My harp has been moved from the Great Hall into a drawing room that opens up into a modestly sized dining room, situated in a sort of medial area between the two. I’ve been considering it since Khysmet suggested this, and I think it might be better to get another harp for these sorts of occasions. The amplified bass tones from the special resonator box on this harp might be a bit overpowering in this small of a space. I’ll have to be careful to keep my volume down, and remember to see if I can’t convince his majesty to source me a new one for more intimate locations.
Khysmet is waiting idly in the sitting area, facing the door, not talking to or even looking at me. My function in tonight’s dinner is a sort of “to be heard but not seen” role, one that I'm happy to slip into. I know he said I'll probably be addressed at some point, but I'd prefer to stave off that moment as long as possible. If someone comes through the door and I'm already talking, it would set the wrong precedent. I pluck at the harp wordlessly while we wait.
A servant who I recognize as Sahresh, the woman from my first day who, incidentally, still doesn't seem to like me, walks through the door, leading in the five guests. Khysmet rises to greet the Marquess and his family, and thus begins the hours of mindless small talk and idle chatter that will eventually threaten to make me fall asleep in my seat.
I am blissfully ignored throughout dinner, which pleases me greatly. I’d much rather listen, though the quality of conversation is rather dry. I must say, I immediately see what Khysmet meant when he called this a sickening charade.
The Marquess is jocular and talkative from the get-go, and he wastes no time before starting to tirelessly plug the benefits of a union between his march and the royal family. He goes on and on, and I personally find it quite impressive how he manages to never say even one sentence of any import.
His wife is a more reserved woman, who spends most of the time commenting on the castle and its decor, often comparing it to their own estate. From the way she talks, it sounds like she believes herself to be playing a perfect matchmaker, that she thinks herself to know Khysmet very well and is setting him up with her daughter based on their complementary personality traits.
Their daughter, whose name is Keiya, is, on the surface, quite shy and deferential. However, there's a deliberateness in her words and mannerisms that gives me the impression that it's at least partially a facade. She seems eager to please, and she laughs a lot in a way that doesn't ever feel entirely genuine. The way she looks at Khysmet verges on what I would call simpering. I can't stop myself from thinking, Bad call, he doesn’t like that.
One of the sons, the one named Vespyn, creeps me the hell out. He seems jovial and chatty like his father, but strikes me as… slimier somehow. He got the same fake laughter gene as his sister – odd, since the Marquess himself has a very genuine and rich laugh. There's something about the way he phrases things that seems to constantly hint at double meanings, and he always sounds very smug about that. I don't trust him.
The other son, Silas, is reticent throughout the whole meal, and when he does speak, he makes it crystal clear that he has no interest in conversation and does not want to be here. He's my favorite.
Khysmet is perfectly polite and professional the whole time, through all the fake laughs, puffery, slimy comments, and general unpleasantness. I think the best descriptor for his demeanor might be detached. I recall what he said to me in the library earlier. These people aren’t exactly being assholes in so many words, but I still think he might be mentally picturing… How did he phrase it? “Crushing them like ants between his fingers”? Something like that.
After dinner, they all migrate to the sitting area. Most everyone finds a seat, but Vespyn stays standing, sort of roaming the room during conversation. My shoulders start to tense up from nerves when I notice that he’s gradually, but undeniably, wandering in my direction. Of everyone here, I want to talk to him the least. Fortune is not smiling upon me on this day.
He meanders closer and closer. Now he’s moving more deliberately in my direction, and I can feel his eyes on me even though I’m still staring at my own fingers. Then suddenly, he’s encroaching upon my personal space, standing right in front of me so I can’t not look at him. Unable to pretend I don’t see him any longer, I meet his eyes and slip into character with a big, vapid smile.
“Hi,” he says in a low voice, splitting off from the rest of the conversation in the room to talk just to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met. What’s your name?”
His voice is unpleasantly oily. It’s like having a room temperature stick of butter rubbed into my ears. Somehow, I manage not to wince.
“It’s Catarina, sir,” I reply. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’ve heard about you,” he says. “I heard that the king captured an uncommonly pretty little mouse that he lets scurry around in the castle.” His tongue flicks out while he runs his eyes up and down my body. “The rumors don’t do you justice. You’re quite beautiful.”
Yuck. I barely manage to suppress a repulsed shiver. I wish I could tell him to go jump off a bridge and do the world a favor. Unfortunately, I realize with a sinking feeling in my gut, the role I’m playing demands the exact opposite response.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, obsequious as can be.
He’s leaning so close, and he’s not keeping his eyes to himself at all. I’ve been leered at before – it probably happens every morning in the Great Hall without my knowing, in fact. It certainly happened regularly while I was with the Warblers, but back then, I was allowed – even encouraged – to retaliate. I can’t splash a drink or pull a knife on this guy, though.
Vespyn cocks his head to the side and hums down at me appreciatively.
“I bet his majesty keeps you on a tight leash, hmm?” he says in a slick purr. “I know I would.”
At this comment, I feel my anger rising up past my disgust. I know the whole pet analogy is not inapt, but it’s getting very old. I certainly don’t want to hear about what this creep would do if he “owned” me. My blood starts to boil, and I can tell now, with absolute certainty, that if this guy keeps going in the direction he’s headed in now, I’m going to explode at him. It’s completely inevitable. The trajectory of my rage is stretching before me in a perfect arc that I can do nothing to stop.
Then I remember Cevine’s advice. A ray of hope, in my hour of need. I cling to it like a lifeline with everything I have.
The time has come to choose violence.
I look at the Sungian in front of me with new eyes, taking him in, sizing him up. What pain should I inflict upon him first? I think that most of all, I would like to take out his beady yellow eyes, so he can’t rub them all over me, or anyone else, anymore.
As clearly as I can, I envision reaching up to his face and holding it between my palms. Then, I mentally take both my thumbs and push them, slowly and deliberately, into his eyeballs. I can feel the wet, goopy texture of his eyes mash around my thumbs, getting under the nail, then see the tears and gore start to stream down his cheeks. He tries to thrash his head around, but I have it firmly held in my palms. I can picture his scream with such perfect clarity that I can hear it clash discordantly with the music coming from my harp right now.
Immediately, I feel my anger ebb, receding away like the tide.
I blink. His eyes are back to normal, and I can’t hear his screams anymore, but the odd center of calm remains. I feel… peaceful. Serene. Untouchable. It’s like his creepy little leer is sliding right off of me. I’ve been holding a tense grin since the start of my silent reverie, but now it’s relaxed into a real one. I heave a small, contented sigh, and let go of all the tension in my body all at once.
Vespyn doesn’t seem to have noticed my lapse in attention, nor does he seem to care that I didn’t respond to his previous statement. He starts running a languid finger along the curve of my harp.
“You’re pretty good on this thing,” he remarks. His tongue flicks out again. “I wonder if he’d let me borrow you to come ‘play music’ for me for a while.”
I don’t really care for his insinuation that I’m doing anything besides playing music for Khysmet. I know it’s a common rumor believed by many members of the court, but as of now, I can say definitively that I hate it more when it’s thrown right in my face. I feel my anger rising again.
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This time, I reach out when he’s flicking out his tongue and grab it with one hand, then take a knife and slice it clean off. It’s wet and writhing even after I remove it. He falls to his knees, pawing at his mouth with his hands, blood and spit dribbling down between his fingers.
I draw my lips into a pout, affecting some faux insecurity. I flutter my eyelashes vapidly and look up at him.
“I don’t know, sir,” I say as though I’m really not sure of the answer to his question. “You’d have to ask him.”
He leans in closer than ever, coming up right in front of my face now.
“You look nervous, little mouse,” he purrs. “Am I scaring you?”
I stab him in the neck, and his blood gushes hot and wet into my lap.
“No, sir,” I say. “I’m not scared.”
He reaches out and takes a lock of my hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently.
“You should be,” he whispers.
I pull his intestines out with my bare hands and–
Suddenly, a voice rings out and cuts my daydream to ribbons.
“I’ll thank you,” Khysmet says, “not to harass my harpist.”
He doesn’t speak very loudly, just loudly enough to jolt Vespyn out of his creepy little intimidation attempt. Vespyn reluctantly lets go of my hair and straightens up. He doesn’t move any further away, though.
“My apologies, your majesty,” he says, oily as can be. “I didn’t mean to encroach upon your property.”
I can see better when Vespyn moves out of my face. Khysmet has risen out of his chair and is standing in an authoritative pose, glaring icy daggers at him.
"Why don’t you take a seat, Vespyn," he says. "It's rude to mill about the room."
Vespyn’s tail lashes viciously, almost striking me.
"It's rude to drag your little toy into this meeting,” he hisses. “Surely you can only have done so to make a mockery of us.”
Khysmet’s eyes narrow. I can feel his aura of authority seeping out and saturating the atmosphere. It’s suffocating even though I’m not on the receiving end of it.
“Sit. Down.”
His words are quiet, but the command has an air of total finality to it, like there’s no other option available but to follow it. There is no threat of what might happen if the command is not followed, because there is no if. Resistance is pointless and submission is inevitable. I have heard this tone before, but this is dialed up to an unprecedented level.
Vespyn stays standing for an unusually long amount of time, longer than I would have thought him capable of. But eventually, inevitably, he submits. He walks away from me over to the furthest possible chair, and takes a seat.
As one might expect, conversation after this altercation is extremely painful and stilted. I play very quietly, but I keep playing, because stopping and sitting in silence would be so much worse. They don't stay for much longer.
Sahresh comes back to escort them out of the room. After everyone is gone, Khysmet walks to the door, closes it, and stays there in front of it with his back to me. I can see his shoulders heave with deep, ragged breaths. He's silent for a long time.
Eventually I can't take the silence anymore.
"Um… Khysmet?" I say hesitantly.
He flinches when I speak. Then he turns around and walks straight for me with purposeful strides until he's right in front of me, only inches away. Then, in a move I am completely unprepared for, he grabs my chin in his smooth, dry hand and starts turning my face left and right, up and down, examining me closely.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" he asks urgently, flicking his tongue. He brushes my hair out of my face to get a better look at my forehead. Then he tilts my chin upward to examine my throat and neck.
"No, he only touched my hair," I say. My face is heating up under his close examination. His touch is almost perfunctory, even clinical, but there's a tenderness to it as well. It's unexpectedly soothing, but at the same time titillating. He’s so close that I can smell the heady scent of bergamot and mahogany rolling off his body. My chest keeps getting tighter the longer his touch lingers.
Eventually, he seems satisfied and releases me, though he hovers close and still looks at me like he thinks he may have missed something.
"I was worried he might have scratched you," Khysmet says. "I know human skin is fragile, and I thought he might have gotten you with his claws even unintentionally."
"No, I'm fine," I insist.
He sighs deeply, but there’s still a lot of tension in his body, a tightness around his eyes and mouth. He looks at me with a level gaze.
"What did he say to you?" he asks gravely.
"Oh, he was just being a general creep, is all,” I say with a nonchalant shrug and a grimace. “Calling me your pet and saying he'd like to put me on a leash. Stuff like that."
To me, this is not that big of a deal. I’ve heard much worse than that before in much scarier situations. Here at least I knew for a fact that I wasn’t in any danger. What could he possibly have done in a brightly lit room full of other people, including his parents and Khysmet, who I know would have him kicked out on his ass in a second flat if he actually tried to hurt me?
Khysmet, on the other hand, does not seem to see it that way. He says absolutely nothing, and his expression is a mask of icy anger like nothing I’ve seen on him before. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his tail lashing furiously back and forth. I want to say something to lighten the mood, to let him know it’s not as big of a deal as he thinks and everything is fine.
"Hey, I did a great job not lashing out, though," I say proudly. "Didn’t break character once! You would have been so impressed."
He exhales a breath shaky with anger and shakes his head.
"I wish you had lashed out,” he says. “He certainly deserved it.”
Then Khysmet turns his head and looks into the distance somewhere to my left, as though staring down an imaginary adversary.
“I almost killed that slimy bastard in cold blood,” he spits viciously.
His voice holds a vitriol that curdles the air like acid, and I'm blown away by the bloodthirsty ferocity in his words. The way he said it, and the look in his eyes when he did, gives me the distinct impression that it's not an exaggeration, not hyperbole. He was genuinely homicidal.
I feel a chill run down my spine. I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve never seen him truly angry. Rage is radiating off his body in waves; the air crackles with it.
Khysmet starts pacing the room, lost in his thoughts.
"As it stands now,” he says in a cruel mutter mostly to himself, “I'll see to it that his life from this point forward is a long, miserable slide into abject poverty and perpetual agony. He's made a very unwise decision today, and a very poor choice in an enemy."
My blood runs cold. Not because of the sentiment, but because I know that he has every ounce of power necessary to make good on those words. But would he actually go through with it? Something in his eyes, set in a face that is a mask of rage, tells me that he’s planning it out right now.
I’m no stranger to anger. But mine tends to be hot and bubbling, passionate, acute. I get mad, leave the source of my rage, go throw some things around, and I’m generally okay. Yes, I’m an angry person, but it doesn’t stick around very long. Before long, I settle down and cool off, so long as I’m removed from the cause of my irritation.
I get the feeling that Khysmet is not the same way. He’s not going to explode at someone and walk away to settle down. As I watch him pace the room muttering to himself, he strikes me as someone who believes in the old adage “revenge is a dish best served cold”. I wonder how many grudges he’s holding right now, with Vespyn being the most recently added to the list.
I can’t help but feel like his revenge plan is a way-over-the-top reaction to somebody being creepy to me, though. But there’s no way in hell that I’m going to say that to him.
He happens to glance over in my direction in his pacing, and stops in his tracks, seemingly just now remembering that I’m in the room. He again heads in my direction with purposeful strides, though he stops before getting too close this time, seemingly hesitating. There’s a look in his eyes that I can’t quite read.
“It’s getting a bit late, Miss Catarina,” he says, voice thick with an emotion I can’t place. “Why don’t you head to bed?”
I furrow my brow, a little worried about him. “You sure you don’t want company for a little longer?”
He chuckles dryly and a pained expression flashes across his face. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t find my company very pleasant at the moment. I insist you take off for the night.”
I blink up at him a couple times, then nod. I stand up and head for the door, but pause for a second when I get there. I turn around and look back at him.
“Good night, Khysmet,” I say.
Some of the tension on his face softens, and he gives me a small smile when he responds.
“Good night, Miss Catarina,” he says. “Sleep well.”
Then I open the door and walk through it, leaving him behind to pace and brood in solitude.