The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (7 page)

wouldn't have seen you carry that auburn haired Mukthar in your arms. At first I stayed behind, thinking you
would have been gone when I finally went home as well. But you weren't. You were still on the inner court.

Why did I follow you? Why did I need to push the knife deeper in?

“
Why did I need to see you carry him into your barrack?”

He rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his pulled up knees. He cried softly, noiselessly. He looked through the stringy dune grass to the prince near the water.

“
I know I can't compete with him. I could have lived with that. But this? I can't even match up to a Mukthar?

What is it you see in him? Do you like them noisy and impertinent? Am I too quiet for you? Too unassuming?

Not wild enough? Is it a tribal thing?”

He looked up at the clouds, his sight blurred by tears.

“
What am I to do? What am I to do? What in all this world can make you want me? I should probably try to
forget you. Not look at you anymore in that way and just tr Not ld j thy to be your friend. Just like you did
with the prince. But I can't. I can't. And I don't want anybody else.

“
It's you I want.”

“
My oaths, my damned, unholy oaths,”
Anaxantis thought. “
If only I could be certain that he is gone. If only
you could prove to me that he is dead. Then I could forget my oaths. I can't let it go just like that, not without
knowing, not without being certain.

“
And it wouldn't be in your interest either. If I forgave you now, you would be forever in my bond. I would be
the hero of the story, the grievously wounded party that magnanimously surmounted your wrongdoings. You
would feel forever in my debt, and that is not what I want for you.

“
So, how do I make you prove that you are really the only one that is still there? It doesn't have to be
ironclad. Just do something to convince me. I'll believe you, because I want to believe you. But I need you to
do it of your own accord. Or at least without you knowing that you are being tested.

“
Much more difficult: how do I make you forget that you did what you did? How do I make myself forget?

How do I undo what you did? How do I take your guilt away from you?

“
I want my Ehandar back. My proud, haughty, grumpy Ehandar. Who stays with me because he wants to, not
because he feels he must. Not because he thinks he has to make up for what he did, but who stays because he
loves me, pure and simple.

“
It's you I want.”

Rodomesh had awoken around the time Hemarchidas was talking to Anaxantis. He felt as if twenty wild horses were running around in his head. He grinned. That is how one should feel after a feast worthy of that name.

He didn't recognize his surroundings and noticed that his clothes were gone. Wrapping himself in a sheet he left the room. Wherever he was, he was alone. Looking through the windows he saw he was in a barrack.

That meant he had slept in a Ximerionian bed. He opened the front door and saw the basket with his clothes.

Minutes later he had pulled them on and he was on his way to the castle. Once in his own room he changed into a fresh shirt he had recently bought in Lorseth Market.

Time to check up on his rouwin. He was eager to learn how he had fared with the Ximerionian frishiu.

Maybe he had made him cry.

He knocked at Timishi's door and went straight in.

The Mukthar prince was up and fully dressed. He nodded when Rodomesh grinned at him.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“I thought it was a little bit strange,” Timishi replied slowly. “Anashantish didn't seem to understand fully what was going on at first.”

Rodomesh shrugged.

“Yet he only drank watered down wine all evening, except one cup.”

“I might have had something to do with that,” Rodomesh grinned.

“Ha?”

“I might have accidentally poured some wine out of my cup in his. A little at first, so he wouldn't taste the difference.”

Timishi looked straight in his eyes and Rodomesh fell silent. He knew something was wrong.

“I wish you hadn't done that, beddurouwin,” he said softly.

“But, but I thought you wanted to challenge him to the mravinshinohr. I just tried to bring him in the right mood. So that he would accept your challenge. And he did, didn't he?”

“That he did,” Timishi conceded. “I wanted him to accept, true, but of his own accord, not under the influence of wine. To which he isn't used. It was not fair. It was not honorable.”

Rodomesh's face was ash gray.

“I'm sorry, Timi, I just meant—”

Timishi raised his hand.

“Don't... don't call me by my self-name.”

“We're rouwining.”

“Rodomesh, you falsified the mravinshinohr. You made a mockery of Mukthar honor. Your behavior was unacceptable.”

“I'm sorry, Timishi,” Rodomesh said, looking down. “But it was not only that. You know we need—”

“Yes, I know what we need and I will do everything for the wellbeing and safety of the màhai. Except behave in ways that bring nothing but dishonor upon that same màhai. Like you did.”

By now Rodomesh was almost crying.

“Please, Timishi, forgive me,” he pleaded. “I meant for the best. I didn't think. Please forgive me. You are my nagàrouwin... Beat me. I understand you need... Beat me, but then forgive me.”

“Yes, you are my beddurouwin. I don't want to beat you. I love you. I just don't like you very much at the moment. Leave.”

“Please, Timishi, let me make it up to you. What can I do?”

“It is not to me you have to make things up, Rodomesh. It's to the Ximerionian frishiu you have to make amends.”

“I will. I will. You know I am stupid, Timishi. That's why I need you. That's why you are my nagàrouwin.

Please, say you forgive me.”

Timishi looked deep into his eyes.

“When Anashantish tells me he forgives you, so will I. Now go.”

Shoulders drooping Rodomesh went to the door. When he was almost there, Timishi called very softly after him. He turned around.

“I lost, Rodomesh,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I lost. I lost the mravinshinohr. Anashantish won.”

Rodomesh was devastated.

“I had to service him, Rodomesh. On my knees. He didn't even like it.”

“No, Timishi, no,” Rodomesh said softly, tears in his eyes.

“Yes. Then he planted his flag in me. It hurt, Rodomesh. He didn't do it in the Mukthar way. He did it in a humiliating Ximerionian way. It... it defies describing.”

“Please, enough. I didn't know that—”

“And then he made his mark in me. All the while he kept touching me. Touching me everywhere. I had to let him. I lost. I was his till sunrise. He has marked me, Rodomesh.”

Rodomesh leaned against the still closed door, exasperated, white as a corpse.

“If I lose the second and the third round,” Timishi went on inexorably, “I will be his forever. At his beck and call whenever he wants me to service him. Whenever he wants to plant his flag in me. Whenever he wants to make his mark in me.”

“No, no, no, Timishi,” Rodomesh cried out. “You can refuse. Three rounds... that is hardly ever done anymore. Two rounds at most. Practically nobody risks a third round. In olden days maybe. Not anymore.”

“What else can I do but challenge him for a second round? I must try to gain the ascendancy, bind him to me.

For the good of the màhai. It's my duty. And I must try to erase... to erase last evening.”

“Nagàrouwin,” Rodomesh gasped, tears running freely down his cheeks now.

“Maybe, beddurouwin, maybe it had been better you hadn't done what you did,” Timishi said almost inaudible. “Maybe he wouldn't have accepted the challenge.”

He looked sadly at Rodomesh.

“Now go,” he added.

Rodomesh closed the door very softly behind him.

Timishi smiled wryly.

“
It is already too late.”

By late afternoon Anaxantis was back in the war room. He had asked Robrant of Emling, the page on duty, to bring him a big jug of cool spring water. He had drunk two beakers in quick succession and felt a lot better.

He was just laying some maps he wanted to take to his private apartments on a stack, when Robrant came to tell him that one of the Mukthars wanted to see him. A certain Rodomesh, dark coppery hair.

“Take a seat,please, Rodomesh,” Anaxantis said, after the Mukthar had entered the war room, looking shiftily around.

“Thank you, your highness,” Rodomesh said in a subdued tone and sat down.

Anaxantis was curious, in the light of his earlier conversation with Hemarchidas, what the Mukthar was up to.

“What can I do for you,” he asked.

“It's... I... Timishi... Well, I've come to make a confession, your highness.”

“That you spiked my drinks with undiluted wine, perhaps?” Anaxantis asked lightly, while pouring himself another beaker of water. “Is it you I have to thank for this unquenchable thirst I seem to have?”

“You knew?”

“Not at the moment, obviously, or I would not have drunk that much. The thought occurred to a friend of mine, this afternoon. You might know him. If my information is correct, you spent the night in his barrack.”

“Emarshidash, yes. Ahem. Yes. I thought so. There was nobody there when I woke up. There still wasn't when I left.”

“I see,” Anaxantis said, his face impassive.

He deliberately let the silence hang in the room and enjoyed how uncomfortable it made the Mukthar.

“I'm sorry, your highness. It was wrong of me.”

“Very wrong.”

“Very, very wrong. I've come to beg your forgiveness.”

“Why did you do it?”<="1em"o i wr/p>

Rodomesh looked unhappily at his hands.

“My nagàrouwin had told me he planned to challenge you to the mravinshinohr. I... I just wanted to make sure that you accepted, your highness.”

“And at the same time that I wouldn't be too much of a challenge, I suppose?”

Rodomesh look unhappier still. He gulped, and then decided to tell the truth.

“Yes,” he whispered, looking down. “Yes. I wanted to help my nagàrouwin. It wasn't fair. It was contrary to Mukthar honor.”

“And contrary to common decency,” Anaxantis added.

“You're right, your highness. I'm deeply sorry. Please, forgive me.”

Anaxantis took a long gulp of his beaker.

“Very well. Except for this infernal thirst I seem nothing the worse. So let's just forget it.”

Rodomesh looked up with surprise in his eyes.

“Could you tell my frishiu I asked for your pardon... and what you decided?”

Anaxantis arched his brows.

“You see,” the Mukthar continued, “he won't speak to me as long as you haven't told him you've...”

Anaxantis, not about to make this any easier for him, remained silent.

“... forgiven me,” he finally completed his sentence.

“I'll tell him next time I see him.”

“Really?” The Mukthar's eyes lighted up, then he looked down again. “Where do you want me to report?”

“Report?”

“For my punishment. Insulting a frishiu is twenty lashes with the whip, minimum. I know. If I may ask for just one more favor. Let it be done in the dungeons and not in a public place, please. For Timishi, not for me.

I'm his beddurouwin and it would reflect upon him. Unless of course... you deem the humiliation part of the punishment.”

Anaxantis laughed out loud.

“Consider yourself whipped already, and let's forget it.”

“Really?” Rodomesh repeated, not believing his luck.

“Really,” Anaxantis smiled. “There's just one thing that's been bothering me all afternoon. I couldn't put my finger upon it, but now I remember, and I wondered if you could help me?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“You know I want to learn all I can about Mukthar culture and usages. An acquaintance of mine told me a few weeks ago that the Mukthars have a certain custom, called the Parting. I'd love to hear more about it.”

Rodomesh looked surprised, then seemed to be thinking hard.

“The Parting? No, doesn't ring a bell... unless...”

“It had something to do with how a part separates from a Mukthar tribe when resources are running low, or something like that. It seems they form a new tribe and go looking for their own territory.”

“Is that how he called it?” Rodomesh exclaimed, suddenly angry. “Why not? The Parting. Ha. You could as well call strangling someone the Caress.”

Anaxantis looked up in surprise.

“I seem to have struck a nerve.”

“Tell me about it. Please,” he said.

Rodomesh seemed to hesitate.

“You owe the frishiu, Rodo. You can't lie to him. Not after what you've done and how he's forgiven you. You need him or Timi won't speak to you for a very long time. But you can't exactly tell the truth either. Not the whole truth. Timi wouldn't like that either. Think. Be smart about this for once.”

“The last time there was a Parting,” he began, “was in the time of my great-grandfather. The story has been handed down from generation to generation. It's an old, a very old Mukthar custom. We don't conquer. We sort of disperse. The one who told you about the Parting was basically right. Alone, it is not called the Parting, but the Cutting Out of the People. That's the nearest translation in Standard Palton. Whenever a tribe grows too big for the territory the Cutting Out is organized. All Mukthars between fifteen and twenty years of age have to leave the tribe.”