The Boy from Ilysies

by Pearl North

  For the first time, Po felt something other than unadulterated joy at the arrival of his kinesthetic sense. Was this going to change things with Ithalia? They’d only just gotten started. “I…I don’t want to be treated any differently,” he said. “I’m still your…I mean…am I your consort?”

  She pulled him to her and held him close. Her breath was warm against his ear. “Of course. Come inside, and I’ll show you.”

  She led him inside the tent. As before, she turned him so his back was to her, and she wrapped her scarf over his eyes. He wanted to look at her. He wanted to see her face when they made love. But if this was her wish…

  Afterward, they lay in the waning light of late afternoon. Ithalia had her back to him. He held her against him. He stroked her hair, and trailed his fingers over her shoulder and down her arm. “My hands know you better than my eyes do,” he said.

  “Do you wonder why I blindfold you?”

  “Because that is the way of your desire.”

  “It’s not that.”

  Po bent his head and kissed her shoulder. “It’s not my place to question you.”

  “My brother struck my sister. I was six years old. My mother, sisters, and I were all branded.”

  Despite the warmth of her body beside his, he felt cold. He just managed not to recoil from her. His heart pounded. The air, which a moment ago was perfumed with the scent of their desire, now smelled sour. Her body, a delight to him, was now a trap. He had not known.

  She had made sure he did not know. She kept her face hidden. He should have known. Why would she cover her face when she was in the Libyrinth, unless it were to hide the evidence of her shame?

  He became aware that he had frozen, his hand motionless on her arm, and she was very quiet. Awkwardly, he took his hand away from her arm and rolled onto his back.

  She sat up. The blindfold let in enough light that he could see that she faced him, though he could not make out the features of her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick. “I tricked you.”

  He wished he didn’t know. “Why did you tell me?”

  “Because…I really love you, Po. And I won’t keep you under false pretenses.”

  He didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to jump up and run from the tent, and do what he could to salvage his reputation. The other part ached at the tremor in her voice and wanted nothing more than to hold her, comfort her, and tell her he would gladly ruin himself if it meant they could be together.

  Perhaps it was his nascent kinesthetic sense asserting itself, but as he lay there, pinned between those two possibilities, he felt something slicing through his heart from within. As each unacceptable alternative stretched his heart in opposite directions, it seemed to part, and light poured out of it. And the name of this light was…“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  The sudden realization forced him to sit up and grab her hands. “It doesn’t matter, Ithalia! We’re not in Ilysies. No one here cares.”

  “No?”

  “No! This is the whole point of this place! You were six. It had nothing to do with you but you were punished anyway. That’s how it’s done and it may be what’s right in Ilysies, but it doesn’t have to be that way here. What matters here is you. What kind of person you are. You are a hard worker, a strong, caring woman. No one here cares about a brand on your face and what it might mean in another country. A country that has disowned us, anyway.”

  “You don’t care?”

  Po took a moment to really think about it. He saw her point. It might be academic to non-Ilysians, but he was most definitely Ilysian and demonstrably stuck in his ways. At home he’d have been appalled, not least because of the ramifications for his future. But even there, would it really change how he felt about Ithalia? The answer came immediately. No. For the first time, he understood why Dexter had been willing to ruin himself for Carys in the famous novel, The Fledgling. Love, when it was real, could not be abrogated, not even by shame. But he was not ashamed of Ithalia. Not here. Some of the other Ilysian women here might look askance at them, but he didn’t care. “Not so long as you’re at my side. It doesn’t matter to me.” He raised his hand to remove the blindfold.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not ready.”

  “I don’t care, Ithalia. I love you. I know your beauty. The mark cannot erase it from my heart. It doesn’t matter.”

  She brought his arm down and around to her hip and she leaned in and kissed him. “But it matters to me. It is one thing for you to know. But I cannot make love with you when you can see it. I just can’t.”

  He nodded, and acquiesced.

  Night had come. Ithalia lay with her head resting on his stomach, tapping her own belly. “I grew up in a little village in the highlands,” she said. “Townsfolk would say it was a backward place. Despite what you might think, I miss it. Life there was simple, slow. Here, it seems like we are always rushing, and just barely keeping up with what needs to be done.”

  Po nodded. “I was born in a village like that, too, a dusty little hamlet in the hills. Most of the residents were vintners. I left when I was eight. I was apprenticed to the adept of the palace.”

  Ithalia rolled to her side so she could look at him. She’d taken the blindfold off him and now wore it over her nose and mouth once more. She raised an eyebrow. “You must have been very talented.”

  Po shrugged. “Connected, more like. Ymin Ykobos is my mother’s cousin. There was…my mother felt she needed to get me out of the village.” He did not elaborate.

  She looked at him in silence. It was not necessary for her to point out that she had shared the most private, most compromising secret there could be with him. The fact of it, and the fact that he owed her some sort of confidence in return, was a living presence between them.

  Po had never told anybody about what had happened in the village that led to his leaving. But he could tell her. She had trusted him.

  “My mother’s family was not prosperous, and she was a youngest daughter. She lived with her eldest sister and helped work her land, and helped with the household, but finding a consort for her was nobody’s priority but her own.”

  “What about your aunt? Did she have a male?”

  “Yes, but she wouldn’t share him.”

  Ithalia drew her head back.

  Po acknowledged her surprise. “I know. But Aunt Minerva was in love with Valce, and she was possessive. She kept him locked up when she was away. And she had told him that she would kill him if he slept with anyone but herself.”

  “That’s most unusual.”

  Po nodded. “In a larger, more prosperous family, it would not have been tolerated. But my grandmother and great-grandmother were dead. Minerva was in charge and there was nothing anyone could do.

  “Our town had several males with no fixed household. They prowled the streets hoping to attract the interest of single women.”

  “I know how village billys are.”

  Of course she did. Everyone knew. Po blushed, but the urge to confess was too strong. “It was one of these creatures that my mother brought to her bed, and her disappointment at being delivered of a son, which led to his expulsion. They didn’t tell me. I didn’t know who my sire was, and I wasn’t supposed to know. But on the night of the King’s Crowning I stayed out to watch the dance. On my way home I turned a corner and found two males squaring off against each other in an alley.”

  “Typical,” said Ithalia.

  Po nodded. “Yes. They were obviously of mating age and dressed to draw attention to their masculine charms.”

  Ithalia grinned. “Those codpieces.”

  “Oh, I know. Do they really think anyone believes their boasts?”

  “It must work with some women or they wouldn’t do it,” said Ithalia.

  “Anyway, they were all done up for the festival, so you can imagine. And they’d gotten into some wine and they were drunk, and now they were fighting.”

  “I suppose they usually kill each other off b
efore they have a chance to get old and lose their virility, which may be a blessing in disguise. Have you ever seen an old billy in a gauze shirt, trying to hide the slackening of his torso? Sad. Go on.”

  “Well, these billys were in their prime.”

  “You were in danger.”

  He nodded. “I knew a boy, the son of my neighbor. Village billys caught him one night and killed him.”

  Ithalia shook her head. “A shame.”

  “Anyway, I tried to sneak away but one of them spotted me. He was whipcord lean, partly due to the excessive exercise, and partly due to hunger, I’m sure. He had black eyes and a fine hawk nose. The other one was bigger, broader, but he had green eyes and the bridge of his nose was flat for an Ilysian. He said, ‘Look, a kid. Let’s not waste ourselves fighting each other; let’s play with him instead.’ I started to run. Behind me I heard him shout, ‘Boy!’

  “They overtook me easily, the larger of the two tackling me and knocking me facedown in the dirt. I hit my nose and the fizzing pain scattered my thoughts. The next thing I knew this billy straddled my back, lifted my head, and slammed it into the ground again. I tried to wriggle free but the man was too heavy.

  “I thought he was going to kill me, and he would have, but then, we all heard a woman’s voice say, ‘What are you men doing?’ It was the town magistrate.

  “The big male got off me. I got to my feet and backed away from the men. They both tried to pretend nothing was going on.

  “Magistrate Milinas was in middle age, a woman in her prime. She was solid and stolid with a phlegmatic personality that was well suited to her job of keeping order.

  “‘This boy stole my coin,’ said the big male. ‘I was trying to get it back.’

  “‘A likely story,’ Magistrate Milinas said. She looked at the other man. ‘And you, Nev, what are you doing here?’

  “‘I was helping my friend,’ he said.

  “‘Your friend,’ she said, then laughed. ‘You two are as much friends as I’m the queen of Ilysies. You meant this boy harm, both of you, and don’t think you’re fooling anyone.’ Then she turned to me, and I was afraid I was in trouble, but she just said, ‘Run along home, Po. Don’t you know better than to wander around out here alone at night? You’re asking for trouble.’

  “As I turned and ran, I heard her say to the man with the flat nose, ‘For shame, Chal. He’s your own son.’”

  Ithalia’s eyes went wide. “He was your father.”

  Po nodded. “That’s how I got this frog face. He must have been part Ayorite. Anyway, after that my mother and my aunts decided it wasn’t safe for me to stay in the village. And I think they knew that with my resemblance to my sire, I wouldn’t have much chance of getting a decent consortship there. So they wrote to cousin Ymin, and she brought me to the palace.”

  Ithalia stroked the side of his face. “I’m glad. If you hadn’t been—even if you had survived—you wouldn’t be here now and we’d never have met.”

  He smiled and she drew him into her arms. They rested together as night deepened and the town grew quiet around them.

  10

  Ithalia’s Brand

  “Our food stores will last us another six weeks, at the outside,” said Gyneth, his head bent over a ledger book.

  “Then we just may manage,” said Ock. “The first crops should be ready in one month’s time.”

  Haly sighed and swirled the cooling tea in her cup. The three of them were in her office, strategizing. “Two weeks is not a lot of margin for error.”

  “But it’s better than no margin at all,” said Ock.

  Haly supposed that was true. “I wish we could find out something more definite about this terra-forming business.”

  “Everyone is researching it like mad,” said Gyneth. “If it’s a real possibility, someone will uncover something soon.”

  Ock opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a knock on the door. “I’m sorry,” said Haly. “That’ll be the first arrivals for book study. Anyway, it sounds like we’re on track, as best as can be.”

  She rose, and they followed suit. When Gyneth opened the door, they were all taken aback to see Po standing there. “Po,” said Haly. “You knocked.”

  Inwardly she cringed at her words. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him, especially in front of two other men, but again, Po surprised her. He grinned. “I thought I’d see if I could help you with the chairs, Redeemer.”

  Haly took a good look at him. He’d changed since she’d seen him last. He stood straighter, and he looked her in the eye. Seven Tales, he even acknowledged Gyneth and Ock with a polite nod for each. She returned his smile and said, “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful. Come on in.”

  The other two left and Haly left the door open for the other arrivals as she and Po arranged chairs in a circle for the meeting. “Burke told me that you’ve developed your kinesthetic sense,” she said.

  He blushed at this, but appeared more pleased than shy. “Yes.”

  “She’s keeping you busy now, I imagine.”

  He nodded. “I don’t mind. So long as I still have time for my consort.”

  She leaned on the back of the chair she had just positioned and stared at him. “Your consort?”

  He nodded again, looking even more pleased, if that was possible. “Or I guess you could say ‘girlfriend.’ It’s the same thing here, right?”

  She wasn’t sure if it was or not. But while she mulled over a response, he went on.

  “That’s why my sense came in. I’m not a virgin anymore. And it’s not just a casual thing, either. She loves me.” He gave a little bounce. “We’re in love.”

  “You going on about your lady friend again, Po?” said Tob, walking in and helping himself to a cup of tea. Tob was a village Ayorite just a year or two older than Po.

  Haly tensed in anticipation of Po’s reaction, and was floored when he simply shrugged and said, “You’re just jealous.”

  “I might be,” said Tob, “if I were ever to actually see her. When are you going to bring Ithalia to the group and introduce her?”

  “She’s got her own work to do, Tob. Don’t worry, you’ll meet her one of these days.”

  Ithalia…It was a common name among the women of Ilysies. Off the top of her head, Haly could think of five Ithalias living in the community. “She’s Ilysian, then.”

  Po shook his head. His smile was broad. He practically glowed. “Not anymore. We’re both Libyrarians now.”

  Po rested against Ithalia, drowsy in the aftermath of lovemaking. It was early morning, and outside the tent the faint stirrings of the waking town could be heard. Ithalia stirred and Po murmured a wordless protest, stroking her back and nuzzling at her neck. He loved this sleepy time almost as much as the act of love itself, and he didn’t want it to end.

  Their bodies knew each other now. Her fragrance was embedded in his senses. He would know her anywhere, even though he had still not seen her face. At the thought, a subtle pain, unnamed but impossible to ignore, threaded its way into his heart.

  Ithalia disentangled herself from his arms and sat up. He blinked up at her. Her hair stuck out on one side, and on her forehead were deep grooves where the stippled texture of the carpets they slept on had impressed itself. He smiled at the irony of her not wishing him to see her brand. “You are beautiful, Ithalia, and I love you. Nothing could ever change that.”

  She regarded him in silence. He did not need to use his kinesthetic sense to know that she was carefully considering his unspoken request, weighing the positives and the negatives. He dared not move, speak, or break eye contact with her. He waited, as dawn came and the tent filled with light. At last she nodded. “You’re right, Po; it’s time,” she said, and drew her scarf from her face.

  She was not branded. This came as such a surprise that his realization of the greater truth was delayed a moment. But when it came it took away everything. Po struggled for breath in the suddenly airless tent. He sat up, surpri
sed to find the earth beneath him still, when all he had trusted had vanished in an instant. His mouth worked as he sought words, and then he realized that words were no longer appropriate—had, in fact, never been appropriate from him. He scrambled to his knees and prostrated himself before her. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

  He heard the thunk of a small object hitting the rug nearby. He took a glance in that direction and saw a curved clay form roughly the size of his thumb. It was slick with saliva. “Ah. That thing has been driving me crazy,” said Queen Thela, in a voice higher and more resonant than Ithalia’s had been. “Of course, I’ll have to put it on again soon. But it’s nice to have a break.”

  He trembled. He closed his eyes, wishing this to be a dream and for him to awake from it. But the rug against his face remained persistent. The mold she had used to alter her voice still lay beside him, and above him, the queen of Ilysies sighed. “Oh, Po, are you very upset?”

  He didn’t know how to answer that. It wasn’t for him to be upset about what she chose to do, was it? Why did she care? Why was she here and why for the love of the Mother had she taken him into her bed? He tasted bile in his throat and the need to keep from vomiting in front of her overrode all else.

  She seemed to be aware of this, for it was not until he had himself under some measure of control that she took him by the shoulders and lifted him up into a kneeling position. He kept his head bent but she raised his face to hers with one elegant finger beneath his chin. “There’s no need for that,” she said. “Even a queen wants her consort to look upon her, as long as it’s with love.”

  Po stared into the depths of her eyes. Her beautiful, gray-blue eyes. With the rest of her face denied to him, he had spent a great deal of time studying them, in all their changing beauty. They were the same eyes. “Love.”