"A couple more years and you'll have to go easy on me," Berkant said with a smile. "Thank you for the sparring, Master Jorin. This is the most fun I've had in a long time."
Jorin returned the smile, and Berkant dared to hope that perhaps he was making a friend. All the friends he'd thought he'd had before vanished when he'd fallen into grief, walked away from his fame and glory.
Bidding them good day, he headed off back to his room, where he lingered in the hot bath water to soothe a day of well-earned aches. As a distant bell tolled, warning the dinner hour was approaching, he finally climbed out of the bath, pulled on a dressing robe, and returned to his room to dress.
He drew up short when he saw there was a package on his bed. A small, rectangular item wrapped in a silken sash. Tucked into it was a beautiful white and purple orchid, a rare and costly flower. Heart suddenly drumming in his chest, his throat, Berkant sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the package.
Who in the world would leave him such a beautiful, costly gift?
They wouldn't. It made far more sense that it had been delivered to the wrong room. Except this entire hall was sort-of prisoners like himself. The chances of a mistaken delivery must be ridiculously low. Which brought him right back to the original question: Who in the world would sendhimsomething like this?
Heart pounding in his ears, he pulled the beautiful orchid free and set it aside, then undid the knot on the sash. It was a work of art itself, the sort of sash meant to secure the pants he'd be wearing for the fight. Ashel would probably make one from the same fabric they'd chosen, or perhaps from scraps he could spare from a contrasting fabric. This though… this could have been made with his pants in mind. It was black, with red and gold flowers scattered across it, like they'd been deposited by the wind.
The red and gold reminded him far too much of the rubies Nadir had been wearing. Merciful divine he was losing his mind.How had a simple job—protecting Ratti for the hundredth time—led him to this?
Unwinding the sash, he set it aside and finally examined the contents it hid. A book. Palm-sized, meant to be tucked into a sash or hidden pocket, carried around to enjoy during small lulls in the day. Often they were books of prayer or poetry. This one was the latter.
He'd thought unwrapping the gift would clear up some of the confusion, but this just made it worse. Berkant couldn't remember the last time he'd read or heard a poem. People tended not to waste poetry on the uncultured brains of fighters and thugs.
They definitely didn't waste expensive books of them. Butter-soft leather, the words written in an elegant hand in expensive ink, the edges covered in gold, the corners reinforced… This was the book of a noble or an extremely wealthy merchant.
This had to be a mistake. There was no other reasonable explanation.
Berkant carefully opened the book anyway, flipping through the delicate pages, skimming lines that he would probably never fully appreciate—and froze as he came to another orchid, delicately pressed between pages, and words written in red ink that stood out sharply against the blue-black ink used by the author of the book.
What do you think of this one?
Berkant tore his eyes from the red words and finally focused on the poem in question. On the surface, it was just a poem about a man walking along the beach, staring out at the sea and pausing occasionally to examine the various shells and other items that had washed up on the shore. One after another the man discarded countless shells… until at last he came to onethat was rough, jagged along the edges, but with an array of beautiful colors inside.
Pain cut through him, the pain of losing the woman he'd loved with all his heart, the daughter who'd been dead before he could hold her. The pain of years of loneliness, of one stupid decision after another, compiling into a life he hated.
The pain of realizing that what he really, truly wanted, was for Shafiq toseehim, want him, as inexplicable and sudden as that realization, that desire, was. For the first time since Parvaneh had died, it felt like he'd met someone who could understand him, who did not wait impatiently for his pain to go away and stop discomforting everyone around him.
Worse than the pain was the hope offered by a small book, a single poem and that tauntingWhat do you think of this one?
Who'd written it? The playful words didn't really seem like Shafiq's style.
A certain concubine though, with a smile full of mischief and secrets in his eyes… that did fit.
Three days, then. In three days he would perform, and perhaps in the aftermath he might feel less alone.
He didn't want to get his hopes up. It was far more likely this book should have gone to someone else, someone better suited to the life of a concubine.
After living in misery for so long, though, existing one dreary day at a time, the hope felt too good to be denied. He could only pray his hopes weren't in vain.
*~*~*
In the thrill of fighting again, and the anticipation of putting his best on display for Shafiq, it was easy to forget the real reason he was here in the palace at all. To forget he wasa well-treated prisoner, and well-treated only because he was backstabbing his so-called peers.
Not that he was losing any sleep over that. Still, it was a much-needed reminder of all the reasons he might be getting his hopes up for nothing, poetry and teasing notes aside.
When he woke up, book of poetry still in hand, it was to almost immediately be greeted with a summons. He cleaned and dressed, though his clothing options were few and none fit for a royal summons, and followed the guard who waited for him in the hallway.
They were taken to a smaller version of the throne room where he'd first met Shafiq and made his deal. All along the left side was a line of familiar figures, each one of them in manacles and flanked by at least two guards, some as many as four.
Every last one tensed, even bristled, as they saw him, noted he was being escorted rather than led, and walked freely.
Approaching the cushions that had been arrayed on the floor several paces from the steps up to the throne, Berkant bowed low. "Your Majesty."
