The Grey Ones

THE VASAATH

The evening was closing in, and after a gruesome fight and a long day’s work, the Vasaath and his Saathenaan had gathered on the shores where they had built pyres for their fallen brothers. Wrapped in linen, twelve Kas soldiers lay on a pyre each, their swords and shields placed on their chests and round pebbles covering their eyes.

When the sun had set and the night had darkened, the Vasaath held his torch up high, and eleven of his brothers followed.

“May the Mother guide them,” he said, loud for all to hear. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and muttered the words, “Aamon-at an avaas, aamon-at an evos.” He wished they were indeed true; honour in life, and honour in death.

When the twelve torches ignited the pyres, the flames quickly grabbed hold of the tinder, licking the wood and the linen. The fires stood high against the dark heavens, perfectly mirrored in the calm, dark waters of the bay.

Afterwards, there was a celebration in honour of their victory and of those who had perished. The Vasaath was pleased to find that the castle household was compliant enough to follow his orders and had made a feast in a grand hall with food from the Duke’s stores—it was evident that there was indeed plenty of food for the people, but the Duke kept it all for himself and his court. But the greedy old Duke was a thing of the past, as the age of the Kasenon had just begun.

The celebration was rowdy and unhinged, when all tension and anticipation that had been building for the past months had finally been released. The men could relax and they took advantage of every minute. The Vasaath could even spy some of the ohkas seeming quite unafraid as their curiosity of the grey men got the better of them—many of the female staff and the court ladies were especially interested in the strong and exotic males, much to the kasaath’s satisfaction; few would dare to suggest something intimate, but many seemed content with the prospect that something of the sort might happen.

At celebrations like this one, far away from Kasarath, many often forgot about rules and traditions; even the ohkas seemed to find relief in the brief absence of judgment. The Vasaath knew what it was like, being uplifted by victory and thinking one could take on the world, so he would not reprimand them for being alive and unhinged as long as they were respectful.

Ohkas in abundance seemed grateful, and mighty surprised, that they, too, could eat from the table. Anyone who submitted to the Kasenon, the Vasaath had declared, was welcomed at his table, rich as poor. And ate, they did, as though they had never seen food before.

Kasethen was up, as well, enjoying the feast and the victory. He was still badly bruised and weakened from the ill-treatment he had received while imprisoned, but he was alive, and he was smiling.

The Vasaath, admittedly a bit intoxicated, swung his arm around his advisor’s shoulders and ignored his painful hiss as he said, “Here we are, old friend, at victory again. This has been an irksome one, I must admit, but the victory tastes all the sweeter.”

Kasethen sighed. “Yes, well, it might taste sweet to you. For me, it stings.”

“Oh, come now, what is a battle without some wounds?” the Vasaath boomed. Then, as he scanned the crowd, his gaze fastened at a pair of brilliant silver orbs at the end of the hall. “Speaking of sweet…” He swung the last of his ale down his throat before he swiftly made his way to the girl.

She was standing by the back archway, overlooking the festivities, but she seemed saddened, aloof.

He smiled at her, and although he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her, he just bowed his head. “Why the sombre face, my lady? This is a celebration.”

The girl smiled fleetingly before she curtsied. “Congratulations, my lord.”

He eyed her longingly, wanting nothing but to touch her soft skin and taste her lips. Carefully, he touched the fabric of her dress. “You know this castle. You must know somewhere the two of us could be alone?”

She gawked up at him. “But this is your feast, sir, in your honour. You cannot leave your own feast!”

With a smirk, he glanced over his shoulder. “My brothers seem to be doing just fine without me. Besides—” He gazed at her, bore his eyes into hers. “I have another, more private, kind of celebration in mind.”

Her cheeks quickly reddened, the way he found so endearing, and she swallowed. “You’re bold tonight, sir.”

“I’m filled with good meat, ale, wine, and victory,” he chuckled. “It’s a pleasant evening, and I would like it to end even more pleasant. Wouldn’t you?”

Juniper smiled and slowly put a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, making the Vasaath almost forget himself as he grabbed a fistful of her dress. She quickly and gently slapped his hand to release her before she beckoned him to follow her. They disappeared into the maze that was Castle Fairgarden, and the Vasaath wondered if he would ever, even sober, be able to navigate through this immense fortress on his own.

At last, he followed her into a room far away from the feast and he was immediately hit by the smell of lavender. This, he knew, was her room. It was moderate and sensible, much like her, with a writing desk and bookcases that lined the walls. A large window overlooked the city and the Winter Sea, with pillows on the sill. Next to them lay an open book, and it pained his heart to see the evidence that the girl had had to escape in a hurry.

He was pulled back from his sentiment thoughts as he heard her close the door behind them, and he turned to her. She seemed nervous, or perhaps embarrassed, as she leaned against the door. The Vasaath trapped her there, eager, and sought her lips for a kiss. He had been longing for her, yearning even, and now it felt as though she was part of his victory as he claimed her sweet lips.

He might have been too hasty, or too demanding, as the girl gently but firmly pushed him away. “My love, I don’t have the herbs.”

“Let’s call for a maasa, then,” he replied and leaned in to kiss her again, but she fended him off.

“No, let them celebrate.”

He huffed, feeling slightly vexed by this. “Well, I’ll be careful, then.”

“No,” she mumbled and turned her head when he once again tried to kiss her. “I cannot risk it.”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw and sighed, frustrated. “Are you so worried we might conceive?”

“Are you not?” She glared at him, but her eyes were nervous.

“No,” he said. “It’s unlikely our intimacy would result in a child. Our kinds don’t mix well.”

“Yes, well, it does happen,” she muttered.

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes. “And you know this, because?”

The girl’s cheeks flushed violently and she looked away, but he caught sight of her hand as she swiftly moved it to her belly.

His heart suddenly dropped. “Did you forget to drink the Shadow Veil?”

The girl gave him a small, reluctant nod.

“And—” He swallowed. “Has anything… latched on?” He should have taken care.

Juniper quickly shook her head. “I don’t know.”

This calmed him some. It had not been many days since their intimacy—there was still time to rectify such a wrong.

She bit her lip as guilt stained her pretty face. “I’m sorry.”

He knew he should be more worried, that he should be vexed—indeed, had she been of the Kasenon, she would have known that such an error could result in harsh punishments—but he could not blame the girl, for he had been at fault as well. He should have been careful, not let himself indulge as he had. If anything, he should be the one to feel shame and guilt.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.” He sighed and gently ran his fingers through her hair. “We’ll cross that mountain when we get to it, if we get to it.”

“Neema said she would ‘take care of it’,” Juniper muttered. “I suppose she means to get rid of it.”

The Vasaath bit his tongue. It had to be done, yes, but he knew she would not understand why. He could sense her bitterness, even though it was highly unlikely she was with child at all.

He could, nevertheless, not be bothered by such a discussion at that very moment—he knew it would only end with them both getting angry at one another. It might have been because of his slight intoxication, but his needs were too great to risk a row.

While sensually brushing his fingers along her throat, down to her collar bones, he said, “So if the damage is already done, we have nothing to lose.” He furrowed his brows, and added, in earnest, “With your permission, of course, my lady.”

She looked at him, her silver eyes like a doe’s. She swallowed, her breath short, and he waited for her to make up her mind. Finally, she nodded. So he kissed her, cautious at first, careful not to overstep any boundaries she may have set unbeknownst to him, but she put her hands around his neck and responded with a soft sigh.

It was all he needed to take her in his arms and carry her to the bed. He revelled at the taste and the feel of her; he had earned his victory, and he had earned his spoils. He had the city, and he had the lady.

There was a new feel to the two of them, as well, one he had not anticipated—he had broken the rules from the very beginning by giving in to his desires in the first place. Now, he was fully committed to breaking every rule there was and be with this woman, just this woman, who was not a maasa, who was not of the Kasenon, simply because he wanted to—simply because he found pleasure in it, and because she made him feel things no one else could make him feel.

It was a new sensation, a strange sense of freedom he had never truly felt before, and he relished in it, savoured it. It felt good claiming something for himself and he was pleased by the thought that she was his alone. It was selfish, and perhaps unfair, but for that evening, he did not care.

Perhaps he was unnecessarily voracious, and perhaps his lust required more of her than she anticipated—perhaps even more than an Edredian lady was supposed to endure—but that night, she put no limits to what he could do. They were alone in this part of the castle, far away from the celebration that would drown out any screams of pleasure either way, and he made use of it.

He simply couldn’t get enough of her, despite his tiredness. Her skin was too soft, her taste was too sweet, and her cries were too pleasurable. She was addictive, enthralling, and this was the true victory and triumph he had sought for.

She was his, and he was hers, and that night, in her room, nothing else made sense, and the world outside did not exist.

Translation:

Aamon-at an avaas, aamon-at an evos – “Honour in life, honour in death”

Kasaath – warrior; “strength of the people”

Maasa – healer

Ohkas – (oh ma-kas); stranger; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”

Saathenaan – elite warriors; “deepest strength”