Chapter Eight
Another long, long day. Pelai unwarded her front door and walked inside, leaving it open for Krais. She had a mouthy cat meowing at her for his supper. At least she had remembered to come back and feed him for breakfast, thank the Goddess, but it would be nice to have everything settled and a routine established, so that she could work more free time into her schedule. Thassam Koret, her new Second, had reassured her things would settle down, but after two nights of interrupted sleep, Pelai felt a little paranoid about tonight.
Setting the plate of chicken scraps on the floor, she petted Purrsus for a few moments, then checked the shelves inside. Just one plate of food left, suitable for his breakfast. The leather and lapis lazuli stone collar he wore allowed him to come and go through a small flap in the glazed doors overlooking the lake, which meant he could and probably did hunt his own supper occasionally among the lawns and flower beds, but he was her responsibility to feed and tend.
Eyeing the other contents of the stasis cupboard, she made a mental note to get some more food for herself as well. Supper had been a few hours ago, pocketbread stuffed with greens, onion slivers, and crumbled hardboiled eggs in a creamy sauce. Pulling out the bowl of chickpea paste, she dabbed some onto two plates, added some carrots and peapods and a couple of pickled onions, good for hot weather, since today had grown warm. Her residence came with cooling spells, but they only worked at half strength when she was not home, making it too hot to ignite the iron-cast cooking rune.
Almost out of most of this stuff, too. I’ll have to go shopping tomorrow . . . except I can’t spare the time. Koret couldn’t get all the high-ranked mages in to meet me on such short notice, just the ones around the Temple, but I’ll be meeting several more tomorrow when they finish arriving by mirror-Gates.
At least we’ve had six months to set up a better relay system than before. That spell we cast—that I tried to cast—cut down the distance the mirrors can span to just barely a few days of travel at a stretch. On a good aether day. She added some herb-baked crackers, used the spoon to round a better hollow into each dollop of chickpea paste, and poured a drizzle of olive oil infused with garlic over the near-white paste. The good kind of paste, extra-fine, and almost as smooth and white as sour cream.
Slicing up some dry-smoked sausages, she cut the half dozen rounds in two and tucked a corner of each half into each dollop, forming six-legged little beasties. The pickled onions became little heads, the greens and vegetables a little garden for the “head” to rest against, like it was eating. The crackers she just fanned out, until with a bit of squinting, they looked like a golden sand beach, and the paste-beasties . . . she reworked those so that they had four flipper-legs, and two half-curves over the puddle of dipping oil, until they looked something like turtles.
“ . . . What exactly are you doing?” Krais asked, startling her.
Pelai didn’t shriek, but she did suck in a sharp breath, and jolt a couple of crackers out of alignment. For such a muscular male, he moved rather quietly. Partly, she guessed, because of his rope sandals, picked up along with other needed goods when they’d stopped by his father’s house earlier in the day, at an hour she was certain his father would not be home. Breathing deep, she relaxed herself consciously, and tidied the crackers on the brown-glazed earthenware.
“I am making a meal for us. Obviously,” she added, rolling her eyes slightly.
“No, I mean . . . is that tanga? It looks like you’re making tanga!” Krais asserted, pointing at the plates. “I haven’t seen that being made since I was a child.”
Pelai finished fussing with the cracker beach and arched a brow at him. “Do you think it is beneath the dignity of your doma to make her food artful?”
“No, it’s just . . . We had a subservient in the house for two years, and he always made us the art of food,” Krais explained. “Rabbits and hounds out of rice mixed with sticky sauces, mountains made from chicken in nut sauces, decorated with little lettuce and seaweed trees, farm animals made from carved vegetables . . . I had forgotten how much fun seeing a plate full of tanga could be.”
He smiled, the first pure, unadulterated smile she could recall seeing on his face. His expression held a touch of wistfulness to it for the memories her actions raised, but beyond that, it held zero censure, utterly free of disciplined maturity or unnecessary pride. Just pure delight.
Smiling in reply, Pelai decided to share a little bit of her personal history with him. “My father taught me how to make tanga. As a baker with his own shop, he would get up early and go down to the room Mother kept enchanted cold for him. He would roll out the butter pastries, and put together the fruit pies . . . and he would always make us breakfast, and put together a beautiful little lunch to carry with us to the teaching hall near our home.
“A pinch, a snip, a couple twists, and he could make buns into bunnies that baked up with golden-brown ears and golden-brown tails. Bits of dried fruits and nuts became eyes and ears and candied fruit peels became mouths and swords, and strip-skirts for warrior kilts. . . . My siblings and I were always envied by the other children in our teaching district . . . but since Father provided similar snacks for all one day a week, nobody could really complain, because he would make cheesemen murals melted onto the most delicious flatbreads. He sometimes even coordinated with our teachers to include something from each week’s lessons.”
“I was bullied twice for having a tanga meal at my teaching hall,” Krais murmured, losing his smile in the surge of a less pleasant memory. “Father escorted me to class the next day, after the second incident. He made certain to talk to the bullies. Having the brand new Elder Disciplinarian show up to discourage bullying made quite an impression on my classmates, especially since he talked with respect as well as authority. He . . . he wasn’t always a man who ranted at everyone.”
Pelai found herself touching his arm, offering him silent sympathy. “I make tanga with my food whenever I feel a need to comfort myself. It’s been a long da—“
“Mau!” Purrsus, done with his meal, interrupted her with the strident demand. “Maauu!” He sniffed at her boots, then pawed at the toe of one, clear in his demand to get her out of the knee-covering leather so that he could get his fix for the evening.
Krais blinked, staring down at the cat. “He is obsessed with your stinky feet, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Yes, he is. Take the plates to the family room, Penitent,” Pelai stated, bending down to scoop up her impatient cat. “We might as well begin your penance training tonight.”
“That does not sound all that reassuring,” he muttered. He did pick up the plates and carry them, following in her wake. “Are you certain I cannot just fetch and carry like I did all day yesterday and today? I did a good job fetching all those documents you needed, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did, but your father is going to expect to see marks in two more days,” she reminded him. Turning when she reached the couch, she settled down onto the seat and tucked Purrsus onto her chest, distracting him from leaping down by scritching under his silver-and-black pointed chin. “Once you have the plates on the drinks table, unlace my boots. Pull them both off when both are unlaced, or Purrsus will get impatient and claw at the leather. If he puts claw marks on my leather, guess who has to buff and blacken them again?”
“Yes, Doma,” he sighed, setting down the plates. “I am aware that it will be me. Father used to punish us by making us learn how to clean his leathers. Where do you keep your kit?” he asked her, kneeling by her feet to begin picking at the lacings.
“Upstairs. I keep it all in a specific spot so that I can use spells to clean my uniforms every couple of days.”
“I used to do that,” he told her, his attention more on her boots than on his words.
That confused Pelai. “You did? What made you stop?”
“Sea travel,” he explained succinctly, before freeing a hand to spread his fingers and wobble them a little. “The rocking of the ship makes the equipment move around too much for a successful cantrip. Foren was the only one of the three of us who managed to get the hang of the movements. Gayn nearly threw his scrubbing brush overboard, he was so vexed by the rocking interfering with his spells. I wasn’t far behind. We gave up and went back to individual spells with the tins of soap and polish in our hands—the old spells, the kind where for every single scrub of the brush, it soaps and cleans four times as much.”
“I stopped using those when I turned eighteen,” Pelai murmured. Purrsus, aware of the work going on regarding her boots, strained his lithe body against her fingers, dark tail up and pale whiskers perked forward. “Careful, you’re about to have a lap panther pounce on your work.”
“Almost . . . there!” Tugging with a hand on each heel, he pulled the last bit of both boots off her feet, which she helpfully wriggled and pointed. She muttered the spell to remove her socks at the same time, letting them puff into the air off to one side, where they fluttered to the floor.
Her pet, unable to restrain himself anymore, pulled free of her grasp and almost tumbled off her knees in his eagerness to get to her feet. The other male at her feet waved his hand in front of his face, sitting back with a wry look.
“I have no idea why he likes that smell . . . but I’ll admit it is slightly better than the way my father’s feet smelled after a long day in his boots. Slightly better,” Krais emphasized, pinching his thumb and forefinger a nail’s width apart, before going back to fanning the air.
“He likes my feet, ripe cheeses, and two-day-old fish. He gets my feet every day, and occasionally the cheese,” Pelai told him. The sensual feel of Purrsus rubbing his furry face and body against her bare feet contrasted with their conversation, but she persevered. “I draw the line at the fish, since I can’t even put it outside to age without attracting other animals to gnaw on it, and then Purrsus gets into a fight with whatever it is . . .
“Speaking of food, go to the writing desk and write down the following foods,” she directed, realizing she had a solution to her food cupboard dilemma. “I’ll get you some money, and some baskets, and you’ll go to the market for me tomorrow while I’m meeting with groups of senior mages coming in from around the nation.”
“West Gate market?” Krais asked. He stroked his fingers along her cat’s back briefly before rising.
“West Gate, Riverbend, and South Court,” Pelai told him.
“South Court market?” he protested, turning to eye her askance. “That’s over thirty districts from here!”
“So?” Pelai asked him.
“So it’ll take me two hours just to walk there, and another two hours to walk back, and that’s without the side trip to Riverbend. What do you need that can only be found at the South Court merchants?” he asked. Demanded, even. At the arch of her brow, Krais flushed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not protesting being sent there. I will go if you command it. I’m just . . . wondering if it cannot be found any closer. That’s all. What do you need from all the way down there?”
“Faustus is the only merchant in all of Mendham who sells Fortunai cheeses.”
“Oh. Well. If it’s for cheeses, then I suppose it’s worth the long walk.” He uncorked one of the ink bottles, pulled a piece of cheap wood-pulp paper from the shelf under the slanted top, picked up and dipped one of her pens in the well, then hesitated. “Wait . . . aren’t Fortunai cheeses made from sheep’s milk?”
“Yes. And I like them. He also only sells them in lots stored in stasis boxes,” she added, “so they won’t be lightweight, and they won’t be cheap. We’ll need to remember to take the last of that out of the current box, since I’m almost out, and put it in a stasis cupboard so you can take the current box back to him. He ships local cheeses back to Fortuna in those same boxes, so they stay fresh. Expensive, but worth it, in my opinion.”
“Take . . . box . . . back . . . to Merchant Faustus. Any particular kind of sheep’s cheese?”
“Make sure you get the garlic-herbed cheese if you can. Shallots are acceptable, too, and if he has one with both, get that, but in a choice between just the two, always pick the garlic one. While you’re at South Court, you can also look for toska fruits. They’re from the Katani Empire, and the merchants in that area are more likely to have them. They cater a lot to the wealthy families living on the outskirts of the city.”
“Yes, the party estates,” he muttered, making more notes with the brass-nibbed pen he had found.
“Hmm?” Pelai asked.
“That’s what Father calls them. When the wealthy live too far from the Temple to engage in the governance of the nation, they tend to spend their time in frivalous pursuits, throwing various parties all the time,” Krais said. “And . . . there, toska . . . fruit. . . . Actually, I had some six months ago. I think. I had a lot of different foods, all of it shipped in from various kingdoms and nations around the world for the Convocation. But I’m pretty sure the earliest stuff was shipped from Katan. Or grown locally, maybe.”
“I haven’t had it in a while, but I have been craving it lately. I’ll take jam made from it, or jelly, even fruit-leather if it’s in between shipments. There’s a sweet-preserves shop on this side of the marketplace, if I remember right, not far from Faustus’ shop. Actually, get a wide selection,” Pelai instructed him, and named several types she liked, waiting for him to note down each one. “ . . . It’s not likely I’ll get down that way again all that soon, so I might as well take advantage of your willing service.”
“Well, I am grateful I’m not locked up in the Hall of Discipline’s dungeons,” he replied, dryly.
“Not even your father in his worst tirade over the last six months has voiced that particular thought,” Pelai reassured him. “Let’s move on to what I want at the Riverbend market. They have the types of fish that both Purrsus and I like. I have a self-cleaning stasis basket reserved strictly for carrying fish and poultry, so you’ll also want to look for duck or chicken, or maybe partridge. Raw, not cooked.”
“I do know how to feed a cat. Do you want me to chop it up and put it onto plates in the stasis cupboard?” Krais asked. “I noticed you use the left-hand one under the counter for storing meat.”
“You deserve a reward for being astutely observant . . . and for being quick-witted. Yes, you’ll want to prep his meals,” Pelai agreed. “The smallest plates in the cupboards, to a depth no thicker than your littlest finger. I’ll ease up on your magics in the morning just enough so that you can clean the sandbox and have help with carrying everything. Get four or five fish—trout or salmon if you can—and at least one decent-sized eel.”
“Eel?” Krais asked.
“I like rice rolls. I have plenty of sauce and rice, but make sure to get cabbage to wrap the rolls. Oh, and a greenfruit.”
“Cabbage, not grape leaves?” he asked, making notes.
“I can never get them steamed right. Either they’re still fibrous and tough, or they end up slimy. Cabbage is just easier to steam soft, for me,” she explained. Purrsus abandoned her toes in favor of going over to her boots and sticking his face inside the nearest one.
Krais grunted. “Hmmphf. I’ll get some grape leaves, too, and show you how I steam them to perfection. Ah . . . if you will permit it, Doma.”
“What, turn down someone else offering to make me a meal? I am not crazy,” she reassured him dryly. Waiting for him to be ready, Pelai gave him several more foods to fetch—most of which could be found at the nearby market—then had him write down directions to her father’s bakery. “ . . . If you go to West Gate first, you can get all the main shopping done by lunch. After lunch, you can go down to South Court, then to Riverbend on the way back. It’s easiest to go to the bakery right after that. By that point, you should have very full baskets, so come back here, put everything away—don’t cut up anything, just store it in stasis and latch the cupboard doors—and you should be back in time to join me in the Disciplinarian’s Hall for supper. . . . Oh. Right.”
“Yes,” Krais agreed, writing down more notes. “You’re not a member of that Hierarchy branch anymore. We broke our fast here, and had lunch and supper both brought to us today, but we’ll have to go to the Mage’s dining hall most of the time. I always either ate at my father’s home, or in the Painted Warrior’s hall. Although as the Elder Mage, you really shouldn’t be dining among the others like a lesser rank.”
That tilted her head in confusion. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it just isn’t done,” he murmured, wetting his pen in the inkwell for yet another line.
“Says who?” Pelai asked softly.
“Says my fath . . . Oh. Right.”
Relieved she didn’t have to spell out the flaw in that thought’s source, Pelai explained her own views on the matter. “I know many of the senior mages here at the Temple grounds from casual interactions over the years, but I need to get to know them . . . and they need to get to know me. A few are going to be upset with me getting the Guardianship instead of Koret, so I’ll need to at least try to extend the proverbial truthwand over my own hand so that they can learn I am trustworthy enough for the job.”
“You know, that always bothered me. Why did Tipa’thia pick you over her Second Mage?” Krais asked. “For five, six years, Thassam Koret was going to be the next Guardian. I even tried to be the next Guardian, but she turned me down . . . and I know now why she turned all three of us down. Koret got the position, and that was that. I went away, came back, and didn’t hear anything for a few months, then suddenly, it’s you.”
“You don’t . . . ? Oh. That’s right. If I remember correctly, you and your brothers had been sent off after those mage beasts in the northern mountains,” she mused, casting her mind back three years. “Koret started having chest pains after his mother died, leaving him parentless. I think that was just after you left. At first, we all thought it was just stress—losing a beloved parent is always stressful—but the Healers diagnosed him with actual heart problems, and that was that. Tipa’thia decided she couldn’t risk a successor who could die in the middle of the Fountain, causing it to seal itself in the wake of an abrupt death.”
“That would not be good, no,” Krais agreed.
“I know. Anyway, he’s in charge of the bureaucracy of the Hierarchy of Mages, and he has far more experience in managing all the paperwork, which is what a good Second should be doing, to free up the Elder to focus on the important decisions. And I’m happy for him to do that, because I’ll have the Fountain and all of its headaches to deal with . . . including some cross-Fountain projects that should be picking up soon. So. Unless you make it back to the Hall of Mages in time to join me for lunch, and I hope you do, I will see you at supper,” she concluded. “We have enough food for Purrsus, the remainder can be chopped up and portioned out after supper. Feel free to tidy up around here if you have spare time in the morning, though I doubt you will in the afternoon.”
“Not with a walk to the far side of the city, no,” he muttered. “And I probably will have time for tidying in the morning. The West Gate market isn’t all that far from here.”
“You’ll get a few coins to spend on your own needs, so you can do a little shopping for yourself tomorrow,” Pelai told him. At his bemused look, she shrugged. “I don’t see why you can’t have some free time to yourself each day, whenever possible. And I appreciate your willingness to go forth and do my shopping for me. That deserves a little recompense.”
“I’m not sure how ‘willing’ it is if the Goddess twisted my arm into it,” he pointed out with blunt honesty.
“You could have given Her the sign of the toad, and said no,” Pelai pointed out.
“Even at my angriest, the most I would’ve done is the sign of the frog,” Krais replied with an odd sort of primness. “My mother beat all three of us for blasphemy any stronger than that. At least, to the Goddess. My brothers and I signed the whole pond of rudeness creatures to each other while growing up. Behind our mother’s back, of course.”
“Of course. So . . . have you got the list made?” Pelai asked.
“I do, Doma.” Rising, he carried the page over to her, blowing on it as he walked to help dry the sheet.
Purrsus, startled, tried to scoot his head out of her boot so he could retreat. He got it tangled on a bit of lacing, and ended up going in backward circles twice before finally shaking off the footwear and scampering to the far side of the room. There, he stopped and did the classic licking of his shoulder in an attempt to look utterly unruffled, and as if he had planned all of that, backward boot-scooting and everything.
Krais eyed the cat’s antics, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; after Purrsus was free and once again dignified, he handed over the sheet with a murmur. “Father prefers dogs. I’m beginning to see the appeal of cats in the face of his disdain.”
“Because they’re silly creatures?” Pelai suggested, glancing over the list. Purrsus moved off, wandering elsewhere in search of something more interesting, no doubt.
“That, too, but they’re just . . . more independent. If I were a pet, I’d be a cat, I think,” he mused. “One who has decided not to purr anymore at the hand trying to feed me false or overinflated opinions as if they were facts.”
“And that right there is why I do not like subservients in my private life,” she told him, finishing her check of his list. He had neat handwriting. Catching his inquiring look when she glanced up again, she explained herself. “Far too many subservients think that they have to abase themselves with their domo or doma. Sometimes to the point of discarding their own thoughts and opinions.
“Some Disciplinarians enjoy that, but that actually offends me,” Pelai confessed. “It puts too much control and too much power into the hands of the Disciplinarian, which means the domo or doma ends up getting seduced by the rush of that power, and abuses it. Work needs to stay work, and my partners—even my penitents—need to have at least some opinions of their own. If they change to align with mine, then it needs to be because it is their choice. Which is why I prefer to punish in ways that provoke thought as well as reaction.”
“My opinions may be changing to be more like yours, but I assure you Pelai, they are changing because of my thoughts on those issues. Not yours,” Krais stated.
“Good. Put that on the table where you will see it tomorrow, and strip naked,” she ordered, grateful the mundane concerns of shopping for food and such were finally out of the way.
Krais blinked. The abrupt change in subject threw him, and for a moment he wasn’t certain he had heard her right. “ . . . What?”
“Put the list down and strip naked. We’re going to start training you on how your body reacts to pain and pleasure,” Pelai elaborated.
Or rather, he reminded himself, Pelai’thia. She is Pelai’thia now, Elder Mage of the Hierarchy. He had to remember that. She was also his doma, his Disciplinarian. The prospect of being naked and thus vulnerable in front of her unnerved him. “ . . . Could we start with my kilt still on?”
She arched a brow. Wincing a little, Kraise reminded himself this was part of his official punishment . . . even if he might end up enjoying the session in some twisted, perverted way. Sighing, Krais bent over and started unlacing his sandals to delay removing his kilt for as long as possible.
To his surprise, Pelai’thia relented. “Alright. You may keep your kilt on. For now. But only your kilt,” she told him. “Even your fundo has to be removed. Set your clothes on the table away from the food, kneel when you have finished, and you may have a little something to eat while we go over the rules.”
“ . . . Thank you, Doma,” he murmured, grateful for the reprieve. After a second, the meaning behind her words caught up to his brain and he straightened, eyeing her. “Wait, rules? What rules? I know there are laws, but . . .”
“If this were a normal penance, you and I would only need to concern ourselves about the laws binding the behavior of Disciplinarians toward their penitents,” Pelai pointed out. “But this is much more consensual than that. You, Puhon Krais, need to get in touch with what your body desires. You wish to remain dominant in your life, in control of your destiny . . . but if you wish to retain control of your body, you need to understand how it works.”
“I suppose,” Krais murmured, nudging his sandals under the drinks table and working on removing his worn blue vest. The cotton material certainly looked like it had been through a lot, but then these were clothes he had taken on his journey overseas. The choice came down to appearances; if his father heard of him wandering around in worn, aging clothing, then Dagan’thio might consider his son to be humiliated as well as punished, and hopefully be satisfied with that.
Once the vest came off, his colorfully painted torso drew her gaze. There were tattoos for shielding his bare flesh against blunt attacks and piercing ones, inked sigils for strength, others for swiftness. Typical for an upper-ranked Painted Warrior, really. And, of course, the hint of the black-inked runes wrapping around the divot of his navel, just barely visible at the waistband of his informal blue kilt. Not the kind that cut off his fertility in order to empower his tattoos—he was a mage and had plenty of excess power—but the kind that tied his magics into the markings across his body.
An odd, awkward part of his mind hoped the way she followed his movements meant she found his body appealing. If they were about to begin exploring his newly twisted sexuality, well, he wasn’t going to be heartless enough to expect her to suffer. If she enjoyed the view . . . then that was fine. He was just handsome enough that he’d never lacked for company, even with only a minimum of effort. Not completely effortlessly, of course, but basic courtesies toward women, that sort of thing.
Sitting there on her couch, watching the proud Painted Warrior strip . . . Pelai definitely enjoyed the view.
Muscles rippled under all that ink, brown-tanned flesh bunching and clenching. His skin wrinkled a little at the belly, as all bodies wrinkled when they bent over, allowing him to put the folded garment on the table. Pelai indulged in admiring his arm and back muscles while he did so. Straightening, he flushed a little under the weight of her gaze, but discreetly reached up under the back folds of his kilt and started working loose the wrapped ends of his fundo.
Men and women both wore kilts, unless some task or situation absolutely required trousers. Even then, the leggings tended to be only knee-length; Mendhi was a warm, humid country. Letting a breeze caress the skin, evaporating sweat to cool the body, tended to be necessary most days. Especially in summer, like now. At least the cooling runes for her house worked; the air felt bearable against her skin, and Krais showed no signs of sweating.
After piling the loincloth on the far end of the table, away from the food, he knelt, started to reach for the nearest plate, then hesitated. Glancing her way, Krais asked, “Would you like some of this food, Doma?”
He didn’t ask in a subservient way; his tone implied he was offering to pass her a plate as if she were the guest in his home, not the other way around. But Pelai nodded, glad his instinct was to be courteous in his own way. She doubted his father would have bothered.
“Yes. Pass me one of the plates.”
He did so. Not subserviently, no little bow, no offering it with both hands, no supplication. The eldest Puhon brother just picked up the plate by its edge and extended his arm, a perfectly normal, ordinary, between-two-equals action. His father might have expected subservient behavior from a penitent, but she rather liked its absence.
“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the plate. Picking up a cracker, she dipped it in the chickpea paste, munched, and spoke when her mouth was clear again. “The very first thing we need to discuss are your safety words. Do you remember what that is?”
He nodded, and worked to clear his own mouth of food. “ . . . It’s the word or words I could say as a subservient—not as a penitent, normally, but always as a subservient—that would get you to pause and discuss with me what is happening, listening to me speaking about uncertainty, or discomfort. Or even a safety word to get you to stop entirely. Except I am a penitent, not a subservient, and do not get such things.”
“The law says I do not have to give you safety words as a penitent, provided I can defend my actions before the Goddess and the truth as being justified,” Pelai corrected him. “But it also does not say I cannot give you safety words. It is my choice. Since the Goddess has judged that your penance is not truly necessary, and I have judged it is simply for appearances . . . I choose that you get to have them.”
“Then . . . I am grateful, and . . . what should I say that would get your attention?” Krais asked.
“Personally, I prefer the three colors system,” Pelai admitted. “Green is associated with Healing magics, with healthy gardens and forests, so if you say you are feeling green, then that means everything is fine. Yellow is the color associated with fear, so if you are feeling uncertain or uncomfortable, you may call out, ‘yellow,’ and I will pause whatever is happening so that we can discuss it. . . . You know this system?” she asked when he nodded along with her words.
“Father used it on us to train us to behave, as young boys,” Krais confessed. “The third color, red, means danger, the spilling of blood. Whatever it is we were doing, when he called out red, we had to stop it right away. I am familiar with it. But . . . using the colors might remind me of him, and . . . if I am to enjoy what is happening,” he continued, picking his words carefully, “ . . . then I don’t want to think of my father midway through.”
“Oh, well, that’s easy,” Pelai drawled. “Your absolute dead-stop safety word is your father’s name, ‘Dagan’thio.’ I know that’d strike me like someone conjuring ice water over my head, and instantly cool my interest. I’ve found that, more often than not, an aversion to a word that is an euphemism for something else—or an association, like in this case—can be cured by deliberately using the word that directly references what the listener finds repulsive.”
Krais tipped his head, frowning in confusion. “How so?”
“If you know you can say your father’s name, ‘Dagan’thio,’ and that saying it will cause everything to stop, then that anchors the instinctive revulsion in your mind on his actual name. This allows you to free up the words for the colors green, yellow, and red to mean other things. They aren’t his name, they aren’t your father, and they aren’t being said by him. Instead, they return to being just colors, allowing you to associate them simply with the concepts of ‘continue’ and ‘pause’ and ‘stop what we’re doing for now,’” she said, gesturing between the two of them. “Does that make sense?”
He thought about it a few moments, then nodded slowly. “It does, actually. It makes a lot of sense that way. But I have a question. If I said ‘red’ in the middle of something . . . do I have to give a reason for it?”
“No,” Pelai asserted, shaking her head. “Red is red, and red is full stop for that particular session. I might ask you, and you may choose to reply, but you do not have to.”
His brows lifted at that. “My father would not allow a ‘red’ to pass unchallenged . . .”
Leaning forward, Pelai braced her elbows on her knees and gave him a hard, pointed stare. “I am not your father.”
“Yes, and I thank Menda for it,” he agreed. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around the differences, after decades of knowing Disciplinarians more through watching him than anyone else.”
“We’re all a little different from each other, with different areas of expertise and training, and what sort of rogue mages we’d prefer to handle,” she told him. “Understand, however, that if you give me a ‘yellow,’ I expect you to explain why. It may take you a few minutes of calming down so you can think coherently, but a good Disciplinarian is patient. Good subservients, in turn, take pains to express themselves. After all, the Gods have forbidden living mortals from being able to read each other’s thoughts. Only the dead can do so with impunity.”
That earned her another quizzical look. “Only the dead . . . ?”
“The priesthood of Darkhana has the ability to carry around a deceased priest or priestess—they call themselves Witches—inside their body, sharing their accumulated knowledge and wisdom as a form of superior guidance in exchange for occasionally borrowing the living host’s body,” Pelai explained. “I met one of the most famous Darkhanan Witches when I visited Mekhana half a year ago. She was kind enough to explain a few things to me before I came back home.
“Her Guide, as the deceased is called, was able to communicate directly with the thoughts of others upon a simple touch, as well as with the thoughts of his Host. It was quite interesting . . . but not a path for my life I’d have picked,” she finished, sitting back again. She started to say more, but her cat meowed from somewhere down the hall toward the front entrance. “I’m in here, Purrsus!”
Claws ticking on the floor tiles, the Temple cat came trotting back into the family room, prrrrp-ing with each rapid step for several paces. Within moments, he gained enough momentum to jump up onto the couch and head-bump her in the back of her neck and skull with his furry face, purring loudly. Lifting her hand up and back, she scratched awkwardly, soothing the feline.
Under Krais’ bemused look, Pelai blushed a little and explained, “ . . . He gets lost and lonely, sometimes. All I have to do is let him know where I am in the residence, and he rejoins me happily.”
Krais blinked twice, opened his mouth, and finally said, “I do believe I am envious of a cat . . .”
“Come again?” Pelai asked.
“I’ve never had anyone who would go out of their way to reassure me that I’m loved, and wanted, and . . . My brothers might qualify, but they’re as apt to cuff me as pet me whenever I reconnect with them after an absence,” he muttered.
“That is not unexpected,” she murmured. Purrsus jumped down to the couch pallet from the long, broad cushion to her lap, where he sniffed around a bit, then settled down across her leather-draped thighs. “Your father doesn’t exactly encourage moments of gentle intimacy in public places.”
“I am very glad you said gentle intimacy, which is platonic,” Krais muttered, swiping a hand over his long hair. “Because the other kind is not something I care to contemplate about my father.”
“Neither would I,” she agreed mildly, petting her lap cat. “But we shall set aside thoughts of Dagan’thio at this time, and focus instead upon your first set of lessons.”