A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2) Page 23

  Keshav’s rooms adjoined his, through the study, but Keshav hadn’t lived at home in a long time.

  Neither had Kisten. But unlike Keshav, he’d been in the capital—on Brontes—so rarely that he hadn’t seen the point in purchasing a home like Keshav had. On those rare occasions when he’d been on leave and decided to visit, he’d been happy to stay in his old room. His and Keshav’s shared study had once been their schoolroom; it was converted to a study after they’d gone off to school and thus no longer needed one.

  Tutors had given way to masters, and dormitories, and there had been so much hope.

  The Palace of the Winds was inside Chau Cera, but one would never know it from the sense of stillness and peace surrounding it. The only noise, apart from the wind in the leaves or an occasional gardener’s shout, was the chirping of birds. The palace was huge, formed of several discrete sections joined together by courtyards. Each courtyard was, in and of itself, a massive pleasure garden. The grounds outside the walls were equally massive, the high, featureless outer walls of the palace containing acres of forest and lawn. Flora and fauna of every description lived inside.

  Only part of the palace was a private residence; part was almost a hotel, reserved for diplomats and other guests of the state, and part was a museum. Hundreds of tourists passed through its gates every day to admire treasures dating back from the founding of the empire. Kisten, in earlier times, had sometimes joined them.

  He thought about reading the book on his bedside table, and decided that doing so was too much trouble. The story wasn’t that good, anyway.

  He was staring up at the ceiling when the door opened. He’d been thinking about how hideous the fresco there was, and wondering why he’d never noticed it before. No one in his right mind wanted peacocks on his ceiling. Even stylized peacocks. Even the colors of their plumes made his teeth ache; what else in nature was that bilious green?

  “Good morning,” said a voice.

  Kisten spoke without looking at the newcomer, whom he assumed to be a slave. Either a very new or a very stupid slave to be bothering him like this, when everyone else knew to leave him alone. He’d yelled at one poor thing who’d come in to bring him tea and started chatting, which wasn’t like him. Still, he couldn’t help himself—nor, indeed, help feeling entirely justified. He’d asked to be left alone.

  “Is it still morning?” he spoke in a languid tone.

  “It is,” replied the voice. “For ten more minutes.”

  “Then I suggest you do whatever it is you’ve come to do, and leave.”

  The owner of the voice sat down on the edge of his bed. Kisten turned, furious. What the hell? But instead of some chambermaid, he found himself looking directly into the eyes of a total stranger. They were nice eyes, too, he realized abstractedly: intelligent and gray. Her face was oval, slightly round, like a doll’s. If not exactly overweight, she was curvier than allowed for by the accepted standard of beauty. Still, she was lovely.

  Kisten wanted her to drop dead.

  Lying here before this stranger’s disturbingly direct gaze felt like being vivisected. He was propped up on pillows like an invalid, his thin hands resting on the coverlet, and he knew that she saw him. Really saw him. He hated it. He hated her. How dare she? She hadn’t spoken again, only waited—for him to do what, exactly? What was he to her, some kind of sideshow? He wanted to squirm, and he hated her more for that.

  “This,” he said, meeting her eyes, “is my room. Leave it.”

  “You need a shave,” the stranger said, “and a bath.”

  She spoke bluntly but not cruelly; she was merely stating facts. And she was right, of course; he hadn’t taken much care with his appearance since coming home. Getting off the shuttle had been bad enough; there had been press. He knew his picture had been in the paper: that every man, woman and child in the empire knew that their prince was a wreck. He’d refused to read the papers, but he could imagine how he’d looked. The press would never jokingly call him Prince Charming ever again. What was the point of pretending otherwise? Might as well put pearls on a pig.

  He ignored her, fully expecting her to give up and leave as Ravipati had done.

  She didn’t.

  Rage forced a response where breeding hadn’t. “I smell like poppies compared to what I smelled like before,” he told her.

  “Poppies. Interesting choice of word.”

  “What do you mean by that?” he demanded, momentarily forgetting his resolution to ignore her until she came to her senses and left. He knew what she meant, of course; his drug use was hardly the world’s best kept secret. He wasn’t an addict, although he might not have admitted it to himself if he was; his use had nothing to do with pleasure, or perceived need, and everything to do with blacking out as much of his life as possible. He didn’t want to remember; he didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to face a future that bore no resemblance to the future he’d envisioned.

  “So what,” he said unpleasantly, a shadow of his former self resurfacing, “you’re here to give me a sponge bath?” He resented the fact that he wasn’t frightening; in the old days, he would have sent her running with the implied threat. He’d never taken a woman against her will—at least, not much—although he’d pretended he might once or twice, to scare them.

  “I’m a friend of your brother’s,” she said calmly. “He’s sent me to care for you.”

  “You must mean Arjun,” Kisten replied. “Keshav doesn’t like fat women.”

  His venom was for himself and for his own weakness. And, too, for his bitter recognition of how, in another lifetime, he might have made a pass at her. He knew perfectly well that she was Keshav’s; it was just like his brother to force companionship on him for his own good. Moreover, Keshav’s taste did run to curvier women—to the extent that it ran to any type of woman at all. What they both found alluring about a prospective partner were the intangible things: a laugh. A smile.

  His remark had hurt her, he saw. He should have felt ashamed; attacking a woman over her weight was like shooting fish in a barrel. He’d been raised to protect women and care for them, not humiliate them. And he had, before. When he’d still been a man.

  Kisten pushed himself into a sitting position, so he’d be at less of a disadvantage.

  “Congratulations,” she said stiffly. “I hope you feel better now.”

  Her words cut him, but not as much as the look on her face. Her lower lip trembled slightly. His first impression of her, as a hard-hearted force of nature, had been incorrect. Something about her was…fragile, somehow. She adopted this frank, straightforward manner as a defense mechanism, he understood in a flash of insight. She was used to being hurt; she’d accept his cruelty, and ignore it, because she expected it.

  “I don’t,” he said. “And I don’t need a whore.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ve heard.”

  With a strength that surprised even him, he slapped her. He’d have liked to think that he didn’t know how strong he still was, but the truth was that he didn’t care. He felt too humiliated and trapped to care about anything but getting her out. Her head snapped to the side. Her eyes flew wide—wide and round and blank like a doll’s, staring from her doll’s face.

  He felt, obscurely, like he’d broken something.

  She stood up. She was both dignified and self-contained. She was slightly above medium height. Her hands were clasped in front of her and her knuckles were white, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. Neither of them moved for what seemed like a very long time. And then her lips parted slightly and he thought she was going to say something—wanted her to say something, anything—but she didn’t. She stood there for a moment longer and then, apparently having decided something, she turned and walked out.

  Kisten resumed staring at the ceiling. Something inside him ached, and he didn’t know why. He had to admit that it had been nice, having company. Even if she hadn’t come of her own volition. Was that what had upset him so? Knowing that she’d c
ome as an act of charity?

  He was being hateful, and he knew it. Was this why he’d survived?—so he could terrorize helpless women? This woman hadn’t done anything other than what she’d been told to. Mingled into his sadness was a creeping sense of regret. He’d chased her off, and she’d never come back. He’d had a chance, maybe, to—if not make a friend, then at least not be alone.

  But wasn’t that what he wanted? To be alone? And this woman—he realized that he’d never even learned her name. His room seemed emptier, now, somehow, than it had a few minutes before.

  If he’d been able to, he would have wept.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  But she did come back.

  Kisten was sitting in the cane chair on his verandah, surrounded by pillows, when he heard her footstep. He didn’t turn. His joints ached abominably and he had a headache. He hadn’t taken his medication yet; the assorted bottles sat on the small table beside him, grouped next to a glass of water that he hadn’t touched. He refused to acknowledge her; he hated himself, but he didn’t want her to see that.

  She slipped out onto the unglazed red tiles and took a seat on the railing. Out of range, he noted sourly. He stared out at the garden. He’d come outside only because he couldn’t be seen from below; the angle of the sun left him in shadow. Behind him, the ornately carved fretwork panels let in the slight breeze. It was a beautiful day, neither too hot nor too cold. A day that, in times past, he would have spent outdoors if he’d been able. Spending so much time in space had given him a keen appreciation for weather in all its forms.

  “So why don’t you?” she asked.

  He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. He glanced at her; she was waiting in that way she had. He wanted to ask her who had hurt her, but he didn’t. Who had hurt her before him, he meant. She was nothing to him, except an annoyance, he reminded himself. He was curious only because she was there and he’d been woefully starved of things to think about. He probably would’ve questioned a caterpillar about its life history, if it had dropped into his water glass.

  He turned his attention back to the garden, willfully ignoring her. She was just so…pathetic. God damn her.

  Below, the head gardener was directing the installation of a new ornamental pond. There was, evidently, going to be a small island in the middle. Presumably for animals to nest on. Maybe birds. He’d always wanted an island like that, as a child: slightly larger, with a gazebo or a tiny summer house to read in.

  When he realized she wasn’t leaving, he spoke. “Look at me,” he said.

  “What is it I’m supposed to see?” she asked.

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I’m not mocking you.” She had a gentle way of speaking; her voice was soft and warm, just like the rest of her. Or so he imagined. Gray silk draped her in graceful folds, the same gray as her eyes. She regarded him evenly, her hands folded in her lap. There was a bruise on her cheek.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Renta,” she replied.

  “Do you have a surname, Renta?” He supposed that she must; even whores had surnames. That she was in fact a whore he had no doubt. A respectable woman wouldn’t be alone and unchaperoned with a strange man. Much less in his bedroom. Moreover, Keshav avoided virgins. Since Jacintha’s death, he’d confined himself to lovers who’d learned all there was to learn of the art long before they’d crossed his path. And, most importantly, were unburdened by…expectations.

  “Yes,” she said, “I do. It’s Singh.”

  He checked, and stared. The name was common enough, but now that he looked at her he saw the resemblance. Lord Parvez must be her father, or perhaps her uncle; she was certainly better looking, although she had the same gray eyes and small mouth. Lord Parvez was a grotesquely fat man whose small, trembling mouth spoke of indecision. He wondered why he didn’t remember her; he remembered her father, if indeed Lord Parvez was her father. He seemed to recall beating her brother at polo.

  “I’m eight years younger than you are,” she said, answering his unasked question. “When you left for the academy, I was still in pigtails.”

  Which explained why he’d never noticed her. “Your lord father must not care for this little dalliance.”

  She shook her head slightly, but whether in agreement or no he couldn’t tell. “We haven’t spoken in three years. If he knows, I can’t imagine that he cares.”

  Kisten was interested, in spite of himself. “A renegade, then.” He knew the type; bored, overfed scions of noble houses sometimes proved their independence with a few years’ worth of stupidity. Which his father had accused him of doing, when he’d insisted on a career in the navy. He supposed that Renta had run away from home over some silly thing—who knew what upset women—and was staying with his family while she calmed down.

  “When I was nineteen,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she’d been discussing a dinner menu, “my parents had a reception for the Alamish ambassador. I was there, of course. The downstairs was crowded; all the smoke and heat and perfume was giving me a headache so I stepped out onto the verandah. One of my father’s friends joined me, and we chatted a bit. The attention made me uncomfortable, but what could I do? He was an important man, and married, and much older. I told myself that I was being ridiculous; I was young, and terrified of doing the wrong thing and offending someone.” She laughed mirthlessly.

  “Girls, you see, are socialized to believe that nothing is more important than being polite. Sweet.” She paused. “He asked me to take a walk with him, and I agreed. I was an adult, or so I thought, and it wasn’t so unreasonable that another adult might choose to spend time with me.

  “I realized, too late, that we’d gone a good distance from the house—much farther than I’d intended to go. I said as much, but when I tried to go, he stopped me. And then he raped me.”

  She paused. The cicadas droned. One of the gardeners cursed.

  “When my father found out, he was furious. He blamed me. He would have forced me to marry the man in question, were it within his power. Thankfully for me, he was already married. And then it turned out that I was pregnant.” She made a helpless gesture. “My noble, high-minded father beat me until I lost the child. And then he told me to get out. He said, and I quote, that he’d die of shame before he’d suffer a whore to live under his roof.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault,” Kisten protested, shocked.

  She met his gaze, clear-eyed. “It’s always the woman’s fault,” she said softly. “I should have known better; I should never have been alone with him in the first place. Or, as my father put it, having flaunted my charms like a whore I could hardly claim offense when I was treated like one.”

  She dropped her eyes to her lap, where her hands were still folded. “A friend took me in, under certain…conditions. I had nowhere else to go. I had no money, no guardian, no rights. This…arrangement wasn’t what I wanted, but I also didn’t want to starve. The only alternative was to work at a brothel, which has ever been the fate of the genteelly impoverished. That, or seek admittance to a religious order and renounce the world. I was too proud to beg assistance of the very friends who’d turned their backs on me after…what happened. So I agreed.

  “He treated me…very differently once I was under his power. Over the next year, I grew to loathe him. But sharing a bed with one man who disgusts you is better than being split between many. Eventually, he grew tired of me and started offering me to his friends. At first I resisted.” She shrugged. “After awhile, I didn’t care. After he put me in the hospital for the third time, I found out that I could no longer have children. There was simply too much damage.

  “No one loved me, no one wanted me, and…I had nowhere else to go. It sounds like an excuse, but….” She trailed off. It didn’t sound like an excuse, at all. She’d been barely more than a child, and those who should have protected her had abandoned her—and after a terrible trauma. “I met your brother at one of these—well, orgies, really. He asked me
to come home with him, and I did. I think that my erstwhile protector was sad to lose me, not because he cared for me but because he hated to be out-maneuvered. But he wouldn’t dare cross a prince of the blood. Let alone Keshav.”

  She smiled a small, secret smile. “And now, here I am.”

  “Because I’m an object of pity.”

  “Because I owe something to your brother.”

  Kisten pinched the bridge of his nose, and thought, and thought about what an ass he was. “I am…extremely sorry for what’s happened to you. And for my own conduct.” He forced himself to say it. “You came to me as a lady, offering aid, and you deserved a better response.”

  “It’s alright,” she told him. “I’m used to it.”

  “I should not like to continue a pattern.”

  “Your brother said you’d be difficult.”

  “I will…endeavor to be less difficult.” He met her eyes. “If, that is, you consent to stay.”

  She regarded him seriously. “I do,” she said. “For now.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  And so Kisten began the slow, torturous process of getting better.

  It went slowly at first; days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and he put on weight and got stronger and the medication began to help. But he still hated to leave his room, and utterly refused to go outside. He kept to his wing of the palace, which he had more or less to himself. He still had dreams; he still found himself overtaken, at odd moments, by rushes of memory that seemed more solid and immediate than the world around him. He was terrified of it happening when someone could see him.

  Then they’d know how weak, how wholly useless he’d become.

  He’d had to let out his belt and his heart had stopped racing, but Kisten was as cowardly as ever where it counted.

  He began seeing his mother, and his sister, but only because Renta made him. He was, at this point, beholden to her by guilt and so let her order him around. A little, at least. The bruise on her cheek had long ago faded, but he still hated himself for having put it there. Keshav came, of course, but he hardly counted. Being with Keshav was like being reunited with the other half of his own soul: whole, but still alone.