Author's Note: Sorry about the confusion on Marilak's age. He should be sixteen. I only just realized that after looking at Homeland again. Also, please don't read this if you haven't read Servant of the Shard. There were sort of spoilers in the last chapter, but you really don't want to read this one if you haven't FINISHED Servant.
Jarlaxle looked across his desk at the young drow. Just a few short moments ago he had walked in with a letter from Matron Baenre stating that he was to take this young one, Jarlaxle's nephew, into his care. There had been no other explanation offered. In fact, the name of the child had not even been given.
"What is your name?" he asked in his most commanding voice. This was not the time for banter; this was the time to assert control.
"Marilak Baenre…sir," the young drow replied tersely.
Jarlaxle narrowed his eyes. He did not truly sense respect from this one, and yet there was the realization there was respect. The young drow had studied him in that pause, and had decided that Jarlaxle was one to be respected. That was good, very good.
"Do you specialize in anything?"
"I am young, but I have learned some things with a weapon."
"But not much," Jarlaxle added with a small grin. His prediction on the youth had been about right. He was probably about only sixteen years of age and had just been about to begin his training.
"May I ask your name, Sir?" Marilak requested suddenly.
"You may," Jarlaxle replied his grin widening.
Marilak waited for a moment before asking," What is your name, Sir?"
"Jarlaxle, and that is all you need know me by."
"Jarlaxle," Marilak whispered nearly silently. This was the name of the drow he would have to call master. Marilak looked at Jarlaxle again.
Jarlaxle at this time was about 116 years of age. He had no eye patch, but the ridiculous hat was already a standard. Jarlaxle wore a fine white shirt with puffy sleeves and his pants were tight around his waist. He was also wearing a fine red sash. Jarlaxle's boots came up to the thigh and were a fine black themselves. At his side was a fine looking rapier, a fine looking rapier that Marilak hoped to never see pointed at him.
Jarlaxle was, of course, studying young Marilak just as intensely.
Probably the first thing he noticed about the youth was his eyes. They were the exact color of blood. Jarlaxle was not superstitious by nature, but had learned that eyes frequently expressed something about the person. These were probably as dark as they were partially because Marilak's spirit was dark. Marilak wore a saber at his right hip, which implied to Jarlaxle that he was left handed, and very basic and practical drow clothing. For some reason Jarlaxle had the suspicious feeling that Marilak had been brought here to teach Jarlaxle the lessons, not the other way around. It seemed best not to let him know that though.
"I will not go easy on you."
"I would not expect you to," Marilak responded simply.
Jarlaxle arched one of his fine white eyebrows. He wanted Marilak to speak as much as possible. It wasn't for his hearing either; the young drow had a voice that was just naturally…evil. Indeed, he showed signs of being related to Matron Baenre.
"Matron Baenre sent me here after almost sacrificing me. I doubt she would spare me out of the mercy of her heart."
Jarlaxle laughed at that. Indeed, she wouldn't. Still, it made him very suspicious. What was he supposed to find out about this youth?
"What exactly did you do that could so raise her ire?" he asked. It seemed a really silly question. After all, breathing a little too deeply or yawning in the middle of…anything with that one could get you placed on the altar if she was in a not wondrous mood.
"I killed my mother," Marilak responded with his chin raised and pride in his voice.
"In what manner?"
"I strangled her and then bathed my hands in her blood," he announced matter-of-factly.
Jarlaxle managed not to choke or show any signs of how badly he wanted to. No wonder Baenre had spared him, she had probably been proud of his viciousness. Jarlaxle was glad to say that he took more after his grandparent than his mother, that wasn't so great a statement for his nephew. Still…
"I will call for one of my soldiers to escort you to your room. It is your own private space, but I expect to be able to enter whenever it is needed. You may not leave without requesting it first. If you do will, that rule will soften."
As if on cue a knock sounded on the door. "That would be your escort," Jarlaxle said haughtily. Marilak stood, bowed slightly, and walked through the door.
Jarlaxle leaned back in thought once more. This one belonged in shadows far blacker than Jarlaxle even wanted to look at, but he knew of someone who truly lived in them.
Marilak looked around his simple room just moments later. His trunk had already been placed at the foot of the bed and there was a basin with which to wash his face. He sat down on the bed that was hard as a rock, but didn't care. So, Jarlaxle was his uncle. He could see where the older drow deserved respect, but did not want to be turned into some dandy. He also refused to truly yield to a master. With that in mind he slipped into reverie, and relived the best moments of his short life, the two killings that had already taken place in sixteen years of life.
Author's Note: Yes, I know it's short. This is not my main project, but since my main project isn't going so well I decided to work on some of my shorter ones. I would also like to thank those who review and say, feel free to point out grammatical mistakes. I didn't even really go through the editing with this chapter...so it's probably not going to be perfect.