Tepet Nishal hesitated a moment to adjust his fingers on the keys of his flute, but instead of the expected soft, dulcet tone, the instrument let out a piercing shriek. Wincing, Nishal lowered the instrument and glanced at his mother. Tepet Tulia dropped her book to her lap with a huff. “He told me you were improving. That will never do in good company. Start again.” With a slight nod of his tiny raven head, Nishal did what he was told, bringing the flute back to his lips in shaky hands. A tremulous breath brought a quavering sound, at first, but after a moment, he fell into the gentle, soothing tune. He could almost forget why his stomach felt queasy, until a woman's agonized scream cut through the house. The sound was followed by another shriek of the flute.
Tulia's eyes flitted toward the door of the sitting room, but she made no move her lithe but rounding frame from the pile of silk pillows she rested on. She seemed to Nishal, however, more like a board trying to lounge. “Again, Nishal, and louder.” He did as asked, though his mouth was suddenly very dry. He tried to push breath through the instrument, and succeeded in making more shrieks and squawks than anything else. Every few moments or so, another scream punctuated the tortured sound of the flute. Tulia tried to appear unaffected, though even child Nishal could see through the effort.
Finally, the screams became constant, and Nishal gave up his musical trials. He put the flute down on its stand and fixed his mother with a grave look. “What's going on? Is that Lada screaming?” Nishal liked the slave woman. She was always nice to him and sneaked him treats when no one was watching.
“That is none of your business, child,” Tulia snapped. “Concentrate on your studies and stop asking questions.”
“He's six, and certainly in possession of his hearing. And, by no account is he stupid.” Helidah appeared in the door, linen sleeves rolled far up her arms and splattered with something Nishal thought looked like blood. The elderly tutor seemed far out of her element, and her gray hair was wild with loose strands. Nishal found a smile for her, even if she was being impertinent with her belated, “my lady.”
Tulia did not respond further than another huff, but turned an eagle's gaze on her six-year-old son. “None of your business, and certainly nothing to speak of. Not even to your father.” She didn't say more, but Nishal could hear the threat of horrible punishments in her voice if he even thought of disobeying. He merely nodded in assent, tongue feeling too thick for speech. Tulia absently ran a hand over her swelling belly and barked, “Now, go, study. Let me talk to Helidah alone.” Nishal bolted from the room.
A few steps out, he halted as the words drifting from behind him took actual form in his ears. “…care how you do it, but it must be done before my husband returns.” His mother.
“But…” Helidah did not continue. Nishal could only imagine the look his mother gave the mortal tutor for daring to question her betters. “It will be done.”
“And do not tell me…” Nishal did not listen further. Instead, he quietly padded down the arched hallway, soft-soled shoes making little noise on the marble floor. He paused at the study room, but did not enter. Looking around to make certain his mother and Helidah were nowhere to be seen, he continued down the hall and turned at the cross hallway toward the servants quarters, though he had long been forbidden to go down there. He knew everyone else had been sent away for a few days or were with his father.
It didn't take long to find the right direction, though each wooden door along the plain hall looked like the next. Nishal merely followed the sound of crying. It sounded like a baby, and when he opened the third door on the left, he found just that.
The tiny room was wrecked. Bloody towels and bowls of water sat haphazardly around. The slave Lada sat propped on a straw-filled mattress. Every stray strand of her gold streaked brown hair was plastered with sweat. Even the pair of braids she wore on each side of her head hung limp. A bundle wrapped in brown linen sat cradled in her arms, the source of the cries. “Are…are you all right, Lada?”
Lada seemed to notice Nishal for the first time, blinking her red-rimmed blue eyes at him. “You should not be here, Nishal.” Her barbarian accent was thick today, giving a strange lilt to his name. “Do not let that kle'chat find you.” Nishal didn't understand the word, but he understood the meaning. He nodded and turned.
Before he could leave, Lada stopped him with his name. The boy turned slowly back, cocking his head to one side. She was adjusting the bundle in her arms, speaking as she did. “I do not think you will not see me again, little one,” Lada spoke softly. “May I ask a favor?”
Nishal swallowed back the stinging of tears now. “Yes.”
“Two. Remember that you rest in my soul, even if I am carried on the wind to the next life. I no longer care if I am not to say such things.” She delicately pulled the wrappings from around the baby's head.
“I won't forget you ever, Lada.” He sniffled, and she gave him a soft smile.
“The other is this.” She held the baby up so Nishal could see it. He could only see the tiny, wrinkled head poking out of the linen, a thick thatch of raven hair sticking straight up. “Remember what you see here, even if you cannot speak of it. Now go.” He started to say something else to the slave woman, but she would hear nothing. “Go.”
The force of the word sent Nishal scurrying, running back down the hallways as fast as his little feet could carry him. He was breathless when he hit his study room. Grabbing one of his books from a shelf, he threw himself down on a pile of pillows in the corner. Just in time, as he heard the music room door slam shut and footsteps in the hall. He opened the book, in case one of them poked their head in, but saw none of it. He forced himself to shove back the strange puzzle of the day so that he wouldn't cry. He couldn't let Tulia or Helidah catch him in tears.