Quiet Admiration

[stellar]

"I mean no harm- I only wish to sit in the stands and bathe in the glory of the clutch." Zadeir bowed low to the golden queen, proving his statement true by climbing into the stands. He chose a section that was a little less then halfway up and sat down, his view unblemished by those that would undoubtedly be flooding these same stands on Hatching day. For now, however, it was just the Candidate, the eggs, and the protective queen. He had come here on impulse- the rest of the Weyr could wait for his inspection. This place mattered the most. The male reclined back and spread his arms to rest on the bench behind him.

What would this dragon mean to him? The question surprised Zadeir. It had never occurred to him to question what he thought was the inevitable. Everything he had ever worked for had always been to the benefit of his future life as a dragonrider. The endless hours of pouring over scrolls about anatomy, wing drills, health care; anything he could find had been drilled in to his head through sheer will and determination. Shells, even his decision to leave the Hold had been influenced by that drive! He could have refused the Green, but he had climbed on to her back without a second thought.

So what would he do when he finally did Impress? Weyrling lessons was the most obvious answer but he meant afterwards. What would he works towards then? Weyrleader? No, he wasn't sure if he could take on that big of a responsibility. Wingleader then. Yes, definitely Wingleader. A group large enough for him to control, but small enough to remain a simple part of his daily routine, a responsibility that was no burden.

But what if he didn't Impress? Pfft- that was out of the question. There was no way that he couldn't! He may have spent the majority of his life thus far in Sanctum Hold, but he had known that he was always going to be a dragonman. How could he not be? There just had to be a dragon out there for him- why would he have been Searched if there was not? Dragons couldn't make a mistake on Search. Could they?

[Nasrin]

Solitude is rare in a Weyr and doubly precious when it's found. It stands to reason then that when it's broken, the disappointment is all the greater. But places such as these draw people, especially those who will have to one day stand on those sands and face the creatures sleeping now within their fragile beds.

The scuff of a boot-heel on the stairs that led into the stands signaled Nasrin's approach, the sound of her arrival a warning that preceded the young woman's person. She walked slowly, and with good reason-- for all of its emptiness, there were a hundred distractions in her climb. The heat alone might slow her, or the immensity of the cavern, or even and perhaps especially the bulk of the great gold upon the sands, with the eggs laid out around her like jewels dotting a lady's skirts.

So Nasrin climbed with a lack of speed that pretended dignity, and hid a certain apprehension. This was new to her, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings raw and fresh. It left her pausing at the top of the stairs, shadowed eyes turned away from the stands-- leaving Zadeir unseen for the moment-- to study the queen and her brood below.

What was the etiquette here? There was no script given to her, shoved into her hand with the white knot that already adorned her shoulder. Nasrin paused, lower lip caught between her teeth, one hand cupping her elbow while the other cradled her cheek. She watched, torn, indecisive. And then she turned to climb the risers, only to finally spot the lone watcher who had already staked his place.

"Oh!"

That single startled syllable was overloud in the cavern, echoing up to the rough-carved vault of the ceiling. Her toe slipped from the step's edge and Nasrin swayed forward awkwardly, jarred, teeth clicking together hard.

[Chaldais]

"It ain't polite for to talk of a lady's weight, now."

"I said full-figured. Full figured. Wearing a black skirt with purple seams. Have you seen her?"

The drudge paused in his sweeping to scratch an itch at the small of his back. Thick fingers dug about under his tunic, as if the answer to Chaldais' question might be found there. At last, with a sort of wince, the man said, "Black isn't exactly a rare color for skirts, is it?"

Chaldais suppressed a sigh. Not for the first time, he wondered if these Weyrfolk spoke a different language entirely; he'd been struggling to get a straight answer out of this menial for the better part of ten minutes, and all he had for his trouble were dusty feet where the man's broom had whisked over them-- deliberately, Chaldais half-suspected. As the drudge returned to his work, the straw of his broom-head rattling over stone, Chaldais cast a hopeless glance at the cavern ceiling above. Such an alien place, this Weyr, devoid of kin, echoing with the strange hoots and bellows of the dragons. He'd tried to keep to his cot in the candidates' barracks, to ignore the glances cast his way from so many strange faces, but each moment seemed to crawl by at a trundlebug's pace. How long would he have to stay here? When would the dragon queen's blessed brood pop?

What did his father Chelan think about this rash adventure of his?

He'd had only one message from the man, and the hide had all but burst aflame in Chaldais' fingers from the heat of the angry words scrawled there. Don't be the fool your brother was, Chaldais. It's a waste of time, this lark of yours, and a hardship to the rest of us. We'll be a hand short at the next catch; leave Nasrin to do as her people will have her and come home to yours.

Perhaps Chaldais fled the discomfort of those curious looks, or the note of scorn in his father's imagined voice. Perhaps restlessness seized him, a sense of confinement in the barracks chamber that was not his home. Perhaps it was merely loneliness. Whatever the case, the fisherman found himself searching bowl and caverns for the one person at Sanctum Weyr that he might once have called-- a lover? A friend?

Chaldais' fingers crawled up under the auburn tumble of his hair in a gesture of frustration. "Not a black skirt," he said, struggling for patience. "I said, a black skirt with purple--"

"Am I to notice the seams of every skirt what twirls past me now?" the drudge cut in amiably, his broom at play where the cavern's curved wall met the floor.

I doubt you'd notice if a parade of black-skirted girls danced past shaking tambourines, Chaldais thought. But he closed his lips tightly on those words and said instead, "One of the cooks up in the living cavern said she'd come this way. She's dark-haired and she wears a purple ribbon..."

The drudge pursed his lips. "Mm... can't say as I've much reckoned hair ribbons." He ceased work, crossed his wrists thoughtfully atop the handle of his broom; then he cast Chaldais a sidelong glance, and the larger man couldn't help but notice a twinkle in the laborer's eye.

"Now, if maybe you're looking for Headwoman Sibongale's little girl-- that's Nasrin-- well, she went up towards the hatching sands, that way." The drudge gestured with the tip of his nose. A mirthful little smile played at the corners of his lips.

Chaldais opened his mouth, closed it again. "Thank you," he muttered through his teeth, and stalked up the indicated passage. He heard the drudge's broom dance and clatter back to life behind him.

The hatching ground was massive-- dauntingly so-- and far hotter than the caverns he'd just left. Chaldais hunched his great shoulders as he skirted the queen and her adopted eggs, gathered on the sands like the sun amid a cluster of stars. His tread on the gallery stairs seemed too loud to his own ears, certain to rile the beast; he paused and glanced back, pushing up one sleeve of his tunic past a forearm gone sweaty with heat and anxiety. When he looked back into the shadows above him, Chaldais at last caught sight of his Nasrin.

Talking-- it seemed to him-- with some lanky and close-cropped fellow stretched out on the bench where she stood. Tensed muscles twitched along Chaldais' jaw, beneath the stubble of his beard. He stalked up the rest of the way with rather less regard for the dragon queen's sensibilities, nudging up his other sleeve as he went.

"Nasrin," Chaldais grunted by way of greeting. His green eyes flicked between the maid and her seeming companion, swift as a gull over the water. "I've been looking for you." After a pregnant pause, the big man added, "Am I interrupting?" His arms crossed over his chest, lifting to view those bare, sweat-slick forearms that put one in mind of cured hams.

[stellar]

What would he do if the dragon had gotten it wrong? He'd have to stay here, or return to the Hold. The thought of returning to training runners after having lived in the Weyr, even if it had only been for a short amount of time, was unnacceptable. To live with dragons and then go back to the familiar smell of the runners? He missed the beasts, but he didn't know if the Hold would welcome him back. Even if they did, would he be able to stay there?

There was no way- he'd just have to wait his turn until his beast came along. And there was no question in his mind that it would. It may take a hatching or three, but it would happen. Movement out of the corner of his eye caused the Candidate's attention to shift from the clutch and latch onto the comely figure that was standing a few rows down from him. A robust figure had always been more to his tastes than the twigs that so many of the Holdgirls tried to remain. He studied her for the few moments that her focus was on the clutch before them, but the surprise on her face was a sweeter satisfaction than the image of her lying beneath him.

"Oh!"

A charming grin spread across the handsome features and he nodded in greeting. "Oh, indeed." Any further discussion between the two was halted as another male climbed the stairs behind the girl. Zadeir guessed that 'Nasrin' must be her name, but what interested him more, was the apparent tension threatening to rip apart the other male at any moment. Jealousy? Well, well, well, what had he here? A young couple, or a scandal in the making? Oh, this was sure to be fun. "Perhaps you are, but then again, perhaps you are not."

[Nasrin]

The medley of expression that traveled over Nasrin's face could be considered amusing-- when her eyes were no longer narrowed and watering, her teeth no longer ringing from the misstep, the young woman couldn't seem to settle on whether to appear mildly amused or taken aback by Zadeir's from-thin-air appearance.

A compromise of sorts was reached when she lifted a hand, curling it over her throat as if to hide the pulse that raced beneath fair skin, and then presenting the fellow with a smile.

"I expected it to be empty," Nasrin began to say, only to pause as the calm allowed a better study of the young man's features. Dark brows knit down over her eyes, projecting an air of mingled curiosity and puzzlement. "You're Za--" But the rest of his name went unspoken.

The second ambush came from behind and again the holder woman's nerves, frayed by heat and unfamiliar surroundings, caused her to slip into momentary clumsiness. A rapid half-step brought her around, skirts an unsettled flare and hazel eyes gone round. There was to be no reining in the quickened patter of her heartbeat this time, spying the posture and expression of the man looming there on the steps.

"Chaldais..." Naming him, Nasrin breathed out slowly between pursed lips and let her head fall to one side, hair and scarf twined like one and slithering over her shoulder with the movement. "I thought you didn't want to..." But here the lass paused again and cast a probing look towards Zadeir. There was an awareness, shadowed in her gaze and reflected in that man's too-charming grin, of how this must appear to him.

"I thought the stands would be empty," she went on, choosing quiet honesty over the incrimination of blushes. With the veil of composure drawn snug and sure about her again, only the fidgeting play of long, elegant fingers in the folds of her skirt gave away a lingering tension. "I wanted to see why we've been brought, and found another from the Hold instead. You are from the Hold... Zadeir, isn't it? He startled me, Chaldais. By accident." Pause. "As did you."

An accident, a misunderstanding. There is no cause for bristling here in this strange, sacred place, her tone said. Soft and low, Nasrin might have been murmuring to a stallion poised to lash out, or a spit-canine with teeth curled back, ready for the bite. But when her head lifted again, the explanation finished, her smile was steady and calm and sincere.

She, at least, was glad to see the fisherman Small consolation, however, when her eyes shifted to Zadeir again a moment later and the smile extended to include him within its warmth.

"We beg your pardon for interrupting, if you were looking for time spent alone."

[Chaldais]

"Perhaps you are, but then again, perhaps you are not."

Chaldais narrowed his eyes at this lanky lad on the bench. A dangerous grey crept beneath their green, as of troubled waters breaking and roiling against rocks just below the surface. The strings of muscle along his forearm played to the tune of his clenched, then opened fist; his fingertips itched to reach out and pluck that smug little smile from the other man's face.

"I thought you didn't want to..."

"... talk to you?" Chaldais finished for the maid, careless of their audience. He kept his gaze riveted on Zadeir. She might not wish to air dirty laundry before the Hold boy, but by Faranth's last jagged shard... "You've chanced upon other company, I see. Shame that none of the female candidates were about the place." Each word trembled with subtle sarcasm, like a wire drawn taut.

Slowly-- too slowly-- Nasrin's soothing explanation unwound that wire from Chaldais' throat. His frown, once stormy, settled into a sullen expression; he shot a glance down to the glorious and massive gold below, once more cognizant that this place would be unfit for the squabble he contemplated. Finally, the young man plopped himself down on the steps beside Nasrin's skirts, opposite Zadeir's bench, his knees spread and his arms draped across them in an attitude of enforced resignation.

"Zadeir, is it?" he chuffed. "I think I know you." The fisherman used the same tone one might employ when identifying a mold on the underside of a rotten log. "Some sort of a herdsman." Which sort he had in mind, Chaldais pointedly neglected to say.

[stellar]

"No need to apologize. You weren't interrupting in the least." There was no emphasis, but the way he focused only on Nasrin gave the impression that he had been speaking solely of her. The grey eyes crinkled in genuine warmth as he returned her easy welcome. Charming females had always been his forte, whereas taunting males came in close second. So it was natural that his attention shifted when Chaldais' tension increased.

Oh, this was just precious! The reaction was exactly what Zadeir had been hoping for, and it thrilled him to no end. Things might have taken a different turn if Nasrin had been unchaperoned, but this was turning out to be just as delightful. Although, it was slightly disappointing that it hadn't taken more than one comment to get under the lad's skin. Ah well, it was still proving to be amusing.

The irritation was quickly brushed away as the urge to laugh nearly destroyed his composure. So they had already reached insults, eh? To think, he had been contemplating the idea of trading this for runners! The grin spread wide, nearly ear to ear, as the Candidate shrugged.

"Shame that none of the female candidates were about the place."

"They're obviously busy elsewhere." His tone implied that their duties were of the more degrading type, and the smug expression did little to help the insinuation. The sarcasm had been taken in stride, and the comment was the result. As the male seated himself before the lady's skirts, Zadeir couldn't help but be reminded of a protective lapdog.

"Zadeir, is it? I think I know you. Some type of herdsman."

A brow lifted in mock surprise and the Candidate inclined his head in assent. "Yes, and you..you're a fisherman, correct?" The smug grin returned as he tilted his head to the side. "I can never remember your name. Must be because I'm too preoccuppied with doing my job."

[Nasrin]

The barbs slung between the men passed Nasrin, whispering by her as if the heat of the sands had become a living thing, possessed by currents. Her attention had been captured by Chaldais' reply-- poison intended for one he'd claimed to care about. What else was there for the maid to do but stare?

"You've chanced upon other company, I see. Shame that none of the female candidates were about the place."

The color drained from her sweat-speckled face but again Nasrin was proven to be no wilting flower. Beneath the thick arch of her eyebrows, her hazel eyes had darkened with hurt seasoned by a dash of anger.

When the fisherman settled himself near her feet, the girl's fingers clenched in the folds of her skirts and very deliberately lifted their hems up, away from his brutish form. Gravel spit beneath the heel of her foot as she then took a very small step away.

A very small step, for a larger one might have sent her too near Zadeir, whose grin had taken on the gleam of a tunnelsnake closing in for the kill.

Settled again, and outwardly calm, Nasrin lifted her chin and expelled a slow breath. The serenity of the sands, the eggs, the gold laid out before her was welcome, in a way that these men were not. Gradually, her small, warm smile returned and a polite answer is found to keep her within the conversation-- and maybe lance the poison, as if the males were creating a wound in the air between them.

"Busy elsewhere," she mused. "Perhaps that's wise of them, to avoid the place. It is almost overwhelming, to think we will stand there. That we may one day be responsible for others as the folk here have been for us."

[Chaldais]

Chaldais couldn't see Nasrin's expression, but he heard and felt the hem of her skirt rustle away over his shoulder. Telling, that little step; the distance she put between them crackled with tension, a nervous energy that knotted the muscles at the base of his neck. He could almost sense the other man's smile, pressed like a wry kiss to his ear, and it made him wince despite himself. Or perhaps it was what Zadeir had chosen to say.

"Who's doing your job while you warm your toes over the hatching sands?" Chaldais muttered back, with more heat than he'd intended. Even as he said it, the big man thought of his own father and brothers; would they be on the river now? What would Chelan say about his absence? Did Darinel know about their father's indiscretions? To think, that there might be any common ground between the man Chaldais had once revered and this slick twig of a beastcrafter! The very notion further soured his stomach.

Chaldais scrubbed his face with one palm and whispered a sigh between the iron ingots of his fingers. Already, he could feel creeping over him the dread of those harsh words spoken to Nasrin; the space at his shoulder told him he'd been rash, that she hadn't deserved such usage for a chance encounter with Zadeir. If only she hadn't come here, he thought; if only he hadn't followed her. What would seem an honor to other men struck him, in that moment, as a life cast into disarrary.

"Do you look forward to impressing, then?" He queried, his voice weary and muffled by his hand. "Meaning no disrespect, but there are other responsibilities for a man besides riding 'Fall." Or for a woman.

[Nasrin]

Silence threatened to answer the fisherman, Zadeir seeming to withdraw from the challenge of bantering with Chaldais and Nasrin pretending to be a statued garbed in skirts. A stiffness remained to the maid's shoulders that told on her-- she hadn't entirely forgiven him the earlier slur.

And why should I? Nasrin asked herself. Her gaze roamed restless over the eggs in their drifts of sand. For thinking that I would spend my first five minutes in the Weyr panting after a near stranger?

But it wasn't in her to cling to the ice that initial sweep of anger had provoked. The girl's sigh was soft, softer than the rustle of fabric when she moved to sit beside the man she'd almost pledged herself to. The seat was hard but warm, and settled companionably to his left, a sidelong glance showing her his craggy profile. Would Mother think I'm being too easy on him? Probably... but he hurts too...

"No," she told Chaldais. "I don't think that I will impress, and so I don't look forward to anything but learning. As I was told to do, before we were brought here. That is my responsibility and I'll do as I'm told."

After a slight pause, and the drawing of a steadying breath, Nasrin added softly, "I think I'll be losing you, Dai. The dragons chose you for their eggs. Why did you say yes?"

[Chaldais]

"The dragons chose Darinel, too, and he's home now." What might have been a contentious answer came gently from Chaldais' lips, the play of a streamlet among smoothed stones.

He glanced through the ruddy tangle of his braids at Zadeir, who seemed to be trying to ignore the fact that Nasrin-- his supposed quarry-- had selected a seat by Chaldais instead. The other man's eyes were fixed on the sands and his mouth moved wordlessly, as if he were trying get a seed out of his teeth. With a touch of satisfaction, Chaldais wondered if he might be working on another essay of his vaunted charm. When at last the beastcrafter shot upright and stalked off down the steps, Chaldais had to resist a childish urge to jab a foot before his ankles.

"I don't belong here any more than you do," Chaldais continued, with his head close to Nasrin's. He almost whispered, lest he upset the vast golden beast he held in the corner of his eye. Was she listening to them? Did dragons care what candidates thought of their predicament? The questions bubbled over the surface of his thoughts and then slipped away downstream. Nasrin's presence mollified and calmed him; he closed his eyes and tried to imagine them together elsewhere, seated on a bench in Sanctum Hold's great hall, or in the tall grass by the side of the river. Fate might have cast them on this strange beach, but they were, at least, castaways together. For now.

"I'm in this place for you, Nasrin," the man confided, low-voiced. And to be away from his father, but Chaldais' jaw clenched on that admission. He struggled a moment with the words, curling and relaxing the fingers draped over his knee, then pressed on, "Fat lot of good I've done." A flicker of his former heat danced in the air between them, like a ripple from the hatching ground. "I've only put off what's coming for you and I all the same. If you don't impress, what then? What did Sibongale think you might learn about running a Hold that you couldn't standing at her hip?"

[Nasrin]

"You aren't Darinel. You're..." What is he, really? Nasrin seemed short a description. A vague gesture of her small, plump hand filled the silence, before her fingers fell to her lap again.

"Don't say that," she went on, adopting the conspirator's tone of a whisper. It felt as if her heart might twist itself in knots, to hear him speak so. She didn't think she could live with the guilt of being responsible for tearing him from his home, and his beloved family. The girl's placid expression trembled at the edges, still waters set to shivering by a glancing touch. "Don't say that you're here for me. Even if it's true. It is true, I know, but... don't say it, Chaldais."

It shamed her, that she was reduced to pleading with him for such things. There was a time when they might have talked open and earnestly, even about such fears and concerns. But here, in this place, it seemed a sacrilege.

Not for the first time since coming to the Weyr, Nasrin wondered at the price of unquestioning obedience.

"When I don't impress, I'll wait for the Lord's summons and then we'll return home." The holder lifted her head and spared a glance for their surroundings; finding them empty, she reached for the fisherman's hand to lace her fingers through his. It was a small misbehaviour but her eyes met his, unflinching.

"What they intended me to learn doesn't matter. But I'm glad you're here. Please don't be cross with them. It's only a putting off of what will come, as you've said."

[Chaldais]

Chaldais felt the girl's small fingers creep between his own. He opened his eyes at the touch and turned his head to meet her regard. That frail contact between them seemed a tether to the man, a familiar line cast to keep him from being washed away in the tumult of his own thoughts. His struggle for calm played out across the look he returned her, his gaze storm-swept over the crags of his sunken cheeks. It was all he could do not to crush the little bones of her hand in his palm.

"Why shouldn't I say it?" he snapped, loud enough to echo in the shadowed vault above them. "Why shouldn't I tell the truth, here or anywhere?" Chaldais had heard from one of the Hold's Harpers that dragons could sense emotion; if so, then he must be buffeting that brooding queen with the waves of his ire. He shot the beast a sidelong glance and his voice dropped again to a taut and gravelly whisper. "Because candidates aren't allowed to have feelings? They aren't allowed to have desires? No, desires are for dragonriders..."

The thought sat in his stomach like bad fish. He imagined his Nasrin after a mating flight: flushed, her eyes alight with the slow burn of lust, her lush body borne backward onto the furs by some stranger whose rough hands, whose very sweat, were her sole obsession...

With gentle desperation, Chaldais reached out and fingered the dark curls by the maid's ear. His fingertips shook from the anguish channeled into his muscles, his gut, but he forced himself to speak softly. "Your mother was rash, offering you up to this life. You shouldn't have to risk... giving yourself, to any who will catch at you. She knew what I feel for you, what I thought..." But the words tangled in the young fisherman's throat and choked off any more. It would be just as rash to speak of the life he'd imagined with the Headwoman's daughter; by glowlight, in the heat of the hatching sands, that life seemed painfully, perilously remote.

[Nasrin]

Nasrin didn't need the abilities of a dragon to sense the roil of emotion plaguing Chaldais in this moment; it poured from him in waves and turned her stomach into a clenched fist, a lump of hot stone in her center. For a moment, she closed her eyes and tried to block out everything, even the pressure of his hand on hers, the brush of his fingers over her hair, but there was no success. The heat of this place and the heat of the man beside her conspired to invade her thoughts. Her heart.

There'll be no peace for us, here. Not now, maybe not ever... oh, what I'd give to be home again...

She drew a breath, filling her lungs with thick, hot air and opened her eyes again. His dear face swam before her vision, expression soured it seemed to her by shimmering, as if he were a mirage. Perhaps it was simply the sweat that coated them both.

"Is that the worst that might happen, Chaldais?" Nasrin bowed her head, breaking the look between them. Her voice was hardly more than a murmur. "That I might be chased, and caught?" She wanted to remind him of what threats they truly faced, should the worst happen-- not the chase, not the catching, but the death that fell from above. Or, perhaps, waited for them under a hatchling's talons. No, there was worse to fear and he needed to hear it. Fear was natural, but misplaced fear dangerous.

"We've been given a test, a great test, and for that, it's a greater gift. What we feel for each other might give us strength to see it to whatever end is in store for us... I don't know what will come, any more than you do. And I'm no less frightened, or out of place." She drew another breath, shorter this time, and gently disengaged his hand from hers before standing. "But it is our actions that define us, not our feelings. I will face this, and I would rather do it beside you. But if that is too difficult for you..."

Nasrin paused here, the fear creating a lump in her throat and keeping her from speaking. What if she spoke poorly, and drove him away, back to the Hold? Or worse, what if she challenged him to stay, but only from guilt, or shame? That would almost be worse.

Oh, Mother... why can't anything ever be easy?

"Whatever comes, you and I know what's in our hearts. We thought our way to that would be different, but a different path doesn't mean a different outcome. We can do this.

Will you come with me, to see where we'll be living?"

The hand she'd taken from him now extended, plump fingers spread as if to catch the heart he hadn't yet decided to offer.

[Chaldais]

When Nasrin slipped from his grasp and stood, Chaldais was left with the imprint of her touch, the blood pulsing behind his eyes, and the words she'd scattered at her skirt's hem:

I will face this, and I would rather do it beside you. But if that is too difficult for you...

The girl's scolding trickled down like ice-water between the broad blades of his shoulders, all the more chilling for being true. Something in him rose in rebellion against that measured and reasonable tone of hers, the fortitude and patience for which she pleaded. Chaldais lowered his head and balled his fists, staring at the stone between his sandles with such intensity that he might send up a curl of smoke from the heat of his gaze.

How could she speak of gifts? railed that wronged and wrathful part of him. What good could come of this disruption of their lives, their plans? How could they be together in this place? Together with the dragonmen, courting death; the path Nasrin spoke of seemed only to wend ever deeper into stone and shadow, when he longed for the sunlight and bright water he had known.

If that is too difficult for you...

"If that's too difficult for me," Chaldais rumbled from the wilderness of his braids, "then I should go. Is that it?" It stung the fisherman that she should say such a thing.

And with that hornet's barb still lodged in his heart, Chaldais felt ashamed that he'd pushed her to drive it home.

"I never thought to hear those words from you, Nasrin," the man murmured to his own heels. "Or to see a day when you'd hold my feelings cheap. But if it's to be actions..." Chaldais came slowly out of his crouch, drawing a deep breath in the same motion. He blew it out through his nostrils while he surveyed the sands anew; there sat the golden queen, mistress of his fate, and the eggs around her that cradled all of Sanctum's future in their fragile shells. It was out of his hands.

Chaldais prided himself on the skill of his hands.

"I came up here with you and I mean to stay," he went on, lightly brushing the maid's palm with his fingertips as he moved past her. He couldn't look at the girl, not stirred inside by that rich admixture of anger and embarrassment; they would paint themselves black over the features he loved. Chaldais turned the expanse of his back to Nasrin and descended the gallery steps, towards the cavern's exit.

"There's the work, at any rate. We'll see what comes of this honor that Sibongale and the Hold's Blood have chosen to put round your shoulders." Like a rich mantle. Or a millstone.