Toruaz finally found the door to the Hall of Du Quams.
He had taken his time to get there, making sure to see all that there was to see. He wouldn't want to be caught off guard by the time he takes up his post. The Hall of Du Quams was its own building, connected only to the main region through one solemn corridor, occupied by rows upon rows of Quams compactly seated on a bench burrowed into the walls. They had watched him curiously, if the feeling had been right. He did not check. He kept his gaze ahead.
Those Quams were not the kind who scared him; those were the Setikosi. Thankfully, it was rare to find them around these parts. The Hall of Du Quams demanded silence and reverence. It had no need for clowns to entertain tourists.
'Why did he have to meet me here?'
He didn't want to think far ahead and accuse a friend of being sly, but the thought occurred to him, nonetheless, that Nubejul must have desired to make a statement.
Entering the hall, utmost observance of its rules were mandatory and offenders were heavily fined, sent to his uncle, the Oronosojal in that region of Gu'ambiss. As his apprentice, he understood the rules of the land, and he obeyed them almost without question. If Nubejul had wanted to meet him here in the gilded halls of this museum, he has no right to refuse—he's officially a willing subordinate now.
'It's not like him at all…'
The Hall of Du Quams was simple—as expected. The Tirkju'a had personally designed it. One side of the hall was of glass, offering a view of the palms that line the internal courtyards; the other, hung several artifacts and pieces that documented the history of the Domminical Order. Littered throughout were sculptures of the old Du Quams, complete with a mini shrine of their own displaying items that encapsulated the duration of their reign into small objects, such as ancient knives, or precious fabrics, jewels, that sort.
A Quam watched him from the shadows, and Toruaz proceeded on. He must not linger. This was not his history to revel in.
Ahead of him, he could see the distinct form of Umdochar's sculpture, following Gurkiim's line. He took a deep breath, feeling his nerves rise against him. It happened every time he caught sight of Umdochar, even just a likeness. He approached the sculpture, its features becoming clear as he did so.
Why does he look so grim? Has he never smiled in any of his sculptures?
A shadow loomed from behind, larger than his own.
"You."
Toruaz spun around. The one standing before him with a frown harder than his own sculpture, was the Du Quam Umdochar himself.
"Du Quam Umdochar...!" Toruaz exclaimed before bowing. His head was filled with curses of all kinds. "I am pleased to have encountered you here on my visit."
The Du Quam Umdochar wasn't moved. Was he the one who wanted to meet with him all along? Or was this merely a coincidence?
Umdochar's gaze flickered away. "Are you expecting me to congratulate you?"
The same coldness by which he had treated Toruaz all those years ago remained. Never known to be kind, he had shown greater hostility towards the Rozkamoros—Toruaz' family line. "…those wretched features. It sickens me how people like you walk the same halls and dine in the same households as I do."
The Du Quam shook his head disappointedly, rubbing his temples. "My boy was so quick to judge you worthy of this position." He paused with a stare that pierced through Toruaz. "But what is it? What is it about you does he deem worthy? Tell me, cause I don't see it."
"I've been highly praised for my work ethic, Du Quam Umdochar." Toruaz would not waste his time. "I can assure you that I am highly capable of handling the Tirquau's unattended tasks, as well as making sure all goes smoothly within the Sijarkes' court."
"Oh? And what makes you think that?"
"I wouldn't have passed the examination if I wasn't qualified, for one thing. The rest, you already know." He said with finality, resolved to leave it all to the Du Quam's hands, who could not find the right words to say next to express whatever discomfort he must be feeling.
"The examination means fucking nothing to me in the first place. You rats come in here with that mindset and then give us Du Quams a hard time. I know your kind." Umdochar came close, still his stature was a few feet short of Toruaz'. "And I will never treat you any better just cause you're here now as the Principal Scribe, so don't you fucking expect me to. Du Quam Gurkiim won't have even let you within the temple premises. I trusted his good judgment and reason."
Toruaz allowed the old man's steam to die down. He'd come to taunt him. A reason such as that cannot be worthy of his temper. "With all due respect, may I ask you why you are here as well?
Umdochar scoffed, turning away. Several paces away from where they stood, a newly erected shrine boasted a large painting of his old friend, Nubejul Tavhaii. The new regent Du Quam to the Tirkju'a, the Sijarkes. With a swipe of his staff, sparks erupted from the candles, revealing the hidden symbols meshed into the painting's formulation, of which Toruaz could not decipher.
"Look at him," Umdochar urged. "So much promise and drive, and with a vision of what it is that is right."
He knew it had something to do with the paints. The way those lines reflected a different picture complete with strange symbols went beyond his own understanding of Domminical matters— a glimpse into the secret world and language of the Du Quams which he could never take part in, as an exile, and as an enemy to the Du Quam Umdochar.
"He is the perfect son for the Order." Umdochar had a different glow to him. A proud father, a reclining master.
"And I am truly grateful towards him for choosing me for this position," Toruaz said, never forgetting his manners. Unexpectedly enough, the Du Quam smiled.
"Let me say this first before we get ahead of ourselves," Umdochar began, clearing his throat and shifting in his stance to face Toruaz head on, an even expression on his face. "You didn't earn this position, which you might believe is a chance to redeem yourself by your own merit and effort."
Umdochar stabbed a finger at Toruaz' chest. "You earned it through your silence and obedience." He hid nothing from his voice, letting all the decades—even centuries—of malice spat at every word.
"It's all because of your cowardice. That is why."
Toruaz looked away, silent for a moment. He hasn't done a single thing to deserve the faultfinding; he'd had no choice but to remain passive.
"I am humbled." Temper. "Thank you—"
"Taz ku merezja," another voice said. The two men looked towards the door where the regent Nubejul emerged from with a greeting. Toruaz knew those even eyes, in spite of the predicament which he had walked in on.
Their eyes met, but they did not remain locked.
Toruaz had bowed to the new regent, his friend—his new master.