The Admonishments of Kherishdar
M.C.A. Hogarth

SPITE

merethek [ MARE-eh-thehk ], (noun) — A ritual in which someone of lower caste-rank pledges fealty to one of higher, and both acknowledge their mutual duties, lord to vassal. During this ritual, the higher-ranked paints a ribbon pattern on the lower with a dye (or bleach). This dye fades over the course of a year, at which point the ritual is observed again. Only Thirukedi uses permanent dyes.

      The knocks before had been frantic, angry, desperate. They'd been accompanied by cajoling, by pleas, by remonstrations. None of them had pried me from hiding.
      This knock was slow.
      Was hard.
      Was inexorable.
      I knew I would give in to it. Knowing made me panic. I faced the corner and chewed on my knuckles.
      Silence.
      Again, the knock.
      I pressed my brow against my knees. Behind my closed eyes I saw my gloved fingers trailing across fur, crossing line over line, until dye darkened to the shade of blood.
      Again, the knock.
      I shuddered. I had been granted that rarity, a true love between myself and one of my Nobles... but it had not been enough only to touch, and not to have more. So I struck at him in ritual when he could not deny me, for it had been for him to show allegiance.
      For me to paint the dye on as a sign of our relationship, lord and vassal.
      For me to do so carefully, because even the dilution of Thirukedi's preparation that is allowed us is still a poison.
      Again, the knock.
      I was afraid I had killed him.
      Again.
      Again.
      I covered my eyes and shook....
      And then the handle... moved.
      The door opened, all on its own, as I watched. And standing there was my ajzelin—my beloved, whom I'd thought never to see again. On one hand, he wore a ritual glove... but with cold iron claws. In his other hand was a jar of shadowflower dye. I thrust my shoulders back against the wall, but there was nowhere I could flee.
      He crouched across from me, his eyes sorrowful.
      "I have been permitted to bestow the bairek narili."
      Only the emperor was allowed to create bairek narili: to incise wounds while applying the dye. It often crippled... sometimes killed. And yet my fears seized on minor details. Would he mark me somewhere everyone could see? Or someplace as private as my discontent had been before I made it public with my abuse of the merethek? Petrified, I waited.
      He backed away. Looked at me sadly. Left the room. I was still staring after him when Shame lunged out of the dark and ripped through my robe at the hip. Before I could scream, he gouged the other side.
      "What your love was too kind to do, I have done," he said as I pitched forward, shrieking. "How does it feel, the merethek as punishment?"
      He rolled me onto my back and pressed my shoulder down with his foot.
      "You have lost your love's trust," Shame said. "And Thirukedi's eyes are on you now. Act with the honor and grace befitting a Regal. Let the marks remind you."
      I moaned, weak.
      "Answer me," Shame said, cold.
      "Thank you," I cried, weeping. "Thank for the grace of my Correction!"
      He tossed a blanket over me and left.


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© 2007, M. C. A. Hogarth