Page 2 of A Fragile Heart

Someone usually read poetry or a novel aloud, but it was to their small group that he was never lucky enough to be close to, and even if he was close enough they'd just wind up talking to him and mostly ignoring the reading. The breakfasts were meant to becasual, fun, a way to simplybebut as crown prince he wasn't actually allowed to do that so he even though he would haveadoredlistening to someone read a chapter or two from a new novel or the latest popular book of poetry, or simply enjoy music while he fidgeted with his gear or a string of beads or whatever. Instead he just sat and let people talk at him, replying as necessary.

That's what he wanted most, that's what he'd like. Where one or two people could read the book, and everyone could discuss. Nobody invited Bakhtiar to things like that, though, and he didn't know who he could ask if he arranged one. There wasn't anyone who'd tell him no, of course, but that was different from people who genuinely wanted to spend time with him listening to books being read.

And the number of people who wanted to do that was zero.

Ignoring his aching leg, never the same since he broke it and then rushed home on it far too soon, he headed for the garden, nodding and smiling and pausing to exchange a few words with people as he went, because he genuinely enjoyed talking to people for the most part. He liked people, liked talking and helping and making a difference. It was just he always seemed to say or do the wrong thing, no matter how hard he tried.

At the threshold, he paused to speak with the pair of servants standing ready to be called upon. "Did you find the source of the fire, Tala?"

She smiled. "Yes, Your Highness. Some twit decided to sneak a smoke break, and when they tossed the remains, emberscaught a bag of flour. Thankfully, not much was lost and nobody was hurt, but Cook is definitely watching us today."

Bakhtiar chuckled. "Good luck. What's for breakfast?"

The other servant, Wafia, gestured excitedly. "Pink melon, both salt and sugar options. Hard eggs. Your favorite cheese bread of course, Your Highness, with herb butter and apple compote. Three types of sausages. Porridge, of course, though between you and me Nea made it today. A fruit bowl, sweet punch, chilled tea, hot tea, and the usual variety of wines."

"Thank you, it all sounds marvelous," Bakhtiar said. "I hope your day is largely free of crisis."

"And yours, Your Highness."

Leaving them to to their duties, he finally headed into the garden. This breakfast was in the rainbow garden, not his favorite but definitely a palace favorite, which was all that mattered. Everyone found his favorite boring, anyway. There was a long table off to one side where food and drink were arranged, to be taken at leisure. Scattered around the garden were cushions and small tables, ideal for two to four persons at a time. Rugs had been laid over a special wooden board, for the musician already strumming soft music.

Across five of the twelve tables were three taaki boards and two chessboards. Taaki was a Tavamaran game, old as the sands themselves. Chess was an imported game that had grown in popularity over the last decade or so. He'd just sat down, sipping at tea after a brief, soft stolen kiss from Farrokh, when everyone else began to trickle in. A servant brought him food, placing it on the small table to his right. Farrokh, sitting just in front of him and the table, served quietly while they watched the other guests. Eventually, as the eating and drinking faded, he would join more actively.

For now, he enjoyed this time where he could mostly focus on Farrokh, this beautiful man ten years his senior whohad chosen him despite so many better offers out there. He'd had endless tutors for years, and Farrokh had been one of the last, tutoring him on all sorts of foreign etiquette. A king should be able to make all people, no matter where they were or their station in life, feel comfortable. Foreigners could be especially tricky, all the more when their customs clashed. Bakhtiar had learned and studied and practiced into exhaustion simply to please a man to whom he was only a job.

He'd thought he'd been doing so well, keeping his feelings to himself, until he'd caught Farrokh kissing some stupid hall master and his heart had shattered. He'd ended his lessons and not spoken to anyone past what was strictly necessary for over a month, well on his way to two months when Farrokh had appeared in his damned bedroom one night, smuggled in by a scheming Kurosh.

He was so happy with Kurosh and Farrokh at his side, but lately they'd been quieter, distracted and always whispering together when they thought he was asleep or not paying attention. Initiated kisses and intimacy with ever-decreasing frequency, and Bakhtiar would rather die than press for something they no longer wanted to give, face the stinging rejection or, so many thousands of times worse, their unenthusiastic acquiescence.

It shouldn't surprise him, though. He was a failure at everything else, why shouldn't he fail at being worthy of his harem, too?

A warm, lilting voice caught his ear as the wind shifted, moving with the cadence of someone reading."—leapt over the canyon, sword flashing in the sun, as—"Bakhtiar looked toward the source, taking in the almost winsomely-beautiful man bent over the novel he was reading to an audience that, rightfully so, seemed more captivated by the storyteller than the story. He had the supremely dark skin of the north corner of the country,probably Remm province but could also be Myne. Long hair, currently braided and pinned back, dressed beautifully and well but not with the luxury of a courtier. Bakhtiar had never seen him before, so he must be visiting relatives or friends who were courtiers.

His voice, though, was the most captivating part of him, not too deep, not too high, warm and inviting, moving through the words like a fish through water. If Bakhtiar had him to read through reports and contracts, he'd never struggle to get his work done ever again.

"—iar!"

"What?" He snapped his head back. "Sorry. Sorry. I got distracted by the reading." He stared at Farrokh, who looked at him with brow drawn down and repeated, "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"The reading, was it?" Farrokh smiled teasingly, then said, "Lord Sarakish wanted to know if you'd like join them in a round of taaki."

He looked to the lord in question, sitting at a table with two others around a taaki board, which could be played by up to four people at a time. "Thank you, but no. I find taaki boring to play."

"I told you he'd say that," said another man, Lord Hesh, whose wealth was built on salt. Sea salt, specifically, in a market that was mostly rock salt.

The remaining figure at the table, a woman, Lady Qinara, chuckled in a condescending way that grated on his nerves. "He says the same about chess. What sort of games do you prefer, Your Highness?"

"More active ones, where the challenges are less uniform, more unpredictable." Physical ones, where he could burn off his restless energy, make himself slightly less annoying. Footracing, archery, horseracing. He did many of those things for charity,but nobody ever mentioned that when chastising him for not liking chess.

Sarakish replied, "I think you'd like it with more familiarity, Your Highness. Please, we would love to have you, and show you more of the game."

Why did people always assume he didn't like taaki because he didn't know it well? Bakhtiar had plenty of choice words for such condescending assumptions, but in the same situation his father would graciously concede and play a round or two. It would only be a few minutes; he could suffer that to make a point. "Very well, as you like, then."

Farrokh seemed surprised, though you'd only know that if you knew him well, but then whenever he and Kurosh played, Bakhtiar never joined them. Maybe they assumed he simply wasn't familiar with the game, too, and wasn't that a depressing thought.

He moved to sit at the table, bodyguards hovering close, and as people realized he was playing as well they moved in closer to watch. This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid, but there was no helping it now.

Once the pieces were laid, one hundred twenty in all between the four of them, with another ten landscape pieces on the board to add a fresh, if minimal, challenge to each round.

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