by Megan Derr
"Yes. Why they decided to invade Harken to steal foodstuffs and supplies when most of the border towns and villages will trade with them, I have no idea. But the problem has been assigned to others and hopefully will not further require me."
"Still have not settled on a deputy?"
Jader shook his head. "No, though not for lack of trying."
"If you are open to suggestions…"
Jader laughed. "I would be a fool to ignore your advice. Who do you suggest?"
"Captain Rega Halon. She was not an officer I ever met while High Commander, but I heard good things about her from time to time. She was promoted to Captain of the Valforin garrison only a couple of months ago."
"I remember hearing or reading of it, but Valforin is one of the few places on this Pantheon-forsaken continent that can actually manage without whining to me every month or two," Jader replied.
"I met her when we traveled through Valforin last month to attend a festival in Raal. She's wasted babysitting a garrison. Have her brought here and see what you think."
Jader nodded. "You still make this job look easier than I ever seem to manage."
Lesto laughed and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I did it far longer than you have. Go, make your retreat before someone finds you. There should be a bath waiting for you. Oh, and leave off the uniform. You're off duty the rest of the night, by order of the High King."
"As His Majesty Commands." Jader clapped Lesto's shoulder and fled to his room.
Ordering the guard stationed there that he was not to be disturbed except for emergencies, he went into his room and locked the door, then just leaned against it for a moment. Exhaustion hit him like slamming into a wall—the long ride to and from Bein, the brutal fight against the Carthians only to find his own fucking men acting like Carthians. Administering harsh punishment.
Executing a man and having to make a spectacle—a point—of it.
It wasn't the first time he'd had to execute someone, but he always hoped each one would be the last. And it would do morale no favors, or win the filthy floater new supporters. There were many things that Lesto had done that had been taken as a matter of course, but when Jader did them, he was a Farlander taking advantage and getting too full of himself and a hundred other things he was damned tired of hearing.
That and the mention of a festival reminded him of the coming Cold Fire Festival. He and many of the other Islanders in the palace always got together on the beach to light a fire. They could not keep it lit the whole season the way they would back home, but it was enough to wear their own clothes and be completely and wholly themselves for one night. Even if dressing as an Islander always brought him grief from two directions: Harkens who hated Islanders and weren't afraid to show it, and Islanders new enough they did not know who Jader was and assumed he was a Harken treating Islanders' ways as something to amuse himself with.
But thoughts of the festival brought Kamir and his children back to mind. How he hadn't known they were Kamir's immediately, Jader didn't know. They looked just like him, right down to his lovely smile, though the children were open where Kamir always seemed wary and like he was holding back. It was unfortunate that someone as sweet as Kamir had learned to be so cautious. No doubt his family and ex-husband had everything to do with that. Jader didn't have much experience with abuse, but he had some—hard not to come across it when dealing with an army, and all the different kinds of people, good and bad, who comprised it.
Finally pushing away from the door, he strode across the suite to his bedroom. He stripped off his filthy armor and uniform and left them to be cleaned, and put the rest of his clothes in a different basket for the general laundry to take care of. His sword belt he left on its hook near his armor stand.
Naked, Jader headed for the bath that was waiting for him, immensely grateful Lesto had arranged it for him.
He sank into the tub with a long groan. The water was almost hotter than he could stand, but it was already working wonders on his aching muscles. Someone had drizzled oil in the water that filled the air with the scent of hibiscus, making him homesick on top of everything else.
Eventually he sat up and scrubbed himself clean, rinsing away all the dirt and sweat and grime of the day. Standing, he dumped a bucket of clean water over him to sluice the last of the soap away and then climbed out. He shrugged into a dressing robe and wandered into the main room to rest by the fire with a cup of wine for a little while.
The first thing he'd really, truly loved about the Mainland was wine. Islanders stuck with beer, which they imported from Outland, and a liquor made from a local flower. Islanders simply called it nectar, but they occasionally sold it in Outland, where it was called Tears of the Moon and sold for a sum that made Islanders laugh hysterically.
Wine, however, especially a good Coresta, was not something he'd had until his first tentative friend in the army had shared a bottle gifted to her by her sister.
After that, Jader has swiftly become an enthusiast. He spent more of his paychecks than he'd ever admit stocking the private cellar he kept in the palace, renting the space out in three year increments—or had, until Sarrica had given him the space permanently as a gift on his promotion. Allen had then bestowed him with three barrels of wine and two casks of brandy, all of it from Gaulden.
When he'd finished one cup, he forced himself to his feet and returned to his room to dress.
He would feel infinitely better wearing his uniform and armor—and swords—but orders were orders, and he wasn't wholly sorry to be ordered off duty the rest of the night. Even if it was only because he was going to be meeting someone he had no desire to even glimpse.
Discarding his robe, he finally pulled on snug, dark teal breeches and white stockings, pulling on his dress boots because he would never feel comfortable in the pretty shoes Allen and most courtiers wore around the palace. Next he pulled on a white undershirt embroidered with colorful hibiscus and gold swirls, which matched the same embroidery along the edges of his sleeveless knee-length jacket. Rather than the front, it buttoned along his sides from just under the arm down to the hips, where it stopped to show his breeches on either side.
The collar was military, short and stiff, the opening pinned shut with a seashell made of gold and mother of pearl.
Choosing his earrings was the hard part. Once earrings had been a rigid tradition on the Islands. Different people wore different types, and wearing certain earrings without permission could get an Islander beaten or even banished from their home. If they were lucky, another Island would take them in, but often they vanished to the Mainland or the ocean.
Those traditions had mostly faded, and outside of a small set of styles that belonged to honored positions, anyone could wear any type of earrings. They'd become an element all their own, and uniquely Islander, no matter how often the Pantheon-damned Outlanders tried to turn the tradition to their own profit.
He opened his various jewelry cases and weighed his options, picked out a few pairs and carried them over to the large mirror hung at the back of his dressing room.
Instead of earrings, though, he wound up frowning at his own reflection. No matter what he did, his skin remained white—bone white, people liked to say, a play on floater that was itself a twist on both a Harken word that meant shit, and a Gearthish word that meant corpse, both of which sounded passingly similar to the word Islander to an unpracticed ear. It was also a reference to the Islander practice of polyamory and open relationships, the way they floated from one person to another.
Bone-white skin, night-black hair, eyes the color of dirt. He'd been called a monster and a freak at least as often as he'd been called a floater. He certainly didn't look like an Islander, and he didn't look like he belonged anywhere in Harken either, really. Most assumed Gaulden or Rilien, but even that was a stretch. He'd always assumed—and so had many others—that he had originally hailed from Treya Mencee or one of its neighbors.
Being from Benta wasn't much better.
He wasn't from Benta. He was an Islander, the beached fish from the Belarigo family, part of the Relara community on Pearl Island.
Why did he have to do this?
But why didn't matter. He did have to do it, and acting like a child about it would do more harm than good.
Shoving his fears aside, he finally focused on the earrings, trying out nearly ten pairs before he stopped fussing and settled on the gold double hoops that dripped teardrop opals, pink sapphire, and teal topaz. When those were in place, he picked out the rest of his piercings to match, until both ears were covered and he had a small gold hoop in his nose.
As ready as he would ever be, Jader abandoned his room and made his way through the palace to the offices of the High King and Consort.
The guards opened the doors as he reached them, and nodded as they always did, but they had a dazed look to their eyes that only tightened the knots in Jader's stomach. "G-good evening, Commander."
"Good evening." Jader strode through the antechamber without pausing to greet anyone, avoiding even the guards when they greeted him much like the first set.
The office had been emptied of the many secretaries that helped to keep it running, even Myra, the lead secretary for both Sarrica and Allen.
Across the room in the seating area used for important guests or discussions that took a great deal of time, sat Sarrica, Allen, the Bentan delegates Jader had met a few days ago… and four new faces, including a woman who could have almost been Jader's twin.
He was going to throw up.
"Trevin!" the woman screamed, then slapped her hands over her mouth and started crying.
Jader took half a step back as she suddenly barreled toward him, then made himself hold still. Reaching him, the woman threw her arms around him and sobbed uncontrollably. "Trevin, Trevin…" The top of her head didn't quite reach his shoulders, and even though he was possibly even skinnier than her, she still felt fragile in his arms.
His sister. His Bentan sister. He had nine Islander sisters and twelve brothers, and so many nieces and nephews he'd lost count. But he had no idea what to do with this woman who looked like him.
He looked up, desperate for help or an escape.
The woman from before, Lady Beacher, slowly walked over to them and pulled the crying woman away, speaking to her in low tones and wiping her face with a handkerchief until she calmed down.
Sniffling, the woman turned back to Jader and looked up at him with eyes that were the same unremarkable brown as his own. The hair, the skin, all of it. She was roughly ten years his senior, if he had to guess, but otherwise they really were so alike in appearance they could have nearly passed for twins.
"My name is Krista von Terring, and I apologize for my histrionics," she said in Harken, her Bentan accent faint. "It is like seeing a ghost. We never knew, you see. I was fifteen at the time; you were my adoring and much adored baby brother. Then we received word the ship had been lost, and they never found the wreckage. We even contacted Harken hoping they might have found something, and their navy kindly helped us look… Nothing was ever found. We had no bodies to bury. Now here you are, all these years later, our little Trevin." She sniffled again and smiled sadly. "Though I am told that is not your name anymore. Jader Star, that is your name now. That is not even a Harken name, if I am not mistaken."
Jader stiffened. "No, it's not. My proper name is Jader shey Belarigo, and I'm an Islander from Shahira." When she frowned, he said, "Pearl Island, one of the smaller Islands."
"Oh," she said, frowning slightly. "You mean the Farlands?"
"We call ourselves Islanders."
She nodded. "Of course, I'm sorry, I meant no offense. I was making certain I knew what you were talking about. No wonder we never found you, if you somehow traveled that far. We never thought that possible." She started crying again. "If only someone had thought to try anyway…" She pulled out a handkerchief of her own and dabbed at her eyes. "But I am above all happy that you are alive and doing so well, even if you were raised far from your proper family." She peered up at him, brown eyes dark and wet. "Do you remember me at all?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't," Jader replied, truly hating to hurt her. "All my memories were lost. I couldn't even remember my name, and no one else on Shahira spoke Bentan, so after a time, I couldn't even remember my first language."
"I understand," Krista replied, mustering a wobbly smile. "I am grateful to have you at all. I wish Mother could see you." She reached out to pet his arm, looking close to tears again.
Jader could have wept with relief himself when Lady Beacher coaxed her away and led her back to her seat.
"Shall we to dinner?" Allen asked. "I think it would help everyone immensely." But even he looked somewhat scattered by events, as did Sarrica. But no doubt like him they'd believed, or hoped, it was all a misunderstanding, that Jader merely bore some strong resemblance.
He nodded, as did everyone else. Dinner would be long and tedious, but it provided a stable, predictable format they could all follow, which would steady them as little else could or would right then.
"I'll join you momentarily," Jader said. "I need a moment, please."
"Of course," Sarrica said gruffly before anyone else could speak. "We'll see you in the banquet hall. Might be easier if you arrive separately anyway. Join us at your leisure."
Jader nodded and fled, striding blindly through the halls until he reached a hall that was largely overlooked because it was built in a place that had no interesting views or easy access to the rest of the palace. He threw open the door of the first salon, closed it sharply behind him, and leaned against the door, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
A tear-soaked, but slightly teasing voice said softly, "I found this place first, Commander. You can't just go stealing another person's hiding spot."
Dropping his hands, Jader looked across the room to where Kamir was curled up in a faded blue chair. He smiled faintly. "Apologies, my lord. I did not know this one was taken."
"Well, you're here now, you may as well share it."
Jader crossed the room to take the seat close to Kamir's, coughing briefly at the dust that billowed up. "What forces you…" he drifted off as he saw the bruise on Kamir's left cheek, anger coiling through him, hot and sharp. If Theoren had done that, Jader would shove his face into the nearest wall. "Who did that to you?"
Flinching, looking at his hands knotted in his lap, Kamir shrugged in that way only people long used to such atrocities could. Jader wanted to pull him close and hug him, fend off anyone who wanted to cause such a sweet, good person any harm.
"Is that why you're hiding?"
Kamir laughed, a fragile, shaky laugh that made Jader want to hold him more. Or maybe he just wanted a good reason to avoid whatever had upset him. "No, I am avoiding my problems for a bit, even if that does nothing to solve them."
"Well, you'll get no judgement from me as I am doing the very same thing." Jader hesitated, then asked, "Was it Theoren who hurt you? Is he what you're avoiding? You seem wholly capable of solving your own problems, my lord, but I'm still happy to throw him in the stocks and spare you the trouble."
"You're kind for offering, Commander, but I can manage him. If I change my mind, however, I'll certainly let you know." He smiled more genuinely then, sweet and soft and pretty. It might just be the desperate need for a distraction still talking, but Jader suddenly wanted badly to kiss him. "What provokes the High Commander to seek out a hiding spot?"
Jader drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I prefer not to think about it, but I'm sure in a few more minutes it will be all over the palace. I'm hiding from my sister," he said, and haltingly told Kamir all that had happened from the moment he'd first gone to see Lady Beacher and the others, right up to the moment he'd fled Sarrica's office.
He startled slightly when Kamir's hand covered his, fingers long and thin, calloused in the way of people who worked with their hands—jewelers, crafters, artists, and the like. "I'm so very
sorry. That is quite the revelation to be dumped on you in such fashion. I have nothing but respect for the High King and High Consort, but I wish the matter could have been handled more quietly—privately. Are you expected to go to Benta now?"
"Mother Ocean, I certainly hope not. I am thirty years old, an Islander and citizen of the Empire. I don't speak a word of Bentan, and I have all the same reasons to dislike them as the rest of Harken. I'll keep them company while they're here and entertain them as they request, and then gladly see them to their ship when it's time for them to leave." He smiled, covered Kamir's hand with his free hand. "I just needed a moment to catch my breath. It's been a long, unhappy day and this was not the way I wanted to end it."
Something flashed in Kamir's eyes, hot and yearning, and then was gone—but it had been enough to make Jader's own breath catch. He'd been teased in his early days in the army for being oblivious when people flirted with him, and more for so seldom showing an interest in anyone. When he did show an interest, it burned hot, but he was just as content without the heat.
This was not the right time or place to realize his new interest in Kamir was more than he'd thought, but now the awareness was there, it was hard not to think about it. "Lord Kamir—" Jader broke off and cleared his throat.
"I-if y-you're g-going to look at me like that, Commander, I-I think you c-can leave off the 'lord'." Kamir's eyes widened, mouth hanging open slightly, like he couldn't believe his own bold words.
Jader might not often be amorously inclined, but when he wanted, he wanted. He surged out of his seat and knelt in front of Kamir's. Reaching up, he threaded his hand through the long, unusually loose fall of Kamir's heavy hair and pulled him into a kiss.
He was not remotely surprised that Kamir tasted as sweet as he looked, like he'd indulged in some piece of candy probably meant for his children. His lips were soft, his movements hesitant, like someone who hadn't been kissed much, or perhaps not for a very long time.