The Song of Gaál - Ten

*** Warning ***

Sensitive situations

Violence; Nudity;

Hard R Rating

Please do not read if you are easily disturbed.

(All characters, places and events reside solely in my imagination.)

The Song of Gaál

…....... Ten ….......

Of all the lessons Cassava received from Kisertet, it was the music he longed for. He knew so little of Kisertet and yet when Kisertet shared his music, Cassava felt that he knew everything about the man. In the dead of night he would lie awake remembering the songs, thinking of the sounds and craving for them. To hold the lute himself, to listen to Kisertet play, watching the man's fingers as they caressed the strings of the harp, to hear the strong, smooth voice sing words in languages he was only learning, it set a burning desire deep within him. These thoughts filled his mind in the dark hours from the gloaming until dawn.

Freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes, Cassava entered the music room with its high, round ceiling adorned by frescoes of dreams from the heavens. Surely the pictures depicted the angels that came to listen to Kisertet play. Moving along the perimeter of the tower room, a person could look out through the tall glass windows and view the river moving endlessly, far below. Kisertet motioned for Cassava to sit before he snatched up his lute and pulled the bench over. He spun the bench and sat facing Cassava, casting him a glance while setting the strings of the instrument. Cassava watched the elegant, tanned fingers set the tune, seeming to graze over the pegs and strings, adjusting the sound until Kisertet tapped the body and began the lesson.

Following an afternoon of enchanted melodies, mournful laments and delightful songs, Cassava glanced to the window, seeing only rain rivulets on the glass as the storm outside carried on. Through washes of water, he saw the trees bend and sway with the disorderly winds that whipped about the valley. The dark of the evening was falling over them swiftly, broken by flashes of light that lit the room with startling white. He glanced at the sleeping Mirriam, marveling that she stayed so still and quiet though the thunder roared overhead and the room lit with lightning flashes. In most storms, he would be suddenly wakened by Mirriam trying to carefully climb into his bed with him. Cassava's hand gently rubbed the length of the lute as he remembered that the first time Mirriam came close to him while he slept, he startled awake and held a knife to her throat. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek, recalling how close he came to hurting her. She had apologised for waking him and cuddled down in the bed with him, her head under his chin.

“Come, Cassava,” Kisertet's voice, interrupted Cassava's thoughts and tender care of the lute, “there is much you need to know and how perfect this evening is, with the North Wind chasing the aurea through the trees. So uncommon an occurrence,” Kisertet said wistfully. He turned to Cassava, “the North Wind is lovesick, you know. Such a human fault, love.” Kisertet moved to the small table and poured the deep, blood purple liquid into a glass. He looked into the glass, swept it under his nose and sipped at the drink before sitting. “And just think of the dangers to the ships at sea should the North Wind suffer a broken heart.” Kisertet's mouth twitched to a small smile and he looked at Cassava from under his brow. “Seal your heart, Cassava, let none in. You cannot think if you love, you will make wrong choices if you love and you will drown in many regrets.”

Cassava caressed the body of the lute he held, a gentle motion to and fro, his mind attempting to absorb the words. Did he love? He asked himself, did he love Kisertet? Mirriam? Did Kisertet love someone? Always alone in the large house, with never a servant seen, has he always been alone? What of Mistress Malika, did Kisertet love her? He is her brother, so they said, but Cassava could not countenance that statement. He could not see a resemblance in features or habits. It must have been a revelation in nightmare he had and could not lose the thought of. “You will rub the lute away, woolgathering as you are,” Kisertet stated, interrupting Cassava's thoughts. His cheeks flushed with embarrassed heat that he tried to hide by keeping his head low as he stood to place the lute on the table. He gave the lute one last, longing glance and followed Kisertet's motion to sit with him. Feeling uncomfortable in the room with the winds singing through the eaves, Cassava settled deeper into the sofa.

“You should know of Malika.” Kisertet started, watching Cassava's face become utterly still and wary.  Kisertet stretched his arm across the space between the chairs, offering his glass of burgundy. Cassava refused with a short shake of the head. Kisertet shrugged nearly imperceptibly and drank another swallow of the liquid, his throat working the warm sensation down and into his body.

“Malika lost her innocence before she experienced her womanhood.” Kisertet began. “Our home in Ejszaka was besieged by Habel Vetec Andronios, a powerful man from the southlands with a vast army. For months the castle sang with the music of rock and stone hitting the walls, the shouts of our soldiers, the bleating of starving children and the cries of defeated people. Malika saw nine summers when the wall crumbled and the castle was taken. What was left of the guard were too few to protect and too hungry to have even the strength to do so.”

Cassava heard Kisertet shift his weight in the chair. He glanced over at the sleeping Mirriam. The man's slow voice calmly continued. “I blame myself for Malika's current state of mind. If I had not pleaded with Father to keep three year old Malika Katarina with us after her mother passed away, she would have been safe when the castle fell. You see, Cassava,” Kisertet said, directing his eyes to Cassava's, “Malika's birth occurred while Father was away for two winters. He returned to Ejszaka to a wife with a child just older than one year.”

Cassava's eyes widened at the implication and he looked sharply at Kisertet. Kisertet met the look and the shadow of a sad smile crossed his face. “She was not his child, as you have realised. You are a smart boy, Cassava.” He sipped his drink. “When Malika's mother died, he would have sent Malika to a Tabory, a house where women worship the Gods. She would have to spend her days repenting for her mother's sin. And there I was, an ambitious boy of ten winters, wanting to protect the toddling baby girl that followed me like a lost puppy, much like our Mirriam here, with you.” Kisertet exhaled a small breath and looked into his cup. “I failed in my duty to protect her when our home fell down to pieces six years later. When I found Malika huddled under debris, blood covering her tattered dress and sobbing piteously, I grabbed her arm and we ran. I owed her that much I believed, to take her to safety.”

Kisertet paused, tapping his forefinger on the arm of the seat. Cassava kept his eyes on the slow movements of the finger, afraid to look into the man's face, not wanting to catch the blue eyes watching him. Kisertet continued speaking in his low, melodic voice, “I, to this day, thank the Gods that the two of us were not seen. We lived off the land in all essence of the meaning while we traveled for three cycles of the moon across the mountains. Malika was silent the entire journey, nary a word spoke. Before I delivered her to the Tabory, I secured my father's precious ring around her neck. It possesses potent magic, the ring.” Cassava dared not glance up, although the voice held a hint of a smile. He listened attentively as Kisertet resumed his telling. “Stories say that it protects the person who wears it, however, it did not protect my father for he was dead in the great hall when I removed it from his little finger before escaping the castle with Malika. Whether Malika is cursed or blessed, I cannot guess, I left her there at the Tabory with not even a backward glance.”

Cassava sat still, letting Kisertet's words fall around him. He tried and tried to imagine Mistress as a three year old attached to a child sized Kisertet. Another boy may have laughed at the picture he created, but for Cassava, the image was distorted, wrong; it brought a frown between his eyes and nothing but emptiness to his mind. He could not envision it.

“You suddenly make me mournful, Cassava.” Kisertet's words drifted on an exhale to his ears. “Can you spare no sympathy for the girl of nine summers, ravaged by grown men and then cast away, secluded to a Tabory for thirteen summers more? What if that sad life belonged to little Mirri, who seems fond of you?” Cassava turned a smouldering look toward Kisertet, fire burning in his eyes and his brain warring for a semblance of pity for the little girl Malika, but losing against the memories he had of her. “Whoa 'Sava, boy,” Kisertet chuckled, uncrossing his leg and bringing his opposite ankle across his knee. Cassava's lip twitched to a snarl hearing Kisertet speak Malika's pet name for him, his heated stare not dropping from the blue eyes that twinkled with malevolent mischief. “You could scorch a man with those eyes,” Kisertet said in a near whisper. Cassava's shoulders dropped slightly and he looked down at his fingers, a sign to Kisertet that the moment of fury subsided. Kisertet kept his eyes trained on the boy and leaned back in the chair, resting his elbow, forefinger to his mouth, thumb rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Sleep, Cassava, tomorrow we discuss your future.”