Page 77 of Guiding Reason
The illumination came from light art, individual sources mounted along the walls and reflecting off the stark whiteplaster. Smaller ones sat on the tables, reminding Taros of the house in the forest where the Hound and his Guardian had burned wood to give them all warmth. Even with the remains of late afternoon light, the small place was so dark that the illumination was needed.
Like Hyran had said, this place was small. Taros counted eight tables, and they weren’t big. Along the walls, a few spare chairs stood, suggesting the place could get crowded even if it wasn’t today.
Three groups had taken tables, four Conduits on the left, chatting and sharing a large platter of food that sat in the center of their small table, two lower-rank Guardians engaged in some screen game between them, and a third group.
Taros gasped. Kashana. The Guardian sat between two Conduits or very low-rank Guardians, his white hair flowing between clasps and ribbons that made it look sculpted. His skin, vibrant and glowing, clashed with the white of his hair, darkness and light. He had blue eyes. They were striking, set in that face, especially because he was looking directly at them.
“That’s…that’s…” Taros said.
Kashana stood, and Taros forgot all words. The two people with him—they were designers, probably—followed as he crossed the small restaurant space and came to a stop in front of Hyran.
“I saw the stream. You should have chosen to stay in Ferrea, let me make robes for you to match your hair and colorless skin. I would have painted you in fabrics, Hyran.” Taros had never heard Kashana’s voice, because he wasn’t one for streams or public comments. It was thread-like, high and subtle, and not at all unpleasant. “This is the one you want me to see? You have purple hair, Guardian.”
“This is him. Guardian Taros of Argentea’s Team Three.” Hyran put a hand on Taros’s back, pushed him to take another step toward Kashana.
“Yes, purple. I’m really sorry. It’s not real.”
Kashana made a huffy sound. “Real is what we make of it. So. I hear you stole a neck robe off that Guardian who wore my dress so well and then broke it into tatters in battle. Such a magnificent sight, that.”
“That—yes. That was Vin. He’s so sorry he ruined that dress, but there wasn’t anything to be done. He knows how fond I am—how much I love your designs, and he generously gifted me your neck robe. He means no offense by it.”
“You are not wearing it. You are wearing rough combat things.” Kashana wrinkled his nose. “These combat roughs, they are unchanging. Guardian Vin did nothing wrong with the dress, and seeing something made for beauty come apart as beautifully as that dress did on his body—I will dream of it. I will design marvels from the memory.”
Taros nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
Kashana reached for him—the man was smaller, likely not an A-classer, although Taros didn’t really know. No one did. He felt along all over Taros’s chest, reached toward his legs and felt all over there too. Taros held still.
“Very nice. Pipo, we’re not staying for food,” the designer hollered at a server who had appeared without Taros noticing where from. “I am taking this one to my studio.”
“You…what?” Taros asked, uncertain of whether this was a dream or reality.
The two designers never left Kashana’s side, and they didn’t speak. The studio, it turned out, was in the same building, but inthe part designed for actually being lived in, the walls and ceiling illuminating the space, a space so full of everything Taros had seen in streams or chats that he could have cried with joy. He didn’t, because he didn’t want to give Hyran the satisfaction, but it was close.
“Nice, huh?” Hyran asked.
“You’ve been here?” Taros tore his eyes from a red neck scarf that was draped around a life-sized doll.
“I have.”
More dolls like this stood silent and beautiful all around the large space. Tables, wide and empty but for the tools of the designers neatly stacked, clearly were the center of this space. Taros could imagine it, the work being done here. The wonders being created.
“Why is your lip a mess?” Kashana asked, curling his finger for them to follow him past more dolls decked out in neck scarves and thin belts.
Hyran touched his chin absently. “Oh. Me and Taros here trained a little earlier. We both got a bit enthusiastic with it.”
“You look as if training is bad for you.”
They went from the workroom to a storeroom. Here, on large racks, rolls of fabric waited to be turned into the things that sprang from Kashana’s mind, reds and golds, patterns and none, greens and silvers, thin, thick, textured, plain.
“He’s not too bad,” Taros said.
“Hm.” Kashana looked at him. “All of Team Three is so taken with you, Hyran. I asked him into my bed once. He declined.”
“Ah.”Hyran really is an idiot. I would have made love to this man all through the night and for most of the morning.
“He likes it when his head designers watch him having sex.” Hyran indicated the two Conduits still flanking Kashana though they had to move into single file, given the next room was behind a narrow door.
“You can’t shame anyone for their preferences,” Taros said. One of the designers nodded at him though the woman was unsmiling, instead observed.
