He will be educated. He will stand beside the crown prince and provide personal council. He is told that this is is what every servant ought to dream of.
Azir made the order, and his father did not disagree.
( Vengeance is sown the moment Azir looks at him as he would a friend. )
The gardens are different when you walk them upright and without work clothes scuffing your skin. Xerath walks at Azir's side, his steps out of beat with the steady strides of High Highness. They are an irregular heartbeat, attempting unity in the presence of another - Azir speaks, Xerath breathes in time with his words so he may know when to rush his response, memorizing the words to give a curt and timely response.
When Azir speaks - as he does now, asking Xerath if it is his first time in the gardens at all - he speaks like he would a crowd, issuing command with his rich words and inspiring vocabulary. Xerath slurs his responses, uneducated and improper, yet Azir responds with equal enthusiasm as he did his last word, brimming with the sun's excellence. Xerath knows the sun is a creation of the gods, yet no Shuriman royal is worthy of such high praise if they leave iron chains on their people's wrists.
He hasn't responded yet.
Has he ever been to the gardens?
"No." He has his fingers hooked underneath the wrists of his sleeves, uneasy at the constant brushing of fabric on his skin. "I was old enough, yet Mother Haina requested I work elsewhere."
A pause. Xerath has learned Azir hates it when he reminds him who he is, that he is not an old friend he has welcomed back into his life, but the labour of a burden that rests upon his shoulders. His jaw tightens, though not from fury - rather a shade of uneasiness. Xerath waits for the broken promise - stripping him of his silks and cottons and pushing him back into the servant's quarters for being an inconvenience on his conscience. Royalty doesn't like compromise.
"For what purpose?" he finally asks.
"Young hands," he responds, flat and dry, like the sand swept between the rocks, untouched by the garden's vegetation. "Cutting plants, renovations, too much for a child. I never disagreed. I prefer to clean."
Azir must feel the burning stare at the side of his head, where thick brown hair has been braided. "Your mother sounds kind."
She is not my mother. My mother starved to death as punishment for theft, an order placed by your father. Mother Haina was one of the many mothers to tend to slave children.
"Indeed. She is very kind."