"Because," Kor said, drawing in a deep breath and giving it away, and with it all the tension in his shoulders. He smiled. "Because, Farren... my soul I have given into the hands of the Emperor, and all my trust. If it is in His keeping, then it cannot be blemished."
"The potter does not always mend the pot," I said.
"Then," Kor said, even quieter, "I trust that He will set me aside when I no longer serve His people." He lifted his brows. "Don't tell me you don't feel the same."
"No," I said slowly. "But perhaps I am less sanguine about the thought, not being the one who welcomed the lash and bore the knives."
He cupped my face and chuckled. "Oh, shinje. How deeply you underestimate yourself. I will have to work on that."
"I look forward to it," I said, and kissed his palm, thinking how strange it was that I had come to love the touch of it so much, knowing it had held the needle and the gag and the whip. But what good is Shame, if it does not also have a gentle touch? "Go back to Ajan—it is where you were this morning, yes? I will prepare the others for the journey, and be gone by lunch. We shall be quit of this thing at last, and free to contemplate... whatever it is that comes next."
He studied my face, still holding it. I permitted that study, and used the time to enjoy the way the shadows gave depth to his otherwise colorless eyes: with the lamp at his back, they looked almost gray.
"You are making art again, aren't you," he said with a sudden twist of his mouth. Since I had been hoping for one of those little smiles of his, I was content.
"Perhaps," I said. "You still owe me those modeling sessions."
"And you shall have them," he promised, and kissed my brow before letting me go. Softer: "Thank you."
"Come back to us swiftly," I said.
"As soon as possible," he said, and went.
Once again, our party gathered in the short, crisp shadow of the Gate: an even smaller group than before, with only five of us where once seven had ridden together, and the lack of entourage was no less troubling now than it had been then. But I daresay all of us were weary of the waiting; even the aunera seemed glad to be going, and their only response on hearing that Shame had remained with Ajan was to ask if he needed anything from them before they left. I assured them he would be fine and prayed it would be so. As much as I had reassured him of the necessity of our parting, I felt his absence keenly; so quickly we had become what he claimed, complementing one another so well that to be apart felt strange.
But as much as it pained me to leave him, I was eager unto desperation to be done with the colony world and its brash, eye-watering light and possessive gravity. The cool breath of the Gate as we approached felt less alien to me and more welcoming, for knowing what was behind its thin film.
The Guardians waved us past—new ones this time, but well-informed as to our identities—and we passed through the Gate onto the throneworld, the perfect, beautiful throneworld with its honeyed light and its softly blended colors, a world in harmony with itself and its people. The out-breath of the Gate mingled with the soft spring breeze, carrying with it the perfume of rainflowers and a faint hint of wet soil; it had rained recently, perhaps. Best perhaps of all, save the easing of my eyes, was the easing of my joints as the world I had been born to cradled them.
Home, at last. I drew in a long breath and closed my eyes as I released it, emptying my body of the colony world's cruel air. When I opened my eyes again, I was smiling.
"So this is Kherishdar," Lenore whispered, so that only Ai-Naidari ears might have heard the words.
"This is the seat of empire," I said. "You did not cross?"
"Not with my caste-peer," she said. "Only he went over, having had a permit to do so already. We did not wish to make trouble for our lord."
I glanced at her sharply at the title she'd given ij Qenain, but the aunerai said nothing more. It was for Haraa to speak, when we had ridden on ahead of the party. "She meant it."
"You're certain?" I said. "It was not some misstep of the language?"
"No," Haraa said, subdued. "No, they have accepted him as their masuredi, insomuch as aunera can understand the concept."
"Can they?" I said.
"I think they long to," Haraa said. "I am not sure it is in their natures, though, to submit to anything. Not completely. They are a little like wild animals, from what I have observed. One can tame them, but some secret flame burns in their hearts which can never be affected by those attempting to civilize them."
"Harsh words," I murmured.
"To us, perhaps," Haraa said, glancing over her shoulder at the aunera, riding on either side of the lord of Qenain. "I think they might be proud of such an assessment."
"This," I said, shaking my head. "This can only end in grief, Haraa."
"What part of life does not?" Haraa murmured against my shoulder-blade. I understood her bitterness, for some part of me had accepted such thoughts after Sejzena's death. But I found I no longer held with the thought that all life's endeavors must end with pain; not with my heart once again open. But perhaps if my grief could have an ending, Haraa's might as well... and until then, I could sympathize with her pain, having been through it myself. I rested my hand on the arm she had around my waist, and she flexed her fingers against my side, accepting my caress.
When I set out on this mission to Qenain, riding down the Ashumel with Shame and his Guardian, we pricked forth little curiosity from our fellow travelers. Everyone knew of Shame, of course, and with his rare coloration and his calling's stark livery he was easily identified... but in the capital one grows accustomed to seeing the evidence of his presence, for that his temple is based there. There are no other shrines to Shame in the empire; we know that, like the god of Civilization Himself, Shame lives in the capital. So, one can grow comfortable with the implication of his presence.
We three had less infamy than I did now, traveling the Ashumel to the capital in the company of two gray-cloaked aunera.
The attention was distressing; you are imagining crowds gawking, perhaps, but what transpired was the very opposite. We were avoided; on the busy road, with couriers and travelers and Merchants all intent on reaching their destinations, we were given a wide berth. At the inn where Shame had arranged our rooms in advance, we were greeted by the proprietor but again, no one looked at us. No one looked at me, even, and I had spent three and a half hours at this very inn, beautifying its courtyard. It had not been long enough for the proprietor to forget me; indeed, someone had carefully preserved the word "joy" by surrounding it in stones, that no one might accidentally disturb the markings in the dirt. But he did not meet my eyes, who not two weeks past had encouraged me to rest my aching back and poured a bowl of sasrith and coins and flowers into my hands.
And this was kindness, in compare to what the aunera underwent, for the proprietor did me the basic courtesy of acknowledging me with the language of his body. No one allowed their bodies to react to the aunera, so that even the sound of their footsteps went unremarked: not so much as a single ear twitched to follow their passage.
By the time we had situated the two aliens in their room, the female was pale.
In response to my concerned expression, she composed herself and said, "I was expecting hatred, osulkedi. Not... to be seen through. As if... there is nothing to interrupt the eyes."
Her caste-peer put a gentle hand on her arm and said something in their tongue that made her bow her head. As she turned to go into the room, I said, "I see you, Shemena."
Her smile was half-hearted, but I thought that better than nothing at all.
That night I found myself surprisingly restless, given that I had spent an entire day in the saddle; not something to which I was accustomed, and an activity that had exhausted me on the way to Qenain's Gate-house. Perhaps it was because of the release of the weight on my limbs; I could breathe easier here, could move with less effort, recognized the smells in the air and the warmth on my skin. Perhaps it was that the colors around me were good and right, gentle things with sublime gradients, the perfect blending of pastels shading to beautiful, muted hues.
Or perhaps it was the loneliness. We had issued forth on our errand with only three people, but two of them were gone from me, and I understood in their absence just how much I cared for them both—not just Shame but his insouciant lover as well. I remembered the perfection of Ajan's clear voice, raised in song as we rode... looked at the bed in my borrowed room and thought it too empty.
My trunk had gone out ahead of us, of course, and by now was home in my studio. But there was pen and parchment available for those travelers who might need it, so I borrowed a sheet and sat at the narrow desk, staring at the blank page.
What now? So near the end of all this? I smoothed my fingers over the paper, careless of the oils on my skin. What word to describe the midpoint of the ride home? So close to completion, yearning for an ending, even a poor one. How painful it is to be in transition, and yet we are forever at that midpoint, never done with growing, never done with our small, personal evolutions.
Some of you are already familiar with our word ishan: the appreciation of the fullness of a thing's span, from beginning to end, with an understanding that it is worthy at every point in that span... that the ending is there, contained in the beginning, and that all the journey is in the ending. It is a good and gentle word, an appropriate one; it is foundational to Ai-Naidar, what allows us to see the intrinsic worth in every individual, no matter where they are in their lives.
I did not paint ishan. I am ashamed to admit I could not, because the pains and joys and healing and breaking of this paisathi of mine—the paisath of all of us—were too tender and new yet for me to have reached that serenity. I owned no serenity; all I felt was tension, and melancholy.
So I wrote that instead. Paisath. Journeys. I wrote it knowing that none of us are done with our paisath until we have died. That we honor ishan because we are deeply aware that all of us are in transition until we are here no longer, and that all of us need one another to live through that journey. To find meaning in it. To have the strength to see it to its end, and reason to celebrate it when we are able.
I had only the inn's ink pen and its small parchment; for that reason, paisath is the only word that is mounted in the book, for it was written on a page the length of my hand, one too small to be extended the way I did the tea house's larger sheet. And that ended up being just as it should be, for every paisathi requires a frame, something to give it context and meaning. Without that, it is just... a broken pot.
We came at last to the capital in the early afternoon of the following day. It felt as if I had left yesterday... and as if I had been gone forever... the only way I could count the days, true to my ishas, was by remembering the number of paintings: thirteen of them, for thirteen darelen I had sat with Kor Nai'Nerillin-osulkedi, Shame and priest and ajzelin. The days before we had chosen to spend that time together blurred together; only the art gave me a sense of the time I had spent on this journey that was to change all the days that came after so irrevocably.
The male aunerai had been here before, but that previous visit had not inured him against the experience; for all his stoicism I saw his breath catch at the sight of the capital's walls, and saw the emotion in his raised eyes.
