Work Text:
The following day, the princes met in the Archive. Lord Baleirithys dismissed all of the scribes, and Yrich disappeared deep into his refuge. Tharaiyelagh waited for a while, expecting his services to be needed, but the two princes drifted from shelf to shelf, speaking in low tones.
Tharaiyelagh assumed it would be rude to record what seemed like a (mostly) private conversation. He selected a book of poetry in Old Dragonish, pulled out the usual dictionary, and sat down with his wax tablet and pulp book. This particular passage had some difficult particles and conjugations. Inclusive-exclusive-intrusive-exclusive. What did that even mean? Before long, he forgot to reserve part of his attention to see if his lord needed him.
“You understand the Old Language?”
Tharaiyelagh startled and found dark red-brown eyes smiling at him. Without waiting for a response, the assassin prince pulled up a chair and peered at the book of poetry.
“I… I’m learning,” Tharaiyelagh managed around the thundering of his heart. “This is how I practice.” He indicated the wax tablet where he wrote and rewrote words and phrases, and the pulp book in which he transcribed each finished line.
Prince Van-Dal looked across the table to where Lord Baleirithys stood. “You have him learning the Old Language?”
Lord Baleirithys laughed a tiny, soundless laugh. “Of course not. Tharaiyelagh is doing that on his own.”
Prince Van-Dal looked at Tharaiyelagh in a long, slow, calculating way that made him feel exposed. Tharaiyelagh lifted his chin and squared his shoulders.
“Yes, I see.” Prince Van-Dal pulled the wax tablet closer and examined it. “These characters are very well formed. What tool do you use to draw them?”
Feeling a little abashed, but determined not to let it show, Tharaiyelagh extended his arm and let the light catch on the sticky wax residue on his claws.
“Hah!” Prince Van-Dal crowed, his surprise and delight causing Tharaiyelagh to flinch. “Brilliant. Baleirithys, come look at this.” He beckoned. To Tharaiyelagh he said, “Go on, write something.”
Taking the tablet back, Tharaiyelagh swiftly pressed hold-continuous fire-person-inclusive into the wax. It was a phrase he had recently translated as Keeper of Flame. Maybe that was close to accurate.
“Huh,” murmured Lord Baleirithys.
“Clever little one.” Smiling, Prince Van-Dal pinched the end of Tharaiyelagh’s golden plumage and gave it a light tug, almost playful. “Do you suppose that’s how it was originally written?”
“Probably,” Lord Baleirithys said. “It looks more efficient than a brush.”
“Yln and Vei will be fascinated to hear of this.” Prince Van-Dal grinned a wide grin that unsettled Tharaiyelagh more than any mysterious and threatening demeanor would have. He leaned close again, one wing resting against the back of Tharaiyelagh’s chair. “You wouldn’t want to visit the Second Sphere, would you?” he murmured, his voice low and silken. “Show my scholarly siblings this discovery of yours?”
Tharaiyelagh lifted his chin a little higher. “I have important work here,” he said. “Your Highness.”
To his immense surprise, Prince Van-Dal laughed. The sound started deep in his chest and rumbled pleasantly through the open air. Was an assassin supposed to have a nice laugh? No, that was a ridiculous thought, so Tharaiyelagh tucked it away and smiled back at him.
The days passed quickly, Tharaiyelagh sometimes trailing behind the two princes, ready to record any political conversations. When Lord Baleirithys had other work demanding his attention, Prince Van-Dal teased out details of Tharaiyelagh’s former life (a little too effortlessly), or spoke with him about the poetry he had been translating. Tharaiyelagh itched to ask about the Second Sphere, but that would have been a step too far.
The assassin prince was surprisingly easy company.
On the final day of the visit, Prince Van-Dal caught Tharaiyelagh emerging from the Infirmary. He tilted his head, inquisitive. “You have work here as well, little one?”
The effect of Chaighan’s blood had faded enough for Enci to set up a treatment schedule. Tharaiyelagh felt his cheeks heating. “No, it’s a medical thing.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “About the seal on my back.”
“It’s an affliction.” Not a question.
“Probably more than intended, but not too great for a criminal to bear,” Tharaiyelagh said sourly. That was rude, but somehow he could not form an apology for it.
“May I?” When Tharaiyelagh did not refuse him, Prince Van-Dal stepped close and placed a hand in the center of his back. Warm magic rippled out from his touch, sticking like crackleburrs along the seal. “Mm,” said Prince Van-Dal, withdrawing his hand. “That’s a thing of evil. I’ve not yet studied its like.”
Flushed, shamed and defiant, Tharaiyelagh stood there in silence. The magic buzzing over his skin slowly faded, leaving him colder for its lack.
“I return home tonight,” Prince Van-Dal continued, “but we shall meet again soon enough.”
Soon enough for whom? Tharaiyelagh bit down on the question, instead executing a mostly-correct bow. “Your Highness is most welcome in Seyzharel.”
“That much I knew already.” As Tharaiyelagh straightened, Prince Van-Dal stepped just too close. He tipped Tharaiyelagh’s face upward with one fingertip beneath his chin. The sharp point of his claw grazed vulnerable skin. “I’d like to know what you think.”
Tharaiyelagh thought he felt warm and lightheaded, almost like drinking elf blood too quickly. He smiled quite without meaning to. “I have enjoyed our conversations, Your Highness.”
Prince Van-Dal rubbed one fingertip at the base of his own horn, then lightly brushed it against Tharaiyelagh’s forehead. Uncertain how to respond, Tharaiyelagh stared up at him in silence. “That’s a request,” Prince Van-Dal said with a small, soft smile. “I should like to enjoy more conversations with you on my next visit.”
“Of course!” Tharaiyelagh blurted, too fast and too familiar. Rather than taking offense, Prince Van-Dal smiled again.
Remarkable.
Should an assassin—a leader of assassins—have such a warm smile?
It cheered him to know that Lord Baleirithys had such a friend. Tharaiyelagh continued on his way with a lighter step, pretending he could not feel those reddish eyes watching him as he went.