There were times, when Lasura was certain his mother had considered killing him. He wondered if she'd ever tried when he was little, or had come close to trying in the past seventeen years. Eighteen, to be accurate—one would assume she wanted him dead before he came into the world as his father's son given the circumstances.

He also wondered if she would have succeeded, had his father not threatened to kill all those slaves.

'Would it have been easier, mother? If there had been fifty or a hundred prisoners instead? Would you have let me live?'

He'd been foolish enough to ask the other night, half-drunk from too much wine at his father's table, half-deaf from the rage pouring out of her after he'd accepted the mission to negotiate with Sarasef, as if he ever had a choice in it. That memory, as much as he wanted to forget, was still unbearably fresh and raw in his mind.

She'd straightened then, raising her chin to look up at him in disgust the same way she'd always looked at her husband. She hated their resemblance—the same black hair, deep-set eyes, harsh, prominent jawline, and the way they were built that held enough similarities to be mistaken sometimes by silhouette. That was the only thing his mother ever saw when she looked at him; the shadow of the man she wanted to see dead.

'I should have killed myself before you were born!' She'd said, grinding her teeth as if to keep at bay an even worse insult, which, given his mother's exceptional creativity in delivering them, could be possible. 'If I'd known you'd willingly slaughter your own people—'

'My people?' It had slipped out of him before he could stop himself, the words he'd been trying to hold back for her sake, words he might have still been able to swallow had he not been so drunk, so tired from the climb. 'There are four Shakshis I've known in my life and half of them would rather see me dead.' Yes, dead. His own mother and her handmaiden to be exact. 'The Black Tower is my home, Rasharwi is my city, he is my father as much as you are my mother and for the very least he wants me to live! As far as I'm concerned, it was your part of my blood that has dragged me through all kinds of shit in this Tow—' 

The sound of her knuckles crashing into his jaw had finished the sentence for him, as always. She was too small to deliver a punch that would throw him off his balance, but that side of his face was going to bruise nonetheless. It used to hurt a lot more when he was little, but he'd gotten used to it after a few years.

It had become clear to Lasura a long time ago, that what his mother couldn't take out on her husband, she resorted to take it out on his son. And while he could sympathize with her how all that anger had to go somewhere, being given his own quarter five years ago which allowed him the possibility fo avoiding her most of the time had been the best gift his father had ever bestowed upon him. Still, every now and then she would pay him a visit, usually most often right after his father's return to the Tower. It usually ended with her raging over something her son had done or hadn't done, but it had been a while since he'd goaded her into throwing a fist at him.

'Oh, that was a good one, mother,' he'd told her, spitting the small amount of blood onto the floor to make a point. 'Are you calm now or would you like another go at it?'

She'd stood shaking her fist as she looked at him, breathing hard from the exertion. No remorse, no apologies in those eyes, of course. The Lady Zahara of the Black Tower was not someone who apologized for her actions, nor a person you could strike at without getting your hand stung in the process.

Neither was he, for that matter. Worse, if one were to consider that he was also a son of Salar Muradi of Rasharwi and had also been raised rather close to him.

'You can't go through with this,' came the command, the expectation. 'You will run. Disappear. I will get someone to help you escape, plant some evidence that you're dead in the desert.' She was pacing now, arms wrapped tight around her chest, trying to come up with a way out of this mess. Or to beat his father at his game, to put it more precisely.

It never ceased to amaze Lasura how his father had managed to live with this woman for so long without throwing her off the Tower.

'And do what exactly?' He'd raised his voice then on purpose, made sure it carried with it the right amount of sarcasm. 'Herd camels? Raise goats and sheep for the rest of my life? Run and hide like a branded slave? Are you even listening to yourself?'

She'd wheeled on him, eyes burning a terrifying yellow as she slammed her fist on the nearby table, spilling the wine from the unfinished cup. 'You will do whatever needs to be done. I will not let my own son ride against my own people, Lasura!'

'Or what, mother?' He'd snapped without a second thought, stared her down for the first time with every intention to put a certain theory to the test. 'What will you do? Strike me again? Kill another girl I sleep with? Poison my wine? Don't,' he'd rasped a warning as she parted her lips, an old wound tearing open as he did at his own words, 'even try. I know you did it. I know how. I even know why. And I have, for the past seventeen years allowed you to do what you want, but don't assume that there isn't a limit to my capacity to take your shit, because there is, mother, and you've just crossed it."

And it had all been there on her face, not the guilt, no, but the pure inconvenience of having been caught, the anger relating to the fact that things weren't going to go the way she'd planned had all been written so clearly in those eyes, in the way her lips had pressed tight together in displeasure, in disapproval, and for the ten-thousandth time, in disappointment. It had also been clear, that for a short moment, she had considered poisoning his wine, and had visibly shaken herself free of such an idea over a thought that had come up. A deliberate choice based on reason. A careful consideration of consequences that might have followed. To Lasura, that had been enough to confirm some things.

He'd made his way to her then, pausing just close enough to be able to look down from his father's height. 'Understand this, mother. Your problem is yours, not mine, nor does it take precedence over my own no matter how much you wish it so. I am not going to risk my life and everything I have to defy my father, your husband, the fucking Salar of Rasharwi for a land I've never set foot on! And before I'm gone, I suggest you start finding yourself a new goat, or you won't have any to empty your shit on.'

He'd thrown it all in her face that night, had stormed out of the room without another word. They hadn't spoken since then and he was glad she hadn't tried to reason with him again. It still stung, and he hated that it still stung. But life was life. You could fight it and learn to live with scars, or you don't and live with worse.

And so, to Lasura, it had been a common sight—an expected one truly— to see his father looking at him with expectations of victories to be achieved, and his mother's silent wish to see him dead as he rode away from the two of them, standing side by side like Life in black and Death in white at the gate of the Tower that morning. His Shakshi swordmaster, however, wasn't there as he should have been. He wondered if he should be watching his back for that.

She would never go so far as to have him killed though, he was certain of it. Something had been holding her back, keeping her in check every time she'd had that murderous look in her eyes, and for seventeen years, she'd sacrificed much to keep him alive despite her conflicting need to end his life. There was a reason to that. She had her own plans for him, just as his father had, he was sure of it.

'Women,' he'd been taught, 'hold the power to give life and an accompanying strength to take it. Never, ever, give them cause or underestimate them if you want to live.'

A caution not easily brushed aside for a son raised by a bharavi. He wondered sometimes if all bharavis were like this, had shuddered once or twice at the thought of meeting another, no matter how unlikely that was.

"Remind me to get you a salve for that bruise," Deo di Amarra, the same man who'd taught him those words said without turning around. "It's been a while, isn't it?" He added amusingly. "She must have gotten old. That's a baby one considering the last."

Lasura snorted at that. It needed no explanation, of course. His mentor knew things nobody else did but should have, and others no man alive could have. It was difficult to tell if he had a small gift of foresight or if it had been his keen observation of things that allowed him to make these predictions. In this particular case at least, Lasura would have guessed it was the latter. He had, after all, been partially raised around this man for more than a decade.

"I expected to be dead by morning, to be honest."

"Unfortunately, my prince," Deo said, chuckling a little, "you're not getting out of this anytime soon."

He considered that for a moment, and decided to voice his suspicion. "I take it you're not going to enlighten me on that subject, are you?"

"Assuming I possess such a knowledge to enlighten you with?" Deo raised a brow, then gave him a shrug. "Not until it entertains me, no."

"Ah, but you do possess such a knowledge."

He took a sidelong glance at Lasura this time, slowing down his splendid Vilarian mount a little. "Are you asking me why your mother won't kill you?"

"I'm asking you why she needs me alive."

Deo laughed. "Love, of course."

It nearly made him cringe. "After all this time you've spent teaching me, you still think I'm an idiot don't you?"

"Well, you haven't exactly lived up to expectation, my lord prince."

"Perhaps the master is to blame for that, not the apprentice."

Deo's lips curled up a little. "If all apprentices were to fail, yes."

"Of course," he said and feigned a thought. It didn't need thinking, not really. "Didn't your Sparrow put you in prison recently?" That must have been a wound, but he had been meaning to wound. He didn't like the Sparrow. That boy had beaten him once in a duel.

"Oh I enjoyed prison time immensely," Deo replied, smiling widely now. "A protected solitude is hard to come by for a man of my position."

Lasura rolled his eyes. There had to be some limits to how much one could adore a certain apprentice, truly. "Have you been fucking him after all this time, Deo? Or have you been wanting to and haven't succeeded?"

Deo di Amarra's laugh carried over to a few soldiers behind them, who promptly pretended not to look or listen. "As much as I find my Sparrow a rare, priceless, devastatingly gorgeous apprentice—with an absence of your mouth to boot, mind you—I am not a man who pisses on an exquisite rug he's trying to weave out of convenience, as much as I'm willing to admit to having a weakness for these things, my prince."

Rare, priceless, devastatingly gorgeous, and deadly on top of it. The man was a walking testament to everyone else's inadequate shits. Not too different from his father, actually. He'd met the Shakshi only once when Deo, out of the blue, had pitched them together during a training session. It wasn't even a fair fight. One could die staring at that face for too long. He wondered how many had.

A Beautiful Death, was what they called it when someone died by the hands of the Silver Sparrow. He usually carved a bird somewhere on the victims—a signature as much as a statement that it had been a death commissioned by Deo di Amarra. The officials turned a blind eye to that. Those who might have avenged them didn't try. You didn't go against a man who owned the largest network of assassins whose clients were usually larger than him and hope to survive. And of all his apprentices and employees, Deo kept this one the closest.

"You really do love that boy, don't you?" There was a touch of something pathetic in the way he'd said those words that he hadn't anticipated. It wasn't without cause, but he didn't like laying his emotions bare for all to see, not even his lifelong mentor.

It must have shown, because Deo's expression grew soft and serious then. "I do. Everyone does. Everyone will." He sighed those words, his yellow-green eyes fixed on something, somewhere far away. "But there is, Lasura," a deliberate use of his name to make sure the point was taken to heart, "such a thing as being loved to death."

He didn't answer to that. Being loved to death wasn't a concept someone like him would understand. They rode in silence for the rest of the morning towards the Black Desert where Sarasef's men would be waiting. Some time later, when they stopped for lunch, Lasura asked, though without understanding why he did, "So, love, huh?"

Deo just smiled. It was then that Lasura came to realize, that his mentor had never really specified which love he had been referring to.

***

A/N: Please vote for Obsidian if you are enjoying this story at Indiestorygeek.com before the end of August. I may be 1 vote away from making it. Every vote counts.

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