"It's the dareleni," I said.
"I am not going out," he replied. "I am going to draw myself a bath."
Something about his tone... I narrowed my eyes. "And?"
"And then I will go out. After you sleep, and the dareleni is ended," he said, amused.
Exasperated, I said, "People are supposed to rest at night. That category does include you."
"At night," Shame said, "those too restless to sleep will be on their feet and wandering the halls, and if they run into Shame, they will speak to him of things they might not dare while the sun is bright." He grinned. "Besides, what do you think I'll be doing in the bath?"
"As long as you don't drowse off in it and drown," I muttered.
"Truly, Farren, I would know you for a father even without being told, from the way you hover."
I stopped eating. Indeed, I set the half-eaten roll on the plate and set it aside, folding my hands in my lap.
Unexpectedly, this brought him not just before me, but crouching there, one knee down, the other raised. He looked up into my face from that angle, the only angle that would have allowed it since I had my face cast down. It gave me a fine view of his expression.
How affecting it is to see tenderness in a face so uncompromising and stern. I wondered if I was as complicated a man as Shame, and thought not. And yet, there were things in me that he had not yet known, and perhaps never would, and that was the source of the sorrow of which he had reminded me.
"I am sorry," he said. "I spoke roughly."
Not out-of-turn, I noted. Perhaps Shame never thought he spoke out-of-turn. Perhaps he thought all avenues were open to him, all feelings his by law to examine. Roughly, he said, as if he had bruised me, and he had. I waited, looking down into his eyes, to see if he would divine how he had erred. I wanted to know if he could. And... I wanted him to know. I wanted someone to.
He did not flinch from my gaze, and so I could see his mind working in them, the quick tremors of the iris, as if scanning some distant parchment. "You are old enough to have wed, but never speak of your wife," he said. "So she is gone. And though you have a father's mien, you do not speak of your children either. So your wife was lost before she could give you more than one, and that one was lost to you. Dead, or—"
"—as good as dead to me," I finished.
To his credit, he did not turn away from the grief in my eyes, or the knowledge that he had pricked it forth with a careless comment. "Farren. I am sorry."
"Yes," I said. "I see that. But tell me, Shame. You are of an age to be a father, yet you do not speak of a wife either. Nor, as men who are not yet wed are wont to do, do you speak of the family you plan to raise. You hold yourself apart as if you have no family of your own. So then... you are an orphan. And you do not plan to have a family. Am I right?"
He leaned back, ears splayed and brows lifted.
"Does it feel good, to be known?" I asked.
He looked down, thinking. Or so I surmised, studying the crown of his head, with the low light shining on the strands of glossy black hair. I could just see his lashes, and the pale curves of his eyes as they focused on the floor. Like glass, those irises. Painting them would have been a challenge.
When he looked up, there was something like a smile on his face. I thought... perhaps it was wonder. "To be known... yes. It does."
"So you are married to your work, osulkedi," I said, continuing with a great calm. "Is this a characteristic of all Shame's priests? Or are you a deviant?"
He didn't flinch at the word, though I had used a perverse one. "It is neither typical nor atypical. Some of Shame's priests have had lovers. Some have married. Most have died young."
That clenched my heart. I did not like the sound of it, nor the way he said it, so matter-of-factly. "And how does Thirukedi feel about this?" I asked.
"He has not privileged me with His thoughts on the matter," Shame said, regaining a little of his customary humor, lopsided as usual. "No doubt if I continue on my course, He shall."
Or had already, I thought, through me. I was still studying him when he gently set the plate back on my lap. "Eat," he said. "And I shall bathe."
"And then return to work," I said.
"And then return to work," he agreed, rising. I envied him, that he could unfold from that crouch so easily. "Will you chastise me for it?"
I sighed. "I sense that doing so will not change your course, osulkedi."
"You sense correctly," he said. And surprised me by bowing. "And my name is Kor."
"I know," I said, trying to recover from the gift of that bow. He owed me no such expression of courtesy, save that he wished to show me respect.
"Did you?" he asked, suddenly curious.
"I had it from Thirukedi's lips," I said.
"Did you," he said, more intent. Surprised, I thought.
"I did. Kor." I lifted a finger and pointed it at him. "Come back in time to sleep."
He laughed. "I will try, Farren."
So he went to his bath and I tasked myself to eating—no great hardship that, given the quality of the food. They did not stint for portions either, but I was determined not to give offense to the house on our first evening. I ate it to the last crumb, though I had to pause several times, and when I was done I felt positively round. I had not had a meal like that in many years.
Once I had command of my sluggish limbs again, I returned to the shabati, to prepare the painting for storage and set up for tomorrow's word. I did not yet know what I would choose but I found myself hoping it would inspire another such conversation. Perhaps even a longer one... I had enjoyed my spar with the younger man. Difficult as it was to admit, it felt... invigorating... to test my wit against someone so much sharper than I was. Like the sight of a knife, Shame was: a reminder to breathe and fully live while life was in you.
When Ajan returned, Shame was in the main chamber preparing to leave, and I was in the bed-chamber preparing for sleep. The sound of the door brought me out to hear his report.
