Songweaver's Awakening

Chapter 17 - Lladwen

Rajheem, the boy, was going to break.  Lladwen did not envy him.  It was not an easy thing, to be in debt to Helen.  She knew exactly when and how to bring it into play.

His gaze turned to Helen in the silence.  She sipped from a cup of fermented camel’s milk, a slight smile nearly hidden by the rim.  Her left hand lay flat against the table, her fingertips grazing a brown leather pouch that lay there.  The boy had passed it to Lladwen upon his return from Farahd’s palace.  The pouch was filled with rubies of varying sizes and cuts—the stone of the First Seat.  Every once in a while she would shift, and then surreptitiously brush her fingers against it as if to reassure herself it was still there.  Lladwen always knew when Helen was pleased with herself.

The slight smile on her lips faded as she brought the cup down and set it on the table.   “I understand, Rajheem.  He is the First Seat, and you must admire him as surely as I do.  It is a great honor to be trusted by such a man.  You owe him your loyalty, as do we all.  If there is something you cannot tell me, then we must leave it at that.”  Helen raised the cup to her lips again, the secret smile behind it.

Lladwen suppressed a snort.  This, after a good length of questions and pleading, both increasing in their intensity.  She knew exactly when to press and when to pull back.  It was as admirable as it was disgusting.

Lladwen watched the maidservant as she poured, the water spilling from the pitcher in a narrow stream into the boy’s white cup, not a splash to be seen.  He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Rajheem’s gaze following the water, intent and unmoving.  Like the other servants in the palace, the minstrel’s water was rationed, except when he sat with Helen.  Then the maidservant entered every so often and poured until the cup was full.

She pulled her arm up and away in a graceful movement so that no moisture beaded on the rim of the pitcher, ready to fall.  Lladwen had become accustomed over the years to the heat and the thick smell of spices.  But the high importance placed on water, its invasion into every aspect of life, was something that was as alien to Lladwen as the inexplicable Hajinni aversion to music.  Taen’s tits, even their goddess wept tears of fresh water.

“How does your finger feel, Rajheem?  I'd heard it was still a bit stiff before,” she said.  Helen wore blue again, the lengths of silk cloth wrapped about her body like a badge of pride.  She had earned the blue and silver, long ago, when she’d sent Joram to his death.  It suited her, making her eyes stand out against her dark red lashes and thick brows.

Rajheem pulled his hand away from the mug the maidservant had just filled with water.  He brought his hand into his lap, his gaze following.  “It's as if it were never broken, Raja.”  His hair fell across his forehead, hiding his furrowed brow. 

Another dig, another reminder of all she has done for him.  First the water and now his mended hand.  She will mention the lutes next, if he does not break now.

“I'm glad to hear it, Rajheem.  Now, if we have no more to speak about, then you may go.”

The boy rose from his seat on the cushion.  Lladwen could see the struggle on his face—the brows contracting and the parting lips.  It was over in a matter of moments.

“We were attacked, Raja,” he blurted out.  “He asked to be alone with me, and when he was talking, someone came up from behind.”  The boy’s lips closed as quickly as they had opened.  His eyes flicked to Lladwen, and then back to Helen.

Helen only watched him, her fingers toying with the cord of the leather pouch.   “You can speak freely in front of him.”

Rajheem’s lips were pale when he finally spoke again.  “It was a man in dark gray.  He was wearing a veil.  He tried to kill me, Raja.  The First Seat saved my life.”