Chapter Two

This is a nightmare. Every year, Atsa lives in perfect dread of the war games, of all the work, the fuss, the potential for recruitment into some brainless game or another, or worse into the personal retinue of one of the White court’s ranking members. So when she receives a summons from Dreigas Theiris, the Bishop of White, she knows both what must be coming, and that no desperate wish will alter the course she’s about to be assigned. Atsa bundles back her thick curls with a pale lavender ribbon, keeping it out of her eyes, and assesses herself in the mirror. Together, tidy, but nondescript. Like any Pawn summoned forth out of Selenite, pumped out of the beating heart of the White Kingdom.

She moves through the fortress with her head down, careful never to catch the gaze of her betters, let alone their attention. But Dreigas has summoned for her by name. Her full name, and to her dismay, she is the only Atsa Eral of her rank. How had he even learned her name? Atsa bites down on the inside of her cheek. The war games are a long, tense experience every year—one mishap, and the Kingdoms could go spiralling back into what they know best; into war. She’s never been able to relax, to trust that the worst is well and truly over. Until the ink is dried on a permanent treaty, Atsa won’t hold her breath. 

When she arrives, at last, outside the Bishop’s quarters, she knocks gently and waits. He is particular, when it comes to etiquette, and responds to violations of that etiquette with a hard hand. So she keeps her eyes down, her mouth shut, and hopes that he’s actually called on her because he needs a floor swept, or a chest unpacked, or anything, anything else, but to have her for his aide. Perhaps he’ll forget he’s called upon her at all, and she’ll stand here in the hall just to be dismissed. As though the Bishop’s meticulous nature allowed for such a thing. Still, it’s a nice fantasy, while it lasts.

When the door opens, it’s another Pawn that meets Atsa’s gaze and while it’s only a glance, the panicked empathy in it dashes Atsa’s hopes instantly. There are five other Pawns in the room doing just what Atsa was hoping her purpose would be, cleaning up the rooms after their year of emptiness, unpacking the trunks and putting away clothes, cleaning windows– all in an eerie, near perfect silence because the Bishop is known to be displeased by many, many things and unnecessary sound is one of them. Dreigas is standing near one of the tables in the main room, examining a silver tray while one of the Pawns waits rigidly for his approval or rejection of their work. It’s spotless, so clean and clear that he looks at Atsa through its reflection before offering it back to the Pawn who must have cleaned it, not offering any sort of acknowledgement besides that. With Dreigas, that is about as good as it gets, because if there had been even a water spot on that tray, the Pawn might have gotten it knocked across the side of their head. 

"Come," he says when he’s turned Atsa’s way—he doesn’t call her by name in front of her, because he doesn’t have to. Everyone in this room should be paying attention to every breath he takes, so if he is speaking to them, they should know without him having to be as direct as calling them their own name. "You will be my aide during the games," he says plainly—it’s likely because he has responsibilities as Bishop, even here during the war games, and since this year he will be expected to compete, which puts a drastic disruption on his normally meticulous, minute to minute plans. He doesn’t explain any of that to her though, the command is simply given. "You will attend me in the mornings, and you will be dismissed in time for…" He is sneering, Atsa can hear it in his voice, even if she has not been given permission to look at him. "… Festivities. Should you arrive in the mornings unprepared, intoxicated, or suffering from the consequences of your previous evening’s frivolousness, you will be sorry. Do you understand?" Fuck fuck fuck fuck. At least, it isn’t as if Atsa had had any intention of getting carried away with food or dancing, and she knows better than to drink during one of these. It makes her one of a lucky few. Or at least, she’d hoped she’d be lucky, which is proving by the minute to be a mistake.

"Yes, my lord Bishop," she says. And nothing else. She knows that when handling the Bishop, less is more. An unnecessary comment might get her teeth knocked in, and she prefers her teeth just where they are. Dreigas is about to say something more when there is a clatter in the other room. With someone that has such a short temper, it would be expected that he’d lash out over something like this, but instead, the Bishop’s tell-tale sign of dangerous, threatening displeasure is that he becomes very, very still. He has the pallor of a marble statue which is speculated to be an honorary cosmetic choice as the Bishop of White, with his hair starkly devoid of color and his skin so pale that his veins show through; in moments like these, one could mistake him for a statue except in knowing that the moment he moves someone is going to be in real trouble. It’s made worse when whoever is in the other room begins loudly crying. Dreigas has struck Pawns before, it’s even rumored he’s put his hands on the Second Knight, but making a loud noise in his presence so far hasn’t resulted in a death sentence. He doesn’t move, doesn’t storm off to make things worse for that weeping Pawn, instead, he says with a deadly calm.

"Go find out what that racket is, and put a cease to it." Atsa nods, and as much as she’d prefer to dig in her heels, take her time working out whatever this is, she knows that that will make things much worse. She can’t imagine what there is to wail about, but there will be more if whoever this is doesn’t get it together. She moves into the other room, carefully watching the floor ahead of her, and when she dares to lift her head, she regrets it instantly. Sitting in the corner of the room, sipping red wine from a crystal glass, is the Rook of White, and she’s looked directly at him. Gwyn Theiris is known for his arranged marriage to their Bishop, but perhaps more so for his good looks. And to be fair, his golden curls and pale eyes are difficult to look away from. She almost opens her mouth to apologize, but she has no leave to speak to him. 

"Don’t worry about all that," Gwyn tells her, his voice as pretty as the rest of him. "It seems our friend here—" They are not friends. "—is rather distressed." The Pawn is someone Atsa knows, but it’s odd that they’re here in Dreigas and Gwyn’s quarters when they are most often in the kitchens back in the palace. Was the retinue of service Pawns picked at random? Their name is Kozan, and it’s almost not a surprise they’re so emotional; beyond the threat of Dreigas’ wrath, they are an openly expressive sort, warm and talkative and definitely not suited for the strict regimen of keeping Dreigas and Gwyn’s rooms. They are cleaning up a mixture of broken and chipped plates that they must have dropped to make all that noise, but they stop with the pieces in their lap to clap their hand over their mouth, trying to quiet themself. They raise their gaze only to look at Atsa, and there is a pure, open plea for help in their face, silvery eyes glassy with tears. They look towards the door behind Atsa once, twice, and it’s apparent they're expecting Dreigas to follow, for the enormously tall Bishop to cast a shadow at Atsa’s back and bring down punishment for their error. Dreigas doesn’t come though, and they shudder out a sigh of relief, returning to picking up the plate pieces with trembling fingers. Atsa reaches out, because if Kozan cuts themself, she knows they’ll cry harder. She grabs their hand, putting a finger to her lips with the other. 

"Get the broom," she says, quietly as she can. "Dustpan too. Don’t rush, nice and quiet. Eyes down. Got it?" Atsa knows how it feels to be unable to risk a mistake like this, but what Kozan seems not to have realized yet, is how to survive when it comes. And they certainly haven’t learned how to save the crying until they’re safe in their own room. Kozan tries to even out their breathing, tears still streaking down their cheeks as they nod and gather up the apron they’ve put some of the broken porcelain in, getting to their feet slowly before turning to leave the room with their head lowered. When they come back, it would seem that Dreigas did not intercept them to reprimand them, though that’s likely because Dreigas could not pick most Pawns out from a crowd, let alone note that Kozan leaving the room admits that they were responsible for the noise that made him so angry. They have the broom and dustpan, and don’t need to be told how to use them even though they’re still audibly breathing through the task of getting rid of the rest of the porcelain. Dreigas does come into the room then, and Kozan squeezes the broom so hard their knuckles are as white as their horror stricken face. The Bishop doesn’t pay them or Atsa any mind though, instead turning his glare on his lounging husband. The tension between the two is always a matter of speculation in the Palace, because it’s impossible to tell whether they are perfectly paired or they despise one another. 

"You are already being a nuisance, I see," Dreigas says to Gwyn, as though he must have dropped the plates himself rather than the damage being done by the clumsy, distressed Pawn between them. 

"A nuisance?" Gwyn echoes. "Don’t tell me you think I could possibly be this careless." He motions to the mess, and Atsa knows this is a dig for Kozan. She tries to catch their eye, silently urging them not to listen. It’s difficult, when the Rook has such a pull. Paying attention to him is as easy as falling, and he’s all the more dangerous, because he certainly knows it. She helps almost mechanically with the clearing up, salvaging the few undamaged plates. They’ll likely be disposed of, too, now that the set is incomplete, or sent down to the kitchens for the Pawns to use, unless someone realizes that they’ll be stolen and sold in a matter of days.

"I think you’re capable of all sorts of carelessness," Dreigas says icily, going around Atsa and Kozan to close more space, moving slowly like he is prowling towards his spouse. This is the sort of approach that makes the blood of anyone beneath his station run cold, but it never seems to frighten or intimidate the Rook. It would be in everyone’s best interest if Atsa and Kozan could simply get the fuck out of here, but the floor must be perfect, not even a particle of the broken porcelain must be left behind. At least like this, Dreigas’ attention is focused solely on Gwyn, who has survived dozens of outbursts from the Bishop with no notable change in his charming, deceptively easy attitude. "Surely you have something useful to do besides drinking wine and being disruptive. One of your ridiculous light displays will be expected for the opening ceremony, go do some work on that. I need these rooms cleaned and I need them quiet." Kozan’s expression is all the more stricken as they continue to handle the mess with Atsa and their honest, expressive face tells how right Dreigas is to direct the blame at Gwyn. He must have done something, but it’s likely that Kozan will never tell. It’s too dangerous, when Gwyn’s magical talent is so dangerous and his rank gives him immense power and immunity from most punishment. With a touch from Gwyn, Kozan could end up bleeding from their eyes and nose and ears, could be dead in seconds, and whatever Gwyn did to them to get them to drop the plates for his own entertainment? It’s not worth their life to tell about. 

"That might take some while, under the circumstances. All that porcelain." Gwyn clicks his tongue, chuckling softly at the mess. Atsa can risk a glance at him, and sees it when his attention flicks to Kozan. The Rook smiles. "Are you certain I can’t offer you a more enjoyable distraction?" he asks. Atsa turns her attention back to the mess, crouching low to see if she can spot any fragments that might have gone skittering under the furniture. Luckily, there’s nothing left which means that if these two can be merciful for a single instant in their lives and dismiss them, they can escape this room and whatever ‘enjoyable distraction’ Gwyn is trying to tempt Dreigas with. Kozan has moved to the door and with the appropriate etiquette in mind, is waiting for that dismissal, gaze lowered except for just an instant, just a single, hopeful glance upward at Gwyn. It’s never that surprising when someone is snared by the Rook’s beauty and charm, he is responsible for the spy network and information distribution of the royal court and as such, is as mysteriously alluring and difficult to read as his position would imply. It’s easy to get wound around one of his long, lovely fingers, only to be made use of in some way that demonstrates how little he cares for the dignity or emotions of others. Kozan is making a mistake that many have made, that the Second Knight has been making for a year now, that likely several Pawns and court officials are making all at once in a web around the Rook. They have looked at him because they’ve assumed they’re different, that they’re special. The only blessing in this entire mess is that Dreigas’ back is turned and he hasn’t noticed the glance or its meaning. But Gwyn sees it, and he laughs. 

"Leave us, won’t you… What was your name, again? Atsa, and…?" It’s all Atsa can do to put her hand between Kozan’s shoulder blades, out of sight, a wordless plea to them not to take the bait. Kozan’s lip quivers, but they at least have the sense to understand Atsa’s touch. 

"Kozan, my lord Rook," they answer softly, before bowing at the waist and turning to go from the room. They breathe in and choke on something close to a sob on their way out, but the exit is quick enough that Dreigas hasn’t turned around to stop them and give them a firm reprimand and a back handed slap for making even more noise. Once out of the quarters all together, Kozan stops and turns their teary eyes onto Atsa. 

"I am so terribly sorry, Atsa. Thank you for your help." They wipe their eyes with their sleeve, but it’s not much use. "I—" They almost tell, it’s right there on their lips, but they reconsider. "I will throw this mess out… What are you doing here? Why would you be assigned to the Bishop? Weren’t you hoping for Kelradest?" Almost no one calls the Knight of White by his title; their reputation is utterly opposite from Dreigas’ in that Kelradest is exceptionally kind to Pawns and despite his rank doesn’t have such intensely high expectations when it comes to court appropriate etiquette. 

"Who wasn’t?" Atsa doesn’t want to get into it. "Leave the mess with me. You should get yourself cleaned up." She takes in another breath, wanting to warn Kozan away from the Rook, but decides to mind her business. Safer that way. "Go on," she insists, "I don’t mind." Kozan hands over the broom and filled dust pan, wiping their eyes again pitifully. 

"Oh, Atsa," they lament in a whisper, sniffling. "He asked for me. I thought… I thought perhaps he was through with Scythaline, and…" They shake their head and cover their eyes with their hands. "He asked for me. I’m such a fool… Thank you, again. I… I hope I’ll see you in better circumstances." They turn away and whimper a little, but go off to do what Atsa’s suggested, disappearing around a corner with their head in their hands. She lets them go. Atsa wouldn’t stick her nose into the Rook’s affairs for all the gems in Jijorikai, and Kozan should know better than to stick anything in range of that man that they don’t want to lose. Maybe they’ll learn, and get conveniently lost on the way back to the capital. Easy enough to do on the way to Selenite, if Kozan is one of the lucky Pawns here solely to find their fortune. Atsa makes a point of leaving in the opposite direction. It’ll take her out of her way, a little, but it’s better than running into Kozan again so soon. She tries to be soft on her feet, unobtrusive. Quick, but not too rushed. Just right. So no one will take notice, and she can do what needs doing so that she can retreat into the relative safety of her room, wait for the end of another day, and another, until she’s served enough.  It would be simple enough to make it there and go unnoticed if her luck was any kinder, but there are no gods for luck, and it would seem that fickle force has decided she needs to suffer a little more. From down the hall, a warrior Pawn that has decided they must be friends with her spots her at a distance. They’re helped by their serpentine senses- they probably could smell her coming before she turned the corner, but they don’t make a show of that sort of knowledge even though they always seem to find her if she’s within a certain range. 

"Atsa!" they call, jogging over to her to depart from a group of Pawns that are working through a crate of this games’ uniforms. The white tabards are decorated with silver thread and small, inexpensive crystals around the throat, lavender tassels cinching the sides together so they don’t go whipping off during whatever competitions they’re meant to be worn in. It’s likely most of the Pawns are looking forward to the end of the games where they can sell the fabric and thread and crystals for a fine price, or bring home the tabards to show off to their families, but Argos only has one person they’re known to be close to in that way and it is the White Knight himself, so it’s no real surprise that just as Kelradest seems to take some joy in the games, their surrogate child would enjoy them too. Argos comes to a stop next to Atsa, the dark scales that arch across their cheeks catching the light up in a shine that encompasses the whole rainbow as they tilt their head at her. Their sharp pupils blow wide as they grin, glancing her over before taking into consideration the dustpan in her hands. 

"Plates? You have placement on the cleaning group, Atsa? I am surprised for this, you are liking to cook better, right?" Their knowledge of the common tongue isn’t that strong even though they grew up in the capital. After their hometown was wiped out by what is rumored to be some sort of shape shifter, they are the last to know their language, besides Kelradest who speaks it with them often. Preserving that kind of information is more important than assimilation, at least for someone with such a lofty connection, so Argos’ speech has always been broken up with odd verbiage and words out of order. Argos stands up straighter and pulls at the tabbard. "You see this? Good this year, huh? Better than last year, with robes, the robes are…mm…. They are not having… ideal?" Argos asks, since it would seem each time they approach Atsa they’ve decided she’s a trustworthy person to help correct their linguistic mistakes. This time, she’s not sure what they mean. 

"What was wrong with last year’s?" she asks. She barely remembers what they looked like. Argos considers how to say it, eyes sliding up to the ceiling as they squint.

"Ah… there is… with the robe?" They gesture across their body, and then with a huff of breath like a gust of wind, they splay their hands open wide and laugh. "Not is bad for me, there is flatness, scales, I am not shy, nothing so bad, but for some who are shy? Or there is ah… weight? No good. Not. Ideal. Yes. Not ideal." 

"Oh. They were revealing," Atsa pins her eyes on the floor. She doesn’t need a discussion about revealing clothes. It’s bad enough that Argos seems always to find time to talk when all Atsa wants to be is invisible. "Anyway… I’m in the Bishop’s retinue this year," she says. That ought to shift things away from last year’s uniform. Argos whistles low, brows pinching in sympathy. 

"Oh, Atsa. This is no good. You are wanting, maybe I am speaking for Kelradest?" It’s inappropriate for them to just say his name like that, but he’s never gotten upset with anyone using his name. Dreigas on the other hand… "I can say things for you, have you with them instead if you are wishing it. I am always glad, for helping you with things. I am helping with this thing?" They point to the dustpan and then turn their hand over to take it. "We go for this together, if you like it?"

"No need to speak to the Knight," Atsa says carefully. "I know how to handle myself around the Bishop." That’s true so far, at any rate. He’s never raised a hand even to threaten her, which is more than she can say for some of her fellow Pawns. "I can carry this," she says, and she should add that she can also get to the waste disposal on her own. But sometimes she forgets to have sense. "You can walk with me, though." It’s like her mouth says it for her all on its own. Argos is immediately pleased with her answer, and gestures for her to lead on. 

"You are having much bravery, Atsa. I am thinking it is better to take an easier path, but if you are meaning for bravery, who am I for stopping you? But my offer is of no limit, if there is problems for you, I will have speech with Kelradest. You are… pleased for the games, this year? I am remembering there is much work for you, last year, and I am not seeing you much at all. I think there is hope for it to be different this year." They chuckle and lean closer to her, whispering near her ear, "I am hearing there is already talk for the White Pawns and Black Pawns to meet to celebrate the new holiday. It is holiday we make for ourselves, just for the games. I am thinking last year it is called Wheat Moon, this year it is called Flower Moon. You say these words, it is showing you will keep the secret, then there is drinking and dancing… I am not going last year, because I am worried it will be trouble, but hey, no trouble, so I am thinking I go this year. You come? With… me?" 

Atsa almost stops in her tracks when Argos asks her that. She can’t afford to get too close. It isn’t safe. She intones that in her mind. It’s not safe. 

"I might have work to do," she says. "I wouldn’t want to say I’ll go, and then find out I’ll have to disappoint you." She shouldn’t even have agreed to let them walk with her. "Maybe… See how it’s like, and I’ll come next time." Her stupid mouth. Atsa rounds the last turn to the disposal, determinedly keeping her eyes forward. That’ll be a problem for her the next time these games are held. If they’re held at all. She doesn’t need to think that far ahead.  Argos walks with her right up to the doorway, and leans against it—it seems that her rejection hasn’t soured their mood any because they nod their agreement. 

"I will have report for you after, to say if it is good fun or not. Who knows, right? Maybe there is brawling. I will not bring a lady like you for brawling," Argos says with a light chuckle. "Alright, I must be away from you for now, I am seeing you during the commencement though. Be well, Atsa." She doesn’t dare glance over her shoulder at Argos as she tosses the broken porcelain away. Her eyes talk too much. They’re hard not to like, and it’s a fool’s errand to follow that thread even for as long as she has already.

"You too."

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