to his chamber he was accosted by his companion Eiren, the Daran
son of lord Gorm nom Kindar who was Svar of the province of Nom-Tomik, in
the far east of Sheq-Kis-Ra.

"Isidore, have you left your crusty books for five minutes?"  Eiren had no
time for anything as boring as sitting down, let alone before a desk with a
dusty old book atop it.

"I have, Eiren," Isidore told his friend, linking arms.  "I was actually
thinking of going on a ride and was about to start looking for you so we
might go together."  Eiren was his only Daran companion in his class at the
castle though, as a Svar's son, he ranked below Isidore.  Not that either
of them would ever hear of it.

"I would love a ride, and we can bring some sexy guards and make a day and
a night of it," Eiren said with a huge grin.

"You can," Isidore said, poking his friend in his arm.  "I will be pleased
with just the ride."

Eiren rolled his eyes.  "You are so boring!"  He exclaimed.  "You have ever
a dozen or more Dajani looking after you as you pass, and yet you will have
none of them.  If I had such an entourage of admirers wherever I went,
think of how much justice I would do to it."

"Justice?"  Isidore laughed.  "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Eiren grinned, following him into his chamber.  "Is it possible you have
got even more prudish since last I've seen you?" he asked, flopping on
Isidore's large bed to watch his friend get dressed in some appropriate
riding attire.

"Which would be since this morning at breakfast?"  Isidore raised a brow as
he tightened his braid before the mirror.

Paying him little heed, Eiren carried on.  "Who do you think we should
bring with us?  I like the guard Kodar, and for you, hmm, who shall do for
your first time?"

Eiren teased him constantly for being still virgin at seventeen years old,
whereas Eiren had had his first time when he was barely fourteen.

"Just bring Kodar, one guard will do adequately to protect both of us, and
to serve you," Isidore muttered as he tugged on his boots, fully aware that
they would then have to continue to Eiren's chamber to get him outfitted
appropriately for riding.

Eiren giggled.  "Your father would never let us go out with just one guard
to protect us; at least two will be required, maybe a full complement,
knowing your father's excessive concern for you."

"But if I bring a guard and you and Kodar go off to have your fun, my guard
will feel left out," Isidore pointed out.

Eiren gave him a long-suffering look.  "Oh, baby, you are so naïve."  He
rolled over onto his back, tipping his head up to watch Isidore, though now
his view was upside-down.  "Do you think I cannot make fun with two Dajani
at once?"

Isidore turned to him in surprise.  "But why would you want to?" he asked.
He had fears enough about one Daja, but more than one?  Twice as much huge
male to contend with - it didn't bear thinking about.  "I have heard of it,
but I didn't think that...that it was anything that you would do."  Isidore
tried to frame his response tactfully.

Eiren flashed him a knowing look.  "You mean it is something that only a
lowly Diya would do?" he asked, his blonde brows raised in amusement.

Isidore flushed, a soft rosy glow becoming visible on the creamy skin of
his cheeks.  He did blush most prettily, and it had been noted by more than
one.  "I'm guessing it isn't?"  He knew better than to lie to his friend.

"No, you don't want to know what Diyani will do," Eiren told him
matter-of-factly.

Diyani were the prostitute class; a Diya was a Dara who had sold himself
into labour in the bed-chamber, meaning he would serve the Dajani within
the household to whom he had bonded himself for a certain period.  A
Purdiya was one who worked in a brothel and was attached to no household;
the Purdiyani were considered to be lower than Diyani because they were not
attached to any particular household and so many Dajani might use them.

"Anyway, you have been avoiding the question.  Which guard would you like
to take for yourself?" Eiren reminded him.

"It doesn't really matter," Isidore said, coming to stand before his friend
who still lay on his bed.  "Even if I were as interested in congress as you
are, my brother would castrate any Daja who took me without his and
father's express permission."

"Oh, poor you.  I keep forgetting that your brother suddenly grows a
conscience when he's around you; I assure you he has none otherwise."
Eiren said this with a wicked grin.

Isidore tugged him off the bed, flashing him a mock-scowl.  "Of this I do
not need to be reminded."

After the first time Barik had taken him to his bed, Eiren had pronounced
himself in love with the Dajan Svaraya and nothing would do but for them to
be together forever.  Then he had discovered that Barik's fidelity was even
shorter-lived than his own.  And, for about a week, he had hated the man
and demanded that Isidore harbour a like amount of animosity toward his own
brother, which made for a week's worth of completely unnecessary tension in
Isidore's opinion.

"We are on quite good terms these days, Isidore," Eiren told him as they
made their way to his chambers so he could find some riding attire.

On the way, Isidore gave the order to get the horses tacked up for the ride
and for two guards to be found, one of which he named to be Kodar.  The
other guard would be he who had time enough to accompany them on the ride.

"In fact, we were on extremely good terms a couple of nights ago," Eiren
told him with a wicked smile.

Isidore pushed his friend into the seat by the dressing table so he could
brush out the boy's blonde hair, and then braid it tightly for the ride.

"What's it like, I mean your first time?" Isidore asked suddenly.  "If you
can remember it of course." he added cheekily.

"Did I not tell you what it was like when it happened?" Eiren frowned at
him in the mirror.

"But that was years ago and, also, I thought you were inflating the truth.
Does it hurt a lot?"  The question that so often plagued him about
congress, and which was why he seldom talked about it, came out early in
the discussion.

"Not really."  Eiren's brow creased as he thought back on it.  Damn
Isidore, but he was right; it was so long ago he couldn't rightly remember
it.  "I think it stung at first going in but once inside the feeling
changed to one that was rather nice, and then it was really, really nice
after that, and now I can't live without it."

"Hmm."  Isidore tugged at a snag with the comb to which Eiren winced.  "I
can.  I have lived without it for seventeen years; I believe I can continue
to do so."  Then he scowled at his friend in the mirror, tugging
none-too-gently on another snag in his blonde locks for good measure.  "And
you told me your first time had you screaming and crying and begging for
mercy."

"Did I?" Eiren wondered aloud.

"Yes, which had me wondering why the very next day you went back for more?"
Isidore told him, tugging the boy's hair back and braiding it tightly down
his back.

"Mmm, it is addictive," Eiren conceded.  "And I think I exaggerated the
pain to have something spectacular to tell you that would leave you shaking
in your boots."  Eiren paused, and then gasped.  "That's not why...it's not
why you won't let any man touch you is it?  Lodur's balls, it's not that
bad the first time, Isidore.  In fact, it's not even bad at all."

Isidore made no reply as he tied the end of his friend's braid.  Eiren's
conclusion had hit upon the truth squarely.  He was not afraid from what
his friend had said of the act for he knew, even back then, that Eiren was
prone to exaggeration.  But he had heard the same from other Darani on the
occasions he chose to speak about it; and so he was fairly sure that a
considerable amount of pain accompanied the act, which was as good an
excuse as any not to engage in it.

"Let's get to the stables," he told his friend, once Eiren had found his
riding boots.

"You haven't answered my question," Eiren said as he walked alongside
Isidore.

"No, I don't want to engage in it because I don't see the point.  I am
happy with my life as it stands; I don't need to give myself to a Daja to
improve my lot."

"What a boring life!"  Eiren repeated what Isidore's own brother had said
to him on many occasions.  "All books and libraries and scrolls that no one
has read for years and years and no man!"

"Better than being a slave to pleasure," Isidore retorted as they crossed
the yard to the stables.

"Yes but you should remember your namesake," Eiren reminded him, "and be a
little more loving."

Isidore's name was taken from Is, god of pure love.

"That is not love," Isidore snorted.  "And well you know it.  In fact were
I to practice such acts without love, it should be sacrilege to my
namesake."

"Oh no; do not engage me in this."  Eiren held up his hands in mock
surrender as they reached the stables.  "I never listened to even half of
what they said at lessons."

Isidore remembered this well, since he and Eiren had shared the same tutor
in the palace.  Unfortunately for Eiren's education, the room in which the
lessons were conducted overlooked the grounds where the Dajani trained and
so, more often than not, Eiren's eyes were fixed to the goings on in the
arenas.  Eiren really should have been named for Osis, the brother of Is
and the god of carnal love, but he likely did not even know there was a
distinction between the two.  Isidore often felt like they were the
brothers of the legends; similar in many ways, yet profoundly different.
All the gods in their pantheon went in pairs and were considered to be
brothers.  Is and Osis represented the two forms of love.  The Daja-ya and
the Dara-ya represented, at face value, the strong and the weak,
respectively.  Gimsaar and Gesh were the gods of the two types of animals;
those that ate and those that got eaten.  Savva, the god of the land was
brother to Amlek the god of the sky, and so on and so on.

The only exceptions to the rule were the all-father and the
fertility-mother: Lodur and Aaniya.  Legends here held that the bipartisan
relationship was sundered when Aaniya turned from Lodur, after bearing some
of their children, and went to her own kind.  Lodur, incited to jealousy
because of this, turned to his own also.  However, Lodur could only give
life; he could not bear it.  Likewise, Aaniya could only bear life once it
had been given.  Therefore, they needed each other if they were to produce
any more offspring.  To appease Aaniya, Lodur promised to have all those of
her kind kept in her sacred temple-cities to be revered by all those of his
kind and, in return, Aaniya promised to allow these demi-goddesses to bear
life as she saw fit.  Or so they had learned at lessons.

Isidore was interrupted from his thoughts by Eiren's excited squeak.
Turning in the direction of what prompted it, he saw two large guards
approaching.  One of them was Kodar and the other was one of the newer
palace guards, though Isidore was hard pressed to remember his name for a
few moments.  Then it came to him; Kinya this one was called.

"We have our mounts and our guards; we are in all ways ready I think,"
Isidore surmised.  "Unless you will not be requiring your horse?"

Eiren slapped his arm.  "Be nice or I will embarrass you even more by
taking up your suggestion."

Isidore gave him a placating smile.  The last thing he wanted was for his
every sideways glance to be rewarded with the sight of his friend and his
brawny guard with their lips locked atop the horse.  That would be too
embarrassing; for himself and for the guard who was not graced with such a
Diya for a charge.

The typical formation for such a party would have the charges in the middle
and the guards up front and back but, although he didn't embarrass Isidore
by actually getting on the horse of his guard, Eiren was so close to it
that they ended up forming pairs, and Isidore was left with Kinya for
company.

"Are you looking forward to the festival of Este?" he asked the guard
absently for lack of a better thing to discuss.  The Este festival was a
week-long celebration of the suns-return, signifying that the warmer months
were approaching.

"Aye."  Kinya's answer was muted, and Isidore looked over to the guard to
see the reason for his shyness.  He got a slight surprise when he saw that
the man was quite red-faced, and he wondered what could have prompted it.
Then he looked up ahead and got somewhat less of a surprise, though he was
still shocked.  Some distance ahead of them, too far for any but the
loudest shout to reach, Eiren had given up any pretense of riding his own
mount and was atop that of his guard, facing him with his arms wrapped
around the guard's large shoulders.  His legs wrapped around the man's
waist, they were engaged in such a kiss for joining that Isidore was
horrified that they might do just that atop the horse within a very short
space of time.

"Oh, that's just embarrassing," he groaned, not realizing he had said the
words aloud until he heard Kinya's laugh.  "Come, we should probably go
along the other trail.  I had hopes of going to the falls today, but I feel
that they'll be getting naked long before then, so we don't need to be
around for it."

"As you wish, highness." Kinya murmured, and they veered off course when
the track forked.

The path they chose was rather pretty; the canopy of the trees was less
dense and, as they rode under it, it let in dappled light on their path.
Isidore's eyes were drawn to the glint of his guard's metal wrist-guards
and he cocked his head to the side.

"Your vambraces, how do they hold up under a sword?" he asked him.

"Not well, highness, but better than having none at all I suppose," Kinya
replied.  "If I was unmindful enough to let a sword strike my wrist I would
have a broken vambrace, but likely still have my hand."

"Really?  Would they hold up under the blow of a sword?" Isidore asked
disbelievingly.

Kinya frowned.  "Truthfully I do not know; I have never put it to the test,
but I suppose if I was foolish enough to so risk my hand then I would
deserve to lose it."

"Then why wear them at all?" Isidore asked.

Kinya smiled.  "For daggers.  A sword might shatter a vambrace but they
stand up quite well under the blow of a smaller blade.  Also for shields."

"How do you mean?"  Isidore asked.

"It hurts like Mol-Hotep's torments to smack a bare wrist against the edge
of a shield," Kinya confessed.  Mol-Hotep was their god of punishment,
brother to Mol-Jadin, their god of mercy.

"Why would you be doing that?"  Isidore asked with a frown.

Kinya smiled at this Dara's lack of battle-knowledge.  "To remove the
shield of your opponent so he might feel the weight of your sword."

"I see."  Isidore nodded, recalling that he had seen such maneuvers on
those occasions when he had chosen to watch the warriors training in their
arenas.  "And are you as hungry for men to feel the weight of your sword as
is my brother?"

The young guard smiled.  Barik da Jornn was certainly a blood-lusty Daja,
as any warrior should be, so Kinya's answer came with not too much
hesitation.  "I am, highness."

Isidore was not surprised; it would be unseemly for a warrior to confess
that he did not like war.  "Then this unending peace must gnaw at you as it
does him."

"It does, highness, but there are things to keep a warrior occupied," Kinya
replied circumspectly.

"Oh?"  Isidore crooked one delicately arched brow.  "What things, Kinya?
Do not tell me you do anything proscribed so as to keep yourself sated?"

Kinya flushed and stammered somewhat.

"Do not tell me you go raiding and pillaging the villages of our esteemed
Sherim-Ran neighbors!"  Isidore feigned horror.

Kinya relaxed when he realized the Dara-Svaraya was teasing him.  "You do
not like those of Sherim-Ra."  He commented on what he had heard about the
castle and then felt like kicking himself; Dara or no; you did not question
a Svaraya.

Isidore gave him a look that said he was well aware of the impertinence of
that summation from one so well below his station.  "I have no quarrel with
the persons of Sherim-Ra.  In all ways their city might be a rather fine
one; their provinces well managed and of good yield; but I do have to
disagree with their views."

"About what, highness?"  This much he had not picked up from the castle
gossip.

Isidore sighed.  "About those of my class."

"Darani?" Kinya supposed, for certainly they had nothing against Svarayani.

"Mmm, I don't like that they think that, by dint of an accident of nature
which makes us physically smaller than Dajani, we are in all ways inferior
and must therefore serve them," Isidore replied.

"All warriors believe might is right," Kinya argued.  Just like a Daja;
when he had a point of view on something he didn't mince words, even with
the Svarya's son.

"But do you believe might makes you smarter than those who aren't so
mighty?" Isidore asked with a derisive sniff.  "Would you pit your wits
against mine, Daja?"

"No, but would you pit your words against my sword?" Kinya challenged.

Isidore raised a perfectly-formed brow.  "Be careful that your mouth
doesn't run too far ahead of your brain, guard," he warned.  "That could be
construed as a threat against the Svarya's son."

Kinya paled.  "I apologise, highness."

Isidore gave him a smile.  Though he wasn't aware of it, his smile was
quite beguiling and Kinya quickly felt his discomfort replaced with
something else entirely.

"No, I should apologise," Isidore admitted.  "I shouldn't have used my
position against you like that; it wasn't very sporting of me."  He flashed
Kinya a rueful look.  "I suppose you are wishing, even more now, that you
were in your friend's shoes."

Kinya's erstwhile whitened appearance flushed again.  "No, I don't,
highness."

Isidore gave him a slightly perplexed look, but said nothing, supposing the
man was being polite.  He was hardly going to agree with him that he'd
rather be anywhere but escorting the Svaraya after all.

"Eiren says I am too scholarly for my own good," Isidore confessed for lack
of a better thing to do.

"Cleverness is an admirable trait, highness," Kinya replied politely.

"I think so," Isidore agreed, with a smile.  "Or at least I think it is a
worthwhile trait.  I seek no admiration for my mind, only an allowance to
speak it."

"Who would deny you that?" Kinya asked.  So far as he knew, neither Svarya
Kenit nor Svaraya Barik could refuse Isidore anything.

"Who indeed?"  Isidore's voice turned glib; he did not feel like getting
into the events of the previous evening with that Sherim-Ran envoy who had
looked like he would have loved nothing better than to slap Isidore's mouth
shut after every word.

They had reached the edge of the small woods beyond which spread the
plains.  Isidore turned to his guard.  "I shall race you back to the
stables," he said with a wicked grin and then, without warning, spurred his
horse in the sides, setting the animal off at a fierce pace.

His guard picked up the rear but Isidore was far lighter so he was able to
hold on to the lead once he had gained it.  His hair whipped past his face,
pulling free of its braid as he drove his horse relentlessly.  All he could
hear was the wind whistling past his ears and the pounding of the hooves;
even his own deep breathing was lost into the wind.  When the stables
appeared, he did not give up his pace until he was well within what could
be considered the finishing line.  Only then did he turn around to see the
guard arrive after him, his mount breathing far heavier than he was; it
looked as though the ride had barely pressed the warrior.

"Do not tell me that you let me win," Isidore said, his chest rising and
falling fast.

The guard grinned.  "Then I will not, highness."


About a month later, Isidore began to worry.  His brother had not returned
from the raid.  Depending on where they went, it was at most a fortnight
trek to the out skirting Sherim-Ran villages where they might raid.
Isidore knew they wouldn't risk going anywhere further into Sherim-Ran
jurisdiction; nor would they bother.  So, on the thirtieth day, he began to
grow anxious.  He decided to give it another week before he questioned his
brother's absence openly to his father.  As it turned out, he didn't need
to wait that long.  Late in the evening, not quite a week after Isidore's
anxiety had first begun to mount, a messenger arrived dusty and
travel-weary, announcing that he had traveled from Sherim-Ra on Svarya
Kerim's business.  Such business being urgent, Svarya Kenit's advisors were
called from their appartments in the castle to hear the message in the
Svarya's council room.

"I wonder what it could be."  Eiren repeated what just about everyone in
the castle was whispering when the messenger's visit was treated with such
gravity.

"Svarya Kerim is little known to us, having held sovereignty for just over
one year now.  I think father has yet to figure him out," Isidore supplied,
with what little intelligence he had about the whole affair.  He was not
kept privy to things of a politically sensitive nature.

"I heard he is an eight-foot-tall beast of a man who eats a whole cow for
dinner every night."  Eiren supplied that intelligence that he had gleaned
on the subject.

Isidore punched his arm.  "Verily, Eiren, don't you know when the Dajani
are fooling with you?"

"What?  But they swore to it."  Eiren's grey-green eyes widened
convincingly.

"Dajani are utterly irreverent; let me guess they were imploring Lodur to
shrivel up their balls if they lied, hmm?" Isidore conjectured from what he
had seen of his brother and his friends on many occasions.

Eiren nodded.

"And then they got you to check that they had been telling the truth?"
Isidore raised one arched midnight brow.

Here, Eiren nodded far more enthusiastically.

Isidore elbowed him with a disgusted look.  "I bet you did not even believe
them, huh?  You just wanted to play the game."

"Perhaps, but it makes for a rather nice fantasy doesn't it?  Eight feet
tall.  Imagine how huge he'd be."  Eiren's eyes got a distant look as he
did just that.

"And imagine how fat he'd be, warrior or no, if he ate a cow every night,"
Isidore said, his unamused voice bringing Eiren back to the ground.

"I suppose so; but apparently he is very tall," Eiren said somewhat more
seriously.

"I have heard that also.  Perhaps seven-and-a-half feet at the most,"
Isidore agreed.  "I heard he likes battle far more than rulership; that he
only came by it because his father unexpectedly died and his older brother
was judged unfit."

"Really?  Unfit how?"  Eiren turned to him in surprise.

"I'm not sure, crippled perhaps?"  Such happened in battle and was no real
hindrance to rulership, but in Sherim-Ra, apparently, they valued strength
and battle-worthiness so highly that they wouldn't tolerate being ruled by
a man who could no longer prove himself in the Wo-Je challenge.

"The message must have been important, for all your father's advisors to be
called.," Eiren commented.

"I know; I wish I could know what it was," Isidore said, his brow creased.

"Can you...I mean, is there any way you can listen in?" Eiren asked.

"By putting my ear to the door or some such?" Isidore asked.  "No; the
council room is impenetrable and its only windows face on the sheer wall of
the castle which is impossible to scale from the bottom.  And, if you tried
to hang off a rope by the window, that would be fairly noticeable, not to
mention that the guards on the roof would axe your rope and then you'd fall
to your doom."

"You've really thought about this, haven't you?" Eiren asked, stifling a
yawn.  Exciting as the business of the Sherim-Ran messenger was, the hour
was late and were it not for the unexpected events they would all be
retired by now.

"Father told me, before I had a chance to think about it.  It's all to
prevent espionage.  When the brother-cities were at war, apparently half
your castle staff could be spies.  So there had to be somewhere that
important business could be discussed which was utterly secure, and the
council room was built for that purpose.  It used to be a balcony, I was
told."

"So much you know, Isidore," Eiren commented.  "I believe if the
brother-cities were at war again, you would be a valuable acquisition for
Sherim-Ra."

"Do not say it!" Isidore said, making a sign to Kim, the god of peace,
against Eiren's careless words.  "We have had decades of peace with
Sherim-Ra and so it will continue.  Anyway, both cities have figured that
more is to be gained with agriculture and enterprise than with battle and
bloodshed."

"Let's hope so," Eiren replied.

Isidore did not like the lack of conviction in his friend's voice, and he
stared at the heavily brocaded curtains in the chamber, the fabric dappled
by the flames of the fire that burned steadily in the hearth.  Surely war
was not in the cards; Lodur knows his father would have told him if it were
imminent.  Then again, how much did they even know of this new Sherim-Ran
Svarya, Isidore thought with a worried sigh; even his height was in
question.


He did not sleep well that night and, having gone to bed some time in the
early hours of the morning, felt even the worse for it when he was roused
in the morning by his servant, Alan.

"Why are you waking me at this Lodur-cursed hour?"  All his lack of sleep
served to make Isidore's voice unusually brusque as he rolled over to cover
his head with his pillow.

"Highness, your father wants you in his chambers this morning, as soon as
you might be made ready," Alan replied, his voice urgent.  Isidore threw
the pillow aside and sat up in his bed with a look of surprise.

"Did he say why?" he asked, jumping out of bed and standing before his
servant to be bathed before he was dressed.

"No, highness."  Alan bowed then retrieved the ewer of hot, perfumed water,
dousing the cloth thoroughly before he sponged down his master.

Isidore was lost in his thoughts as his servant attended him, so it was
good that he did not have to dress himself as he absently stepped into his
trousers and pushed his arms through the sleeves of his camic (a
long-sleeved garment that covered him from the neck to the hips, wrapping
around the front with ties in several places to give him utmost cover and
warmth on his upper-half).  Alan pushed him towards his dressing table and
sat him before the mirror and started brushing his hair, which served to
bring Isidore back to the activities that were taking place as the brush
caught on the snags that had developed during sleep.  He looked in the
mirror as Alan tended him, taking in his visage, which he rarely did, and
wondering at his reflection.

He had large eyes of the darkest blue, set below delicately arched brows
and framed by heavy lashes the same midnight colour as his brows and hair.
His skin was pale as cream; a little too pale in his opinion, but then he
did always have to find fault with himself.  He hated his mouth, which was
too full and sultry looking; not the look he was hoping for.  He wanted to
be taken seriously, so it didn't help to have a mouth that, as one of his
brother's friends had put it, just begged to be ravaged.  He liked his firm
chin and straight nose, however, and the fact that his face was becoming
more angular as he approached the end of his adolescence.  He was also
proud of his hair.  Thick and jet black; it was one of his favourite
features about himself.  He liked to think its severe colour made him look
less inviting, but then Isidore knew little about what made the Dajani
tick, so he had no idea that his thick black locks just added to his sultry
allure.

When it was determined that he looked appropriate to greet his father for
the morning, he bounded out of his room.  Now in no doubt that whatever his
father wanted to discuss this morning would have to do with the events of
last night, he entered the parlour of his father's chambers and got a
surprise.  If he had felt exhausted after being roused this morning after
too little sleep, his father had very obviously had none at all.  And
looked quite the worse for wear because of it.

"Father...what is going on?"  Isidore did not bother mincing words.

"Isidore, sit."  His father signaled him to take the seat opposite him,
which he did, perching on the edge of it and taking one of his father's
large hands in both his own, his eyes wide with concern.

Kenit-ya took each of his son's hands in his own and marveled at their
small size and soft texture, wondering how something this small and
delicate could come from him, though it was known that the mother
determined if the child was Dara or Daja.  Still, it never ceased to amaze
him that of his flesh was this exquisite creature born.

"You know we had a message from Sherim-Ra last night?" Kenit-ya asked,
looking into his son's darkest-blue eyes.  "What am I saying?  Of course
you do, the whole castle knows."

"I do, father."  Isidore wondered why his father was delaying his message.

"Aye, well," he squeezed his son's hands gently, "it is grave news he
brought with him."

"What?"  The word was breathed.

"Your brother--" Kenit-ya began.

"No!  Do not say it!"  Isidore felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest.

"No!  No, son, calm yourself."  Kenit-ya squeezed his son's hands
reassuringly.  "Your brother is in all ways whole of body and come to no
harm, but he was captured by the Sherim-Ranians."

Isidore's eyes widened.  "What means that?" he asked.  He had thought all
raids were undertaken for sport.

"He and his group of friends, the stupid Lodur-cursed dogs, got themselves
rotten drunk on the spoils of their raid and then took on a traveling party
of Sherim-Ran warriors, including a noble Svar.  And then, hopelessly
outnumbered, they decided to use their swords instead of their sense and
were soundly defeated.  Now we have angered the Svarya of Sherim-Ra, who
says he will have your brother's balls for this mishap."  Here Isidore
gasped.  "Well, figuratively, son, do not worry," Kenit-ya assured him.
"So, now I have a political nightmare on my hands.  Argh, Lodur help me, my
own son!"

"It looks bad, doesn't it father?" Isidore said softly, his fingers still
pressed against his mouth.  "How will you resolve it?"

"We have been discussing that all through the night."  Kenit-ya rubbed his
hand over his chin, feeling the fatigue of that night of fierce discussion
and debate weighing heavily on him.  "The thing is, son, I feel this event
may be smoothed over with some platitudes, gifts, moneys to compensate the
gravity of the crime and so forth.  But, and here I have the support of all
the other elders at council, there is more to this than what we see here
and now."

Isidore continued to regard him with wide, midnight-blue eyes.

"We do not know Svarya Kerim da Jaal that well at all.  I have sent only
two diplomatic missions to him at this point and, from my envoys, I can
only glean that he is a man who is hearty in battle and has little interest
in anything else."

This much Isidore had gathered, but he wondered what was being unsaid in
his father's summation.  "Do you worry that his...heartiness for battle
will bespeak war in our future?" he asked, his voice soft and grave.

"It is a concern, yes."  Kenit-ya regarded his son seriously.  "We feel
that he may be looking for an excuse and this is one."

"But surely he cannot be prepared for war, and even if he was he would be
hopelessly defeated," Isidore pointed out.  Sheq-Kis-Ra was at an obvious
advantage over Sherim-Ra in numbers.

"Numbers do not win a war," Kenit-ya told his son seriously.  "Do they have
a strategy and a strong core of trained warriors, they might, with the
element of surprise, take a far larger city."

"Do not say it father!"  Isidore's eyes widened.  "Sheq-Kis-Ra could be
taken?"

"No."  Kenit-ya realized how upset he was making his son.  "And they
wouldn't be foolish enough to try it; but even quick defeat is costly in
lives and land and this I do not want to risk; not over a stupid drunken
mistake by my stupid son and his equally stupid friends.  Lodur curse the
lot of them!"

"So what is the concern, father?" Isidore asked.  "Apart from getting Barik
and the rest of them back."

"It will be costly, and we want to ensure that we can use this crisis to
its greatest advantage.  We need to win them over early and win them well.
That is what we have agreed during the night; for we know so little of how
this new Svarya thinks, except that more often than not it is with his
sword, which is not a pleasant knowledge to have."


So they had managed to turn this political gaffe into an opportunity, of
all things, Isidore thought.  He avidly awaited news of Svarya Kerim's
response to their generous offer for the return of their lost Svaraya and
his party of foolhardy warriors.  It was while he was waiting in the
antechamber of the receiving room that he heard the messenger arrive with
the response from Svarya Kerim.

The messenger requested to be heard by the Svarya and this request was
granted.  Then the messenger said in a loud booming voice.  "This message I
bring to you from Svarya Kerim da Jaal:" Not a single rustle was heard in
the room as all attention was pricked to what the messenger had to say.
"'Esteemed Kenit da Jornn, Svarya of Sheq-Kis-Ra, I have a Svar injured and
two lords dead by your son's hand.  Your offer insults me--" Kenit-ya
jumped up at that; his expression dire, and the messenger was halted from
his recounting of Svarya Kerim's response which was, as was the man in all
his dealings, brusque and to the point.  At the insistence of Van di Jom,
one of Kenit-ya's high-ranked advisors, he sat back down, waving his hand
to the messenger to indicate he was to go on.  The messenger coughed once,
and then continued.  "'And so I make this counter-offer to you: one son for
the other.  I shall return the Svaraya called Barik for he that is called
Isidore."

There was utter silence.  Kenit-ya was so shocked and affronted that he
couldn't even summon himself to rise in his outrage.  Isidore stepped out
from behind the curtain as though by doing so it might be proved to him
that the messenger did indeed speak his name in the message.

Into the silence the messenger continued.  "'I have sent as consideration a
son of Sheq-Kis-Ra; he that is called Verris di Barni.  According to his
word, he will vouch for the safety of the others."  The named man was
brought forward by the messenger's guards, which Isidore had not seen when
he had been hiding behind the curtain.  Verris looked in all ways hale but
for being a little travel-stained and a lot chagrined.  The messenger was
not finished. "'For you say that opportunity may come of this crisis and I
agree.  I drink to your health this night and all others Svarya Kenit da
Jornn.  Signed: His esteemed majesty Svarya Kerim da Jaal.'"  The message
was finished.

So Svarya Kerim had seen his generous offer as paltry payment for alliance,
Kenit-ya thought as the shock settled in.  He had expected no less than for
Kerim-ya to make a counter offer, but to ask a price so high?

"What means this father?" Kenit-ya was shocked to hear his son speak, not
realising he was in the room.

"Sieze them!" was Kenit-ya's response.  The messenger and his guards were
taken and, upon Kenit-ya's direction, put into custody.  Verris was then
remanded for questioning.

"Father?" Isidore asked, his voice soft.

"It means nothing son.  I would never give you to a man so little known to
me, and one who is so brash as to ask like this," Kenit-ya responded as
though the subject was closed.

"Majesty, with your permission," began one of his advisors, "perhaps the
counter-offer is not so inconsiderable."

Kenit-ya turned to him in awe.  Baan di Norim seldom spoke, but when he did
what he said was always carefully thought out, and seldom wrong.

"We must discuss this in chambers, I think."  Keris di Errit, another of
the six advisors spoke up, getting to his feet and bowing to his Svarya.

"Yes."  Kenit-ya's voice was a little distant.

Upon rising to his feet, all his advisors followed simultaneously so that
none were left sitting in his presence, even though in most of his dealings
he did not expect his councilors to stand on ceremony.

"Father, may I be present?"  Kenit-ya turned in surprise upon his son's
words; Isidore had never sat in chambers, and as a Dara would never be
expected to.

"It is unnecessary, son, do not worry yourself over this," Kenit-ya told
Isidore, leaning down to kiss him atop his hair.

"As it pleases you, father; but if it is my fate that is being decided in
yon council-room, I would prefer to be present."  It was a rare occasion
when Isidore countermanded his father's wishes, and it showed in his
father's expression.  "Please, father, it is my life you decide."  This he
whispered softly.

"And you know I will have your best interests at heart in deciding it,"
Kenit-ya responded.  "And so you do not need to be present."

Isidore was shocked.  When it truly mattered to him, really and truly, his
father had never denied him, but he was doing so now.  Still, he bowed his
head, not letting his hurt show.

"As it pleases you, father," he whispered, but, as his father's hand
reached out to pat his shoulder, he escaped it, turning in the opposite
direction and hurrying away before any saw his tears.