The idea for this story has been rolling about in the back of my head for some time. It came from a conversation between Leliana and Zevran about his tattoos. He claimed that some were sacred to the Crows and their meaning secret. It struck me as an odd claim, since (if you're approval with him is high enough) he has no problem 'tweaking their noses' in teaching you his assassin skills. So, why would the marks be off-limits? That set off a chain of speculation that led to this story. It's set way before the Two Sides universe, about when Zevran is fifteen or so, and ends up in the keeping of an elven master.
The tale gets dark in places, and ventures into some sensitive territory. (Nothing in this chapter, except for the after-effects of some Crow 'discipline.') Not sure just how long it's going to be yet, probably around novella length. And I can't guarantee regular updates (real life obligations) but I'll try not to keep my readers waiting too long.
Thanks go to my beta, brownc0at for keeping me on the straight and narrow grammar trail, and for insightful comments. And to all you lurkers in the shadows.
Crouched in the semi-darkness of the sweltering oubliette, Zevran remembered what Amia had told him the day the Crow enforcer had come to The Blue Feather to look over the whorehouse children for potential apprentices.
"No matter how scared you get, Zevie, never let them see it. Never," she'd whispered fiercely in his ear just before the madam had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into her plush receiving room. Only seven and puzzled by Amia's words at the time, eight years had proven the wisdom of her last hurried lesson.
Zevran sighed and squirmed against the rough stone wall of his tiny cell, sweat trickling down his spine and stinging the deep red cane welts laced across his back and buttocks. Deep purple bruises extended the length of his ribcage on both sides. Trying to avoid those kicks would only have made the blows worse.
Enough light leaked around the door above him that he could make out the irregular white cracks snaking across the black walls. A few new lines had joined the others in the month since his last visit, so that the pattern now resembled a spider's web spun between two thick bars.
In the hot, dry air of the cell, the stink of his own unwashed body and the piss bucket in the corner filled his nose. Briefly, he wondered how long Master Jepheth planned on leaving him down here.
Wincing as he gently probed the bruised flesh around his left eye, he considered that this time, at least, no bones had been cracked. His right buttock throbbed as he shifted position, trying to ease the painful pressure on his left. After several minutes of constant shifting, he gave up trying to find a comfortable sitting position and curled up on his right side, his head pillowed on his arm. The cool stone felt soothing at first, then pressure against his tender side sent new aches thrumming through his flesh.
He sighed again and then started when the door above him squealed open. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he sat up and leaned against the wall. Too early for the single meal of stale bread and weak broth they lowered down once a day, it was probably Master Jepheth come to inspect the progression of his handiwork. Or perhaps the Master had decided to inflict additional punishment. Zevran had come as close to death as he ever had from infected sores the last time that had happened.
He punched the fear down into a small, dark corner of his soul and smoothed his face into an almost smile. After eight years of practice, it slipped over his features like a second skin. It gave him a safe mask to hide behind, a look bland enough that it didn't invite punishment, but never quite as wholly submissive as it should be.
"Was it worth it, Arainai?" a clear tenor that most definitely did not belong to Master Jepheth said above him. Oddly enough, while there was more than a hint of amusement in the question, Zevran didn't sense any mockery.
He squinted against the bright sun, trying to place the silhouette of the man who leaned over the small square opening. Against the backdrop of stark blue sky, he couldn't make out any features, only that the master was small and slender.
"Was what worth it, Master?" He played for time, trying to think of an answer that wouldn't earn him another beating.
"Answer the question, and I'll let you out of there." He still sounded amused.
Zevran shifted on his haunches, trying not to wince, and debated his answer. Say 'yes' and another beating would surely follow. Say 'no' and the master would know he was lying. They always seemed to know. It probably didn't help that he couldn't keep from grinning when he did lie. So, then, an answer between the truth and a lie.
"As much as anything is worth, Master."
The man laughed, the kind that comes deep from the belly. Hopefully, the ambiguous answer really did amuse him. He disappeared, and a few seconds later a narrow wooden ladder dropped down into the cell. Zevran clambered up, his teeth gritted. Every muscle ached. His bruises felt like they had bruises.
"Well, aren't you a sight," the master said, his hands on his hips. Zevran swayed on his feet, his empty belly queasy as he squinted against the bright mid-afternoon glare.
He had just enough time to notice the master was an elf with long serpentine lines curving down both cheeks. The enforcer in charge of the apprentice cells shoved him to his knees in the small courtyard, whacking him on the back of his head in the process. Zevran sucked in a breath, and his hands clenched on his thighs to keep from trying to rub away the painful sting.
"Are you sure you want this whoreson, Master Nylos? He's more trouble than he's worth."
"I'm sure he's worth as much as anything is," Master Nylos murmured.
Zevran couldn't quite suppress the smirk that blossomed on his face. He winced when the jailor whacked him again.
Master Nylos arched an elegant brow. "I'll take him from here, Master Bernardo. I'm sure you have more important duties to tend than wayward apprentices."
Bernardo shrugged. "As you wish. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Master Nylos waited till the enforcer had left, the heavy iron door to the small courtyard clanging shut behind him, before slipping his hand under Zevran's chin and tilting his head up. Keeping his eyes down, he had an excellent view of the Master's fine leather boots and tailored black trousers, not to mention the cracked gray paving stones of the oubliette courtyard.
"Look at me, Arainai." Amber eyes met those so dark Zevran couldn't see the pupils. "Was it worth punching Master Jepheth in the groin over a pair of old gloves? And this time, I want the truth."
Zevran swallowed. A cold, hard knot settled deep in the base of his belly as he wondered what game this master was playing. Masters didn't care about the truth. They cared about their gold and their privileges, and making life as miserable as possible for their underlings.
That strong, slender hand tightened on his chin.
"Answer me, or I'll toss you back into the dark and let it claim you."
"Yes, it was worth it," Zevran said in a hoarse voice, the words spilling out almost without thought. What did it matter what he said? Denying it would tell the master what he wanted to hear. But there wasn't any safety in that. Masters, especially ones like Jepheth, often punished simply because they enjoyed inflicting pain.
Master Nylos gazed down at him. Zevran tensed, but the expected blows never came.
"Get up. Master Jepheth has agreed to release you into my keeping for as long as I'm willing to put up with you. His words, not mine, in case you care."
He smiled and stepped back. Zevran rose, wary, and bowed stiffly. Master Nylos pulled a small healing potion out of his pocket and held it out.
"Drink it."
Zevran hesitated only a second, but the master cuffed him on the side of the head. Not a hard blow, and certainly not unexpected, and yet…
"You will hear that I'm soft; don't believe it. I don't tolerate laziness. You'll work harder for me than you have for any other master. I take only one apprentice at a time."
The healing potion burned going down his throat and for a moment, Zevran thought it might have been laced with an emetic. But it lay warm in his belly, and he realized that it was simply much stronger than ones he'd drunk before. Only a few seconds, and he already felt the swelling around his eye going down and the burning pain of the welts laid across his back and buttocks fading.
He gazed at the bottle in his hand, puzzled by this small mercy, and not trusting the motivations behind it. Master Nylos plucked the bottle out of his hand and slipped it back into his pocket.
"Why?"
"Master?"
"Those gloves. What was so important about them?"
Zevran looked away, his jaw tightening. Master Nylos cuffed him again.
"I asked a question, Arainai. I expect an answer."
"It doesn't matter. They're gone." He couldn't quite keep a tiny tremor out of his voice on the last word. His gut knotted up, that familiar ache whenever he thought of his mother, the pain he still quite hadn't found a way to hide. Maybe with her gloves no longer pulling on his heart, he would find a way to bury that ache.
"Not bad. You almost make me believe you really don't care."
Zevran's head snapped up. "I don't, Master. Truly. They're easily replaced."
Master Nylos moved very close, his eyes catching Zevran's and binding them up in their dark velvet depths so tightly that the young elf couldn't look away.
"You think so?" Nylos shrugged, releasing Zevran from his gaze. "Only you can know the truth of that." He smiled. "As long as no one else knows it, you'll have a better chance of survival." He started towards the door. "Come, we've tarried here long enough."
Zevran swallowed and dared a question. "Why me, Master?"
Nylos turned, his hand on the door handle. "So, you're asking me to justify my decision to you."
"I…no, Master, no. I…" Zevran dropped his eyes. "I…was just…curious. Truly, I meant no challenge."
Nylos chuckled. "Now, that I believe. As to why…you'll have to discover that for yourself."
Nylos gazed down at his latest apprentice, sprawled on his stomach across the narrow bed in the tiny room he'd been given. He suspected that he could drop Zevran from the roof top, and the young elf would only roll over and slide deeper into sleep. Not surprising, given the strength of the healing potion he'd drunk, coupled with the first decent meal the boy had had in a long time. Jepheth liked to keep his apprentices on the lean and hungry side, thinking it made them fiercer and more cunning. It didn't. It only made them desperate and inclined to take foolish risks.
Nylos folded his arms and frowned. Stupid shem. You didn't half-starve someone you were trying to hone into an elegant weapon. Especially one with the potential Zevran had.
The plain gauze curtain drifted inward as the wind off the harbor shifted, throwing a wide bar of sunlight across the sleeping elf's face. Zevran grimaced and shifted upward, so that the sun fell across strands of hair the color of fine gold. Amber eyes, honey skin, and the planes of his face already shifting to an exquisite beauty many marks would find hard to resist. Because of that shem's misguided theories, Zevran's body still had the bony awkwardness of early adolescence. But decent food and the proper exercise would fill out his flesh.
The master slipped out of the room, leaving the door open so that Zevran would know he'd had a visitor when he finally woke.
Nylos smiled as headed down the short hall to his own room. His smile deepened as he changed into a worn pair of pants then strode to the tiny training courtyard behind his house. Any apprentice with the guts to punch Jepheth in the stones was one worth training. Especially an apprentice. There were full Masters who wouldn't risk that shem's enmity.
Nylos surveyed the wooden practice weapons in the rack on the left side of the courtyard and decided on a staff. He started slow, giving his muscles a chance to warm-up. Yes, he thought, coming out of a whirling form meant to sweep an opponent's legs out from under them, the staff would be a good addition to Zevran's weapons training. Heavily biased towards bladed weapons, especially daggers, Crow training philosophy underestimated the staff's offensive and defensive capabilities.
He practiced till sweat dripped off his chin and ran in a thin stream down his spine. Early evening shadows stretched long and thin across the beaten earth of the practice yard.
After re-placing the weapon, Nylos headed back to check on Zevran. The boy still sprawled, oblivious. The master leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. Perhaps a lesson in mindfulness was in order, a reminder that no place was really safe. Nylos grunted. As if the boy didn't already know that. He wouldn't have survived the last eight years if he hadn't learned that lesson. Nylos slipped out of the room and headed for the small bath house off the kitchen.
He stopped, shifting to the balls of his feet, when he spotted the door to the bath house ajar. A smoky alto drifted out, wrapped around a tragedia, and despite the melancholy love song, Nylos smiled as he padded into the tiny changing room. He dropped his pants next to Sylvie's russet trousers and blouse, and then pulled aside the curtain of dark blue beads.
Sylvie lounged on the deep side of the larger bathing pool on the left, a slender glass of wine in one hand and a small pointed dagger, poised for throwing, in the other. Her other weapons lay close to hand, her sword arranged so she could snatch it up if needed. She finished the stanza, then smiled at him. He released the curtain, the beads clicking behind him.
"Heard you finally took a new apprentice," she said, laying the dagger aside but not out of reach. Her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, the ends drifting in the bath water. Small for a human, but sleek and strong, and wily as a desert fox.
"One of these days I'm going to find out how you know my business almost before I do." Nylos eased into the cool water, not quite within arm's reach of Sylvie.
Even after ten years, her laughter still sent a shiver down his spine directly to his groin. She took a sip of wine and then put the glass down and slipped forward, sliding her arms around his torso.
"And lose my air of mystery? Besides, you like challenges."
He kissed her, deep and hungry. Her nails dug into his back, her soft breasts pressed against his chest as she returned his kiss with equal fervor, laying claim to his mouth. Then she broke it off, gliding back in the water. Nylos chuckled. She did like to tease. He leaned back against the cool blue tile as she retrieved her glass.
"Are you sure about this one, Nylos? That whoreson has no respect for traditions or rules. And that mouth on him…I hope you're prepared for an earful, because you're going to get it…frequently."
Nylos reached for the soap and washcloth Sylvie had laid out next to the pool and began washing his arms.
"As you pointed out, I like a challenge."
Besides, he was far more interested in the supple mind that lay behind those flippant comments Jepheth always complained about. Based on what Nylos had overheard from hiding in the shadows and Jepheth's tirades over his wayward apprentice, the boy could think fast on his feet, and was far more perceptive than a shem like that would be willing to admit.
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," Sylvie said.
Nylos chuckled, thinking of Bernardo's parting comment. Sylvie regarded him from under long lashes as she sipped her wine. He finished bathing, ducking beneath the water to rinse the soap out of his dark hair, before slipping forward and pulling her into his arms.
"Hmmm, hungry?" she said, twining her arms around his neck.
"Always," he murmured, his lips drifting across her face. She sighed and nestled closer.
"Watch your back, carino mio," she whispered in his ear. "Jepheth doesn't owe you any favors now. And I would hate to lose such a skilled lover."
His hands slipped to the small of her back as he laid a line of kisses down the side of her throat.
"I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding another bed-partner." It wasn't as if they were exclusive to one another.
She waved a hand in the water, sending small ripples against his chest.
"That would be true only if I were willing to settle for anyone."
He smiled and leaned back, his hands sliding to her waist. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd cared about my skin."
She returned his smile and ran a finger down the center of his chest, over his heart. "You know how difficult it is to find quality…in anything. Besides, haven't you always claimed that one should appreciate the finer things in life so long as breath remains?"
"Throw my own words back at me, will you?"
She leaned forward. "Of course. Would you have me any other way?"
"Oh, I can think of a number of ways I'd like to have you right now."
She laughed and moved back into his arms.