The Pillar (14 page)

Authors: Kim Fielding

BOOK: The Pillar

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Boro gave him a slow, sweet smile, the one that made Faris’s insides feel like molten metal. “You’re a good man, dusho. Anyway, I think maybe it’s better this way. Let Kurjak know what hunger and desperation feel like. Let him suffer for what he’s lost.” He pressed his knee against Faris’s before taking a sip of coffee.

They sat in the kafana for a long time, chatting a little and watching the other customers. Occasionally someone gave them a smile and a wave, and Ajla kept bringing them baklava and little bowls of olives or salted nuts.

“It’s late,” Faris said for the third time. “Almost everyone else has gone home. We should too.”

Boro pretended to be fascinated with his spoon. “Soon.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“You are the one who’s been complaining about being cooped up in the house. I should think you’d be pleased with a long outing.”

“Being home isn’t what I’ve been complaining about—it’s the way you’ve been hovering over me like I’m made of glass.”

Boro looked entirely unrepentant. “You were hurt.”

“Not badly. Nothing a bit of ointment wouldn’t have cured. You’ve been behaving as if they were mortal wounds.”

“I almost lost you, dusho.” Boro gave Faris’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’m going to hold on to you very tightly from now on.”

Faris gave up on trying to look upset as he felt a sappy grin spread across his face. Anyway, he hadn’t truly been unhappy at being coddled, even if the coddling was unnecessary. Nobody had ever fussed over him before. It was nice. He had been slightly annoyed, however, because Boro hadn’t given him a chance to slip away even for a moment; Faris wanted to speak with Tomo about a potter’s wheel. Even when Boro had left the house the other day to gather some groceries and run a few other errands, he’d made Igor and the laundry woman stay with Faris and keep him from going anywhere. Well, Boro couldn’t confine him forever.

Faris decided to try another tactic to get Boro out of the kafana. “You know, my wounds really are healed now.”

“Hmm” was the noncommittal answer.

“Quite. Except… there’s one….”

Boro frowned with concern. “What’s wrong? Is it the bruise on your face? Is something—”

“My face is fine.” That was true. The swelling was gone, and he barely felt the pain around his eye even if he pressed on the skin. He smiled. “No, this is more of a… twinge.”

“A twinge?”

“An itch. We should go home right away so you can examine it. Closely. Maybe a nice rub with some oil would help.” He gave a quick glance toward his own backside in case his meaning wasn’t clear.

But oh, it was. Boro’s pupils dilated a little, and a slight flush of arousal tinged his cheeks. He leaned his head closer. “I would like to inspect this problem very closely,” he said, his voice all deep and rumbly.

And then Mirsada appeared at the table, which was annoying. She had her tray cradled in one arm. “Here,” she said, setting a bowl in front of Faris.

“Oh, thank you, but we’re just about to—” And then Faris looked into the bowl. It contained a heavy silver chain. “Um, what…?”

Boro fished the chain out of the bowl and set it on the table. He looked almost unbearably smug. So did Mirsada, for that matter.

Faris blinked at them both. “I think I’ve had my fill of necklaces already.”

“Oh, it’s not a necklace,” Boro said. He picked it up and let it dangle from one finger. “It’s my collar. Or, more accurately,
your
collar to put on me.”

All Faris could do for a moment was gape. Then he managed a sputter: “B-but, but…. You’re not my slave. We’ve been through this.”

“But I’m yours, am I not?”

“I… I… of course.”

“My heart belongs to you, Faris. My soul. All of me—yours.”

While Faris tried to craft a coherent response, Mirsada took the empty bowl and set it on her tray. Then she collected the copper coffeepots, the spoons, and the cups. She gave Faris the same look she gave Ibro when he was being difficult. “Your man and I had a discussion with the qadi the other day. We were concerned because two unrelated men sharing one small house… well, the law is foolish sometimes, but it’s still the law.”

Faris nodded. He’d been worrying over that himself, actually, but with so many other pressing concerns, he hadn’t decided how to address the problem. Maybe if he built Boro a second house right next to his own, the qadi and the people of Zidar would be willing to pretend not to notice the men’s true relationship. Nobody had commented on it yet or complained about the very public embrace they’d shared in the square when Faris was released.

“The qadi asked a lot of questions of your man,” said Mirsada. “Then he said the law was clear—two men cannot share a house. Except under a few exceptions, such as when one man is master and the other apprentice. But nobody is going to believe Boro is your apprentice. The truth won’t stretch that far.”

Boro swung the chain slightly. “But also an owner may live with his slave.”

“And,” Mirsada added before Faris could protest, “the qadi believes that it is entirely reasonable for a pillar of the community such as yourself to own a slave.”

“Someone to clean up after you, and make sure you’re fed, and drag you out of solitude and into life now and then.” Boro grabbed Faris’s hand and pressed the chain into it. “Put it on me, dusho. Please.”

Maybe Faris should have continued to argue. But he saw nothing in Boro’s eyes but love and longing, and it occurred to him that perhaps Boro needed this too—needed to know he truly belonged somewhere for good. And besides, Faris was so overcome that speaking was difficult. Just two short months ago, he never would have dreamed his life would be filled with such joy.

He had to blink away tears before he could clasp the chain around Boro’s neck. That was okay—Boro was crying too, and even Mirsada’s eyes looked suspiciously watery.

Boro touched the chain with two fingers. Despite the tears, he gave his widest, most glowing smile. “Now. About that twinge….”

Faris felt his own face go scarlet, which made Mirsada laugh out loud.

Even though they both felt a certain urgency to get home, they walked slowly. The night might have been cold and the wind might have been blowing, but Faris felt nothing but warmth as he walked beside his beloved.

After they crossed the Old Bridge, they paused on the stone platform. The moon was waning, but enough light remained to reflect off the river and make the white stone houses glow. “It’s a beautiful place to live,” Boro said.

“It is,” agreed Faris, although he’d never appreciated the beauty of home until very recently.

“I’ve heard that in the summer, boys dive off that bridge.”

“As soon as the weather turns warm. You’ll see. There will be tables set out, and we can sit and drink coffee and watch.”

Boro took his hand and squeezed it. “Did you ever make that jump?”

“Several times.”

“I would have liked to watch you.”

“I’m afraid I’m much too old and decrepit now. It’s a sport for boys.”

Another squeeze. Boro’s hand was large and warm and calloused. “I wouldn’t let you do it anyway. I told you, I won’t risk losing you. But… do you wish you could? Dive again, I mean?”

Faris closed his eyes. He remembered the sensation of the air rushing by him, the freedom of separating from the earth, the belief that if somehow he moved
just
right, he’d remain airborne forever.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to smile up at Boro. “No. I’m flying already, dusho.”

And that was the absolute truth.

~~~

About the Author

K
IM
F
IELDING
is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full time. She also dreams of having two perfectly behaved children, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.

Kim can be found on her blogs:

http://kfieldingwrites.blogspot.com/

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog

and on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites.

Her e-mail is [email protected], and she can be found on Twitter at @KFieldingWrites.

By
K
IM
F
IELDING

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