Darshan’s shoulders sagged, all the fight seeming to drain from him. Grimacing, he tapped an idle little beat on his thighs. “I guess I shall leave, then.”
“Wait.” Hamish stood, hastening to his lover’s side lest Darshan chose to flee. “You dinnae actually think that’s true, do you?”
“Lack of consent to any act of a sexual nature means only one thing in Udynea. I assume it is the same here.” Tears streamed down his cheeks, fogging the lenses. He took the glasses off, slowly drying them on the hem of his undershirt. “Gods, I have never told anyone about it. Not even Ange. I could not risk letting it be known. Such secrets I gift you.” Darshan laughed, a trembling sound full of further unshed tears. “If we were in Udynea…” He donned his glasses, not quite pushing them into their customary spot. “Well, such a fine piece of information would see you set for a lifetime of blackmail material on me by now.”
Hamish grinned, hoping a little show of humour would drag the conversation away from the delicate subject he had forced Darshan to speak of. “A whole lifetime, huh?” He shook his head. “You ken I’m nae going to do that.”
Sniffing, Darshan rubbed the end of his nose with the back of his thumb. “Thing is. Even if you did, most would not care that he had been a slave. Him having a pair of pointed ears would be the greater gossip. The court would see it as shameful.”
“Did you ever learn who he was?”
Darshan shook his head. “I am completely unaware of his name or even who owned him. He could have belonged to the empire just as easily as a visiting noble. As for what became of him? The mines, most likely. Especially if my father found out. He would not have risked such a scandal.”
Hamish cleared his throat. “How did you learn he was a slave? Shouldnae him going ‘master’ have tipped you off? Or that he was elven?”
Darshan scoffed and rolled his eyes as if he’d heard the question several dozen times before. “Nobody says that. Not to me at least. I am vris Mhanek to all bar my family. It is considered an insult to address me otherwise in a formal court. And not all elves are slaves, although I am certain you have been told as such. The palace also employs a great deal of servants.” His gaze lowered, shame darkening his cheeks. “I mistook him for one of them.”
Was that really how blurred the lines were between servant and slave that Darshan could mistake one for the other?
The idea of elves living freely in the Udynean Empire was an easy one to imagine. Hamish had always assumed, especially after speaking with men like Zurron, that there were no free elves in the empire. Hearing otherwise was an odd bit of relief. If some were free, then maybe all of them could be liberated.
Another thought bubbled away in the back of his mind. One that sat a little closer to home. “The first night you came to me room?” he mumbled, still chasing the gossamer thread of his contemplating. “You asked for me consent?” Even when it was well obvious that he was amenable to anything the man suggested.
Darshan inclined his head. “I may not have the ability to change what happened, but I can ensure I do not repeat it.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, a sigh whistling out his nose. “We should probably ascend to the training grounds.”
Hamish scrubbed at his face. “Aye.” He wasn’t entirely sure how long they’d been down here, but it had definitely been too long. His mother likely had the guards quietly searching for him. “The clans will expect me to make an appearance. March the lines, watch a few duels, nod at the appropriate times.” That wouldn’t be too hard.
He hoped.
~~~
The dull thud of a blade hitting the ground was fast followed by the much louder objection of its wielder slamming into the compacted dirt. Swearing, the woman clutched at her shin.
Darshan winced in sympathy with the struck woman. That blow had been the heaviest he’d witnessed so far. Possibly enough to break bone.
They had gladiatorial sports back home, but fights where the objective was to hurt, and quite possibly maim, an opponent wasn’t something he would willingly watch. Wrestling he didn’t mind, especially when the match involved two men, but that was the limit of his enjoyment in such sports.
These bouts straddled the borders between the familiar sports of home and an almost warlike attempt at brutality. No one was in lethal danger. At least, that wasn’t the intent of the bouts. The swords were the blunt practice ones from the castle’s training armaments and blows to the head were forbidden, but they were still steel. And the garb the competitors wore offered little in the way of protection. Or maybe they wore chain mail beneath their overcoats. He would never be able to tell.
“One strike to red,” a deep voice bellowed from somewhere along the far railing.
A mixture of groans sounded out amongst the louder ripple of premature jubilation from the crowd surrounding Darshan. Whilst the competitors’ clans were naturally watching, so did a few others and a handful of locals; the latter being fresh from the docks by the smell of them.
“Blue,” the same thunderous voice boomed, “do you yield?”
Shaking her head, the injured woman waved off a group Darshan assumed to be of her clan, if not her immediate family. The blue ribbon tied around her bicep fluttered with the movement. That thin strip of fabric was the only concession anyone made to identify competitors, tied on at entry and removed after each duel.
The woman slowly clambered to her feet to stand before her opponent. She adjusted her scarf—being unveiled was adequate
