by Jane Baskin
But for Nayan, no matter, all this. For him, only a delight he had never experienced. So this is what it’s like to be in love. Imbibing Zoren-te as if she were his personal brew of ale or sweet brandy. Letting the winter knit them together and the dark ocean command them. Understanding: he had never been here before. And, oh. Wanted never to leave.
Talked with her – as he never had done with anyone – about his weirdness. Their weirdness. Listened to her trilling laughter at his astonishment.
You mean to tell me this is normal?
How can it not be, Nayan? Anything that happens is normal, just because it’s happening.
Did you hear that?
I did. (pause) Okay, I’ll give you that one. They have potential.
She may be more than an accident.
What? Explain.
She may be older than she looks.
You’re not serious.
Not yet.
Smiled to himself at her philosophical gymnastics. At the same time, cringing inwardly at the memory of his mother’s warnings. And you and your father … you communicate this way all the time?
Most of the time. It’s not like we don’t use words. Words are fun. But sometimes – especially under stress – we just transfer our thoughts.
Do you know anyone else who does this?
A laugh. You.
Be serious.
Okay, okay. My father says he knew a bunch of people, all northerners, when he was at the university in Sauran City. He thought it was commonplace in the North. That’s why I was surprised – at your surprise.
It’s not surprise, exactly. It’s fear. My mother … um. She told me never to use this gift. Never to talk about it. To anyone.
I understand. She’s afraid. In the South, they burn people for thought transfer. For using their minds … for anything.
Zoren, can you move things with your thoughts?
Not very well. My father can. I think he once threw a chair at my mother – missed her on purpose, but scared her. He said she was tormenting him about lifting a teacup with his mind, and accused him of being a witch. He said he threatened to kill her if she spread rumors about him. The worst part was, he told me, he meant it.
All gods.
Nayan – do your parents … have the gift?
Not my father.
Silence, for a few moments. Zoren-te, staring at him. It’s your mother, isn’t it?
She’d kill me for telling you.
Smile. You never did.
Are there others, Zoren? My cousin, Che … they say there are thousands.
He’s right, Nayan. There are even some in the South – some they haven’t burned or shot yet. My father says it’s hereditary. He says he got it from his mother, who was a northerner, you know. From somewhere in Rhymney. He says she could move small objects by thinking about it.
My mother said it was dangerous.
I suppose it is, in the South. But people are so more open minded here. My Gylan had the gift. He wasn’t strong like you, though. He thought to me that he could stop the bullet ... with his mind. But … as you know, he didn’t.
I’m sorry, Zoren.
She, choking down the feeling. Then continuing. He knew of quite a few others among – ordinary – people. There … I can understand your mother’s advice. Gylan told me of a housemaid who was set on fire by her lord for clearing the dishes with her mind, she was so exhausted. But … I would think things would be different, here.
Facing her, anxious. Zoren! Do you know what this means?
That some people have unique gifts?
More than that. Don’t you see? It could make a difference – a huge difference – in war, in everything.
Oh Nayan. I’d hate to think of this … used in war. In any case, it’s random. Some have it, some don’t. It may be hereditary, but not everyone in a family has the gift. Does your brother have it?
A quick look away. No. Not to my knowledge. But … even if some offspring have it, it’s still hereditary. Maybe it’s a quality that can … be bred for. Deliberately.
I guess we’ll find out, if we have children.
And just like that, the bargain: struck. Zoren-te, now reconsidering that thought, some time ago, that she had evicted from awareness: I could live here.
She, relaxing into common life, certainly for the first time. Finally, not so much of an oddity. Not the object of her mother’s scorn, her sisters’ ridicule, her brothers’ disdain. No longer the object of the peasants’ disbelief, the spiteful snickers of the soldiers and officers.
Nayan, pleased to see her developing friendships. Luisa-te, other young women.
Settling in.
And for Nayan: sometimes … the avalanche of feeling. That human experience of sentiment so intense, you don’t even realize you’ve been hit.
Asked her to marry him after a month. Did not feel strange to either of them.
Despite how soon it was. Despite the fact that he was about five or six years short of marrying age, by northern custom. Despite the fact that by these same customs, Zoren-te would be considered a child bride.
Despite the flicker of horror across Gwildan’s face when the announcement came quietly, one day at breakfast.
Despite the shocked looks from their friends.
A thing woven from love and hate together. This thing: could not be stopped.
And then, finally. As ever. So that people would not give up. Would not get truly bored of their warm beds. Would not despair of warmth and growth again.
Finally, winter’s end.
First, the thaw. An ugly time, this. Wet, muddy. The meadow and forest road, still impassable. No work at the munitions factory, not yet. Ganthas, snorting impatiently in their stalls. Pacing and trotting pointlessly in the small cleared corrals where they could go outside without sinking up to their bellies in mud.
Then finally, the drying winds. The ferocious winds that raked the wet land and forced it to give up the smothering moisture. So that life could emerge once again.
Then the gentler winds, the ones that brought longer days and warmer air.
And then, to the astonishment of all, a new giant beast.
The iron lion.
The train, rolling up in a cloud of steam and flung dirt and ugly snow remains, all the way from Sauran City.
Of course, they knew it was coming. Not a new invention of course, but new to the far North. All knew of the trains crisscrossing the South; connecting the northern cities in temperate zones. Had wondered if the train would ever make it this far.
Many northerners, laughing in recent years, when they saw railroad gangs laying track all the way to the small village just south of Cha-Ning Castle. Pictured the tracks twisted and buckled in graves of mud and ice when spring finally revealed them again. But – no. When the snows finally melted, look: there. The train tracks laid in the last year: gleaming and straight. Had buried their foundations well.
Far northerners, eating their words, now.
Cheerfully. Northerners: always happy to eat crow when wrong about something wonderful.
And the train: clearly wonderful. Huge, noisy, brash. Barrreling to a stop in the small village … causing grandmothers to scream, ganthas to buck and squeal, children to gawk. Brakes screeching as the unimaginable bulk of it rolled to a grudging stop.
Then … people getting out. Stepping onto a platform made of asphalt. This, also having survived the winter with only a few cracks or heaves.
And these people! How wonderful. Each one, dressed differently. Some, in the furs common to hardy northerners. Others, in garb of other materials, much of them never before seen. Colors … oh. Skins, but processed to a high shine. Clothing cut to be more form fitting, elegant. Women: wearing dresses. Dresses! Dresses that swirled around their calves, met by colored boots with dainty heels. In the far North: such things only reserved for parties and ceremonial occasions. Too impractical.
But so pretty.
Villagers, staring unashamedly. T
hese people: a look of liveliness about them.
Any excuse for a party in the North. Soon, a spring festival taking place at the castle village. Ania-te: even she, coming out of her doldrums to a degree. The ale, hot and powerful. Many of the Sauran City visitors, astonished. Even in the sophisticated city, no such art. Showered Ania-te with praise and questions: how do you not lose the alcohol in the heating? She, keeping her secrets, of course. But smiling at the compliments. Che and Colwen, so happy to see her smile again.
The piano, dragged out from under its winter protective covers. Wailing away in the great hall. Tables loaded to the breaking point with every manner of food and sweets.
And dancing, yes. Everyone, young and old. So glad to feel the burden of winter, lifting. Not to mention as well: the advent of what would surely be a new chapter in their history. The train. Visitors. The whole world, at their doorstep.
At one point in the evening, Nayan: whirling the elegant Zoren-te in her dance to the wildest piano music. A circle forming around them.
And the visitors from Sauran City: staring wide-eyed.
Isn’t that the Lord of Vel’s daughter?
So Dar-agan and Ilia-te, beginning to weave … the story.
Explaining to the visitors how the young lady of Vel had been badly injured in the explosion at her father’s weapons cache. How the young sub lord of Cha-Ning (admittedly, setting the charges – an enemy’s an enemy) could not just leave her there to die. How he gallantly brought her home, to be healed; to the only region with medicine sophisticated enough to heal her grievous injuries.
How she and his older brother fell in love, and now wanted to marry. Wanted to unite two sworn enemies … with love.
The love story, of course, obscuring common sense. Good thing that people love … love.
So they would not question: why would an injured girl be better off dragged behind a gantha for over a month through the killing equator to the forbidding North? Why didn’t the young sub lord of Cha-Ning just deliver her to her family’s door and then run away?
Dar-agan: “This does it. We have to get a message to Vel right away. Our secret is out. We can’t wait for a ‘right time.’”
“You’re right, of course, my love. But didn’t you hear them? We can’t just send a line message. The Lord of Vel isn’t home.”
Dar-agan, rubbing a hand over his face. “Hmmn, yes. Tragic, that. Both sons.”
“Both sons, killed in this foolish war of theirs.”
Visitors, telling a sad tale: the Lord of Vel, away on a campaign against peasant armies. While both his sons met another peasant army approaching from further south. And were badly beaten. Both young men: dead. Their young wives, now widows. Their babies, orphans.
The Lord of Vel, returning to find more black flags flying from his keep. Out of his mind with grief. First, his favorite daughter. Now, both sons.
His wife, no comfort. A good breeder, her. But a terrible companion. Haughty, spoiled, loving jewels and finery more than the children of her body and far more than her unhappy husband. Incapable of sympathy. Reports: he had quarreled violently with her, breaking much of the furniture in the room, then shut himself away to drown in drink.
Eventually, so the stories said, left his home.
Put up his weapons, set his gantha in its stall. Boarded a train at an unknown starting point and headed north.
North!
This, confirmed by a border registry north of the equator, where South turned into North, when the Lord of Vel presented his travel papers. After that, lost to all watchers. But, it was said, possibly seen in Sauran City. At a number of drinking establishments.
All this: the actions of a broken man.
Ilia-te: “We have to go and find out, my love.”
“You think we can find him?”
“I know we can.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Things have a way of working out as they should.” Not telling him about her hunch. Not telling him that about the dream in which she saw them, meeting the Lord of Vel. Not telling him that she – simply knew.
Above all, not reminding herself how Nayan’s peculiar talent was also her own. Denying to herself, that his peculiar ability to raise ale mugs with one’s mind and to captivate the minds of others … had run in her family for generations. Not telling herself that it was no god that put him in her belly, but her own lineage. This, her only secret from the husband she loved so well.
No, preferring to keep the weirdness under the thick blanket of her mind. Keep it shut away in an undisclosed fifth chamber of the heart, where all secrets go to be still.
Just use it, of course, when the occasion demanded. Then forget forget forget
This, how Dar-agan and Ilia-te found themselves debarking the iron lion at a busy platform in Sauran City, not a day later.
Securing rooms in a nice hotel in the southern part of the city. Where the new buildings met the old, on either side of a great park. This park: one of the city’s points of pride. Designed by artists and architects over centuries, revealing a deep blend of styles from different time periods. Trees and plants of every variety, acres of the green morgaden moss meadows that turned red in fall and gold in winter. Ponds and lakes connected by creeks and fast running streams. Bridges of wood, bridges of iron; some simply done, some with fancy scrollwork. Some large, places of congregation. Some small, places for quiet conversations between lovers.
Dar-agan, gazing at the great park from their hotel window. “I had forgotten how beautiful this city can be.”
“It has its not so beautiful parts.”
A sigh. “Certainly. And those will be where we’ll be spending much of our time, no doubt.”
The next few days, spent cruising the pubs on alleyways and side streets that serious drinkers were known to frequent. A sad journey, this.
Ilia-te: “These people look so downcast. That last pub we went to didn’t even have any windows.”
“I believe they blacked them out.”
“Why would anyone black out a window?”
“To barricade against light heartedness and keep the poor fools drinking.”
“Oh.”
Sometimes, asking bartenders directly if they had heard of or seen the Lord of Vel. Every time, met with laughter. “Are you crazy? A Lord of the South? In a place like this?”
Even a jewel like Sauran City has its blemishes. In one establishment, Dar-agan, having to fight off three men who assumed Ilia-te was a for-hire evening companion. Got bloody, that. One of the men: a nasty long knife. Dar-agan, his quick moves cheating the knife; then owning it. Eventually forced to stick one of the men to drive the others off. And this establishment, just dragging the bleeding man out the back door, tossing him on the ground next to the garbage buckets. No call to authorities. No banishment from the premises. No apology to the lady. Merely a question: do you want another mug of ale?
Several times, seeing sturdy middle aged men with the bearing of soldiers. Coming to or leaving some of the establishments. But when examined closely … no, not him. Beginning to think it would be a fruitless search. But Ilia-te: “We have to keep looking.”
Because she: dreaming of the meeting every night. Seeing it in her mind’s eye. Knowing – just like Nayan.
Resisting it, of course. Secrets, be still. Just certain in her belief that things happen as they should.
And then, they did.
Look. There. A tall man with long, thick, graying hair. The hair, disheveled from incessantly running his hands through it. Bent over a bridge rail in the center park, staring at a small pond where yellow lilies were just starting to unfold.
This man: an air of unfathomable sadness about him. Soldierly bearing, but the look of a man who was the sole survivor of some terrible action. Who had lost all his brothers-in-arms. Who had lost … everything of meaning.
Like the inside of the proud strong shell were merely hollow.
Ilia-te, advancing straight toward him. He,
turning at her approach, of course. Still the soldier. Ever on watch.
“Lord Vel, I’m Lady Ilia-te of Cha-Ning.”
A small bow from the neck. “Madam. How do you know who I am?”
“Because we have a common purpose. It’s meant to be, that I know you. I recognized you immediately.”
A puzzled look. Like he was wondering if she were sane.
“What do you mean, ‘meant to be?’”
Ilia-te, oddly cheerful. “Figure of speech, My Lord. Forgive me. But true.”
Vel, looking more confused than ever. Suspicious.
Dar-agan, catching up to her. Stepping onto the bridge. Then the two big men, eyes meeting.
Lord Vel: “I know who you are.”
“And I know you. Pleasant to see you again, Vel.”
“Are you insane? Last we met was on a battlefield, trying to kill one another, as I recall.”
“Yes. But things are different now. We have news.”
15. The Weirdness of War and Peace
While Nayan had news for Zoren-te.
Neither had heard it yet, before the big party. Had been sequestered in his rooms. Exchanging caresses. Exchanging thoughts. Playing. Getting better at it.
But just after her wonderful dance to the wild piano music … Nayan: hearing it from one of the visitors. Went straight to Zoren-te. Took her arm. Come with me. I have to tell you something.
She: confused. Flushed with heat from the dance. No doubt, ale as well. Nayan, struck once again. How beautiful she is. She should keep dancing. But pulled her away, nonetheless.
Now, approaching his rooms. Nayan, what’s going on?
Wait. Get inside. Sit down. There.
I heard some news from the visitors. Her eyes, wide, expectant. Still the remnants of a giddy smile on her face. Just do it. Get it out.
Your father was campaigning with the other lords. Your brothers met an advance from the southern regions. They –
What? Still smiling.
Zoren, I’m so sorry. They were overrun. The opposing army was huge. Your brothers … are dead.