by Jim Grimsley
She traveled with her parents for the last time to Aneseveroth during her fifteenth year. The summer began as it had on the summers preceding, the bustle of settling into the house, the feeling of relaxation, Uncle Jessex in his garden already, tending a bed of mulcum that Malin loved, the rich honeylike scent of it in full summer heat. Weeding, from the looks of his posture. The King had gone out for a ride with Father and Mother. Malin had yet to see her friends from the village but felt shy of walking into the square just yet, dreading to discover how much taller she had grown than Anli. She and Anli were the same age, one year from womanhood, their bodies growing lush. In those days, under the long year of the Old Sky, a fifteen-year-old girl was fully a woman already, not like a fifteen-year-old of today, so long after.
She worked with Uncle Jessex in the garden instead, feeling the peace of the place settle into her bones. He said hello, put her to work, spoke to her quietly. He was a slim, dark-haired man, eyes that could be whatever color he liked, not as tall as Malin, his face bewitching, regular of feature, gentle, strong-boned, maybe not as handsome as the King, though at times she vacillated on that point. Simply dressed, cloth trousers and a tunic. Gloves on his hands. No jewelry at all. How was the trip? Was she tired? How was her schoolwork, did she like the public school? Did she have a special person in her life? A boyfriend or girlfriend? Not asked all at once, but patiently, in the rhythm of the work, pulling out the unwanted grasses and creepers, making space for the mulcum, the ferns, the elgerath vine trained to grow up the trunk of a duris-nut tree.
“Nobody special,” she answered. “I don’t know if I like boys.”
“You don’t have to know. You can wait to find out.”
“I don’t have forever.” Malin sighed.
Uncle Jessex laughed at that. “You’re feeling like an old woman, at your age?”
“Well,” she was speaking in her tragic voice, the one she used to her mirror, when she was alone, “I am mortal, you know. None of the rest of you are.”
He was kneeling, but stopped his digging with the trowel. Said nothing, but she was watching him, and this was Uncle Jessex, after all, he would know what she meant, he would know that she was watching. “Time will tell,” he said.
“What? Do you think I’ll get the second name, too?”
“There won’t be any more second names,” Uncle Jessex answered. “You know that perfectly well. Don’t you?”
She shook her head, troubled.
He spoke with some hesitance. Unusual, for him. “When God came to us at the end of the war, that was what she said. All the Jhinuuserret have left the world, except the four of us.”
“Never, ever again?”
He shook his head. “Having two names will just be having two names, from now on.”
So she would have to die like everybody else. The thought made her sad. But at the moment she need not think about it. “Will you ever leave?” she asked.
He looked at her. At moments like that, she could be afraid of him, of the depth of his looking into her. “Yes,” he said, “we’ll all leave sooner or later. But not at the same time.”
“When?”
This time his aspect chilled her so that she had to turn away. She concentrated on the weeds, on pulling them neatly out of the rain-softened ground. His voice, still patient. “I suppose it’s time we talked to you about that.”
She ate dinner with the adults that year, with the King, with Uncle Jessex, with Mother and Father, the food wonderful, and now she could drink wine without permission, without water added, since she was nearly a woman. The evening passed in the most pleasant way and she felt very grown-up throughout, the conversation drifting over her, mostly Father and King Kirith, talking about matters in the southern cities, the navy, exploring Ocean, the Charnos merchant guild wanting some change in something she couldn’t really follow, not serious talk though, more in the way of sharing anecdotes, and in a kind of shorthand, since the King and Father were such old friends. They were eating in the upstairs dining room, the hearth dark, the windows open for the smells from the garden. Uncle Jessex had his head bowed toward Mother, the softer of the conversations, at first, until after the dessert and jaka, when Mother put down her napkin and eating sticks and said, “Jessex, I’ve said no already.”
“Karsten, this can’t go on. Kirith Kirin has already made the announcement in the south. She’s going to hear.”
They were talking about Malin. She looked at Mother, the soft blue eyes, her face feeling like a wound at the moment. Malin asked, “What am I going to hear?”
All of the adults were quiet now. The King was looking at Mother, whose eyes had filled with tears. Mother met his eye and nodded, a look of bitterness on her face. The King answered, his eyes on Malin’s, gentle. “I’m going away, Mallie. When winter ends this year. After Uncle Jessex’s birthday.”
Mother had frozen in place. Father was looking into his hands. Neither would look at Malin.
“Why?”
“Because it’s my time to go.”
“How do you know?”
He shook his head and wouldn’t meet her eye. “I just know.”
Her mouth was trembling, her lips. No one was offering her any comfort. The news was too big. “You’re coming back, though. You’re going away but you’re coming back.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m not.”
“Why?”
“I’ve told you that.”
“But why now, you haven’t told me that. I don’t want you to go.”
He reached for Uncle Jessex’s hand. Uncle Jessex had closed his eyes. A tear in the corner of the eye, he flicked it away with a finger. The King said, “I don’t want to go, either, but that doesn’t make a difference.”
“Where?” But she already knew the answer.
“Across the mountains,” he leaned his head against Uncle Jessex’s hair. “To that place.”
She nodded. Where dead people go. Across the mountains, to Zan.
Mother had turned to her now. Malin could see how deeply sad she was. Most of the time it was easy to think of her as simply Mother, but at moments like this one, Malin remembered how old she really was, how old Father was, and the King oldest of all of them, or so Mother said. Mother spoke quietly now. “When the time comes for one of us, one of the Jhinuuserret, to leave the world, we can either wait to die or we can cross the mountains on our own.”
“But you don’t die. Do you?”
“A time comes when we can’t be renewed, anymore.” Her face flitted from expression to expression, faster than Malin could read. “Your father and I will wait here, with you, for a while longer.”
Her heart was racing. “No, Mother. Please.”
Mother reached a hand down the table. Malin leaned into her embrace, Father leaning close as well. He spoke in her ear. “Our time’s coming soon, Malin.”
“How do you know?” But she already understood the answer. She sat up straight, looked at them. She could feel it like a weight in her stomach. “It’s because of me. I’m fifteen this year. You know because of me.”
Silence.
“Answer,” she said.
Uncle Jessex said, “I told you she’d know for herself, Karsten.”
“Yes,” Mother’s voice hardly a whisper.
“Who told you?”
“God,” Uncle Kirith said. “The last time she was here.”
After that she hardly needed to hear more. None of the adults spoke. The King and Uncle Jessex walked outside, hand in hand.
“This is hard,” Malin said.
“I know,” Mother stroking her hair.
“You’re not going soon?” Malin asked.
“Not for a long time, till I’m old.” Mother laughed a bit as she spoke. “So you’ll get to see me with wrinkles and no hair before I’m gone.”
“Me, too,” Father said. “We’ll be with you for a long time, for as long as a normal person’s life.”
Something about the phrase stuck with he
r but she was paying attention to other details. To the silky sound of Father’s voice. He was still speaking. “So we have to try to help Uncle Jessex and the King. They’re very sad.”
“Uncle Jessex isn’t going?”
“No,” Mother answered. “He’s not. He’ll always be here with you.”
“But he has to leave, sometime.”
Father shook his head. “No. He has to stay. That’s what God made him for. To wait here.”
“For what?”
He shook his head. “That’s enough for one night, Mallie.”
So he went away and left her alone, the hollow of her sadness complete.
This was the moment of loss she remembered through all that came afterward, the burning ache of the King’s leaving, the whole world mourning his passing. The last moment in Inniscaudra, the grand house lit, glittering, a pageant to end the age, as it was called, the assembly of Finru and Nivri nobles from all over Aeryn, the visit of the Tervan Empress and the Svyssn Wife, each with their retinues, a delegation from the Orloc and even the Untherverthen, who had not been seen above ground in some time. King Kirith saying good-bye, vanishing into that doorway that had not been opened since the Long War ended. The shape of the Crone soon appeared there, God herself come to meet the King and lead him to the land of the dead. She came to open the door as she always had, and walked in the room where everybody had come to say good-bye. God had walked in Malin’s presence, in the presence of many others, and no one in those days had any doubt that it was really she.
The King left a note for Malin, very short and simple, which she kept among her possessions that were always to be close at hand:
Dearest Mallie:
No matter what people say, you shouldn’t think this happened because of you. This happened because of God, who spared me more years of happiness than I can count by letting me stay so long. I pray that your life might be as long and happy as mine. Please take care of Uncle Jessex. I’ll see you someday, across the mountains.
Love,
Uncle Kirith.
He left late in the month of Khan, having lingered into spring, for one last celebration of Uncle Jessex’s birthday at Aneseveroth. Only a half month later, at Inniscaudra, the great doors swung closed and the King vanished, leaving Malin with an ache of absence that she knew would remain. Always, she thought at the time. Meaning, all her mortal life.
“There are many kinds of always,” Uncle Jessex told her. This was much later, when Mother was dying, with Father already across the mountains. “When your mother says she will love you always, even beyond the mountains, she means she’ll love you for all the time we know will ever come.”
“It’s so hard to see her weak like this.”
They sat in the palace Kvorthen in Drii, with the whole city in mourning. Uncle Jessex had ridden from Ivyssa as soon as Mother sent for him. He had been waiting for this news, as everyone had, ever since Malin’s father set out across the mountains on his own, choosing at the last moment to make the journey himself rather than to suffer death. Mother chose to take the mortal path, and Malin understood the choice was made so that she could remain with her daughter to the last moment. Malin was still numb from the first loss and here was the next.
“It’s hard to think of all of them gone.” His voice. Echoing.
She looked at him. An expression on his face, nearly terror, Uncle Jessex. Could he be afraid? She moved beside him, suddenly afraid herself. His grip on her waist was tight, insistent. On the bed, Mother murmured, opened her eyes very slowly.
She saw Uncle Jessex and smiled. Weakly reached a hand. Her face lined, the skin beginning to soften, flesh slackening against the bones of her skull, bringing it into relief. She looked old and tired. Uncle Jessex sat on the bed, took her hand. “Don’t be sad,” she whispered.
“I’m trying not to be,” he said, but a tear was draining down his cheek. Malin felt her own tears begin to swell and knelt beside him, laid her hands along Mother’s arm.
“You’ll both be here together for a long time,” Mother said, “you’ll have each other.”
“We know that,” Uncle Jessex swallowing.
“Malin doesn’t know it, do you, Malin?”
She had trouble finding her voice. “Know what, Mother?”
A soft hand reached for Malin’s cheek. “You’ll see,” Mother said, and then, for a moment, her eyes glazed, a pain wracked her chest. Malin leaned over her, kissed her forehead. Mother’s breath eased after a moment, looked at Uncle Jessex. “It’s time. I want to go now. Will you release me?”
He could barely speak. “If that’s your wish.”
She nodded, turned to Malin, looked deeply into her eyes. Malin was transfixed, understanding the moment had come. “Good-bye for now, my dear.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Malin said, “when I cross the mountains myself.”
“I’ll see you then, but it won’t be soon,” Mother answered, and closed her eyes, kissed Malin quietly, and Uncle Jessex untied the cord that wrapped Mother’s soul to time and let the soul slip free.
Mother’s words echoed afterward, and Malin received them into herself completely, asking no questions of Uncle Jessex, who had his own problems. She lived quietly in Drii for some years, Queen of the people of Drii, aware that the city was not so comfortable with her rule, the fact that she was only half Drii, aware that she was too tall even for a Drii, aware that her lack of femininity, her gangly arms and legs, her shocking eyes, which sometimes flashed from green to gold and back, made others wary of her; glad of any chance to escape to Aneseveroth, where she and Anli had become lovers years ago, Anli growing into a lissome sprite, slender and provocative, living year-round on the estate, anxious for times when Malin could come to her, but no more anxious than Malin was herself. At those times, at rest in Anli’s arms, or on the occasions when Uncle Jessex invited them both to Inniscaudra, Malin felt herself at peace, growing into a peaceful maturity, happy with herself and with what she understood of her fate.
When she reached her eightieth birthday, the full maturity of a Drii, she made a trip to Inniscaudra to speak to Uncle Jessex about abdicating, about how to manage it. By then it was common for a person to live to be 140 or more, and she had no intention of spending the rest of her years as anything but herself.
“I’ve spoken in private to the Venyari families.” They had walked onto one of the roof gardens, under three stone arches, the place verdant with the green of summer, duris trees casting cool shade over the stone path. “They’ve been wanting me to take this step for some time. They think that with Father gone, the time of kings and queens has passed.”
“I can’t argue with them,” Jessex said. “The word’s not very useful.”
“Is that why you never took the title for yourself?” she asked.
“I don’t want to be a king. Let the Yneset squabble on its own, take its own course. I’ll manage what I need to manage in my own way.”
He needed to state no reason for his feelings, nor would anyone, including Malin, have wondered why he should be so indifferent. By then she had seen what Uncle Jessex could do when challenged. She had learned to fear him a bit herself. He looked no older now than when she was a girl, a man in his early twenties, slim and erect, with skin as smooth and fine as any she had ever seen. Odd, she thought, anyone in the world who didn’t know us would think me his elder.
He touched her brow with his fingertips, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, “It’s time you learned about the rest of your life, anyway. I don’t like to see you looking so old.”
“I am old,” she said, “I should look old. Anli doesn’t mind.”
“Anli is a good woman.” He hesitated a moment. “But you, Malin. You can be renewed, the same way I can.”
Silence. She was replaying the words in her head, to learn their secret meaning, the surface seemed too large. He simply waited. “Tell me what you mean,” she said.
“I believe you understand me. I bel
ieve you understood what your mother was telling you when she asked me to release her from her body. You’re not quite mortal like the rest, Malin. Your birth was special.”
“Go on.”
He took a moment, looked up, as he often did, to the top of his tower, Ellebren Height, where he did his work. “You’ve studied enough of history to know that the Twice-Named were never permitted to bear children except under exceptional circumstances. Your mother was never bothered by a menstrual cycle for all the years I knew her.”
“Ten or twenty thousand years of that would drive a person mad,” Malin said.
He simply smiled. “She was older than that, I think.”
“Do you know how old?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know how old any of them were?”
“No. It’s the one subject we never broached. They’d never have answered. Maybe they didn’t keep count. Our history is so long and detailed, and we’ve never been very good with calendars.” He sighed. “At any rate, God made you to live a long time, Malin, and I can prove that to you anytime you like.”
“How?”
“By taking you into the Deeps, here, to the bath in the rock where Twice-Named go to renew themselves.”
“It will work for me?”
“Yes.”
She lifted her head to the wind. “But Mother taught me the God-name was no longer to be given.”
“This is a different gift,” he answered.