Clanless

You are a servant now, Daimion.

The ruling family of Intamu Clan makes sure I understand this. Once, I was Daimion Tovari, first son of my clan. Now I am only Daimion. There are no more Tovari. We are conquered. We serve the Intamu now. Our name is washed from history. With it goes our honor, our pride, our hope.

And everyone wants the first son to be their servant. For the first few months, I was passed from family member to family member, bartered and bickered over like an especially succulent cut of meat.

Now I belong to First Daughter Danaiya Intamu. She’s beaten out all the other challengers, at least for now.

Danaiya Intamu is everything one would expect of a first daughter. She is strong. I’ve watched her throw her brothers down to the sand in the warrior circle many times. She is beautiful. She strings her hair with platinum, shining like threads of frozen starlight through the glossy black. She is arrogant and ruthless beyond all comparison. There may be captured starlight in her hair, but it hides a heart of chilled obsidian.

“Daim,” she commands, “clear this away.” She waves her hand to the bronze tray of dirty dishes and half-eaten food on the table of her expansive bedroom.

I do not know why she uses that pet nickname for me. Maybe she thinks it is cute. Maybe she means to dishonor me by severing my name just as the rest of me has been severed.

I clear the tray, taking the many flights of stone steps down to the kitchens where servants even lower than me will do the washing. I recognize several of them as former Tovari, my clanmates.

No, there are no clanmates. I shouldn’t think like that anymore.

When I return to Danaiya’s room, she is in the process of undressing.

“My bath, Daim,” she says.

I go wordlessly to the bathroom. It is all reddish tan stone, expensive, bigger than my entire room when I was a first son. There is a shower large enough for four people, but I’ve learned that Danaiya rarely uses it. She prefers the immense tub, nearly a small pool, where she can stretch her arms and legs out fully in the water without touching any sides. I begin to fill it, steaming water falls in a cascade from the broad tap. I organize the array of bath salts, oils, soaps, and herbal infusions I know she will want.

Danaiya requires that I bathe her.

It is the height of my dishonor. For one Ridoran to be forced to bathe another is total subservience.

Perhaps some of the male servants would enjoy it. Danaiya’s body is objectively a treasure to look at, but I find nothing particularly alluring about it. She could probably get some first sons of other clans to do this job willingly. I know there are many who would court Danaiya Intamu.

I am no longer a first son, and I would have no desire to court Danaiya Intamu if I was.

“Don’t miss any spots,” Daniaya reminds me needlessly.

My grip on the sponge is tight. I’d rather beat her with it. I stare at her bare back, eyes flicking toward the bubbly water. She is relaxed, unprepared. How hard would it be to put my hands on her shoulders, shove her under the water, hold her there? I could do it fast. She wouldn’t have time to scream. Her wrist communicator is out in the bedroom. Nobody would come to help her.

I could kill First Daughter Danaiya Intamu. I could take revenge for my clan.

The plan seems perfectly clear in my mind. My fingers tremble. If Danaiya notices my tension she gives no sign.

Just one push. The tiles lining the tub are smooth and slippery. She is strong, but in the water her strength would be wasted. I could hold her down. I could do it.

No.

The Intamu are the monsters. I am not Intamu. I am not a monster. I am not a killer.

My stomach clenches, twists until I feel nauseous.

The sponge continues its slow movements across her back as if operating of its own accord. I feel disconnected from myself, split in two. I am one Daimion made of shadow, another of light, one of death, the other life. For a moment, they war inside of me. Neither wins. They fight always to a stalemate. I continue to exist, too weak for either side. I am too lonely and broken to have a purpose in life. I am too much a coward to sacrifice myself gloriously in death.

I complete the washing and prepare the various oils to apply after she is dried. She stands there, a smooth, dark-skinned goddess, watching me. I try not to look at her face or any complete part of her body, keeping my eyes on each isolated patch of skin as I use the towel to dry the water and then my fingers to apply the oil.

“One would think you don’t find me attractive, Daim,” Danaiya accuses. “You never look at me.”

“You are very beautiful, First Daughter,” comes my automatic reply.

I can feel Danaiya’s eyes staring down at me. I know my empty response does not please her, but I can only say the fake words; I cannot mean them.

“You bathed my sister, didn’t you?”

“Yes, First Daughter.”

“And I am surely more attractive than she is.”

“Yes, First Daughter.”

Danaiya grabs my face by the chin, forcing me to look her in the eyes. They are hard eyes, rings of chocolate brown that might be soft and pretty if there wasn’t so much cold steel behind them. I keep myself limp, trying to control the defensive tensing of my muscles.

“You also washed my brother, Teyan.”

My throat is dry and tight. “Yes, First Daughter.”

Danaiya’s smile is wicked. “He bragged for a week about how he had a first son on his knees. He even made you put oil between his toes, didn’t he?”

My tongue feels like a massive lump of sand in my mouth. There is a truth I cannot say to Danaiya or anyone. Teyan was a selfish, demanding, violent monster who did everything he could think of to make me feel ashamed, but he was also handsome and strong, and his eyes were bright, and I spent every day in his service convincing myself that he was not so bad. He had a heart of fire that often flared in anger, and I felt the sting of his hand many times, sometimes even the pain of his fist, but I would still rather serve him than Danaiya.

Sometimes I dream of Teyan, but in my dreams he is kind and generous. He would smile at me and pat my shoulder in affection. In my mind, he is a knight and not a beast.

I am attracted to him in ways I shouldn’t be. I am in love with the fantasy of him, and I am ashamed. Even my love brings me shame.

My words come out in a rasp. “Yes, First Daughter.”

Daniaya gives a light grunt and tosses my face away. I catch myself on the stone floor, pain lancing up my wrist. Just a light sprain. I don’t make any sound.

“You should be sure to oil between my toes then, shouldn’t you?”

I bite the inside of my lip until I taste blood. The pain keeps my gaze focused on Danaiya’s feet. “Yes, First Daughter.”

I apply the oil between her toes and work it across her feet and everywhere else she wishes.

Finally, I am released from Danaiya’s service and allowed to return to my own room for the evening. There is nothing in it save for a bed and dresser filled with a servant’s clothes. I eat my meals on the floor. At least here, I am alone.

The solitude closes in around me like an icy net. This will be my life now. A few months ago, I imagined that a first son would be a valuable servant. I am better educated than any other servant in the tower, decently strong in my arms and back, well-spoken. I might even be attractive to some. I once had a thread of gold wound through my black braids, marking my status as a first son. I am not permitted to wear that anymore.

Now I realize that I am meant merely to be something less than a pet; pets are loved. I am something to scorn and demean, to remind every day what I once was is something I will never be again. I am a symbol of the Intamu’s conquest.

I sleep clutching one pillow to my chest. In my imagination, I reinvent a version of Teyan, a boy who is my friend, who likes me, who I might even lay beside. In my mind I can feel the warm pressure of his arm across my chest. This allows me to sleep, to escape to a reality where I am still First Son Daimion Tovari, worthy of being loved, and not Daim, the servant who rubs oil between toes.