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 1
"Did you have that book I asked for, Ryal?" Isidore da Jornn bounded into the librarian's study, his loud voice and boisterous manner disturbing the quiet sobriety of the place. Ryal al Sander looked up with a wry smile.
"When are you going to act appropriately, Isidore?"
His voice sounded as dusty as the books that surrounded him, in this private place he was allowed to drop all formality and address Svaraya Isidore without his title.
"What, as a timid Dara?" Isidore screwed up his nose. "Never."
"No, I meant as a stately Svaraya," Ryal replied, getting up from behind his desk upon which he had opened the very book about which Isidore was inquiring.
"Never to both, not here anyway, Ryal," Isidore replied with a grin. "I thought we both understood the rules that apply in our sanctum."
"Rules about either mode of behavior?" Ryal prodded.
"Is there any reason why you're reminding me to behave as befits my status?" Isidore asked, peering around among the books. "Do you suspect we have spies then?"
Ryal grinned. "No, none would bother spying on the boring and dusty activities as go on in here," the old man replied, coughing, as some of said dust got lodged in his throat. "I was just telling you to shut up because you're disturbing my peace," he said through coughs.
Isidore grinned and went to pound him on the back but, as the man's frail hand was held up to ward him off, he retreated and went behind the desk instead. Dusty and boring to most his work would seem, but Isidore minded not; he would rather be in the library, enjoying the mental stimulation of his study than be outside, watching the warriors perform their endless training and then succumbing to their carnal desires when the suns went down.
He sat at the desk where Ryal had been; the leather fabric of the seat still warm from the old man. Passing his hand across the opened page, Isidore pored over the script.
Isidore da Jornn was born second son to Svarya Kenit da Jornn, and was much loved by the man and his older brother, Barik da Jornn, but he was not long weaned from the Aaniyan temple when he was clearly identified as being Daran.
In Pasia there were two types of men; those descended from the northerners were large and strongly built. They often reached seven feet tall and were broad and thickly muscled according to their northern heritage. These were the Dajani; the warriors and the ruling class.
Then there were the Darani. The descendents of the tiny west-dwellers who were lucky if they reached six feet in height and who were slightly built with it; these formed what was often termed the second-class or the submissives. Isidore hated both names; but both were names given by the Dajani to their Daran counterparts and so they stuck; for what the Dajani decided was how it must be. Both Isidore's brother and father were Dajan, more luck to them, and they lamented that one of theirs, a royal Svaraya also, had to be relegated to the Darani. But such was Isidore's lot; at least he had the love of the two most powerful Dajani in the nation of Sheq-Kis-Ra, the Svarya Kenit and his heir, the Svaraya Barik, so he had the best of his lot.
It was Isidore's mother who was responsible for the Daran blood; the blood of the westerners must have flowed through her. It was this faceless life-bearer who had cursed him with inferiority. Betimes he felt wroth with her for that; the more so since he did not know her. He could not hate her, however, for such would bring the wrath of the fertility goddess, Aaniya, who might then close the wombs of those in her temples, or cause those wombs to bleed excessively in child-birth thus taking the precious lives of the Aaniyan sisters.
Women in Pasia were demi-goddesses, or so the legends went, and lived a life of luxury in the Aaniyan temples in order to keep them as close as possible to the jealous goddess; keeping her appeased so that she chose not to snatch them from mortal life before they could bear a child.
The legends held that Aaniya, the fertility goddess, did love her own so greatly that she hated them for having congress with men; therefore she made bearing children so life-threatening as to dissuade them from turning from their own kind to that of men. When a man wanted to impregnate a woman, he had to make a sacrifice to Aaniya and vow any daughters born of his loins to her temple so that he might be allowed to continue his seed-line through a life-bearer. If the offerings pleased Aaniya, she would not kill the unfaithful woman in child-birth; and if the child were male then he could be given, upon weaning, to his father. Too often such sacrifices were not acceptable, however, and the woman died bearing the life. Or, sometimes, Aaniya decided to take the babe to her bosom before she had given it life. Isidore had one sister who had been taken by Aaniya like that, stillborn. Another Aaniya had allowed life and she lived in the luxurious Aaniyan temple, as did all women. And then there were the two boys, one Daja and one Dara, who would live in Sheq-Kis-Ra with their father, the sovereign Svarya; one to live the life of a warrior and the other, Isidore sighed, not.
The class distinctions were utterly clear-cut in his case; his brother was seven feet tall, broad and swarthy skinned, his hair mud-brown, as were his eyes, and he was powerful and skilled with all forms of weapon and non-weapon combat. And then there was Isidore; small at five-and-a-half feet tall, soft smooth skin the colour of fresh cream, hair the darkest midnight, and eyes midnight-blue, so dark indigo it was as the colour blue would look deep into the darkness, slightly built, and with a mind for scrolls and books, rather than swords and spears. Yes; there was no doubt who was born to the life of the Dajani and who was not among these two brothers.
Of course there were a few men for whom the distinction was not so obvious, and if there was any doubt, these could choose to be subjected to the Wo-Tan challenge wherein they had to complete a complicated and grueling set of exercises and duels with the sword. What was more; if they were defeated they faced exile for questioning their place in society; if they were victorious, however, then never again was their right to be among the Dajani in question. It was as though they were born with not a doubt of it being so. Few of these uncertain ones, or Tanjani, took up the option of the Wo-Tan challenge; many chose to accept the ignominy of being relegated to the Darani rather than risk being exiled to the wilderness in the wider plains of Pasia, which literally meant `the Blood lands'.
The Blood lands were not really so dire as they sounded; merely the earth was burnt a red-orange and one of the ancient Svaryani had declared it as drenched with blood, so the land had been called Pasia, the Blood lands, and upon these the brother-nations had grown. These were Sheq-Kis-Ra and Sherim-Ra. The former was larger and its citizens were more trained to education and the sciences; they did not take the class separation any more seriously than for it to propel a few social norms. For example, the Darani were not expected to go to war; the Dajani were and, in return for their protection, the Darani were expected to submit to the lusts of the Dajani. Truthfully though, most Darani did not mind their liaisons with Dajani. Often, they took the form of a life-time relationship, since unions with women were forbidden for any reason but reproduction, and all women, promised to the goddess Aaniya, were hidden away in her temples. Such was the way of things in Sheq-Kis-Ra.
The nation of Sherim-Ra, however, had a smaller population and was run by a barbarian Svarya who cared nothing for his Darani. Svarya Kerim was a young and fierce Daja; he relentlessly enforced the class separation, demanding that the Darani be submissive in all respects. Isidore had even heard that they were not given the choice of whether or not they engaged in congress, that if a Daja so desired then any Dara was fair game. Of course, there were some Darani that he knew of who sighed and rolled their eyes in delight over the idea of being so abjectly claimed by a lusty Sherim-Ran Daja, but Isidore knew these fantasies only persisted in their minds because they had yet to experience the degradation of the reality.
Isidore himself had vowed he would never be so used; he had his books; he had his scrolls and his knowledge; he certainly did not need some great Daja beast rutting against him. If he was honest with himself, and in this it was hardest to be, he was afraid of it. The Dajani were so huge, and he was but five-and-a-half feet and slight besides so that he was downright terrified of their huge weapons. The origin of his fear was not hard to trace. When he was very much younger, only eight years old, he had overheard two Darani talking about the pain of the first time; of being stretched so wide and deep with the great spears that they were left torn and bleeding. Isidore had been white as a sheet for the rest of the evening after hearing this, and would speak not a word to his father and brother. Finally, late at night, he had asked his fourteen-year-old brother if he had a spear in his pants. It was a somewhat embarrassing experience for the both of them, but more so for his brother who had to demonstrate by bringing himself to hardness. Barik also reminded him that he was not at his adult size yet but, even so, it would never be the six-foot-long, sharp-tipped weapon, Isidore had imagined. That said, Isidore had seen adult Dajan phalluses in full erection, including his brother's resulting from the night's rest, and they were still fearsome instruments. Therefore, there were two reasons for his remaining virgin; the one cowardly, the other seemingly noble, and he told himself this latter one was the more important of the two.
He had promised himself to Is, the god of pure love, and so he would remain the virgin Svaraya. Isian precepts prevented him from engaging in meaningless liaisons, and Isidore liked to think that the purest followers of Is would engage in no liaison whatsoever; though there was no strict prescription he could find within the writings of Is in favour of this.
He also liked to think his purity would please the Dara-ya, protector of the Darani so that he would finally rain some justice upon those Sherim-Ran Dajani who so abused their Darani. Isidore did not know what pleased Dara-ya; there were so many conflicting stories told. So many people had no idea, really, what the legends were about; which was why Isidore was here. It was what he had devoted his life to; seeking the truth about the westerners, the Darani, the submissives, he would find the truth in these scrolls and books and tomes yet to be opened. This would please the Dara-ya, he guessed, shedding light upon his people who so needed a hope to cling to.
Isidore stood in his chamber preparing for dinner, which was a formal affair at the long table in the Svarya's dining hall this night, for there were several visiting provincial lords who had to be entertained. He was braiding his long jet hair. Most men grew their hair somewhere between shoulder-length and waist-length; Isidore's reached to the middle of his back which was as far as he would let it go (for any longer and it would become cumbersome) and was clasping the black binder at the bottom of the braid when he was interrupted by the loud slamming of the door.
"Isidore, I have something to tell you!" Before Barik could do as he had promised, however, he was sweeping his little brother up for a great bear-hug, which left Isidore gasping because his Dajan brother was a mighty beast.
"Well are you going to put me down to tell me?" Isidore asked, somewhat breathless and still held aloft in his brother's arms.
"Oh, yes; sometimes I forget." Barik dropped his brother back to the floor.
"What is this news?" Isidore asked, leaning against the dressing-table while his brother stood before him.
"Not news, little brother; a secret." Barik announced, grinning like to split his face.
"A secret?" Isidore wondered what could have his brother so excited, and then the answer came all too easily. "It's warrior business isn't it? You are planning to go into battle?"
"I wish!" Barik cursed the fates that kept conspiring against him to bring unending peace. "But not so much worse - a raid!"
"You are going raiding, who?" As he said this he knew, who else?
"Those Sherim-Ran bastards keep stealing our grains and burning sheds and the like in the villages about the outskirts, we are going to return the favour," Barik said proudly.
Isidore hid his grimace. Raiding was a futile sport that went back and forth between various factions in the brother-nations. Since it was so minor and those to whom the damage was done were the least powerful members of society, the rulers of both realms tended to turn a blind eye towards it, so long as the raiding never got out of hand. The Dajan raiders on both sides wanted to be able to keep up their skills so they were careful to never let it get so; but still there were those who were harmed and it was for these that Isidore now turned an admonishing eye on his brother.
"And such should not go without retaliation, brother, but be careful not to harm too many innocents in the process."
Barik flashed him a grin. "Do not worry, baby brother, I will not take too many Darani, only the prettiest."
Isidore scowled at him.
"Argh, alright then, I will take none." They both knew that was an empty promise.
"Just remember it could be me," Isidore told him earnestly.
"Never!" Barik announced, pulling his little brother against him for a rough embrace. "For you have me and father to protect you, and I would murder any man who even thinks to harm you."
Isidore smiled as best he could, given that his face was smashed against his brother's hard chest. "It pleases me you are so protective, brother, but remember those who have no protection and have a care for them."
"I will," Barik said with a groan, knowing that in the heat of the raid he would be hard-pressed to remember anything. "Who are we entertaining tonight?" he asked suddenly, noting Isidore's formal attire.
"Some lords. Father didn't say who; but he was busy today, as was I; I only just found out a short time ago."
"Do you think I need to clean up for it?" Barik hated wearing formal attire; he was far happier in his furs and leathers than any silk or velvet such as that in which his brother was now dressed.
"Only if you don't want father to have your head again for turning up to a formal affair covered in dirt and blood," Isidore answered, grinning.
Barik looked down at him, likewise smiling. "But I will never look as pretty as you in silks and velvets, Isidore," he told his brother, tweaking his nose. "Ah little brother, my friends keep badgering me about you, when are you going to choose a Daja?"
"Never." Isidore ducked out of the way of his brother's large hand which tried to tweak his nose again. "I'm perfectly fulfilled with my life as it is; I need no great beast to come and mess it all up."
"Fulfilled?" Barik looked utterly unconvinced. "With your books and dusty old scrolls?"
"Just as you are with your sword, Barik," Isidore told him, pointedly looking at his brother's hip at which sat his sword.
Barik's eyes widened as a thought struck him. "Aye. What if I had to choose between fighting and fucking?"
Isidore almost had to laugh at how earnestly he was considering such an unlikely quandary; his brow puckering with the same perplexity as a mathematician considering a complex problem.
"Well be glad that you don't." Isidore felt he had to relieve his brother of his obviously mounting concern.
"Aye; I don't," Barik's expression went back to its usual carefree abandon, "and upon this raid, I shall be getting plenty of both, Daja-ya be willing." The Daja-ya was the warrior-god, protector of the interests of the Dajani and, in Isidore's opinion, a most vigilant one.
In the Great Hall there stretched the huge dinner table. End-to-end it ran the length of the hall for this evening's entertainment of the nobles. It was actually composed of many segments that could be joined together to form one great monstrosity to fill the hall and sit sixty or so. Of course, pages had to carry messages between those diners too far apart to converse reasonably across the table, and even for those close by it was difficult to communicate under such circumstances because the shouting rose to such a thunderous level during these feasts. Isidore hated them but had no choice but to attend for, though his father would never force him to go, Kenit-ya wanted him there and so there Isidore would be, even if it was only to sit silently amid the roar.
Before the courses began there would be the compulsory fraternization with the guests. Svarya Kenit da Jornn was not one to sit atop a tall chair and watch his guests; he loved nothing more than to be among them, so he mingled freely with even the most minor lord who would be sitting farthest from the head of the table during the feast. Isidore found his father talking to Svar Bernn da Kol, ruler of the province of Lorun in Sheq-Kis-Ra.
"How is my favorite boy?" Svarya Kenit asked his son, hugging him to his side. In Pasia it was appropriate for a Daja to be openly affectionate to a Dara, but not another Daja, so Isidore received this kind of treatment whereas Barik wouldn't be caught dead getting hugged in public by his father. Neither would Kenit-ya be caught dead hugging his Dajan son.
"I'm well, father. And Svar Bernn, it is good to see you again." Isidore clasped hands with the Svar.
He stood beside his father and Svar Bernn, both of whom were soon joined by other lords as they arrived, until the conversation about the various finer aspects of governing and defending a province grew too boring. Isidore excused himself to get refreshment. On the way to the table where the spiced wine was being served, he was accosted by his brother who had done a rather poor job of cleaning himself up before the dinner.
"Father will be angry that you've left all that mud on your elbows," Isidore said as Barik pulled him toward where he had been.
"Nonsense, everyone knows I train all day, why bother hiding it?" Barik said as he examined his elbows, still holding Isidore's fine-boned hand in his own large one.
"Barik, I don't want to talk to your friends," Isidore said as he saw the group come into view and realized that was where his brother was pulling him.
"Oh, come on, they've been hassling me since this evening got started to pull you away from father to come talk to them. If you spend just a minute or two then they'll leave me alone about it." Barik admitted his ulterior motive for bringing his brother along with him; he had just about punched two of his companions for going on about Isidore.
"I don't like the way they look at me, Barik." Isidore tried to protest but they both knew he would be acquiescing for he hated to disappoint his big brother.
"Don't worry; no one'll be looking at you funny when I'm right behind you," Barik whispered as he drew his brother up to the group of young Dajani.
"Barik, we thought you'd got lost, you son of an Aaniya-cursed whore," Jadin di Errit commented and then his eyes widened to see Barik's little brother behind him. "Ah, so you got distracted along the way."
"Aye, I did, and where's the ale you were supposed to get for us?" Barik scowled at his friend who had not lived up to his end of the bargain.
"We sent Garrik off; he's the youngest. It's only fair that he bums for the rest of us." Jadin replied, but his eyes had not left Isidore whom Barik had pulled to stand in front of him before the group. Barik kept Isidore's back pressed up against his chest, his arms around the boy's shoulders; a patent demonstration of possessiveness, for Barik was fiercely protective of his little brother.
"You have not introduced us, Barik," Vedd di Jin, whose brother Garrik was off getting the ale, reminded his friend.
"You already know my brother," Barik replied in a surly tone.
"I know; but he hasn't greeted us, or given us a hug; it's not fair that you get them all." Vedd replied, and Barik glared at him; not letting go of his brother.
Isidore pulled at his brother's arms that were wrapped about his shoulders. "He is right, Barik; it is proper that I greet your friends." And the sooner I do so, the sooner I can go, he thought to himself.
"And give us all hugs," Malek nom Koris interjected, and Isidore shook his head.
"I won't be doing that," he said, pulling away from his brother's arms. Barik released him reluctantly.
He clasped hands with the gathered men, his small hand smothered by their large, combat-roughened ones, reacquainting himself with the three men gathered. Garrik di Jin then returned and he had to be introduced to the youngest of their group who, at eighteen, was one year older than Isidore. Still, he topped him by at least a foot already which might have been disconcerting, but Isidore was so used to that being the way of things (indeed there were fourteen-year-old Dajani who topped him by six or more inches) that he had grown quite used to looking upwards to address him.
"Lodur's balls, you didn't tell me he was this hot!" Garrik di Jin, like all Dajani, was used to opening his mouth and bursting forth with whatever was in his head, and Lodur, their all-father god, did often have his balls prevailed upon during these outbursts.
Barik pulled Isidore back into his arms. "Aye; shut your mouth, kid."
Barik knew his friends thought of his brother as a delicious slice of meat; they did not realize he was like a treasure to be revered, not a meal to be devoured. Then again, if Isidore was not his brother, he had to admit, he would be looking upon him with the same hungry lust as his friends were doing at this moment.
"Perhaps we shall find such a pearl during our next...expedition," Malek commented.
None of Barik's friends were aware that Isidore was privy to most of what his big brother and, by extension, his friends did.
"I bloody hope so," Garrik said, taking a large draught of ale. "Pity that we have to give `em all back though--" The last of Garrik's latest poorly thought-out outburst was silenced a little too late with a heavy elbow to his ribs.
Vedd di Jin cast a worried eye toward Isidore to see if he had caught on to that about which they were speaking; it was not hard to put two and two together. Any expedition where you had to give back the spoils was, of course, a raid. The only time when the spoils were not returned was during war-time or when they were not wanted by those from whom they were stolen. Both occurrences were rare among the brother-cities.
Isidore rolled his eyes. "What you do is your business" he reassured Vedd, and then he felt compelled to add to all of them: "Only, you speak about retrieving pearls. If you consider them to be precious, remember to treat them thusly."
"Of course, Darima, for as long as we keep them." This was interjected by Jadin di Errit.
Darima was the diminutive form of Dara, which itself was a diminutive. Dara literally meant little brother and Daja meant big brother; the names coming from the legends of the two suns that crossed the sky daily. The Daja-sun was the largest and brightest, rising first and breaking the new dawn; the Dara-sun was the smaller and fainter of the two and it would rise only after its big brother, looking as though it was being pulled along by the Daja-sun. Thus were the two classes representative of the two suns. Isidore hated to be called by the name of the latter sun, and even he disliked Darima, which meant little boy, for while he might appear little he was most certainly no longer a boy.
"Be sure that you do," was all he said aloud, however, then extracted himself from his brother's grasp and nodded to the men before taking his leave of them.
"Lodur's balls!" Jadin let out his breath. "Your brother...if I find one even half as nice on the raid, I'm taking him and I'm not giving him back."
"I don't know; he's a little bossy for me," Garrik commented, his brother's pointed look at Barik, who was standing right there, completely bypassing him.
"All Darani are bossy," Malek grinned. "Until you get `em under you, then..." He mimed the rest of that description.
"Except your brother," Jadin was careful to point out.
"Except my brother," Barik said, deciding that he didn't need to punch anybody when all his friends had the presence of mind to nod their agreement.
"Ah but here is one that is not excepted." Malek's eyes lit on a serving boy across the room from them. Blonde and pleasing enough to the eye, they gestured for him to come over to where they were.
"I have to serve the ale, my lords." The boy accorded them considerable formality since he was in the company of the crown Svaraya. Of course his excuse about being busy was just a front; he had no doubt of why they had called him over. If he was not interested, he would have simply feigned that he had not seen them; such were the signals in the palace.
"The ale can wait, I cannot," Malek told him, pulling the Dara against him and reaching down to cup his firm buttocks.
"Neither can I," Vedd told him, grinning down at the boy.
If Vedd went that meant Garrik would go also to make sport with the boy Barik realized,
and he flashed them a forlorn expression. "That means you three will go off with him and Jadin and I will be left to endure the dinner alone."
"What makes you think I'm not going with them?" Jadin asked.
"Because you don't want me to bust your balls," Barik responded with an expression that wouldn't be easily crossed, and then he turned to his friends who surrounded the small serving boy. "And get another Dara. All three of you on him? I don't want my father to blame me for a crippled serving boy."
The three men smiled at their friend since he had essentially given them his blessing to take not one but two of his staff for their pleasure, while Jadin glared at Barik.
"Three on two?" His expression was pleading, and then he punched the wall but not angrily enough to put a dent in the wood paneling. "And I get to sit through this boring dinner that you tricked me into coming to."
"Come on, it will be good for you, a chance to forge bonds and all that. Your father would not forgive me if I let you off to make sport with some serving boys." Barik clapped his friend on the back. "And I'll let you stare at my brother all night, how's that?"
"That's going to make it even worse." Jadin turned his hangdog expression on his friend.
"Fine, then we'll sit apart from him," Barik said.
"No," Jadin said quickly. "No, I'll be able to handle it. Then we'll get us some sweet serving boys for dessert."
"That's a deal," Barik said as they came into the dining hall, and he took his seat down the table from his father, next to where his brother would sit though the seat was at present empty. Jadin sat on the other side of Isidore's chair, a little out of order but in a warrior court etiquette was easily broken.
Isidore was not far behind them, having been caught talking to Svar Temyit di Vamilon, a pleasant enough man, but prone to ramble on about this and that having little consideration for time. He paused when he saw that he would be sitting next to one of his brother's friends, but he supposed that would be the way of it, for the crown Svaraya had to sit next to his father.
"Where have you been little brother?" Barik was always careful not to call his brother by that title he despised.
"I got held up talking to Svar Vamilon," he said, taking his seat and according a brief greeting to his brother's friend.
"Hah!" Barik accompanied that laugh with a slap on his little brother's back which sent him almost crashing into the table. "Don't you know? When you see the old ones coming, you run, you run in the opposite direction as fast as you can."
Isidore laughed. "Don't you have any respect for anyone?" he asked, punching his brother in his thickly muscled arm, but Barik didn't notice it.
"Only myself," Barik replied. "Oh and you and father."
Jadin coughed loudly.
"Oh and the Daja-ya who will bless our...expedition," Barik added.
Jadin reached across Isidore to punch Barik; this heavy blow Barik did notice but he still only laughed. Against his will, Isidore had to laugh also; his brother's friends were funny, he had to admit, and he liked them in small doses, one at a time. Right now he felt it pertinent to get out of the way, however, since he was likely to get crushed by Jadin's huge body as the two men engaged in further grappling which appeared to endanger all the contents at their end of the table.
Across from the scene sat the envoy from Sherim-Ra, watching the scene playing out with scarce-veiled contempt. Not for the two men rough-housing; for the same happened at just about every meal in Svarya Kerim's dining hall. It was the fact that he would be sharing a table with a Dara. Imagine that! A Dara eats with us. Gomar il Barin had only newly been appointed representative for Sherim-Ra, so he was still coming to grips with how things differed in Sheq-Kis-Ra; especially regarding their attitudes towards the descendents of the weak westerners.
When things between the two Dajani had settled down, Gomar saw the Dara move back into his seat, apparently thinking it safe to return to the table. He saw the Daja on the right of the boy move in close to him and whisper something in his ear to which the Dara responded with a small smile. This boy was very pretty. Gomar could see why he was treated with so much favour, quite aside from the fact that he was the Svarya's son. Even so, in Sherim-Ra the child would simply not be accepted and would be raised a Dara like any other. Not in Sheq-Kis-Ra, however; here they called him Svaraya and treated him as equal.
He continued to watch as the man on the boy's right put his arm around the back of the child's seat while he whispered something else in the boy's ear, then kissed him on the cheek. Here the Dara stiffened and shrank back against the one on his left. Gomar knew this to be Svaraya Barik, who, having been talking to another man, turned in the direction of his little brother and then looked up at the man across from him. He pushed the man's hand from the back of his brother's chair and then reached over the boy to slap the man across the back of his head. This the man took somewhat apologetically, Gomar saw, and after making some comment which Gomar could not hear above the din of general talk about the table, he sat back as though all was well again. And so it appeared to be, because the two Dajani were back to smiling and laughing and, to Gomar's surprise, he saw the Dara join in, which the Dajani appeared to welcome. Now the older brother had taken to keeping his arm across the back of his little brother's chair.
"Barik, do you know who that man is across from me?" Isidore leaned toward his brother to ask.
Barik cast an eye towards the man to whom Isidore was referring who quickly looked away. Isidore had done the same several times and he had simply stared right back which was incredibly rude.
"Think that's the new Sherim-Ran envoy; can't remember his name." Barik frowned trying to do so. "Why're you worried little brother?"
"A Sherim-Ranian," Isidore gave a snort, "no wonder."
"No wonder what?" Barik asked his brother.
"He keeps staring at me, and when I look pointedly back at him he just stares on anyway," Isidore told him what had been taking place for the last short while.
Jadin, who had been listening in on the conversation, gave a look to Barik who curled his lip in reply. They knew the Sherim-Ranian wouldn't care a whit for offending a Dara, even if he was a Svaraya, which was why he wouldn't drop his eyes when Isidore stared back at him.
"Don't worry, little one, we'll keep our eyes on him," Jadin told Isidore.
"Aye we will," Barik said, rubbing his brother's shoulder reassuringly.
And true to their word, as soon as the envoy looked up to fix Isidore with his gaze again, he met the glares of the two Sheq-Kis-Ran warriors and never did his eyes drop so fast.
"Do you know that, in Sherim-Ra, we keep Darani in their place?" Gomar il Barin saw fit to comment to Isidore in the long break after the second course. "I am shocked that in Sheq-Kis-Ra they have Dajani eating with Darani at their table."
Isidore turned to look up at him in shock, not to mention being surprised that in Sherim-Ra they actually ate at a table. He couldn't believe the Sherim-Ranian had gone to the trouble of seeking him out in between courses just so that he might give him this little tidbit. He recovered himself quickly enough though.
"Perhaps you should have kept your eyes on your dinner and not on that which offended you then, envoy," he told the man coldly, and using the same derisive tone as the man had used on him.
Now it was the Sherim-Ranian's turn to look shocked. "That you are so rude says much about the folly of your nation."
Isidore's mouth dropped again. This was their diplomat? "That you are the most diplomatic Sherim-Ranian says quite a lot about your nation," he pronounced, and was satisfied to see the man's expression grow even more affronted.
Isidore wished it said more but he knew that, as a Sherim-Ranian, this man thought he need not be diplomatic toward a dara no matter how loftily born; for to Dajani in Sherim-Ra, all Darani were beneath them.
Fortunately, he was rescued from this man's rudeness by the arrival of his brother and Jadin di Errit who came up on either side of him, though at this moment Isidore felt the rude Sherim-Ran envoy did not need to be reminded of Isidore's western heritage by having his brother and his friend both standing head and shoulders above him. What he did enjoy, however, was seeing the Sherim-Ranian's lips tighten when he clasped hands with Barik and Jadin, both of whom let him have the full benefit of their strength. After that the Sherim-Ranian was all diplomacy, and Isidore bore it for a few minutes before he excused himself and marched off with his brother and Jadin looking after him in surprise.
Isidore was horrified, for the first time in forever he felt like crying and he had no idea why. That awful envoy had no sway over him; he was likely minor nobility of Sherim-Ra whereas Isidore was a Svaraya of Sheq-Kis-Ra. And yet the man had managed to make him feel as though he was the lesser of the two. It was bad enough being reminded daily of the physical inferiority of his kind to the so-called big brothers. But, to have it so clearly demonstrated by that odious man how so many Dajani still thought, it made him feel as though all he did was so much in vain. The worst thing was that the stupid envoy wasn't even intentionally being rude to spite him; it was merely that the man considered his kind to be so beneath him that it came out in his every word and mannerism.
"Isidore?"
He jumped at hearing his name, in his brother's best attempt at a soft voice. Barik always knew that if Isidore was upset he would come to the library, and though Barik hated this cloistered dusty place he came inside to find his brother.
"I'm fine; go back to the dinner," Isidore murmured, trying to hide from his brother who didn't need to see him this way.
"Not without you." Isidore jumped as Barik leaned over the back of the large chair, turned away from the door, in which he was hiding. "Come on baby brother." He reached down and, before Isidore knew it, he was being lifted up over the back of the chair.
Once he had set him on his feet, Barik looked at his brother. And then he wished that he hadn't. "Oh, oh Lodur's balls!" he groaned. He hated tears; he never knew what to do about them.
Isidore managed to summon a grin through his tears. "I don't think Lodur or his balls have been particularly helpful this evening."
"Oh, come here." Barik pulled his baby brother into his arms; the boy's face only coming up to the top of his abdomen. He stroked the soft ebony hair, cursing that whoreson Sherim-Ranian. "You still want us to go easy on the villagers during the raid?" he asked his brother, and Isidore looked up at him, his tears stopping.
"Remember who suffers the most during a raid though," Isidore reminded him. "It's not bastards like that man out there," he sighed. Then he took his brother's hand and kissed it. "You always hated when I cried," he commented absently.
"Aye, and you always knew it," Barik replied, tugging gently on the braid that snaked down his little brother's back.
"I only used it once on you!" he told his brother, his tone offended. "When father gave you that new cross-bow." He smiled slightly as he remembered the time. "And I liked it so much I begged you for it, and you refused, and then I started crying. I didn't expect you to feel so bad that you would give me not only the cross-bow but your sword and then your two daggers."
"Aye." Barik flushed, remembering. His brother had been only six years old and he twelve. The cross-bow was far taller than Isadore so there was no way he could use it; but for some reason Isidore had decided he wanted it. "But you had to give them all back."
"Of course; after father gave you a beating for letting me have so many dangerous weapons, most of which were taller than me," Isidore grinned.
"He was so protective of you, even though you were probably safer with the weapons than I was at that time. Still, I could have a knife sticking out of my head and he would run to you over a stubbed toe." He rolled his eyes when his little brother continued to grin at him. "Alright and I would probably also run to your stubbed toe, knife in the head and all."
When Isidore laughed, Barik hugged him against his chest once more. "So are you better now, little brother?" he asked.
"I am." Isidore's voice was muffled.
"What did the envoy say to you?" Barik thought to ask.
"Just stupid drivel about how Sherim-Ran Darani know their place, and so on." Isidore grimaced to remember it, and especially how he had stood there and listened to it.
Barik's grip tightened around his brother. "Aye, well we will show them their place," he muttered.
Isidore looked up at him in surprise. "What did you say, brother?"
Barik looked down at him. "Nothing, baby brother, nothing at all."
They exited the stuffy library together and, though they were in time for the start of the third course, Isidore didn't feel like facing it, so he took his leave, going to his room. Barik met up with Jadin after he saw his brother leave and turned toward his friend, his expression fierce. "We ride out tonight."