Kei's Gift (26 page)

“I doubt it,” Arman said dryly. “You’re not the only Darshianese I could ask, but you wanted to help. I hadn’t expected to be treated like a cur over it.”

“My lord, I meant no offence, but our people are at war. You can’t blame me for putting Darshian first.”

Arman rubbed his temples, and it wasn’t for show—Kei sensed he was in some pain. “No, I can’t, and it was perhaps ill-advised to ask you. However, I promise this work is intended for the peace that follows the siege, not the siege itself. We haven’t needed such a thing before to defeat your people, have we?”

“No, my lord,” Kei said, his hands clenching a little in anger, although Arman was simply pointing out the truth. “Then I’ll do as you ask, in the hope it will bring true peace and an end to war, which I truly wish.”

“Moral little bastard, aren’t you?” But there was no real heat in the words, and Kei even sensed a slight admiration. “I’ve not done such a thing before, but I thought if I gave you a list of words in Prijian, you could give me the characters in Darshianese. I believe the manner of writing the two languages are similar enough that it will be easy to pick it up.”

“We can try, my lord.”

It was easily the most interesting two hours Kei had spent since he had been taken from his home, with the exception of the time spent with Jena talking about medical matters. He’d had so little to do with Arman before—he had only seen the cold, hostile general, and formed no impression of his intelligence that wasn’t unfavourable to him. That impression had been misleading. The man was an intellectual and exceptionally well read by Prijian standards, which meant he was strong on history and politics, but knew almost nothing of natural history, medicine or other sciences except for a strong interest in engineering. However, he made up for this lack with a boundless curiosity and retentive memory that made Kei feel like a dullard. He thought deeply but also incisively, and he had a quickness of wit that reminded Kei achingly of Reji, although Arman would never be called light-hearted, and had probably never played a joke in his life.

Arman had the same instinct to teach Kei’s father had had, and it was impossible for Kei not to respond. He loved to learn and discover things, a love both his parents had encouraged all his life. It was rare among the Prij, though, and there were areas of ignorance and prejudice even in Arman’s education Kei had to step lightly around. It wouldn’t do to appear condescending or patronising of his master, especially in his present condition.

Despite his caution, their conversation ranged widely, as clarifications over words and usage led to cultural explanations and examples, and then a few anecdotes from each of their pasts which gave Kei a surprising insight into the general. He didn’t know if Arman felt the same way about Kei, but he sensed a genuine enjoyment of the task, for once without any shadow of Arman’s apparently ever-present grief.

It was Arman, at last, who called a halt. “Very good work. An excellent beginning.”

Kei blushed with delight at the praise, and then was annoyed at himself for being so easily pleased. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You look pale, though. I think it’s enough for today. I have to go to the palace and I suggest you try to rest. I’ll have some food sent in.”

Kei was suddenly afraid of being left alone in this house without a protector, but was too ashamed to say anything. “Thank you, my lord, but I’m not hungry. Sleep would help.”

“As you wish. I should be back for supper. No one will molest you, you have my word.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Now that they’d stopped, he felt exhausted again. He tried to rise from the chair but was forced to give up. His cheeks burned with humiliation. “Uh.”

Arman’s strong hands were already under his arms. “I think you might be better lying on the bed until I return.”

“Your bed?”

“Why not? You’ll be able to get up from it without help while I’m out, if you need to.”

Speechless with surprise, Kei let himself be led over to the bed and helped to lie on the covers. Arman put a pillow put under his head. “My lord...this kindness, I won’t forget it.”

Arman’s lips tightened. Kei had aroused anger, although not apparently directed at him. “There would be no need for it if I’d been doing my duty. Don’t mention it again.”

“No, my lord.”

“I’ll leave instructions you’re not to be disturbed unless there’s a fire. If you don’t smell smoke, don’t open the door.”

“No, my lord.” Kei came to the astonishing realisation that the ‘golden general’—the cold and apparently heartless murderer of Ai-Darbin—had a dry and cutting sense of humour which expressed itself at the most unexpected times. Kei yearned to respond to it the way he would with Reji, but he forced himself to be respectful. Arman was odd and volatile.

Arman pulled a blanket over him carefully. “Take care you don’t fall in my absence.”

“No, my lord.”

“I’ll be back for supper.”

And then he was left in peace and in comfort, but more confused and unsettled than ever by the strange man who held him prisoner. He would
never
understand the Prij.

~~~~~~~~

Arman leaned his forehead briefly on the neck of his jesig, pretending to check the reins while he got his scattered thoughts together. What in the gods’ name was he
doing
? Asking an enemy for help?
Enjoying
his enemy’s company? He betrayed his country and Loke with every word and action today.

But even as the words formed in his head, he could imagine Loke’s laughter if he’d ever said such a thing to his friend. All afternoon, Arman had kept thinking how much Loke would have liked Kei, and Kei, Loke, and how cruel it was to be so reminded of his lost friend by someone of the very race that had killed him. But over that thought too, Loke would have taken him gently to task. Kei had not killed Loke, had been nowhere near Darbin, and disapproved of the act. Gods—he had even
apologised
without the slightest trace of mockery, and with every semblance of true sympathy.

What was going on? Arman had only wanted to right a clear injustice, but instead, he had gone beyond mere care for an injured man to actual...friendliness. Kindness, Kei had called it, which made Arman ashamed and angry someone who’d been abused by one of his people would see it that way, rather than simply as his due. Why?

Why had he spent so long talking to the man? Why had he let himself enjoy it, and make an effort to let Kei relax enough to enjoy it too? He had deliberately let the boundaries between them blur for those few hours, but he couldn’t even hold any resentment over Kei taking liberties with that relaxation, because he hadn’t. Kei behaved like a model servant, a model prisoner—and still managed to be true to himself, retaining his dignity and sense of pride. It would be easier if he was a spiteful little shit like Mykis. But he wasn’t.

Arman mounted quickly and gave orders to his escort to head towards the palace. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, at all. He had vowed to hate the Darshianese for the rest of his life, to curse each and every one of them no matter where he found them, and yet he had spent one of the most pleasant afternoons in months with Kei, even forgetting, for a little while at least, that they were enemies.

He rode on without seeing, letting his mount pick her path, led by the jesigs of his escort around him. He couldn’t allow it to continue, and yet a part of him had needed that respite, had yearned for the companionship of someone of similar intellect, a similar way of looking at things, similar desires. He yearned, in fact, for someone to fill the hole in his life Loke had left, and which Karus, dear and beloved though he was to Arman, could never truly fill.

Arman’s hands tightened on his reins. Here was evidence of his madness indeed. Even if Kei wasn’t an enemy, he wasn’t a permanent fixture either. When Darshek fell, hopefully in the very near future, he would go home to his pitiful village, take that fine mind and waste it putting bandages on the scuffed knees of yokels, and Arman would never see him again. Even if he did, Kei would be a member of a defeated race. They could never be equals, let alone friends.

By the time he had got to the palace, he had the answer to the dilemma, sending a note to Karus which would solve the problem entirely to the satisfaction of all. By the time he had delivered his reports and collected fresh papers from Blikus, he was calm once more, and able to examine his behaviour rationally, acknowledging also that he had, at last, made some progression in his grief in being able to do so. Kei was likeable and unthreatening, and his wounded, terrified condition—no fault of his own—had simply triggered Arman’s protectiveness the way Loke had all those years ago. It wasn’t surprising Arman had responded, having had no outlet for such tendencies since Loke’s death.

Nor was it really a surprise he could hate the Darshianese as a group, but come to tolerate someone with whom he had to live day to day, who carried no personal blame, and who tried, so far as Arman could see, to fit in with an admittedly difficult situation as best he could. Loke wouldn’t have held Arman to account for this, and would have approved completely of his treatment of Kei. Knowing that eased his guilt and his grief in no small way.

He received the reply waiting for him on his return with a sense of relief. This would solve things honourably, and with benefit to several parties, without needing him to spend further time or thought on Kei’s situation. It was thus with a calmer and lighter heart that he approached his rooms, after having taken some delight in Mykis’s obvious chagrin at being ordered to personally deliver food and baths for two in an hour.

Any slight conscience Arman might have had over his treatment of his steward would have disappeared that morning when he had seen Kei naked, the extent of the truly horrific abuse perfectly evident, the bruises livid even against Kei’s brown skin. It hadn’t been a single incident, or even one or two losses of temper or control, which had wrought such damage. It had been caused by systematic torture by a mean-spirited coward, and if he had been Kei and treated that way, Mykis would be dead by now. Except Kei knew, as did Arman and so doubtless did Mayl and Mykis, he dared not strike back. Each bruise had been borne for the sake of others as well as Kei himself. Arman longed to see if Mykis would be so stoic. He doubt that piece of urs shit would be, somehow.

He took care to enter and close the door quietly so not to startle Kei, who clearly still expected Arman to begin abusing him as Mykis had done. But his manservant was still asleep, deep marks of tiredness and pain marring his mouth, his braid a tousled mess down his back. All the Darshianese wore their hair long, but Kei had one of the longest braids Arman had ever seen, extending to the backs of his thighs, which meant it had to be nearly past his knees when loose.

A damn nuisance to maintain no doubt, even worse than Arman’s own unruly mess which he wore long because it was the fashion for the nobility, but which he wished he could crop to bristle length as did his men. He bowed to that expectation of his caste, but refused to shave—beards were out of style, but much more practical in the field, even though Loke had often said he wished he would remove it. Loke had thought Arman looked better clean-shaven. Arman had never seen any Darshianese with a beard, and they had little or no body hair except about their genitals. Perhaps their ancestors had considered shaving a waste of time too and bred it out of the race.

He let Kei sleep a little longer, but the meal and baths would arrive soon, and he didn’t want the man startled by their delivery. He took care not to touch the damaged back, instead shaking Kei by the arm and calling his name. Shaming to see how the man flinched, at first in fear and then in pain as he moved, but Kei composed himself quickly enough. “My lord...is it very late?”

“Not so late, but supper will be here soon.”

Kei seemed dazed but much improved even with a few hours’ rest. Arman sincerely hoped his recovery would be swift because then he could restore their interactions to that of a normal master and servant, which would be far less disturbing for both of them.

He helped the man to sit back in the chair, and offered a comb for him to straighten his appearance when it became evident his belongings were still in the washroom, along with his still damp clothes. They would need to be retrieved. “My lord, I can’t manage this...Do you mind if I don’t?” Kei looked mortified at having to admit being unable to even groom himself.

Arman wasn’t prepared to assist him in such a personal matter—there were limits to his kindness. “Of course not. Wait until your back heals more.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Kei still wouldn’t look at him. “You finished your business?”

“Naturally. I have some good news—”

A knock interrupted him, and Mykis opened the door at his response. “Your supper, Sei Arman.”

“Put it on the table.” Arman kept a deliberately cool and intimidating gaze on the man while he set the tray down. As Mykis glanced at Kei, paralysed with fright, his thin lips curled in a sneer. It was the only opening Arman needed. “Something not to your liking, Mykis?” He was careful to speak in Darshianese. This was for Kei’s benefit, after all.

“No, Sei.”

“Are you sure? You look troubled. Perhaps you disapprove of my kindness to one of your victims.”