"Ah," she said, and in that single utterance I heard a wealth of meaning, like arabesques of paint spilling from a single letter: blue, blood-brown and muted gray. I did not like the reserve and unease the gestalt of it suggested. "This way, if you would, osulkedi."
I followed her into the narrow, tall hallway, relieved when further down its length several thin windows sliced through the unremitting dark with strips of sunlight. And the room to which she escorted me was surprisingly comfortable, with a low ceiling, a broad view onto the distant fields, and several cushioned benches. Not a room for those sentenced here, then. I confess that in my single visit to the Bleak prior to Thirukedi's assignment, I had not been any further than its front hall; I had been accompanying my liege-lord who had come to claim one of the Bleak's reformed souls for his own. I had not imagined the place capable of even this much softness. And I admit, I was glad of the pillow-lined bench. My joints were no longer quite so forgiving of abuse as they had when I was younger.
I composed myself to wait, then, and not to guess at what awaited me—awaited us both. The ways of the Emperor are often beyond ken.
My first impression of Shame, thus, was his voice... and the fact that he spoke stripped of any caste-markings, so that his speech was shocking, naked. "Is this urgent? I am in the middle of my duties."
I sat up and looked toward him, and it was as if I could not move my head and yet turning to him was inevitable. Hearing him made one want to see him, and not want to see him. I had experienced something similar only once before, when I met the Exception... but the Exception had been wistfulness and sorrow and distance, like a painting blurred and softened by water.
Kor Nai'Nerillin-osulkedi was an ink drawing, a few slashes cutting a vital, compact shape from his surroundings. And black: ancestors! So rare a color among us, black entirely save for the shock of white on his face. His pupils were black pits surrounded in more white, with a thin gray ring to mark their borders—we call it arvarnari elet, coronal eyes, after the pale halo around the sun at its eclipse, and I had never seen such distinct and uncanny examples. There was nothing comfortable about him, not even the way he entered the room, his movements brusque and strangely precise. Nothing. I was not certain whether to be intimidated by him... or fascinated.
Because, oddest of all, he had a beauty. From his voice to the way he stood across from me to the manner in which he fixed his eyes on me, all of it was of one piece. My brows furrowed as I contemplated this unexpected harmony, and I didn't even realize I was staring until one of his white brows cocked.
"Osulkedi?"
"Ah!" I said, and despite his stripped speech I could not bear to reply in kind. I addressed him as a caste-equal, courteous. "I apologize. It was a long journey."
"To the purpose of...?"
His directness was almost appealing because it made sense of the rest of him. "Thirukedi sends me, osulkedi. We are to repair to House Qenain at the Gate, there to address their need."
"The Gate—" he murmured, his eyes losing their focus. Then, with no obvious change, they were again considering me. "And you?" His gaze took in the stole, but I wore simple robes beneath them, nothing like his unrelieved black and white. "You are not another priest."
"No, osulkedi," I said. "I am a calligrapher."
"A calligrapher," Shame repeated. "And Qenain has need of the both of us?"
"I admit it must seem rather irregular," I said, my hands clasped on my knees, trying to warm them where they ached.
"A bit," Shame said. Then shook his head. "I can't leave until I'm done with my duties."
Before he could continue, I cautiously interrupted. "Forgive me, osulkedi... but your duties here could be construed as eternal. The Emperor has sent for you. There is need elsewhere, not just here."
"Still," Shame said. "I will need the rest of the day. I was in the middle of the work." He rubbed the pad of his palm, and I dared not look closer; I did not want to see blood there, or calluses my mind would attempt to explain.
And then the words penetrated, and I tried to hide my dismay. "The rest of the day?"
He smiled faintly. "We won't have to spend the night. I assume you came by coach?" When I nodded, he said, "then we can leave by sunset."
The notion of remaining in an enclosed space with such a powerful personality was daunting, but not quite as daunting as the thought of having to sleep in the Bleak. And I supposed, if we were trapped together thus, perhaps I might become more acquainted with him, maybe even find some insight into just how difficult my work would be. "Sunset, then." And then, though I had not planned on asking such an intimate and irregular question, I said, "You know to the moment when your duty will end?"
"The body can endure only so long," Shame said. "And the mind follows. I will return."
And then he was gone, leaving me with unwelcome thoughts and only myself to blame for inviting them.
That was my first experience of Shame. My second came when I realized he did not intend to ride in the carriage with me.
"Osulkedi," I said, standing alongside the open door, "it is a three day ride from the Bleak to the Gate, and it will be dark soon."
"I know," he answered.
"There's no need—"
"I'll be fine," he said. At least he hadn't saddled his own steed; a young Guardian had brought it out already tacked, a high-strung creature with a deep brown coat. As I watched, Shame pulled himself into the saddle, managing the short robe over his loose trousers with that precision that reminded me, suddenly, of some of the better-trained members of the Guardian caste. It had that same hint of violence, like the top note of a subtle perfume: subliminal but clear when noticed.
When I didn't immediately respond, he studied me with his coronal eyes and said, "Are you often given to these reveries, Calligrapher?"
Stung, I replied in all candor, "Yes, I'm afraid."
He laughed then and said, "I've had them put my bags in your carriage, if that eases you." And then he clapped his heels against his mount's barrel and was off, leaving me to stare after him.
We are a genteel people, we Ai-Naidar. Not passionless, as some might have you believe, but not particularly given to displays of emotion. And Shame was not exactly displaying any emotions, but his presentation had a raw quality: I couldn't decide if this was just how he was, or if he was damaged. My plan to study him during our trip to Qenain would be severely restricted with him riding, but... if he had as much energy as he seemed to project, I would much prefer he drain some of it in physical exertion before I had to grapple with his intellect, particularly given how nakedly he wielded it.
"Osulkedi?"
Yes, I was given to reveries. I looked toward the source of the voice and found the young Guardian, a steed's reins gathered in his hands, though he was still a-ground. From his face he was practiced in wearing this schooled polite expression. "Was aid needed?" he finished, nodding toward the carriage door.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't see you. Are you...?"
"Assigned to the priest," he answered, and I could not read his eyes. What few Guardians I had ever spoken with had all had some variation of this same expression when on duty. I couldn't tell if he was glad of his assignment, or how long he'd been with Shame and whether he was concerned over him, and it seemed the wrong time to ask. Instead, I said, "Aid would be appreciated," and allowed him to close the carriage door behind me.
Thus we proceeded, and a gladder Ai-Naidari you would have been hard-pressed to find leaving the Bleak that day. And once we were underway, I found myself looking again and again at the log I'd discarded.
Should I tell him Thirukedi had given me these records? Their intimacy was so acute I could not decide which would be worse: to read them while he kept my company, unaware of my doing so... or to tell him, forcing him into awareness of the exposure. And yet there was no undoing what I had already read. I fingered the edge of the leather cover.
