"I don't know about you, but I could use some sleep," Natael said with a yawn. "I haven't slept properly since the battle ended, thanks to you." Most of the Sharans who had welcomed them by the fire were taking a nap. They had looked at them blankly for a few seconds after Taim had carefully repeated Demandred's words, and then they had burst out laughing, some of them actually rolling on the ground. After they'd recovered, they had offered them bits of something that looked like rabbit meat, but didn't taste quite like it. Natael suspected it might have been rat, or worse. Who knew what these savages ate?
"And I could use a change of clothes," Taim muttered gloomily, picking at his blood-stained shirt.
Natael studied him critically. "I've got some clean clothes in my tent," he offered magnanimously. "They'd probably fit you." Taim studied the garments Natael was wearing and frowned dubiously. What was wrong with them? It was his best purple silk shirt! If he was going to die, he'd figured he might as well dress for it. He was particularly pleased with the suitable amount of white lace spilling from the cuffs of his emerald green coat. "Well, suit yourself," he went on with a shrug as he stood. He yawned again, hard enough that his jaw clicked ominously. He had slept while Taim was unconscious, but it hadn't been a restful night. He'd been worried about Neya – and about Taim. One did not go without the other. Idly, Natael wondered if Neya would bond him again. He doubted that Demandred would allow it. It was miraculous enough that Taim and the Potato King hadn't tried to kill each other yet.
Taim stretched then stood up. He took a minute to dust off his coat, though the poor thing was beyond repair at this point. Natael made a mental note to ask for the name of Taim's tailor. "Fine. Let's see what you've got," he mumbled.
They walked back to Natael's tent unhurriedly. Reflexively, Natael had attempted to open a gateway earlier, leading to the Sharan camp, before remembering that he couldn't. Taim had given him a pitying look, as though he'd guessed his intention. Natael had pretended that he'd paused to rebutton his coat, then kept on walking without a word. Taim had offered to open a gateway himself, but Natael had sternly declined. If Neya found out that he'd allowed Taim to channel for no good reason, she would have his hide.
It took them half an hour to return to the main camp, where Natael had erected his tent. Well, where some servants had erected his tent, more accurately. Even with the Power, he would have been hard-pressed to assemble the bloody thing on his own. Natael walked up to his trunk and opened it, pulling out a few shirts that would match Taim's colouring marvellously. The Saldaean stared at them all in dismay. Natael sighed. Most Third-Agers wouldn't know good taste if it bit them on the nose, but Taim seemed to have some fashion sense, at least, so why the grimace? These were the best garments to be had, in this unrefined age. "Here, put this on," he instructed the younger man. It was a simple dark blue silk shirt with delicate gold embroidery and just a bit of lace.
Taim inhaled deeply before taking it. "Thanks," he grumbled. "Some breeches too, perhaps?" His own were caked with mud, and quite a bit of blood as well. "Preferably without lace?" he added hopefully.
Lace, on breeches? Natael scoffed. Was the man still insane? Maybe Neya had overlooked a patch of the taint's corruption in the Saldaean's brain. "Here," he said, pulling out a pair of plain dark breeches. It had just a tiny bit of embroidery on the legs.
Taim rolled his eyes but took the generously proffered clothes. "I'll go change and leave you to rest, then," he said, stepping toward the exit.
"You're welcome to change here," Natael said with a grin.
Taim turned around to glare at him. "I knew it," he muttered. "Burn you! Why does everyone keep assuming I'm…" He trailed off, taking a deep breath. "First Mishraile, then Hessalam teasing me about bloody Logain, and now–" This time he trailed off because Natael was kissing him.
As he'd expected, Taim pushed him away once his shock faded, his face thunderous. "What do you think you're doing? The Blight take you!" he hissed before storming out of the tent.
Natael smiled smugly after him. Taim would see sense before long, undoubtedly. Natael was willing to eat his harp if he didn't. Who could resist him? By joking about it, it seemed Neya had unknowingly come up with the perfect solution.
Mazrim stalked away angrily. Burn the bloody man! It was not the fact that he was a man; that didn't bother him in any way. But that wasn't what he wanted – what he needed – right now. He wasn't giving up on Neya, not quite yet, married or not, queen or not. Demandred had better watch out.
What did she even see in the man? He had no sense of humour, and he wasn't particularly pleasant. He'd probably frighten the kids away. And Mazrim couldn't imagine how he could be any good in…other activities. He seemed so bloody cold and unimaginative. It made him almost physically sick just to think about Demandred and Neya together. Honestly, what had she been thinking, to actually marry the man? It didn't matter. Mazrim would wait for her, if he had to. Burn him for a flaming woolheaded fool, but he would.
He couldn't join Neya and talk to her now, however. She was certainly resting. Mazrim should probably get some sleep as well, but he was on edge. He had to clear his mind.
He made his way to some part of the camp where he hadn't been before. People were celebrating, of course, dancing and singing and getting intoxicated. He wasn't in the mood for this – not to mention that they would probably send him on his way in any case – and was therefore ready to turn around, but then he spotted Logain. His successor was talking with Genhald and Pendaloan. On a whim, Mazrim decided to approach them.
Pendaloan stood up when he saw Mazrim. His face was so carefully blank, it would have made even Demandred envious. For a moment, Mazrim thought he would embrace the Source, but he simply stalked away. Genhald went after him, after directing an accusing glare his way. Logain didn't move. He was obviously curious to know what had brought Mazrim here.
Mazrim settled down in front of the Ghealdanin. They sat staring at each other for a long time in silence. "How many times did I try to Turn you?" Mazrim asked eventually.
"Thirteen times, ironically enough," Logain answered bitterly.
"You do realise that I could have broken you the first time, don't you?" Mazrim went on. "Atal wavered, but I could have replaced him. Each of your sessions lasted barely two or three minutes, whereas others have suffered as long as fifteen. I wasn't really trying, Logain. I hoped you would hold on long enough to-"
Logain scoffed. "And here I was, thinking you'd be attempting to make amends," he said wryly. "I should have known better. You just want to unburden yourself. You want me to absolve you." He shook his head. "You're lucky she forced Damer to Heal me, otherwise I would have balefired you by now."
Mazrim remained silent. He wasn't sure who 'she' was, but it didn't matter. Apologies were not his strongest point, he had to admit. It looked like he'd gone about it the wrong way. Better not to add anything. He would only make things worse. He started to rise when Logain spoke again.
"In any case," he said, "I'm not the one you should apologise to. You should be saving all that for the dozens of men and women you did Turn to the Shadow."
He would if he could, but Natael had already explained that the few who'd survived the battle had been 'put out of their misery'. "A hundred and sixty-seven," Mazrim said softly. He was grateful to Neya for cleansing him of the taint's corruption, of course, but he couldn't help but be nostalgic of the days when he was blissfully unaware of the guilt that now plagued him. It was gnawing at him, insidiously spreading in his mind, eating at his brains, not unlike the taint itself, in fact. In that moment, he was glad that the bond he used to share with Neya was gone. He wouldn't wish the feeling on his worst enemy. Not even Demandred, although he doubted that the man was capable of feeling guilt.
"The taint…" Logain began uncertainly.
"…had nothing to do with it," Mazrim finished for him. "I was lucid the whole time. I remember everything clearly. The madness helped me deal with it, emotionally, but it didn't make the decisions for me." Suddenly, he found it hard to meet Logain's eyes. "I should have requested a fair trial," he whispered, picking at the ridiculous lace adorning Natael's shirt. It was good-quality silk, but Mazrim wasn't keen on adding lace to every piece of clothing he wore. Lace should be used sparingly. "No pardon, no exile. I don't deserve any of that."
"Oh, enough with the self-flagellation," Logain growled. "You got your deal, man. Don't go throwing it in our faces now," he warned him. "You were given a second chance, Taim. Don't squander it." With that, he stood up and moved to join the other Asha'man – or so Mazrim thought at first. Logain veered suddenly, heading toward a young woman who'd been observing them, apparently. Mazrim recognised her: Min Farshaw, one of al'Thor lovers. It was odd to see her here, when the Dragon had just passed away. Shouldn't she be mourning him? Well, it was hardly Mazrim's business. He certainly wouldn't mourn for al'Thor.
He sat gazing at the grass, his mind blank. No one paid him any attention, for once. They were too busy dancing drunkenly and singing bawdy songs.
He heard someone approach him some time later, but he couldn't be bothered to look up. "Care to dance?" the newcomer asked.
Of course, it had to be Natael. To his horror, Mazrim felt himself blush, which made everything worse. "I thought you were going to sleep?" Mazrim muttered, tearing out several innocent blades of grass.
He could almost hear the smirk in the bard's voice. "I was getting ready to do just that, but then I thought that, since you were upset, you were likely to get yourself in trouble, or even go look for it. I see that I was right," he added, planting himself in the spot that Logain had deserted moments ago. Mazrim didn't waste any breath to contradict him. He hadn't been looking for trouble. At least he didn't think so. "Come dance with me," Natael commanded, holding out a hand.
Mazrim looked up at him and scoffed. "You really think I'm going to dance with you?" Was the man insane? After all, he had been subject to the taint for a few months, and he'd suffered a tremendous shock recently.
"Nobody else seems to be offering," Natael replied with a grin.
Mazrim stared at him for a minute. Then again, why not? he thought. It can't hurt my reputation any more than it already is. Besides, he wanted to see the look on Logain's face - he was still talking with Miss Farshaw, some distance away. "Fine," he grumbled eventually, grabbing Natael's hand. "But I'll lead."