My grandmother had always said the Amn were unnatural people. I looked away. “T’vril said you were going to mark me.”
He grinned, openly amused now. Laughing at the prudish savage. “Mmm-hmm.”
“What does this mark do?”
“Keeps the Enefadeh from killing you, among other things. You’ve seen what they can be like.”
I licked my lips. “Ah. Yes. I… didn’t know they were…” I gestured vaguely, unsure how to say what I meant without offending Sieh.
“Running around loose?” Sieh asked brightly. There was a wicked look in his eye; he was enjoying my discomfiture.
I winced. “Yes.”
“Mortal form is their prison,” Viraine said, ignoring Sieh. “And every soul in Sky, their jailer. They are bound by Bright Itempas to serve the descendants of Shahar Arameri, His greatest priestess. But since Shahar’s descendants now number in the thousands…” He gestured toward the windows, as if the whole world was one clan. Or perhaps he simply meant Sky, the only world that mattered to him. “Our ancestors chose to impose a more orderly structure on the situation. The mark confirms for the Enefadeh that you’re Arameri; without it they will not obey you. It also specifies your rank within the family. How close you are to the main line of descent, I mean, which in turn dictates how much power you have to command them.”
He picked up a brush, though he did not dip it in the ink; instead he reached up to my face, pushing my hair back from my forehead. My heart clenched as he examined me. Clearly Viraine was some sort of expert; could he truly not see Zhakka’s mark? For an instant I thought he had, because his eyes flicked down to hold mine for half a breath. But apparently the gods had done their work well, because after a moment Viraine let my hair go and began to stir the ink.
“T’vril said the mark was permanent,” I said, mostly to quell my nervousness. The black liquid looked like simple writing ink, though the sigil-marked block was clearly no ordinary inkstone.
“Unless Dekarta orders it removed, yes. Like a tattoo, though painless. You’ll get used to it.”
I was not fond of a permanent mark, though I knew better than to protest. To distract myself I asked, “Why do you call them Enefadeh?”
The look that crossed Viraine’s face was fleeting, but I recognized it by instinct: calculation. I had just revealed some stunning bit of ignorance to him, and he meant to use it.
Casually, Viraine jabbed a thumb at Sieh, who was surreptitiously eyeing the items on Viraine’s worktable. “It’s what they call themselves. We just find the label convenient.”
“Why not—”
“We don’t call them gods.” Viraine smiled faintly. “That would be an offense to the Skyfather, our only true god, and those of the Skyfather’s children who stayed loyal. But we can’t call them slaves, either. After all, we outlawed slavery centuries ago.”
This was the sort of thing that made people hate the Arameri—truly hate them, not just resent their power or their willingness to use it. They found so many ways to lie about the things they did. It mocked the suffering of their victims.
“Why not just call them what they are?” I asked. “Weapons.”
Sieh glanced at me, his gaze too neutral to be a child’s in that instant.
Viraine winced delicately. “Spoken like a true barbarian,” he said, and though he smiled, that did nothing to alleviate the insult. “The thing you must understand, Lady Yeine, is that like our ancestress Shahar, we Arameri are first and foremost the servants of Itempas Skyfather. It is in His name that we have imposed the age of the Bright upon the world. Peace, order, enlightenment.” He spread his hands. “Itempas’s servants do not use, or need, weapons. Tools, though…”
I had heard enough. I had no idea of his rank relative to mine, but I was tired and confused and far from home, and if barbarians’ manners would serve better to get me through this day, then so be it.
“Does ‘Enefadeh’ mean ‘tool,’ then?” I demanded. “Or is it just ‘slave’ in another tongue?”
“It means ‘we who remember Enefa,’” said Sieh. He had propped his chin on his fist. The items on Viraine’s workbench looked the same, but I was certain he had done something to them. “She was the one murdered by Itempas long ago. We went to war with Him to avenge her.”
Enefa. The priests never said her name. “The Betrayer,” I murmured without thought.
“She betrayed no one,” Sieh snapped.
Viraine’s glance at Sieh was heavy-lidded and unreadable. “True. A whore’s business can hardly be termed a betrayal, can it?”
Sieh hissed. For an eyeblink there was something inhuman about his face—something sharp and feral—and then he was a boy again, sliding off the stool and trembling with fury. For a moment I half-expected him to poke out his tongue, but the hatred in his eyes was too old for that.
“I will laugh when you’re dead,” he said softly. The small hairs along my skin prickled, for his voice was a grown man’s now, tenor malevolence. “I will claim your heart as a toy and kick it for a hundred years. And when I am finally free, I will hunt down all your descendants and make their children just like me.”
With that, he vanished. I blinked. Viraine sighed.
“And that, Lady Yeine, is why we use the blood sigils,” he said. “Silly as that threat was, he meant every word of it. The sigil prevents him from carrying it out, yet even that protection is limited. A higher-ranking Arameri’s order, or stupidity on your part, could leave you vulnerable.”
I frowned, remembering the moment when T’vril had urged me to get to Viraine. Only a fullblood can command him off now. And T’vril was a—what had he called it?—a halfblood.
“Stupidity on my part?” I asked.
Viraine gave me a hard look. “They must respond to any imperative statement you make, Lady. Consider how many such statements we make carelessly, or figuratively, with no thought given to other interpretations.” When I frowned in thought, he rolled his eyes. “The common folk are fond of saying ‘To the hells with you!’ Ever said it yourself, in a moment of anger?” At my slow nod, he leaned closer. “The subject of the phrase is implied, of course; we usually mean ‘You should go.’ But the phrase could also be understood as ‘I want to go, and you will take me.’ ”
He paused to see if I understood. I did. At my shudder, he nodded and sat back.
“Just don’t talk to them unless you have to,” he said. “Now. Shall we—” He reached for the ink dish and cursed as it toppled the instant his fingers touched it; Sieh had somehow lodged a brush underneath. The ink splattered across the tabletop like
like
and then Viraine touched my hand. “Lady Yeine? Are you all right?”
That was how it happened, yes. The first time.
I blinked. “What?”
He smiled, all condescending kindness again. “Been a hard day, has it? Well, this won’t take long.” He’d cleaned up the ink spill; there was enough left in the dish that apparently he could continue. “If you could hold your hair back for me…”
I didn’t move. “Why did Grandfather Dekarta do this, Scrivener Viraine? Why did he bring me here?”
He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised that I would even ask. “I’m not privy to his thoughts. I have no idea.”
“Is he senile?”
He groaned. “You really are a savage. No, he isn’t senile.”
“Then why?”