2
"—now!"
Nadir jerked up—and nearly toppled backward as he upset his balance, grabbing the edges of the table to keep himself upright.
"It's about time," his mother snapped.
"You should have been ready and waiting.
We'll barely get to temple on time now, you lazy cat."
Anger curled in his gut, but Nadir tamped it down, ignored it.
He wasn't lazy, his mother just liked to insult people, and getting upset over it would help nothing.
"Apologies, honored mother.
I hadn't realized I'd fallen asleep studying. Alas, I must apologize further, for I will not be able to attend you this morning on your way to temple."
Her eyes narrowed in that way that promised no matter what he said or how nicely he said it, her reaction would not be pleasant.
Taking a deep breath, groaning inwardly as his father joined them, Nadir explained what had transpired.
As expected, their reactions hurt.
Emotionally, as they called him stupid in every possible way they could think of, and physically, as his mother slapped him not once, but twice, and while she was wearing enough rings they could serve as an improvised gauntlet, because she went to temple to show off, not out of piety.
When they finally released him, Nadir packed a satchel with everything he would need for the morning and hauled across the palace to the healer's wing.
It wasn't as large a wing as others in the palace, but it wasn't small either, and forever bustling with problems large and small.
Nadir felt bad inconveniencing them, but if nothing else, maybe they could give him something to keep his poor face from bruising.
He checked in at the desk at the front, then dropped into a seat in the waiting area, pulled out one of his books, and tried to read.
Instead, he kept drifting off, jerking awake whenever his head bobbed.
One day of rest, that was all he wanted.
Lazy.
So easy for his mother to say that, when she got to sleep a full night every night; when she had Nadir and a nanny and servants to take care of her daughters and the household, when she only worked from morning until lunchtime.
When she didn't have enough work for three piled on her.
But why should he expect sympathy from her? Because she knew what it was like to be in his position? Ha. According to her, no one had ever suffered more than she, and so no one else had the right to complain.
"Lord Nadir?"
He looked up, tucking his book away as he followed the healer who beckoned to him down the hall to one of the many small rooms.
The healer slid the door shut and motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs.
"I am Master Healer Omid; His Majesty sent word you would be stopping by this morning, and a brief explanation of what transpired to draw his concern.
Recount the event for me yourself, please."
Nadir did so as Omid—a master healer, what in the world—gently looked him over, lips pursing as he took in Nadir's cheek.
"What happened here?"
"My mother did not like hearing how much of a fool I made of myself before His Majesty, and I have inconvenienced her further by being unable to attend her at temple this morning."
"I see." Omid continued his examination, occasionally asking questions about Nadir's food, schedule, and other bits of his days.
Why any of that mattered, or what it had to do with a possible concussion, Nadir didn't know, but he didn't ask.
That would only make this take longer, and the longer it took, the angrier his parents would become.
Eventually, finally, Omid drew back.
"Your head definitely took a solid knock.
While I see no signs of severe damage, I am still recommending three full days of rest to be certain all is well and stays that way."
"Three—" Nadir was going to pass out.
"I have too much to do to sit around for three days."
"You won't be doing any of it if you work yourself to death while recovering from a head wound," Omid said sharply.
"Three days, full rest.
No exceptions—no studying, no cleaning, no running errands, no babysitting, none of it.
Rest . That is an order. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Nadir replied, fighting back tears.
His parents would kill him.
Really and truly kill him this time.
There was no way they'd just let him lie around the suite doing nothing.
"Good.
I'm assigning you a recovery room in the southwest wing.
You're to go there promptly.
Belongings and such will be collected by a servant, and I'll send a note with them as well for your family."
"Surely I can rest in my own room."
"No," Omid said firmly.
"Stop by the apothecary on your way out.
I want you to take a couple of tonics while you're on bedrest.
Come to me at the end of the three days to be re-evaluated. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Nadir replied, taking the small stack of half-sized sheets of paper Omid held out to him and slipping meekly from the room.
The apothecary was near the front of the wing, close to the check-in desk, and it took only minutes for the chemist on duty to make his tonics and hand them over, along with strict instructions on their usage.
Nadir headed off, sick to his stomach at the thought of how his parents would react when they found out.
The southeast wing of the palace was dedicated to single rooms, some used by residents, most used by guests, and a few reserved for those who needed to recover from wounds or illness in solitude.
It was a strange place to send someone who simply needed to laze around for three days, but Nadir was too exhausted to press the matter.
His parents wouldn't be around to read the note Omid had sent them for a few hours yet.
Since there was little else he could do at the moment, Nadir fully intended to use the time to get what sleep he could. Gods knew once they woke him up, his parents wouldn't be letting him sleep again anytime soon.
***
When he woke, however, it was only to find a meal had been left for him, and all his belongings had arrived.
There was also a note from Omid, giving more details about how he was to spend the next three days.
He could use the private gardens reserved for convalescents and the chronically ill, but he was to avoid public gardens—all public spaces—unless it was cleared with Omid.
The only exception, of course, being should he have an audience with the steward or king.
Nadir laughed.
Why in the world would he have an audience with either? His Majesty would be sent a note that Nadir was fine, and that would be that.
At least he would not be stuck in his room for the whole three days.
That would not be relaxing at all.
Picking up the tray of food, he ventured out of the small room and went in search of the gardens.
Thankfully, they were easy to find, and chairs aplenty were arranged around a cooling water fountain.
Flowers and trees were in abundance, offering further relief from the last remnants of heat before cool evening swept in.
He settled into one of the chairs and set his tray on the table beside it.
Simple food, the sort that could sit for a few hours without going bad or turning otherwise unpleasant.
He tore a piece of bread in two and spread one half with goat cheese.
The bread was still ever so slightly warm, further softening the cheese, which just made it even better.
There was also wine, a light, delicate one, the palest gold-pink in color, called Desert Lily.
It did not pack nearly the punch of the sorts of wines used for meals, or the even harder ones intended for evening pursuits of all sorts.
He could not remember the last time he'd simply sat and enjoyed a meal.
Normally he ate his food as quickly as possible, often while still working, unless the food was too cumbersome or messy for multitasking.
Nor did he get to enjoy an actual meal, usually surviving on leftovers and snacks wherever he found the time to eat.
Guilt and anxiety clawed at him, urging him to stop sitting about wasting time, be productive, be useful.
Be worth something.
Because no matter how hard he tried, it always felt like his parents never looked at him and saw someone worth all the time and money and effort they'd put into him.
There was no obvious reason for him to think such a thing, but it was there all the same.
In their closed off faces.
The way they worked him so hard, but doted on his little sisters and loved them so openly.
What did they do right that he'd done wrong? So wrong that there seemed no coming back from it.
They'd carved his path and set him on it, and he walked as bid, but the journey was lonely, and felt like there would be nothing for him at the end, not even his parents' pride and affection.
Or maybe it was all fevered imaginings of his overworked mind, and after three days of rest he would be able to finally see that.
See that his parents did love him just as much as his sisters, and truly did only want the best for him.
The reassurances fell flat, as they always did, and Nadir chased his gloomy thoughts away with more wine and food.
As the pleasant warmth of the wine spread through him, the familiar, but so often buried urge to write rose up.
He tried to resist it, but in the end couldn't help returning to his room for writing supplies.
Back in the garden, servants were lighting lanterns, so that a warm glow fell over the place, casting the flowers in shadows, dancing across the rippling fountain.
The air was sweetly perfumed from the blossoms and fresh water, and off in the distance he could hear the softest strains of music, probably from the nightly banquet.
At its conclusion, many would break into smaller groups, retire to parlors and gardens and courtyards to spend their evening in leisure.
Nadir had always wanted to join one of the groups that gathered for poetry: reading from the newest books, reading their own to solicit thoughts, or sometimes picking a theme and seeing who could come up with the wittiest, or most beautiful, etc.
right there on the spot.
Improv poetry had a very strict form, called a cube: four lines, four syllables, and it must be composed in four minutes or less. Not to be confused with a four by four, which was four verses, four lines each, and each line a trochaic tetrameter.
Nadir had pages and pages of cubes in his notebooks and on scraps of paper carefully tucked between the pages.
It was lonely, playing by himself, but also fun to see how many poems he could come up with in a set time period.
They were all terrible, but what did it matter? Nobody but him would ever see them.
Plenty of government officials, people of all professions, really, dabbled in poetry.
That was why the nightly gatherings were so fun.
Yet somehow his parents would permit him to have no part of such 'frivolity,' as though poetry was something dirty that would ruin their good name.
He'd never understood it, but as in all things, his was to dutifully obey.
One day, though, he would be on his own, no longer accountable to them for every minute of his days.
He would establish his dreary career, and then he would finally have time to make friends and take up pursuits like poetry.
He hummed along with the faint music while he worked, shifting away from his warmups with the improv poems to a sonnet, an imported format that was gaining popularity but was clearly built around a very different language.
That just made it more challenging, and therefore more fun.
At some point, his tray was cleared away and replaced with one of sweets and a more potent wine – Hushed Whispers, spicy and fruity, marvelous for enjoying alone while composing poetry or… well, doing delightful things to handsome kings, but that utterly hopeless fantasy would have to wait until later.
By the time he finished the wine, the hour was late, and he could barely keep his eyes open.
It was the best day he could ever remember having, marred only by the thought that it would be years yet before he was able to manage another.
Gathering up his poems and writing supplies, he left a coin on the tray for the servant who'd tended him all evening and took himself off back to bed, still humming along with the distant strains of music.
***
When he awoke come morning, it was to a familiar pounding on his door.
Well, he'd had one afternoon and evening to himself.
That was more than he'd ever expected to get.
Bracing himself, he climbed out of bed, hastily tidied himself as best he could, and then opened the door.
His mother barreled into the room, and he hadn't even opened his mouth to greet her when he got a ringing slap across the face.
Literally, his ears were ringing from the force of it, and he could taste blood in his mouth where his teeth had cut his cheek. "Mother?"
"Do not look at me like I'm the one causing problems here."
"Mother, I swear to you, I do not understand what is going on.
I went to the healers as His Majesty requested, and the next thing I knew I was sent here and ordered to rest for three days.
That is all I know, all that's happened.
What have I done wrong?"
"Wrong?" she asked, voice not quite shrill, but very nearly.
"You whined to that healer so much that we are under investigation! What did you say?"
"Nothing!"
She slapped him again, the other cheek this time, provoking tears from the stinging force of it.
"That is a bald-faced lie, and I will not tolerate such disrespect."
"Mother, I swear to you, I went only to see about the head wound, and only because His Majesty insisted, and I would not be so rude as to ignore his requests.
All I did was answer questions, and none of them were about you and Father."
"Repeat them all to me."
Nadir did so, or at least tried to; he'd been so tired, and the whole situation so bemusing, that mostly it was a blur.
He concluded with relating his nap, followed by his evening in the garden.
Predictably, it helped nothing, but if he'd withheld the information or waited for her to ask, her anger would have been even worse.
"You lazy good-for-nothing, letting them slander us while you sit about napping and drinking and jotting down your stupid nonsense."
"It's not stupid—"
He regretted the words the moment they slipped out, and swallowed in the aftermath of a third slap.
His face hurt, but he'd learned a long time ago not to complain or beg for mercy.
Instead, he simply let her rant, arms waving and lashing about, eyes filled with the sort of fury and contempt she saved for convicts and her only son.
All the relief brought by his wonderful evening was shattered by her raging, and the final slap she added for good measure before scooping up his 'pathetic waste of time and paper' and storming off.
Nadir sat on his bed and tried not to cry more than he already had.
What in the world was going on? Why were they investigating his parents? Why did she think he was responsible? Was it really the end of the world that he'd been ordered to rest for three days? Didn't parents want the best for their children, but also their health and happiness?
Why did his parents hate him so much?
Sadly, he was more distressed about the poetry.
He'd been so pleased with some of it, even the silly one about Shafiq he'd been trying to work into something good and not simply maudlin and mushy and embarrassing.
Gone, now.
It wasn't the first time his mother had confiscated his 'drivel' in retaliation for disobediences he never understood.
Sometimes he was able to retrieve bits of it, hide them away until he could recopy and destroy the originals, so she'd never realize what he'd done.
Most of the time, though, it was thrown into the fire or taken away by servants to be disposed of before he had the chance.
Why did his parents dislike him so much? What had he done so wrong?
Sniffling, Nadir rose and took his tonics for the morning, then gathered up what he needed and headed down the hall to the baths.
Some of his misery eased then, as he realized that for once he could linger in the hot water as long as he liked.
After cleaning thoroughly, he did precisely that, sliding into the steaming water and sighing at the relief that was immediately brought.
Oh, to be able to do this every single day, or at least most days, like the rest of the world.
How much better would he feel each day if he had this one small thing? He was going to stay here until he melted.
Or until a discreet cough forced him to open his eyes—which widened further as he took in the mark on the man's livery that designated him as a personal servant of the king.
Nadir sat up.
"Uh.
My apologies. If I had known someone would be coming to see me, I would have been waiting in my room properly."
The man smiled.
"No need for that, my lord.
The visit was not scheduled.
His Majesty would like to see you at your leisure. He is available for the next couple of hours in the sunset room, or you can see him after dinner."
"No, I'll come as soon as I'm dressed.
I apologize for causing him any delay."
"You've caused no problems, but I will convey your words." The man bowed and departed, moving with enviable grace.
Once he was relatively certain the man had left the hall, Nadir climbed out of the water, yanked on his robe, and gathered his bathing supplies before all but running back to his room.
His clothes were still in their trunk; he hadn't been in a hurry to hang them properly because who was going to care if they were a bit wrinkled, the flowers? That would teach him.
He pored frantically over the contents, desperately seeking something suitable for a surprise audience with the king.
Why did His Majesty want to see him again? Was this related to his mother?
Mercy of the gods, all he'd done was make a clumsy mistake.
How had one tiny moment sent his life into a spiral?
He finally settled on snug fitting white pants and black ankle boots, and a long, side-split, deep red tunic trimmed in gold, with black sleeves that attached by way of gold frogs shaped like lilies.
He bound his hair into a braid and wound it into a knot at the back of his head, secured with a hairpin that also had a lily.
Otherwise, his jewelry was plain, simple gold; he had none of the ornate jewelry someone of his station should have.
His parents gave plenty of it to his sisters, their beloved daughters, but everything he had was perfunctory and second-hand or, he suspected, bought for cheap at pawn shops and the lower-end stalls in the market.
If there was one thing he wished he could do regarding his appearance, it would be to cut all his hair off.
He hated it— the weight, the hours that must be spent maintaining it, how it was always in his way, on his neck, in his face, hot and heavy and annoying.
But his parents said his hair was, essentially, a selling point, and so he was forbidden to cut it.
As ready as he would ever be, feeling woefully inadequate for a meeting he'd never once imagined would happen, Nadir finally headed out.
Too bad it was probably about his parents, or whatever Omid had said, and not because he was taken with Nadir's beauty or some such.
He should be so lucky.
He threaded through the palace as quickly as he could without sacrificing decorum, grateful he didn't have to ask where the sunset room was located; one of his many, many lessons had been memorizing the palace layout, and it was a lesson that had proven useful more times than he could count.
Guards were stationed at the doors, nearly always a dead giveaway as to His Majesty's location.
"Good day," Nadir said as he reached them.
"His Majesty requested to see me? Lord Nadir Talari."
One of the guards grunted, and they opened the doors, looming in that way of theirs that made the palace guards so intimidating to everyone who crossed them, local, native, and foreigner alike.
One of the guards stepped inside and bowed low, as Nadir knelt on the floor to give a more formal bow.
"Your Majesty, Lord Nadir has arrived."
"Thank you, Asel.
Lord Nadir, it is good to see you.
Please, have a seat."
Normally, the king would be accompanied by at least one concubine for such a meeting, but Shafiq had always strangely lacked a harem.
Some said he was too enamored of women and had no taste for men; others said he loved his late wife to the point that no one else drew him.
The truth, of course, was much more mundane and so ignored: he'd become king young, had been busy ever since, and then busy with marriage and expecting a child, only to suddenly find himself a widower.
Hardly a moment to breathe in all of that, let alone spend enough time with anyone to come to regard them as a possible concubine.
He rose slowly and sat on a large, plush cushion at the table, far nicer than anything his family owned, and his mother refused to buy anything but the best when it was something she wanted or would use frequently.
"Your Majesty, I apologize for my late arrival.
I am happy to serve howsoever I may."
Shafiq's eyes glittered at his words, but his well-honed contained demeanor gave away not so much as a hint of his thoughts.
"You are not late.
I did say at your leisure, and I meant it.
Believe me, when I want someone to attend me immediately, that is made very clear." He smiled faintly, and even that small bit of levity did wonders to strip the years and severity from his handsome face.
What would it be like to make him smile truly? To get him to relax, open up, put away being king for a little while? It was a privilege that Nadir would never have, but not thinking about it was as impossible as not worrying a loose tooth.
"I'm afraid, my lord, that you have accidentally been swept up in a matter that should not have had anything to do with you, as you were cleared long ago as having no part in it.
But after the report I received from Master Omid, it's obvious the problem is far greater than we realized, and so now you are tangled up in it."
"I… am completely confused, to be perfectly honest, Your Majesty, but I'm happy to help."
"Legally, you are not obliged to.
This matter is about—against—your parents.
Assisting me will ultimately mean speaking against them."
Nadir stared, bewildered, before he caught himself and dropped his eyes to the floor.
Speak against his parents? What in the world had they done? They were a judge and a legal counselor, trusted to have integrity, to act with honesty and fairness and…
He closed his eyes, every luxurious item in their home, every costly wine, every fancy indulgence his mother showed off at temple.
Nadir had never really paid attention, for various reasons, but now that he put it right in the forefront of his mind, properly gave it notice…
The salaries of a judge and prestigious counselor were not insignificant, but they were not the means of the nobles around them, that his parents easily kept up with in terms of spending.
The most obvious explanation was that they had more money than they should, and money was a stupidly easy thing for a corrupt judge, especially one working with a corrupt counselor who was also her husband, to come by.
"I didn't know," he said, voice trembling faintly.
"I still don't know really, but now the matter is before me it's not hard to guess.
I will not side with them, if they have acted so dishonorably that Your Majesty must deal with the problem personally.
I am honored to help, if you'll tell me what you need." He shifted far enough back from the table to bow properly.
"Relax, please, Lord Nadir," Shafiq replied.
"It is concern for your well-being that has brought you to our attention, and regretfully dragged you into the unenviable position of speaking against your parents.
Let's begin with something simple: Have your parents come to see you since being ordered to leave you to rest?"
Nadir faltered, as that wasn't the question he'd expected at all.
But Shafiq seemed to have a knack for the unexpected, at least where Nadir was concerned.
"My mother visited me this morning." His hand twitched as he stopped it from reflexively reaching to touch his sore cheeks.
"She was displeased with me. There are many things they rely upon me for, and now I cannot do them for a few days."
"I see.
Did she touch you?"
Flinching, Nadir replied, "She slapped me four times."
"Anything else?" Shafiq asked, and it was only the gentleness of his voice that kept Nadir from crying from the humiliation of it all.
"She took my poetry away, as she often does when she's angry with me, or catches me writing it instead of focusing on my studies or chores or helping my sisters."
Shafiq sighed, looking tired and worn for a moment before his reserve reasserted itself.
"Steward Latif sent some people to speak with her, and found her with servants, ordering them about clearing out what seemed to be your room."
"I see," Nadir replied, sadness washing over him.
His mother must be really angry to be clearing out his room, searching it for any perceived contraband, or maybe even preparing to send him away to a monastery or some such, tired of dealing with him once and for all.
"New rooms are being arranged for you, and a guard assigned, until this matter is concluded."
Nadir swallowed.
"Respect, Your Majesty, but am I ever going to be told what exactly is going on? It feels like my life is in upheaval, but I'm the only one who does not know why."
"A more than fair request.
Forgive me, all of us, our silence and vagueness.
We are, to be honest, still learning just how deep the problem goes.
It is also going to be exceptionally difficult for you to hear, and we did not want to do that sooner than we must."
"I think it best to get it over with," Nadir replied.
"Respect, Your Majesty."
Shafiq waved the words aside.
"As you wish, my lord.
To put it simply, your parents are guilty of quite a few things: accepting bribes, abuse of staff, prisoners, and more.
Unfortunately, the matter runs even deeper than that. After I sent you to Master Omid, he came to me with concerns that you were being abused. I had files pulled, to form a better picture before I brought forward such a serious charge."
"They don't—" Nadir stopped, because to say his parents didn't abuse him was stupid.
He'd never really thought about it.
Hadn't wanted to think about it.
But right then and there, his face still sore, nothing but sympathy and worry etched into Shafiq's face, what was the point in continuing to deny it?
He dropped his head, pinching his eyes shut to ward off tears.
"However, when my clerks were going through your records to look for anything awry—medical stuff, mostly, but they go through everything for thoroughness—they noticed some oddities in your birth certificate.
We are still investigating, however, we are all but certain that you are not their blood child, but a trafficked child.
Worse, once we were pointed in that direction, it became clear your sisters are the same, and your parents are even more deeply entrenched than that."
Nadir stared.
He wanted to scream.
Cry.
He was going to be sick.
The tumult of emotions jumbled together and spilled out as a sour, near-hysterical laugh.
His parents were child traffickers.
He'd probably been their first foray into such things, and therefore posed the greatest risk to them.
Indeed, it had been his records that had given them away.
The laughter turned into sobbing that he tried in vain to muffle with his hands, eyes burning as tears broke free, years and years of pent up anger and pain bubbling up and over.
Shafiq said something, but Nadir didn't catch the words.
A moment later, however, a pair of servants were gently leading him away through the palace, led by guards who cleared the way.
Nadir could feel eyes on him, but ignored them all, too lost in his own head to do anything but let himself be swept along and taken care of.
They took him to a room he didn't recognize, which meant it must be the new one Shafiq had mentioned.
One of the servants pressed a cup into his hand and gently, but firmly, told him to drink.
Nadir obeyed, and only minutes later his eyes grew too leaden to hold open, and he was more than happy to let the sedative have its way.