by Pearl North
“Yes,” said Jan, with some irritation. “Why is that so difficult for everyone around here to believe?”
She drew back, but then realized he was not really angry with her. And in the meantime, Hilloa had elbowed him and Po gave him a glare of such menace that for an instant, Ayma thought she smelled again the blood of the man he’d beaten. She felt sorry for Jan, then, and hastened to continue. “If you really mean to find it, I can tell you where to look.”
They all stared at her. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” said Selene.
Ayma lifted one shoulder. “I could not speak of such things in front of the censor. It is something that women talk about, but not in front of men.” She glanced at Jan and Baris and Po, hoping they would accept her words as the apology she meant them to be. Po watched her with such rapt attention, it startled her and frightened her a little. And, since she knew he would not really hurt her, she liked that quite a bit. “Certainly, not in front of a priest.”
“Please,” said Po. The redness from his tears had faded and his eyes now were clear, intense, and the most beautiful shade of gray green. She had never known such a color even existed. “Tell us.”
She nodded. “It is said that the Ancients ruled us through their books. I’m sure that’s the truth. But…this story is about a flower that they had. This flower did not belong to them. One of them stole it from the place where they lived before they came here. They were always fighting over it. Whoever possessed it ruled the others, and the rest of the world as well. Endymion was the last to claim it, and with it she wielded her will like a…” Here she faltered. Could she really say it? “You all read, don’t you?” she asked.
They had been listening raptly. The question seemed to puzzle them. “Yes. Of course we do,” said Hilloa. “Go on.”
Ayma looked about, anxious that Siblea might come in at any moment. But they were all waiting, Jan and Baris and Po, their expectation demanding that she speak the heresy. “With the rose, she could wield her will like a pen, writing down what she wanted to happen. And her words were made real.” She paused to see what their reaction would be.
They looked at her, not in horror or anger, but interest. It was almost a bit disappointing.
“Interesting,” said Selene. “But it doesn’t help us find it.”
Ayma nodded. “There’s more. Endymion liked to throw parties for the other Ancients at the old theater. She would wield the rose and force slaves up onto the stage, where they had to act out whatever she wrote. It is true that the old theater was where the Ancients performed some of the worst atrocities against the slaves, which is the reason it is shunned now. When the Ancients were overthrown, Iscarion interrogated Endymion. Thus he came into possession of the rose. He knew how dangerous it was, how it would corrupt anyone who possessed it, and so, when she died, he buried it with her and told no one but his wife.”
“Where was Endymion buried?” asked Selene.
“In a vault beneath the old theater,” said Baris.
All was quiet as they looked at one another. Ayma wondered what the rest of them were thinking. Did they believe the tale was true?
“First thing tomorrow morning, we go and get it,” said Selene. “And then we’re getting out of here.”
18
Shame and Its Opposite
After all that had happened, Po could not bear for a woman to clean up after them. As Ayma rose at the end of the meal and reached for Baris’s dirty plate, Po stood. “Please,” he said, reaching for the dish in her hand. “Let me.”
She shook her head. She was blushing again. It was clear that telling them that story had taken something out of her that none of the rest of them could understand. Only he had some idea. He remembered telling the Redeemer and the rest of his book study group Kip’s story about the flowers. How embarrassed he’d been.
“That’s okay, sir. You don’t need to—”
“Oh, for the love of Yammon,” said Baris, “would you just let him help you?” He turned to Po. “And you—stop being such a pussy. You just nearly killed a guy, and now you’re sucking up to this wench. I can’t stand this.” He stood up. “You’re all driving me crazy.” He went behind the bar and began pouring himself another beer.
Po thought about making Baris pay for speaking to Ayma that way, but the idea of beating another person was repellent. He looked to Ayma. She was repressing a smile. Apparently Baris’s exasperation amused her. Well, all right, then. He collected the rest of the dishes and followed her into the kitchen.
She had turned on the water in the sink and put the dishes in it. She turned to him. Po tried not to stare at her. He was hovering, he knew—hoping to win her favor. He was acting desperate. Maybe it was because of everything that had happened, or maybe it was just because she was beautiful in every way—the way she moved, the shine of her eyes, her bosom and the curve of her hip. She curtsied to him and stood aside, allowing him to place the rest of the dishes in the sink. “Thank you, sir,” she said.
He began to wash, but moments later he heard her gasp. He turned to see her doubled over, retching. She threw up the beets and pulse she had just eaten.
Po went to her, pulling her hair away from her face. When she had done, he helped her to her chair and cleaned up the mess. When he came back from the alley he found her with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she cried. “I’m a healer,” he said, kneeling at her feet. “I can help you.”
She shook her head. “The first decent meal I’ve had in ages and I can’t even keep it down. Oh, Song and Silence, what am I going to do?”
“Let me help.” He tentatively put a hand on her knee. At first he thought she might be pregnant, but now, seeing her reaction, he feared she was truly ill.
“Can you make it so I can keep some food down?”
“I can try. I’m a kinesiologist. I have to touch you on two meridian points, and meditate. It takes a little while.”
She nodded. He placed one hand each on the outside of her knees, and he closed his eyes. “Just try to relax and breathe.”
He breathed with her. He was getting better at it. It only took him moments before he entered that state of concentration in which the body’s energies made themselves manifest in his mind’s eye.
A beautiful young maple tree held a bird’s nest in the crook of one of its branches. A bird roosted on her egg, chirping and flapping, disturbing the leaves nearby. But otherwise the tree was strong, free of disease and parasites. The turmoil caused was troublesome, but it would pass as Ayma’s body adjusted to the pregnancy.
Po sang a song to the bird to soothe and quiet it, then released Ayma’s meridians and sat back, smiling. “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re fine. And I have good news. You’re pregnant!”
Ayma burst into tears again and hid her face in her hands.
“What’s wrong?” Where on earth was her consort? Had he died in the fight against the Lit King? She had not mentioned a consort, only a father.
She dropped her hands and gave him a look of such despair that he reached for her hand, not thinking if it was too forward. She shook her head, her brow furrowed. “How can you ask me that? How can you even look at me now that you know what I am?”
He bent his head. “I’m sorry. You are beautiful. I mean no offense.”
She gave a hysterical little laugh at that. “You speak of offending me. What manner of man are you?”
Something prompted him to look her in the eye, and allow some portion of his passion to show in his gaze. “I’m an Ilysian man.”
That gave her pause. She stared at him for some time, thinking that over. When she finally spoke, it was not what he expected. “Do the others know?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
She stared off into the corner of the room, but Po could plainly see disbelief at his question in her face.
“Why don’t you want them to know?”
She shook her head. Po recognized her reaction. He was torturing her withou
t meaning to. Asking something of her that she could not bear to do. And to him it seemed like a perfectly reasonable, ordinary question. Was this what it was like for the others who had asked him to volunteer in discussions and answer direct questions? Had they been just as oblivious and well-intentioned as he was right now? “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I didn’t mean to.”
She shook her head. She squeezed his hand. “No. You’re kind. I…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m glad you know.”
Po dared to sidle closer and lean against her chair. He marveled at her hand in his; it was warm and lively like the bird. “For Ilysians, a pregnant woman is a figure of the greatest respect,” he said. “A physical incarnation of the Goddess. There is no…” He trailed off as he saw a fat droplet splash upon her hand. A tear. She was crying again. Great; now he’d made her cry.
“Shame,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“No shame,” he said.
“But this child has no father.”
“That would not be of significance where I come from.”
She released his hand and stood. She paced to one end of the kitchen, her hands clenched in fists, her shoulders rigid. At last she turned to face him, a wild fury suffusing her face. “But you don’t know how it was got on me!” She stopped, her eyes wide, and he saw the fear come back to her. “I’m sorry!” she bowed her head. “I’m so sorry!”
He couldn’t stand it. She was…cowering…like she expected him to hit her for speaking to him in anger. It was intolerable. Po didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t accustomed to a woman behaving like this—so emotional, so out of control. The realization struck him like a frying pan over the head. She was behaving like a male would, under analogous circumstances. Well, in that case…
“It’s okay,” he said, getting calmly to his feet. He took her by the shoulders. “Come…come here.” He stroked the tense muscles of her shoulders and gave her a gentle tug. She allowed him to draw her into his arms. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
She laughed, the sound ugly and harsh. “You don’t know what I’ve done, sir.”
“I’m not a sir,” he said. “I’m like you. Someone who says sir or ma’am. Someone who obeys the wishes of others.” And is lost when left to their own devices. He thought of her wiping the bar down, of him, mooning after every woman in the Libyrinth, desperate. She snuffled and said nothing. She was still and tense in his arms. “I know,” he said. “You don’t believe me. You can’t, not now. I understand that, too.”
She pulled back and looked at him in surprise. He nodded, transfixed as her lips parted. She laughed again, only now it was softer, rueful. “It is so strange…So you do not find my condition…repellent.”
“Quite the opposite.”
“But if you knew how I got this way…”
Po swallowed. He had a bad feeling about that. He’d seen firsthand that the men here thought nothing of using their physical strength against women. But if that was what had happened to Ayma, surely she would not take the blame on herself like this. Would she? What would he do if a woman mistreated him? Po sighed. What could he tell her that might help? “In Ilysies, a man who does violence to a woman is killed.” He did not mention what happened to the rest of the family.
She nodded. “The others told me. That’s why you went off on that man today, isn’t it?”
“Yes. A male like that is not to be tolerated.”
“We must seem strange to you.”
He nodded. “If I knew that something like that had happened to you, I would do my best to punish that man appropriately.”
Po was good at gauging the emotional reactions of others. The look Ayma gave him now was one he would carry with him all the rest of his days. But then she looked away. “Not a man,” she said. “And not…” She struggled with herself, and at last let out a breath. “They did not force me. They gave me food.”
Oh. Poor Ayma. Po took her hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
She turned to face him, her eyes red. “But it does.”
Not to him. But of course to her, it did. Po felt helpless. “I don’t care,” he said. “If you liked me, if you permitted me, I would treat you properly. But no matter what, when we finish our mission here, I will make sure that you come back with us to the Libyrinth, if that is what you wish.”
She at last allowed herself to sink against him. “You really don’t care that I’m carrying another man’s child? That I don’t even know who the father is?”
“It is your child. That is all that matters. And it is still early. If you do not want it, there are techniques in kinesiology to safely expel the fetus.”
She looked up at him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears and wonder. “Po, is there no end to your perversity?”
The way she said it, he knew she quite liked what she called his perversity. So he smiled. “There’s only one way for you to find that out.”
She laughed. She tilted her head down and nudged his chest with her shoulder. For once, he was astute enough to realize that that was the absolute limit to which she could go in making an advance toward him. If he wanted more, he would have to initiate it. But first, she needed to eat.
He helped her make herself comfortable on the pallet near the stove. It was what she was accustomed to, and was warmer than the rooms upstairs. Then he served her more beets and pulse. “I’ll only throw it back up again,” she said.
“Not this time. You feel better since our session, don’t you?”
She thought about it. “Yes.”
He nodded. “Permit me.” He sat on the pallet with his back against the wall and invited her to sit between his outspread legs, with her back resting against his chest. He placed his fingertips on the meridians at her waist, closed his eyes, and breathed. “Eat as much as you like. You won’t get sick.”
He was a river, flowing past the maple tree. His cool, clear waters soothed the earth around the tree and sent gentle breezes up, amid the branches, to calm the bird that was nesting there. The tree took its nourishment, and the bird sang for him.
When Ayma finished eating, she turned to face him and he took her in his arms.
Ayma had never met a man who delighted her before. Her father had been a good man, a good father. He would have preferred a son, of course, who could work beside him in the business as an equal, and whose virtue he did not have to take such pains to protect. Not that it had been any use in the long run. The men who came to the tavern were all right, most of them. Since the Lit King took over and her father died some of them had helped her, but they all wanted something in return. Ashamed of herself, of what she’d done, she had never imagined that being with a man could be a source of pleasure.
But she was wrong. She was so wonderfully wrong, about so many things. Ayma rolled over, stretching luxuriantly, allowing herself to press up against Po’s warm, sleeping body. She could do that without worrying about how he would interpret it, about what he would demand next. They hadn’t even gone all the way yet, though Po had shown her some other things that she had never even heard of—things that she’d never been told were wrong and that, once she’d gotten over her initial surprise, she had thoroughly enjoyed.
Po sighed and opened his eyes. Ayma, emboldened, kissed him. He put his arms around her. She loved that.
In the main room, a chair scraped against the floor. The others were stirring. Regretfully, Ayma withdrew from Po and reached for her blouse.
“Will you come with us today?” said Po.
“Do you wish me to?” She realized, too late, that it was the wrong thing to ask him.
“I don’t know which is worse. The place we’re going sounds like it could be dangerous, but if you stay here, I do not think Selene will let me remain behind. And Siblea did not return tonight. What if the Lit King’s mob, or another man like the one who was here yesterday comes? I’m afraid.”
They were going to the old theater. No place was more s
hunned. But there was truth in what Po said about the Lit King’s mob. Word of what had occurred at the market yesterday would have spread by now. They might come here looking for the censor and his followers. There would be danger either way, but at least at the theater she’d be with Po.
19
The Old Theater
Po felt Ayma’s hand sweating in his as they followed Selene, Hilloa, Jan, and Baris up the desolate street toward the old theater. This was the most decrepit part of town. The theater itself was a multistory building with the classic dome roof, lined with tiny, crenelated spires all around the edge of the dome like rays of a sun. Everywhere else they’d been in the citadel, they’d found an air of abandonment, but not of such long standing that the buildings had fallen into actual disrepair. They were still well-kept, if vacant. But the theater—its spires were crumbling. Silverleaf bushes had sprouted up around the place and grown to unheard-of proportions, some of them growing right up the walls themselves, laying another layer of curving, swirling lines over the songlines that were already carved into the stone beneath. Refuse clung to the spaces between pillars, and dead leaves and trash filled every nook and cranny. It was, in fact, difficult to determine what was part of the building and what was an almost geological accretion of trash.
“Is it even safe to go inside?” wondered Selene.
“I doubt it,” said Jan.
“No one has entered the theater since Yammon overthrew the Ancients. Of all their depravities, the worst were committed here,” said Baris. Po noticed sweat trickling down his neck.
But the sooner they went in and got the rose, the sooner they could go home. A tall, wrought-iron fence surrounded the place. Po put a hand to the rusted latch of the gate and it crumbled beneath his fingers. The gate swung inward a couple of feet, and then one of its hinges gave way and it listed to the side, grinding to a halt with a sound like Siblea’s victims must have made when he tortured them.