Maylo shouldn't have taken the short-cut. He knew that as soon as he heard the muffled sounds from ahead of him. The smack of flesh and bone was all too familiar in the halls of the Tepet these days, as his father took out his frustrations upon slaves, or younger members of the family.
It was too late to go back - Eloho had seen him come this way and she'd use any show of weakness on his part to push past him into father's favour. But... that left going on, and young as he was, Maylo had no wish to see more of the beast that raved within his father.
He flinched as a stifled scream reached him and stepped forwards reluctantly. The younger members of the family had only returned from their schools two weeks before but it was clear that the House had not prospered. A litany of woes - dynasts ruined, soldiers dead, enterprises sabotaged - had been passed on through the network of servants and younger patricians that all the children knew to pay attention to.
Two days before leaving for school, Maylo had seen his father beat an aging slave to death with his bare hands. He shuddered to think what the man would be like now. 'Perhaps they're right,' he thought. 'Perhaps I really am too soft.'
He crept towards the storeroom door and paused to remove his sandals before he eased past it. Drawing attention now would be cause for a beating, or perhaps worse. Bare feet had less chance to betray him.
He had only taken one step beyond the door when he heard a crash from inside, and then an angry voice. "Bitch... fix you..."
That wasn't his father, wasn't the silky menace he had heard criticising him from above for more than a decade. It was ugly with pain and hate, a voice that seemed known to him but one he could not place.
The sound of more blows, more gasps of pain.
Curiosity overwhelmed him. The door had been jammed from within but Maylo remembered one of his teachers telling him to deal with that. He knelt and drew his belt dagger, reaching it under the door to dig the tip into the jamb. A deft twist and the wooden wedge was loosened. The boy returned his dagger to his belt and eased the door latch up, barely touching it as he pushed the door lightly.
The sounds came clearer. Maylo swallowed and eased the door enough to peek around it with one eye. He raked back vagrant locks of black hair from his left eye and gazed at a small pallet laid on the floor of the wine cellar. The man couched by it was big, taller and broader than Maylo's youthful frame, his back to the door. Beyond him, curled on the pallet was a girl, little older than Maylo. Her hands were tied above her head to a wooden frame that held dusty wine bottles and her clothes, the ragged smock of a slave, had been mostly torn away.
Maylo's gasp was obviously not stifled enough - he was no puling innocent, but he had never thought to see one of his house so cowardly as to bind a slave-girl half his size before he took what he wanted. The man turned and Maylo was plunged from horror into nightmare. The face he saw might have been his own, high cheekbones and piercing green eyes set in an olive complexioned face framed by long ebony hair. But this face was older and marked by a duelling scar above the left eye.
"Jarek!" Maylo gasped.
Tepet Jarek snarled as he saw the spy, then he lunged, one thick wrist blocking the door before Maylo could close it and his fingers seizing on the boy's tunic, dragging him into the room. "Little brother."
* * *
Maylo screamed into the wad of cloth jammed into his mouth, his hands clutching at the frame of the wine rack. Blood still dripped from his face where Jarek had pummelled him unconscious but the pain was fleeting compared to the violation his brother was committing against him.
Darkness swelled comfortingly around him and Maylo fought to stay awake. Beyond the animal sense of suffering that enveloped him, he realised that Jarek couldn't let him live. A slave here or there meant nothing, but a dynast, a potential _Dragon-Blood_?
And there was no one to protect Maylo. The girl was comatose on the floor - Jarek had been harder on her than on Maylo as the younger boy lay stunned and she was barely alive right now.
Maylo could barely even see the bottles in front of him. He tried to hold onto the thread of anger that had held him on for so long... how long? He couldn't say, there was no time, just pain and humiliation... but there was nothing left. He was losing his battle and there was nothing he could do but try to hold on with an increasingly weak grip.
Grip.
Hold on.
His hands...
Around the wine rack's corner post...
Inspiration struck and he pulled at the post. It didn't move. He pulled again, in time with the obscene rhythm that encompassed he and Jarek. This time he felt a shift. He tried again.
And again.
Again, his arm protesting the abuse, his ribs aching where a careless kick had fractured them, his lungs afire.
Again, operating on touch alone, his sight fading as blood pulsed through his veins.
Again, as Jarek's touch sent pain through him again and again.
Again and again and...
Again, and the stout wood cracked and broke. The last thing Maylo felt before the heavy rack fell forwards, pinning the two to the floor, was his hand still trying to twist at the broken wood.
* * *
Maylo dreamed.
He dreamed of himself and of the girl. He dreamed of a figure of silver who stood over the girl, so bright he could not look at it.
He dreamed of figure of gold who stood over _him_ and reached down to him.
"My dear child," he dreamed. "You fight for the weak though you are weak yourself, fight so even when those you reverence turn against you. In my anger, I turned my face from the world of men, but I shall do so no longer. Know that I love you and that I mark you as mine forever."
He dreamed that fire took him, and burned away all his dross. He dreamed he was a flame, was a storm, was a great light, was exalted.
Maylo dreamed.
* * *
Mara dreamed.
She dreamed of herself and of the young master suffering with her. She dreamed of a figure of gold that stood over him, wrapped in glamorie that she could not see past.
She dreamed of a bright figure that stood over _her_ and reached down to her.
"You who have no father," she dreamed. "I am your father now. You who suffer for others, I shall give you cause to suffer for your own sake. Know that you are among my chosen warriors. Go and make the world a righteous place as you know best. Draw a line against the darkness and know you act with my blessing."
She dreamed that she felt cool lips against her forehead and cool fire engulfed him. She dreamt she died and was reborn, was shattered and exalted.
It was too late to go back - Eloho had seen him come this way and she'd use any show of weakness on his part to push past him into father's favour. But... that left going on, and young as he was, Maylo had no wish to see more of the beast that raved within his father.
He flinched as a stifled scream reached him and stepped forwards reluctantly. The younger members of the family had only returned from their schools two weeks before but it was clear that the House had not prospered. A litany of woes - dynasts ruined, soldiers dead, enterprises sabotaged - had been passed on through the network of servants and younger patricians that all the children knew to pay attention to.
Two days before leaving for school, Maylo had seen his father beat an aging slave to death with his bare hands. He shuddered to think what the man would be like now. 'Perhaps they're right,' he thought. 'Perhaps I really am too soft.'
He crept towards the storeroom door and paused to remove his sandals before he eased past it. Drawing attention now would be cause for a beating, or perhaps worse. Bare feet had less chance to betray him.
He had only taken one step beyond the door when he heard a crash from inside, and then an angry voice. "Bitch... fix you..."
That wasn't his father, wasn't the silky menace he had heard criticising him from above for more than a decade. It was ugly with pain and hate, a voice that seemed known to him but one he could not place.
The sound of more blows, more gasps of pain.
Curiosity overwhelmed him. The door had been jammed from within but Maylo remembered one of his teachers telling him to deal with that. He knelt and drew his belt dagger, reaching it under the door to dig the tip into the jamb. A deft twist and the wooden wedge was loosened. The boy returned his dagger to his belt and eased the door latch up, barely touching it as he pushed the door lightly.
The sounds came clearer. Maylo swallowed and eased the door enough to peek around it with one eye. He raked back vagrant locks of black hair from his left eye and gazed at a small pallet laid on the floor of the wine cellar. The man couched by it was big, taller and broader than Maylo's youthful frame, his back to the door. Beyond him, curled on the pallet was a girl, little older than Maylo. Her hands were tied above her head to a wooden frame that held dusty wine bottles and her clothes, the ragged smock of a slave, had been mostly torn away.
Maylo's gasp was obviously not stifled enough - he was no puling innocent, but he had never thought to see one of his house so cowardly as to bind a slave-girl half his size before he took what he wanted. The man turned and Maylo was plunged from horror into nightmare. The face he saw might have been his own, high cheekbones and piercing green eyes set in an olive complexioned face framed by long ebony hair. But this face was older and marked by a duelling scar above the left eye.
"Jarek!" Maylo gasped.
Tepet Jarek snarled as he saw the spy, then he lunged, one thick wrist blocking the door before Maylo could close it and his fingers seizing on the boy's tunic, dragging him into the room. "Little brother."
* * *
Maylo screamed into the wad of cloth jammed into his mouth, his hands clutching at the frame of the wine rack. Blood still dripped from his face where Jarek had pummelled him unconscious but the pain was fleeting compared to the violation his brother was committing against him.
Darkness swelled comfortingly around him and Maylo fought to stay awake. Beyond the animal sense of suffering that enveloped him, he realised that Jarek couldn't let him live. A slave here or there meant nothing, but a dynast, a potential _Dragon-Blood_?
And there was no one to protect Maylo. The girl was comatose on the floor - Jarek had been harder on her than on Maylo as the younger boy lay stunned and she was barely alive right now.
Maylo could barely even see the bottles in front of him. He tried to hold onto the thread of anger that had held him on for so long... how long? He couldn't say, there was no time, just pain and humiliation... but there was nothing left. He was losing his battle and there was nothing he could do but try to hold on with an increasingly weak grip.
Grip.
Hold on.
His hands...
Around the wine rack's corner post...
Inspiration struck and he pulled at the post. It didn't move. He pulled again, in time with the obscene rhythm that encompassed he and Jarek. This time he felt a shift. He tried again.
And again.
Again, his arm protesting the abuse, his ribs aching where a careless kick had fractured them, his lungs afire.
Again, operating on touch alone, his sight fading as blood pulsed through his veins.
Again, as Jarek's touch sent pain through him again and again.
Again and again and...
Again, and the stout wood cracked and broke. The last thing Maylo felt before the heavy rack fell forwards, pinning the two to the floor, was his hand still trying to twist at the broken wood.
* * *
Maylo dreamed.
He dreamed of himself and of the girl. He dreamed of a figure of silver who stood over the girl, so bright he could not look at it.
He dreamed of figure of gold who stood over _him_ and reached down to him.
"My dear child," he dreamed. "You fight for the weak though you are weak yourself, fight so even when those you reverence turn against you. In my anger, I turned my face from the world of men, but I shall do so no longer. Know that I love you and that I mark you as mine forever."
He dreamed that fire took him, and burned away all his dross. He dreamed he was a flame, was a storm, was a great light, was exalted.
Maylo dreamed.
* * *
Mara dreamed.
She dreamed of herself and of the young master suffering with her. She dreamed of a figure of gold that stood over him, wrapped in glamorie that she could not see past.
She dreamed of a bright figure that stood over _her_ and reached down to her.
"You who have no father," she dreamed. "I am your father now. You who suffer for others, I shall give you cause to suffer for your own sake. Know that you are among my chosen warriors. Go and make the world a righteous place as you know best. Draw a line against the darkness and know you act with my blessing."
She dreamed that she felt cool lips against her forehead and cool fire engulfed him. She dreamt she died and was reborn, was shattered and exalted.