by Amanda Fleet
“Faran tells me that you need a full set of leathers, both combat-wear and dress-wear?”
“Er, yes.” I had no idea what clothes I should be ordering, but Faran presumably did.
She nodded, pulling out a notebook and pencil. “I barely recognised you. But your hair will grow back soon.” She paused. “May I ask you something which you may find impertinent?”
I shrugged, expecting it to be a question about my peculiar clothing. She indicated my torso. “Faran?”
“No. Someone else.” Christ, was my husband known as a wife-beater? Mya seemed satisfied with my answer.
“It was a shame about you and Orian. If you ask me, he should be Elected Successor. He’d make a better candidate than Faran.”
“Oh? Why?”
She handed me a bundle of leather swatches in various muted shades and indicated for me to choose two colours for combat-wear and two for dress-wear. As I shuffled through them, I wondered what gossip about me, Faran and Orian was circulating widely enough for Mya to speak of it.
“Orian’s not so haughty. He might not be as highly regarded by the Guardians, but he’s certainly loved by the people. Unfortunately, as you know, we get no say in who is Elected Successor. Only those on the Council get to choose.”
“That doesn’t sound very democratic.” I handed back the swatches, indicating a charcoal grey and a taupe colour for combat-wear and a mid-blue and a dark oxblood red for the two dress-wear. She made a note and put the samples away.
“Democratic?” She said it as if it was a word she’d never heard.
“Where everyone’s equal and everyone gets a say.”
She stared at me as if I’d arrived from Outer Space. Which I kind of had. “You have indeed forgotten much. The Guardians don’t share power.”
I tried to switch the topic. “Orian’s popular with the people though? Why?”
She glowed. “He’s kind and solicitous to everyone. He’s never haughty, or demanding that everyone show the due respect. He talks to them as if he was a friend or a colleague, not their overlord… How many pairs of boots do you want?”
“Whatever you think suitable. I trust your judgement.”
She scribbled in her book again, then her eyes flickered over me, leaving me feeling exposed. “Orian speaks warmly of you. More warmly than I expected. Given what you did.” Her mouth puckered as if she’d used vinegar for a mouthwash. She snapped her notebook shut. “Well, Lady Aeron, I’ll leave you in peace. The outfits will be ready in a few days. I assume you wish me to work on the combat-wear first?”
“Thank you. Yes.”
She bowed and withdrew.
Almost immediately, Flinda returned with a bundle of clothes. I expected her to stay and talk but once she’d put the clothes away, she bowed and left. I investigated what she’d brought. Several sets of socks and knickers in very fine wool filled one drawer of the carved wooden chest of drawers that sat next to the bed. In a second drawer were half a dozen or so long-sleeved tops that had some complicated lacing at the front and buttons at the neck. Some legging-like trousers and long waistcoats, both in black, hung in the wardrobe, next to several sets of Faran’s clothes. I wished I’d been able to ask about when the different clothes should be worn. I’ve never been good with dress-codes.
Faran put his head around the door. “You may wish to shower and change, my lady. We’re expected at the first bell for lunch. Are the clothes from Flinda satisfactory?”
“Er, yes… Um, Faran?”
He waited expectantly.
“What do I wear? For lunch.”
His brow creased. “Flinda brought you tunics and trousers?” I must still have looked blank because he marched over to the closet and yanked the door open to grab one of the long waistcoat things. “This, over an undershirt—”
“Is that the thing with lacing at the front?”
“Yes. And these on your lower half.” He pulled out a pair of the trousers. “Since you have no boots yet, what you’re wearing will have to do. I’ll leave you to shower and change.”
Once he’d gone, I let the water cascade over my battered body. The rack of bottles I’d seen earlier, held an array of spicy-scented toiletries. I scrubbed myself clean before reluctantly turning off the seemingly limitless hot water and wrapping myself in a thick towel. The luxury of the shower was a far cry from the version in the cottage which was only ever hot enough if you turned the flow-rate down so low it barely made you wet. The towels here didn’t give you a free exfoliation, either. I’d still rather be home than here.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. No wonder both Mya and Flinda had gawped at the bruises.
“Oh, Finn. What am I doing here? Have I actually gone mad?”
I waited for his voice, but it didn’t come. Maybe it was because he was dead.
Or maybe I was dead and none of this was real.
My expectation had been that the woollen underwear would itch like mad, but to my surprise and relief, they felt like soft cotton next to my skin. I pulled on a long-sleeved top and peered at the lacing. I tugged at the cords experimentally and the front bunched up peculiarly so I let the laces out again. I turned at the tap on the door.
“My lady, are you dressed?”
“Yes.”
Faran marched in. “Why haven’t you laced your top?” He stared at my chest and a blush crept over my face.
“I’m not sure how to do it,” I said, feeling stupid.
“Forgive me, my lady. I need to be indelicate with you.”
Before I could clarify what he meant, he pulled on the lacing but from the sides rather than the front, which is where I’d been working. As he drew the laces out, the font of the top formed into cups as if it had an in-built bra. He waved his hand at my front but I didn’t know what he was trying to indicate. He sighed.
“Forgive me. It appears I need to be more indelicate,” he muttered before man-handling me into the cups, tightening the lacing and tying it off. He stepped back smartly, letting his hands drop to his sides just as I was about to slap him. “You should also button the waistcoat over the top.”
I drew a waistcoat on, fire burning my cheeks. “Thank you. Perhaps I should have asked the seamstress to help.”
“Perhaps.” He fastened a silver-coloured button to my waistcoat as if it were a brooch and I raised my brows.
“It’s for communication.” He indicated the one on his jacket. “You tap it and say the name of the person you want to speak to.”
“What, a bit like a mobile phone?”
“A what?” He arched his brows.
I flapped my hand. “Nothing. So, if you’re not here and I need to talk to you, I tap this and say your name and we’ll get connected?”
“Mm.”
“How does it work?”
A blank expression settled on his face. “I have no idea. I’m not a technician.”
Fair enough. I didn’t know how a mobile phone really worked.
“Come,” he said. “The first bell for lunch is about to ring.”
***
Lunch took place in the Great Hall which I learned was the name for the large hall where the Council meeting and oath-swearing had taken place. Trestle tables and benches of differing lengths – some able to seat four along each side, some only two – filled the cavernous space. Almost as soon as we sat, a young boy brought a jug of water over and a bowl of bread and butter. All the serving staff were late teens, making me wonder what they did once they got older. The lad brought plates for the bread, then two flattish bowls of stew and vegetables, pottery beakers, and some cutlery. Faran watched me.
“I hope you have forgiven me over the lacing, but you could not have arrived here undressed.”
I poured myself a beaker of water and gulped it down, then belatedly thought to pour one for him. “You said we had much to talk about.”
“Yes, but not here. Later.”
I glanced around the room. “Explain how meals work here? Does everyon
e always eat communally like this?”
“All the Guardians eat together in here. There are smaller rooms for other groups in the city. In the countryside, everyone eats together – it’s not divided by role – but the city is too big for that. The boys and girls bringing the food will eventually learn how to prepare the meals and become the cooks.”
“Why don’t people here eat with their family? Why do they all eat together?”
“Because it’s more efficient to cook one set of food than for lots of different meals to be prepared.”
That hadn’t been quite what I’d meant, but I let it pass.
I scanned the room. Those eating were predominantly male, and I wondered where the Guardian women and children were. There must be some children, surely? And more women?
“What clothes have been ordered?” asked Faran, interrupting my thoughts.
“Oh. Mya is preparing two combat-wear outfits and two dress-wear.”
Faran seemed satisfied. Suddenly, his face fell and his posture stiffened. He rose. “Lord Father.”
I scrambled to my feet and copied the bow Faran had made, saying, “Lord Eredan.”
Lord Eredan slid into the space next to his son. “You’ve ordered leathers for her?”
Faran confirmed that he had and that other clothes had been ordered as well. Lord Eredan stared at me. “Is it customary Outside for women to have their hair so short?”
“It varies, Lord Eredan.”
A plate of food for Lord Eredan appeared, along with water and bread and he talked to Faran about various matters of state as he ate. I listened carefully, also keeping half an ear on the surrounding conversations, trying to get a handle on this place. I realised after a moment that Lord Eredan was glowering at me.
“You are very silent, Aeron,” he said. “Listening. Are you a spy? Or are you trying to learn?”
“I’m trying to learn the customs of The Realm, Lord Eredan, and also understand the politics.”
An expression of approval flitted over his face. “Good.”
Finally, he mopped the last of his gravy with his bread, leaned back to allow the serving girl to clear the table, and left.
Faran met my eye. “Shall we take a walk to settle lunch?”
I rapidly lost track of the turns and hallways we followed before we emerged through a heavy wooden door into a walled courtyard. Fruit trees covered the walls and L-shaped flower borders formed a square divided by paths in the centre. In the middle of the square sat a fountain, surrounded by benches, the water tinkling musically as it cascaded down the tiers. I remembered the gardens from my dreams.
Faran offered me his arm, and I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow. As we strolled along the paths, I tried to ignore the stares and the hushed whispering and the people turning their backs on me. The red-headed Mya leaned in close conversation with Lady Morgan at the far side of the courtyard but they were too far away to acknowledge. Faran’s biceps tightened around my hand and I looked up. His eyes were watchful, scanning the groups in the courtyard and evidently not much liking what they saw.
“We should return to our rooms,” he said. “I need to talk to you and it would not be judicious to discuss things out here.”
***
I tried to memorise the route back, hoping that some stationery would arrive soon and I could start making a map of the place. I never liked being anywhere without knowing all the exit routes.
A bundle of books on the desk caught my eye as we entered Faran’s rooms. The book that Orian had given me sat atop two brand new books of blank pages. My bag huddled on the floor beside the desk and my heart lurched. In it were the last vestiges of my life Outside, including the order of service from Finn’s funeral, reminding me of how much I’d lost. Faran disappeared into the bedroom, unbuttoning his jacket. A glacier of fear settled in my stomach and I checked the room. It was depressingly empty of anything I could use as a weapon for self-defence.
Faran returned minus his jacket and threw himself on to the sofa, his eyes on me. His snug-fitting, black woollen t-shirt had three open buttons at the neck and was short-sleeved, emphasising his muscles.
“Aeron, sit?” he said, indicating the space next to him.
I did, keeping my feet planted, ready to move if I had to.
“I have to talk to you about what happened with Aegyir,” he said, unsmiling.
I swallowed. “I’ve already told you.”
“Before today. How long has he been free?”
I thought back, counting. “About three weeks, I think. Outside. Faran, you said that Outside, time runs differently. That two years ago here is many years ago Outside. How many?”
“Two years here would be about a hundred and twenty Outside. It’s not quite two years since you were banished. It would be about a hundred years Outside.” He flapped a hand. “That’s not important. It’s about three hours since you arrived. It would be about seven days Outside since you left. What was the death toll like in those three weeks?”
I reeled from the information and didn’t reply.
“Aeron!”
I caught my breath. “A few a day. More people suffering from what looked like an illness which I think was Aegyir taking their energy slowly. How long will it take him to reform from the smoke?”
“A few days in our time. The Senior Librarian will tell us tomorrow.” He rubbed his chin. “He won’t be strong enough to cross the portal for a while. Not without an invitation. Aeron, swear to me that you didn’t invite him in? The lives of everyone here depend on you being honest. Please tell me if you did?”
“I didn’t!”
“You swear?”
“Faran, I swear!”
He nodded smartly. “What were you Outside? A warrior?”
“What? No. I was an artist. I drew things.”
He blanched. “Tell me you remember how to fight.”
“Erm. A bit.” I looked at the size of him. Six feet eight of lean, solid muscle. “Probably not how you’re hoping though. I don’t know how to use a sword.”
He scrubbed at his face, huffing out his breath. “We need to go to the training rooms. If you can’t fight, you’re a liability, not an asset.”
6
The training area was huge. One long corridor extended for about a hundred metres, with smaller halls leading off it. Each of these halls led to a group of eight to ten rooms. Faran ushered me to one of these side halls. The clash of people fighting emerged from most of the rooms, but the final one in the block was silent and had a sign on the door. I didn’t have a chance to work out what it said before Faran swung the door open, but I assumed it meant the room was available.
The room stretched about twenty feet in each direction. Cupboards lined one wall, and in the corner stood a square table with a pitcher of water and a set of earthenware cups on it. The floors, the cupboard doors and the walls were cushioned, reminding me of judo mats except covered in padded leather rather than vinyl. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any man-made material in The Realm so far. If everything was recyclable or biodegradable, maybe they didn’t have the landfill problems the world did.
“Hang your waistcoat in the end cupboard. I’ll be back in a moment,” said Faran.
He turned on his heel and strode out, returning a few minutes later. He held up his left hand, and I smiled uncertainly. He carried a large wooden spoon.
“I wouldn’t wish my lady to get hurt,” he said, holding my gaze. “Not during training. To which end, let me also find you some protection.”
He rummaged in one of the cupboards, emerging brandishing what looked like a stab-vest and a boxer’s head-guard. He beckoned me over and held out the vest, inviting me to put my arms through the holes. “Turn?”
I did, and he fastened the protective vest behind me. He handed me the head-guard, and I strapped it on, my heart lurching as memories of all my time with Finn flooded my brain. If Faran noticed my distress, he didn’t react.
I eyed him, trying to kee
p my brain in the here and now before I crumpled. “No protection for you?”
“I think I’ll manage.” He held up the spoon. “Come. Disarm me. Show me what you can do.”
After seeing his fists in action that morning and looking at how much he dwarfed me, I wondered how battered I was going to end up. I made a couple of tentative attempts to get the spoon but to no avail. Each time I attacked, he dusted me with a firm enough blow to make a point, but soft enough that I knew he was holding back.
He smiled reassuringly. “I won’t hurt you. Do your worst. I need to see what you can do.”
I tried. I really did. Despite the fact that he towered over me, I almost got the spoon from him. And then, too late, I realised it had been a trap, and I was flat on my back with a spoon pressed against my jugular and an amused Faran kneeling lightly on my chest. He stood and held his hand out. “Again.”
I brushed myself down and tried again. And again. And again. And every time, I ended up pinned down with a spoon at my throat. I gritted my teeth, glaring at him, though deep down I knew I was frustrated at being beaten, not angry with him. I almost knew how to do this, the same way a word can be on the tip of your tongue, but not actually there.
He helped me up, laughing. “That look I know. Come. I’ll teach you. Try again.”
As I tried yet again to disarm him, he stopped, holding me so that I was frozen mid-manoeuvre.