It was a small thing to steal a candle. In a country where beeswax was a mass export, they were cheap, everywhere, and in all shapes and sizes. He’d taken a scented one from the supply closet, because the idea of sending Vendon a message that smelled of berries made him smile.

The issue, then, became one of secrecy. Though he didn’t exactly have a natural aptitude for magic, he’d been taught an easy long-distance messenger spell that didn’t require any more components than a small flame and a whisper. It was simple, quick, and discrete, but the trade-off was that he had to find a place where he wouldn’t be caught talking to a candle. Getting caught writing a letter was much more low-stakes in theory, but he’d been denied at every turn.

When he’d asked if he could write a letter to his loved ones, well, as his handler had put it, “You should be less obvious about your escape attempts. On the off chance someone still cares about something like you, putting any grand ideas of rescue in their head will get both of you killed.” The spell was niche enough that he didn’t know anyone else who could receive it, nor could he establish that contact. He’d been punished just for the insinuation, but still, keeping his hopes up for “grand ideas,” he asked Lucice instead. The response was kinder, but had the same spirit: any slave caught communicating with groups outside of their Master’s domain would be severely punished.

His first thought was to just do the spell in his room, but he got a sudden flashback to Vika barging in on his very first day. His second was the lounge room, and while Vika barging in was still a significant risk, at least he would be exactly where people would first think to look.

Backing up a little further in his memories of that day, he stepped into the gardens and looked around. Gardens were public places, and he’d learned the hard way that hedges weren’t exactly soundproof back when he was still a stupid, impulsive teen, but he’d also learned there was plenty of privacy if you knew where to look.

The sky was still vibrant blue, but the shadows were stretching for ages and the sun was exactly at eye level. He decided to go towards that, so no-one would want to look his way.

There was a gate of interlocking hexagons left ajar, which lead beyond a tall wall dividing different sections of the garden. With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no-one was looking, he slipped by and stepped onto a blue and gold mosaic footpath. He surveyed the concentric paths, positioned to spiral and allow someone to walk past 6 boxes of white granite with gold trim, all of which housed busy hives. The air was thick with honeybees here, and the spaces between paths was dense with clover. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any grass in the entire garden, it was all clover, moss, fern and other low, light flowers.

The bees made him nervous, and indeed a few were indignantly swarming around his head for stepping on a busy patch of clover, but he elected to ignore them and close the gate behind him. He was certainly alone now, but who knew when a “bonk” would come in. Just to safe, he spotted a supply shed on the far side of the enclosure and headed to that. Checking again to make sure he had no company, he went behind it and lit his candle.

He took a deep breath to clear his head and let the glow of the flame burn into his eyes. He whispered, “Gilai, sokol, lish ts’Antā, deli sham paj ha Monā chi ts’Namshol; Rejan chi Kishalon, Vendon,” and blew it out. Spell properly cast, he murmured to the smoke, “I’m settled and ready for orders. Privacy is hard to come by, but I’ll keep you updated.” The smoke flashed blue momentarily before the grey ribbon flew into the sky.

Mm, cherries.

Oly flinched upright when he heard humming. Trying not to look suspicious, he stepped out from behind the old wooden shed with the still-smoking candle hidden behind his back. He was spotted almost immediately, but not by a face Oly was expecting to see.

It was LonDwuat’s advisor from the party, a man with a kind face weighed down by sorrow and time. His short hair and long beard was almost completely overtaken by silver, but the streaks of what color remained were as black as his robes, a mourning color here. He looked pleased and curious to see Oly.

His voice was gentle, but his diction was clear and sharp as glass. “Hello. I don’t believe we ever spoke.” The advisor’s heavy blue cane clicked against the tiles as he approached. Oly stepped in tandem with him without looking away, not wanting to seem like he was rushing or hesitating. “You may call me Sir Mokanda.”

“You may call me Olymarté,” he replied, but remembered himself, “If it pleases you.”

Sir Mokanda grinned and clapped a hand on Oly’s shoulder once he was close enough.

“I always did love Aosan names. It means ‘sun shower,’ doesn’t it?”

Oly cocked his head to the side. He’d just picked something rare-ish and pretty, he didn’t think there was anything remarkable about it. “It’s a rare treat. The necessity of rain paired with the warmth of sun is always welcome.” He explained with a shrug.

“That far up north, I imagine you people will take all the warmth you can get. I always found it fascinating, not naming your child things they should embody, but things you want them to have. Fortune, Luck, Warmth, Blessings…” Oly blinked when Mokanda started speaking his language, but he’d moved on just a moment later. He gently pushed Oly towards the gate and kept walking. “I asked Hesiat to take on some company while he works to the bone again. If he listened, Lucice will be looking for you.” Mokanda chuckled. “Don’t make him hunt you down, Olymarté.”

Oly gulped and bowed, dashing out of the gate and making for the servant’s entrance. After weaving out of the bushes and getting a couple scrapes by passing too close to a rosebush, he almost crashed into Lucice over the threshold, who looked a fair bit miffed to be away from his office.

“What are you doing out here, Oly?”

“Getting fresh air, sir.” That was more a side effect than an intent, but it wasn’t a lie.

“And the candle?” Lucice gestured to it. Oly looked down at his stolen goods as if he was surprised to find it in his hand.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I was praying. I just needed a light and privacy.” Mokanda was the closest person who’d ever come to having any clue what Aosan culture was like, much less his religion, so the bluff would probably fly. Lucice took a deep breath and didn’t seem impressed, but he waved Oly away. “Well, at least you didn’t take long. Go get cleaned up. Hesiat has asked for you in his quarters.”

Oly’s blood went cold. Ah, that kind of company.

He forced his face to brighten. “Happy to! I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”