Drakis looked around him. Pictographs and hieroglyphics ornamented the walls, each set in various sized framing cuts making a mosaic on the wall. There were the figures of elves, larger than the rest and more prominent. There were smaller figures of manticores and chimera as well as humans. There were other creatures, too, which he thought mystical for he had never seen them in battle. “They are the histories and honors of the House of Timuran after the manner of the elven language.”
“That is right,” Jugar nodded. “Can you read them?”
“Read them?” Drakis scoffed. “You are a fool!”
“I may be a fool,” the dwarf replied, “but I can read these. Here, for example,” and he pointed three-quarters of the way up the slope of the wall, “here is where a Timuran participated in the expedition to the God’s Wall and slaughtered ten thousand humans in their native kingdom. And here,” his fat finger pointed a little to the left of the previous frame, “is where two brothers of the Timuran line were killed as they fought a dragon.”
“A what?” Drakis asked.
“A dragon,” the dwarf continued. “It is a creature of power and majesty not seen among breathing dwarves or men in three hundred years. They are, in fact, the source of the song that has troubled you of late. See, over here,” and the dwarf once more shifted the direction of his pointing finger, “is where the humans of the royal line were all called to their doom by the betrayal of the dragons that once had served them so well. It is written here that they sing this song now in lament.”
“Foolish nonsense,” Drakis spat.
“And this wisdom from a slave who cannot read.” Jugar sighed once more, shaking his head. “I knew your fate today, Drakis, because I could read you as I read the markings on these walls.”
Drakis shook his head in disbelief.
“Your back, Drakis. . I read your back,” Jugar continued sadly. “When we were in the baths. Those scars were too deep and the markings too regular to be anything but the firereed whip of an elven House Master. Combat scars would have been more varied and, truthfully, would have killed you had they come on the field. But they were also knitted back together with both elven skill and the power of Aether. That meant that someone in this household had saved you from death before and many times.”
“Many times?” Drakis shook his head. “This is the first time my master has ever beaten me!”
“This is the first time you have ever remembered your master beating you,” Jugar corrected.
Drakis paused. “Then how did you know about. . about. .”
“About your House mistress?”
Drakis glanced shamefully away once again.
“Those same scars-they were healed with elven powers of the Aether, too clean and regular to have been otherwise. . and it had to be someone who cared not only about how you healed but how you looked.” Jugar shrugged. “It happens in elven households-especially those of the higher estates. It is forbidden, of course, but the practice has gotten about among the younger generation of the elves that a warrior’s-well, attentions-will bring more power to their use of the Aether. So now it has become a common, dirty little secret practiced in most households between elven youth who have too little else to occupy their time and the warrior slaves who have no choice but to submit or die and be forgotten. Elven society goes on turning its blind eye to the practice and is content to pretend it does not exist. By the looks of your back, this has been a cycle going on for some time.”
“Shebin. . Timuran. . I don’t remember anything like this.”
“But you can remember,” Jugar said earnestly. He reached up and grabbed Drakis by the shoulders. “You can know the truth for yourself! You don’t need the word of an old dwarf or anyone else for that matter. You want to know about the gods-I’ll tell you about the gods! The gods know the future because they understand the past. You cannot see where you’re going if you forget where you’ve been. You can be like the gods-you can come to know who you truly are, who you’ve truly been, and you can shape your own destiny. All you have to do is not participate in Devotions tonight.”
“That’s insane,” Drakis said, pulling back. “Everything that has gone wrong in my life lately has been because I haven’t been able to perform my Devotions.”
“House Devotions are your problem, Drakis,” Jugar growled in frustration. “It’s how they keep you the happy little slave! They make you forget the pain and the suffering and the loss and the agony of your existence every night. But if that’s what you want-if you want to remain the blissful slave-boy who wants to forget that his master regularly beats him into the shadow of death just for the pleasure it brings him, whose daughter plays with him like her personal filthy toy. . if you want to be the slave who just dreams of a better life that will forever be promised and never delivered. . if that is what you want, then take House Devotions tonight and go back to sleep, Drakis!”
The dwarf spat on the polished floor.
“But if you do. . you’ll condemn all of us to sleep forever.”