Chapter 2
"How to Pass Time in Confinement"
Not much can be done within the walls of Katill Broiis. It's almost easy to forget that at one point in time, the island once had inhabitants, natives who went about their day with no greater aspiration than to make the cycle's harvest. Those days had long since passed; now it was the base of a lonesome citadel overlooking high above the East, its halls and towers open only to very special eyes.
The Sijarkes herself had not seen much of these people around back in those days, not in its long history of being the stronghold of the Domminical Order. It would have been impossible not to see, for she was among those granted the higher towers. She thought they might have moved on earlier than before she was taken to live there—and there, there she sat on her pillow fort doing the exact work the Tirkju'a had set aside for her.
And it was boring.
But one could see boredom as a cue for finding something better to do, and the Sijarkes had plenty of ideas, and she quickly found ways to work around his absences, plus with the added isolation Katill Broiis brought her, she was free to do her own thing.
First it started with monitoring any activity she could sense and tracking it over the course of a year. She quickly found the statistics to be nothing which one can really work with. The citadel thrived off of habit; therefore, there was nothing there she would poke holes at. It would suck the joy out of the ordinary.
Then, she began to produce her own clothes. She had nothing much to work with. She simply asked for silks and furs and began to toil away her days.
Whatever was produced, she knew not what to make of it.
What was the range of fashion acceptable by the Order? Was there a spectrum? She didn't know; the Quams all dressed the same within the citadel, and no average guest could be seen anywhere. Everyone wore their prescribed attire and rarely deviated, if at all.
Through this activity, the Sijarkes discovered that she had an affinity for padded shoulders. If they were fashionable, would they have been as bloated and angular as she had thought they might be? The Quams can only nod and praise. Perhaps they, too, didn't know. For all the knew, they were are stuck in the island as she.
She had also asked for pets of her own to raise within the Tirkju'a's tower and had agreed to have them taken out only when she was to sleep. However, there was a policy that she herself was, of course, well aware of: no pet ownership allowed without proof of license as a beast trainer. She simply assumed she could waive off the rules as she pleased, given her senior resident privilege, which was often difficult for the Quams to understand.
"I've been here since before your mother was born," she would remark at their reluctance. Katill Broiis kept all their live animals tucked far away from the eyes of the majority. They had special trainers keeping charge, and she was not authorized in any way to have a say in their keep.
As a last resort, to knock her boredom, she would visit the archives and read new publications directly from outside Katill Broiis, which boasted many archives even dating back to more than a thousand years. She also had the privilege of boasting her own special spot in the private archives of the Tirkju'a where she was granted a good view of any incoming and outgoing ships.
In heading there, she'd have to descend down the Tirkju'a's tower and take a trip through the maze of hedges which was said to have been grown by the Parrhadomme himself—the God of this citadel, a benevolent Dove—he's practically her neighbor, with how close he lives.
The Citadel was constructed down to his smallest, most esoteric specifics, and those details did not leave out the manner by which to lay down the maze that connected the entirety of the Citadel. For those who came for the first time, they would wish they had a map—which are illegal. Those who had been given the privilege to see the map were those of higher ranking positions, and even they were required to have their correspondences reviewed in order to protect the confidentiality of the map from being leaked in any way whatsoever.
So the Sijarkes had to learn her way around the Citadel by exploring it firsthand and having to experience getting lost on certain instances. But in time, she had memorized the place like the back of her hand, and the path to the Tirkju'a's archives was a familiar one she had to venture to more than a dozen times a week, even.
Speaking of the Tirkju'a…
The Tirkju'a had not returned since that day of his last outburst. Though it has only been two years, the Sijarkes felt as though she could not recall much from that time. There was always something new to see everyday and she had her own tradition of ordering imports of the latest silks and luxury items whenever word gets to her on her side of the world.
The closest visible thing that resembled civilization would be Haradoj-Ka'e, which sits across from the island of Katill Broiis. It was a military base, home to facilities that kept and maintained the military held under the Order's sole jurisdiction.
Still, there were actual, regular people living there. They had homes, and families, and children. If she personally knew what a typical human family was like, perhaps she would feel something more for their race. But alas, she was only just a sheltered beast. What did she know?
At best, she could make do with research, and she already had a place for such.
Its entire floor was tiled fashionably, littered with pillows and mats of different sizes, shapes, and patterns. The lit was dim, just right for reading, and on the wall were several of the scrolls she had been meaning to study.
Upon reaching her designated spot, she threw herself by the window, plopping unto a colorful mat, as soon as she was within range, and throwing several pillows off to the side to settle into a position on her back, she kicked her feet out to stretch.
That was a perk of having legs. But if she had her snake tail back, she would then have no case of bipedal locomotive strain.
A Quam completely covered from head to toe entered with the drink she had requested the day before, two options at the ready should she change her mind.
"Does it have lemons this time?"
"As you preferred it." The Quam set about preparing her table, leaving the drink options aside.
"I'm in a remarkably good mood today. Tell me something interesting. Tell me something recent." She took her drink.
"Outside. Do you mean, outside the island?"
"Yes, tell me."
"Well, the Du Quam Kedrik broke his back again several days ago."
"Boring. What else?" the Sijarkes swirled the drink around in her hands, sprinkling half a cup of sugar into the mix.
The Quam paused momentarily before leaning forward on one knee, settling into a crouch. In a low voice, he muttered cautiously, "I heard Urbedaur has been rejecting some of the Du Quam Umdochar's advances on some individuals whom he claims to have, I believe, done some wrong to the Order's constitution."
"Really?"
"The story is incredible as it goes on, as I've been told. You may have already read about it, Domma Sijarkes."
"That's always been the Tirkju'a's job."
The Sijarkes fiddled with her drink, watching her reflection.
It was strange, to say the least. The Tirkju'a returned to Katill Broiis within two weeks at the most without fail, and he never deviated much from this routine in all the time she was raised under him.
It has been two years since he had gone. It was getting concerning the more the put her mind on that thought.
"Is there any word from the Domme Tirkju'a? He's been away for an awfully suspicious long time. I would be very upset if he had not thought of acquiring a good present for me. I told him I needed more of those furs from the North."
"The Tirkju'a had long since been gone, Domma Sijarkes."
She spat her drink. That was not something she had expected at all. Yet those dreaded words sounded simply too true. But only possibly. With glistening, bulging eyes, she looked at him sharply.
The Quam resumed, "He has been declared missing half a year into his absence."
"Declared missing?"
Noises from outside the curtains erupt into indistinct conversations overlapping one another. The Sijarkes, whose hearing could not be anymore faultless as it was, was not going to take it.
The Sijarkes threw open her curtains, shouting, "What is all this commotion? I'm having a very important conversation."
The room fell into a silence, glancing up at the Sijarkes in her third floor balcony. A Quam sitting from the side spoke up in their defense: "We humbly apologize, Domma Sijarkes. There was an order that we are to move crates full of the Tirkju'a's records overseas. It should be done by tonight."
"His records?" the Sijarkes' voice weakened, then she resumed, "And overseas? Where to?"
"To Gu'ambiss, Domma Sijarkes."
Now, if she could recall correctly, that was exactly where the Tirkju'a last said he'd be off to. She was as quick to jump to her feet.
"There are very little places where one could hide in Gu'ambiss. Even more so if one is as gigantic as the Tirkju'a. If he had gone and disappeared there, then I need stronger proof."
The Sijarkes, not finding anything more to say, retreated back inside the room, grabbing the curtains to a close in one swoop. Once again, she faced the serving Quam.
"Domma Sijarkes, has he not visited you in years? It's been two years, am I right?"
"No!" the Sijarkes wailed. She was not going to accept this. It just wouldn't be right.
"The Tirkju'a's only feeling a little bad, that's all. I must've pushed him a little too much. That's right, only a little."
The Quam never changed his stance, and the Sijarkes grew ever discomforted and distraught at the idea of the Tirkju'a completely having been gone in the time she assumed was his putting distance between the both of them. It had been a silly argument which she could not fully remember the details of in the present, but she knows it wouldn't have been enough to constitute a disappearance of one of the most important figures in Domminical society.
In her frustration she threw open the curtains again.
"I am a Domma, too. If I had been the Tirkju'a, you would have informed me right away. He's a Domme. I am too, so why not I?"
All around the ground floor, several crates had been moved and are carried over outside where she presumed the docking ships might have been called there for—to take them to Gu'ambiss.
"To Gu'ambiss, right? Gu'ambiss is far away. That's over a few thousand kilometers away." She began to move across the balcony, towards the waiting Quam.
"Domma Sijarkes! Domma Sijarkes!" a messenger Quam in red robes came running up the stairs to her lair, huffing and puffing as he reached the top step.
"What is it? Say it already." Her anger was diverted.
"It's the Seer Dove—the Parrhadomme—he wants to see you. Now, outside." The messenger managed to croak out between breaths.
The Sijarkes let the moment pass before she said anything that made a bit more sense to her. "Does he mean I should go out and go greet the docking ships?"
"The Empiirjan! It is the Seer Dove's instruction to have you show your face right this instant at his level. In the Empiirjan!"
"The Empiirjan!" the Sijarkes as white with shock. "You're not kidding."
Wordlessly, the messenger Quam took an authorized visitation permit. On the dotted line, she can see it was addressed to her name. She gasped, stepping back.
"Without a delay, Domma Sijarkes. You must go."
With that, she took off with a spirit she never knew she had within her.
