It had rained in the night, a rare occurrence in Tavamara.Already the surfeit of water was vanishing into the ground, but according to everyone else in the palace, the rain would continue off and on for most of the week, refilling all manner of water resources across the kingdom.
Certainly it cooled everything down rather nicely.
As his employer was away for the week, and he had no pressing projects, Aaralyn had taken the morning for himself.He sat in the public gardens, in a dining area that was popular with the lesser residents like him—the working residents, they called themselves, all those employed by the palace or someone in the palace.
In Aaralyn's case, he was employed by Lady Hedieh as a private transcriber, artist, and book binder.The opportunity never should have been his for the taking, but like many of his fellow citizens, he had fled Havarin on the first ship that would take him.He'd spent months sleeping in a creaky hammock in the bowels of a ship packed with spices, fabric, and more, with only the rats and a ruthlessly efficient cat for company.
He'd arrived and quickly found that his skills were more sought after than he'd ever imagined.He'd started as a book binder for a small shop, but after catching some egregious translation errors in a private volume he'd been set to bind, had been hired by the lady herself.
Now he lived in the palace, room and board a part of his pay, and could leisurely enjoy tea or wine or whatever else he wanted while sitting in a garden drawing or writing.Made him feel like a noble, when he was very far from being any such thing.
This morning, it was Jasmine tea while he worked helplessly on a sketch that marked him a fool: Crown Prince Bakhtiar sitting in a garden with his harem.Being a mere employee, and not even an important one, of a modestly powerful noble, Aaralyn rarely ever saw the royal family.Sometimes he might see one of the concubines from a distance.But oh, how he loved and counted every single rare sighting of Prince Bakhtiar.
Especially that day in the garden a week ago now.He had been trying to find a particular flower he'd been told was in the public gardens, so he could sketch it properly for his project at the time.
There he'd been, so very lovely, finer than all the flowers in the garden combined.His Highness had been smiling warmly at the man draped along his side as they listened to another concubine read a book to the small crowd gathered in that quiet corner of the garden.The rest of his concubines had been close, all of them looking at Bakhtiar with so much open affection it left Aaralyn aching.He hadn't been able to sketch it all out fast enough, but thankfully it was seared into his mind.
Aaralyn had found the flower soon after, but he hadn't bothered to sketch it until long after His Highness and the others had gone.Instead, he had roughed out His Highness and his concubines, and ever since he had been working on the drawing as time permitted.Once he was done drawing, he might make use of his watercolors, but he wasn't decided yet.
Stupid, really.What was he going to do, frame it and hang it up?Gift it?As though the Crown Prince of Tavamara cared remotely about the drawings of some runaway from a Havarin colony that only ten people could point to on a map.His people produced all the saffron used by Havarin and traded around the world, and yet the overwhelming majority of people had never heard of them.
Once his pot of tea and breakfast were finished, he gathered up his things—and cried out as someone knocked into him, sending his little pile of drawings scattering across the garden.At least he'd landed on his good leg.Bracing himself on a nearby stone bench, Aaralyn got his good leg under him and pushed up until he was standing on both real and artificial leg once more.
"Sorry!"the man, Rostam, said and immediately gathered up the scattered papers before taking Aaralyn's dishes and tray and piling it with the dirty dishes he already carried."I'm so sorry, Aaralyn.Is your leg all right?"
"Fine, thank you, hardly the first time I've taken a tumble," Aaralyn said with a smile.When he was first getting used to the artificial leg, he'd fallen quite a bit as he learned how to move and shift his weight on it.Also, crashing into one another was part and parcel of palace life.One time he'd gotten soaked in an entire pot of thankfully-lukewarm tea.Nobles expected everything five minutes ago, and the poor servants were always rushing about stressed and harried."Good luck with the rest of your day.Lord Sashar?"
Rostam grunted and rolled his eyes and then was gone again.
Aaralyn carried on his way to his office, located in the artisan hall of the wing, down a small offshoot allocated to private hired craftsmen like him.It would probably be cheaper to rent him workspace in the city, but Lady Hedieh preferred him close to hand as sometimes she needed translations drawn up quickly.She actually employed another translator, a clerk who followed her around all day, translating and taking notes that Aaralyn transcribed at the end of the day or as needed.Every once in a very great while, he was summoned to translate directly, as apparently people who could speak the many dialects of the colonies were uncommon.
But Aaralyn was from the very center of the territories, a massive hub where people came from all across the empire, and so the residents had little choice but to learn to speak all of them.Havarin nobility did not take kindly to their slaves not being able to understand them.Technically, Aaralyn had been a citizen.A third-tier citizen only, but a citizen all the same.To Havarin proper, though, that just meant he was a fancier sort of slave.Even rarer, he was allowed to be more educated than usual so long as he put that education to approved uses and didn't get too uppity about it.
He had followed those expectations dutifully, content to make money enough to help his family and have a few comforts, right up until they'd tried to give him to the youngest son of the local margrave, who already had a harem he was thoroughly abusing—and rumors abounded that he'd accidentally killed two pleasure slaves.Aaralyn refused to be anyone's sexual plaything, least of all a bastard like that.
So he had fled in the night, and now here he was, living in a palace and drawing insipid pictures of a beautiful, unattainable prince while imagining what it would be like to join a harem like that.Where they were respected, even revered, and had actual choices.Were seen as people, not as pretty toys to be used, broken, and thrown out.
If dictionaries had pictures, the wordfoolwould display a drawing of him.Because just look at him.Someone like him did not belong in a place like that.
In his defense, he wasn't the only one smitten with Prince Bakhtiar.Five minutes of listening to servant hall chatter was all it took to reveal that practically every man there would agree to be his fifth and final concubine in a moment, and plenty of women would be happy to commit egregious taboos if he crooked his finger.His Highness was kind, genuine in a place filled with artifice, never short or unreasonable with staff, knew everyone by name…
The very small handful of times Aaralyn had seen him with his concubines, he was always so openly loving, even adoring.It was obvious to even the most oblivious fool that he cared for them, and they for him, and it was no wonder the devotion of a harem was regarded as a vital marker for the worthiness to rule.
Sighing, Aaralyn set down his things, turned on the lamps, and went around the workspace readying it for the day's tasks, setting out tools, inks, and everything else he would need.When that was ready, he finally scraped back his errant hair into a bun.It would not stay, the curls ever determined to break free and live a life of chaos, but it was a battle he continued to fight.
Unlike most of his countrymen, who leaned toward black and brown hair, Aaralyn's hair was what his mother had always calledviolently orange, though he was pretty certain she meantvibrantly.Hard to tell with her.
Combined with entirely too many freckles, and eyes that couldn't even bother to be a pretty shade of green, the best description for his looks wasodd.Or, more often,You're not from Tritacia?With that hair?How strange.People really could be so tiresome.
All that, and then his left leg missing from the knee down, courtesy of a snake bite that probably should have killed him…well, it remained a mystery why a vain, pompous Havarin noble had wanted him as a pleasure slave.Aaralyn hadn't lingered long enough to ask, and he wouldn't have been stupid enough to do so anyway.
Finally ready for the day, he turned to his poor drawings, shoved haphazardly into a small, worn portfolio that had come with him all the way from Resarn.Pulling them out, he smoothed the pages as he sorted through them.Hopefully his drawing of Prince Bakhtiar and his harem had not taken too much damage.
His heart dropped into his stomach like a stone as he came to the end of his stack without finding it.No, no no no.That could not be.How could it not be here?He was going to be sick.That drawing was not meant for other eyes.Whatever wistful thoughts he'd had of gifting it, he knew better.Royalty, no matter how beautiful and kind, were not interested in things like that from mere peasants.At best, they would consider the drawing an impertinence, him acting above his station, drawing something that was not his to draw.
At worst…well, Tavamara wasn't Havarin.They didn't whip people for impertinences here.But they would call him to account in some way.
Mostly, though, he was just sad the piece was gone.By this point there was no hope in retrieving it.Either it had wound up in a pool or been trod upon or someone had found it and either thrown it out or handed it over to the guards or, gods forbid, His Highness.
