by Megan Bannen
The fact that I’m asking myself this question unnerves me. Many of The Songs warn the faithful of the earthly temptation of another’s flesh outside of wedlock. I just never in a million years thought such a warning would apply to me. Well, I’m fairly certain that it applies to me now, and a sense of shame settles in my stomach right alongside the unwelcome spirit who has taken up residence inside me.
I always thought beauty belonged to the realm of women, but Tavik challenges that assumption, just as he has challenged my entire world from the second I met him. Even the crooked line of his nose is a work of art. If he had been a snaggletoothed ogre, would I have followed him as far as I have? And what does that say about me that I did and am? If Elath really is the Great Demon, what better instrument than Tavik could She have devised to tempt me away from the path of the One True God? He is walking, talking temptation.
He loses control of his swords and drops one in the exact same place he dropped both weapons the last time I watched.
“Father of death!” he spits. “And hello, Gelya.”
Caught again. How annoying. I take my cue to crawl out of our makeshift shelter as he puts his shirt back on, thank the Father. “I hope you don’t mind my watching.”
He shrugs. “What do I have to be ashamed of?”
Would that my own faith were as steadfast. I wouldn’t be in this mess if it was.
“I don’t always mess up that last bit,” he adds. “It’s just that these northern swords are much longer and heavier than Kantari blades. I feel like they’re trying to rip me in half when I bend back for the Acceptance of Death, so by the time I transition into the Triumph over the Dark Night, I’m kind of done for.”
Those are unusually poetic words pouring out of Tavik’s mouth, and I’m never one to turn down the opportunity to learn something new. “What is the Acceptance of Death?” I ask him. “Or the Triumph over the Dark Night?”
“Each gesture of the prayer has a name. Those are two of the gestures.”
“Are you required to pray with your shirt off?”
“Why?” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Like what you see?”
“That is not what I meant! I am simply curious.” Except I do like what I see, and I’m sure that I’m wearing the telltale blush as a result.
He comes a little closer than I find comfortable and explains, “You’re showing the Mother and Father that you have no breasts, that you are death giving, not life giving.”
The word breasts hovers in the air between us, and my skin grows hotter. Tavik throws his head back and crows with laughter.
“What?” I ask, irritated.
“You’re blushing so hard you’ve turned purple. You know breasts exist for feeding babies, right? Like, even camels have them. Holy Mother, your face! This is hilarious!”
I could single-handedly light up a small city with the humiliated burning of my skin, which makes me want to poke holes into what Tavik believes the way he keeps prodding my own faith. “What if a woman does not want to give life? Or cannot? What if a man would rather raise children than fight or kill or hunt? Is there no room for people who don’t fit into either of your narrow boxes?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just speaking in generalities here.”
“Generalities are small-minded and annoying,” I inform him.
He holds a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Are you saying that I’m annoying? Because I’m pretty sure you find me charming.”
“Are you sure of that? Are you really?”
He laughs again, careless and full-throated, dissolving my embarrassment as easily as he might blow steam off a cup of tea. A Vessel is supposed to remain pure to be worthy of the Father’s Word, but the way Tavik inhabits his own skin makes me wonder what it’s like to live in a world that doesn’t threaten your immortal soul.
Walking. Talking. Temptation.
Father above, I hope we find the Goodson soon.
A damp ten-mile hike leads us to the first safe house on Ambrus’s map, a cottage belonging to a middle-aged forester, his wife, and their seven children. Two of them—a boy and a girl who are no longer babies but not old enough to understand personal boundaries—beg to touch the top of my head. Their sticky hands are child plump and none too gentle, but I let them, and I find myself laughing as they giggle over my stubble.
I don’t know why, but I always imagined the secret Elathians as adults. It never occurred to me that they would have children whom they would raise to worship Elath as their Mother. If the Father is good, how can He believe these innocents deserve to become the telleg that haunt the Dead Forest for eternity?
I look at Tavik, speaking his broken Rosvanian with Forester beside a roaring blaze in the fireplace, believing himself a man when he is anything but, so confident and comfortable in the world and his place in it. Does that make him right? Or does that make him an arrogant fool? In either case, I envy his immovable faith.
“Hey, Gelya, can you come here for a minute? I think I understand what he’s saying, but I want to be sure.”
I’d rather stay where I am. All the girls of the family have congregated around the kitchen stove, and I don’t feel at ease crossing the room toward Tavik and Forester. I had to borrow one of Mistress Forester’s dresses to wear while my own clothes dry out in the rafters, and because I’m so much bigger than she is, it clings too tightly to my body.
“Gelya, I need you,” Tavik insists in his overly dramatic way.
I sigh, cross my arms over my chest, and come to his rescue. “Yes?”
“How would you like to be a man for a little while?”
I eye him suspiciously. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. What?”
It’s Forester who replies. “The wife and I thought about it, and it doesn’t make sense for you to be traveling like pilgrims when you’re heading away from the holy sites, not toward them.”
“And I can’t carry my weapons if we’re disguised as pilgrims,” Tavik adds in Kantari.
“Also, sorry, miss, but that head of yours ain’t normal for a girl.”
“I missed that. What’s he saying?” Tavik asks.
“He says that I’m hard to hide because of my shorn head.”
“But you could disguise yourself as a man,” says Tavik, speaking eagerly in Kantari. “That’s what he’s getting at. Men wear their hair short up here.”
“But most men don’t carry swords,” I point out.
“Knights do.”
I switch back to Rosvanian to ask the next question, although I can’t believe I’m uttering the words: “We’re going to disguise ourselves as Knights of the Order of Saint Ovin?”
Tavik grins. “It’s a great idea, right? We’re the prey, but we’re going to disguise ourselves as the predator. Now we don’t have to worry about hiding your head, and I’ll have easy access to my sword and yours.”
Forester studies me and shakes his head. “You might pass for a boy, but you’ll still stand out. Guess we’ll say you’re Degmari. Not enough of them around for anyone to know you don’t pass for one.”
“What is he saying?” Tavik asks me.
“Nothing,” I answer. I don’t know what the Kantari think about the Hedenski, and I’d rather not find out.
“The Goodson?” Tavik asks Forester in Rosvanian. “You know where he is?”
“Still on the Kings Road, heading west.”
“And Brother Miklos?” I add.
“Last seen scouring the towns south and southwest of Dalment, so he seems to have lost your scent, at least for now.”
“Well, that’s good news,” says Tavik when I translate the answer for him. “How do you say ‘messenger’ in Rosvanian?”
“I think you mean ‘soulswift,’” I tell him flatly.
“Whatever. I need to send an update to Captain DeRopa.”
It takes Mistress Forester and her girls a few days to sew our new uniforms. Despite what Forester said about Brother Miklos losing our trail, I still feel antsy, especi
ally since the Goodson is getting farther and farther away from us while we wait. Tavik’s incessant pacing leads me to believe he feels much the same way.
It’s bizarre to see him dressed like the Goodson once we’re finally back on the road, although he wears the Order’s uniform as if the Father had painted it on his body with His own divine hand. For my part, I can’t believe how comfortable men’s clothing is, how much easier it is to move through the world in a well-cut set of trousers rather than a skirt or the voluminous pants of my Daughter’s habit. Considering the fact that Tavik and I have fourteen miles to cover before we arrive at the next stop on Ambrus’s map—a town on the upper Sargo called Lithgate—I’m grateful for my new attire.
Tavik frowns at the sky, which continues to weep on us. “Fourteen miles of this, Brother Elgar,” he grouses. At least he’s calling me by my alias rather than my beloved bride.
“Complaining will do us little good, Brother Remur.”
“Sorry, Brother Elgar, but I have more complaining to do.” He stops, hands on his hips, his thick eyebrows drawn together. “If that text we put together is the truth—and it feels like the truth—why were we both taught a . . . a . . .”
“Lie?” I suggest, the word cutting on my tongue.
“Something that was not quite the truth,” Tavik amends. “Why keep Elath’s prison a secret? How does that benefit anyone?”
“Maybe the early Ovinists thought that keeping the true location of Elath’s soul a secret was the best way to guard it against the Elathians.”
“But why keep up the ruse that the Vault of Mount Djall was Her prison? How many men have died on both sides, trying to either open it or protect it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll ever know why.”
“Maybe,” he says, unconvinced. He hands me an apple from his pack and changes the subject. “Your hair is starting to grow back.”
“I know.”
“Why do you shave it off? I don’t mean to sound like an ass. I’m just curious.”
“To have hair is to have vanity.”
“Nothing wrong with a little vanity.” He rubs the shadowy beard growing on his chin, a feature that makes him look even handsomer than before. I don’t say anything. I just tug down on the tunic, which keeps puffing up over my sword belt as I walk.
Tavik looks at me askance, as if I’m an exotic specimen on display. I suspect I know what’s coming, and I suddenly yearn to hide behind a tree to avoid it. “Your hair,” he says. “It’s orange . . . ish.”
“As you see.” I pull the blue hood over my head. Why does it always come to this? Why does where I come from matter so much?
“Do a lot of people have hair that color around here?” he asks.
“It’s called red, and no.”
“Do a lot of people have hair like that where you come from?”
“I don’t remember. I was very young when I came to Saint Vinnica.” Holy Father, I wish he’d take the hint and let this go, I think as I hold the half-eaten apple out so that the juices won’t drip on my white wool.
He studies me with those ridiculously pretty eyes. “You’re Degmari, right?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you tell that guard at the wedding you were Degmari?”
“I lied.”
“You lied? I didn’t know you had it in you.” He gives me an approving smile, but any hope I might have cherished that our conversation has come to an end deflates when he asks, “So where exactly are you from?”
“North.” I take another bite of my apple, wishing I could swallow my shame and bitterness with it.
“North,” he repeats slowly. “Auria, you mean?”
“No.”
His confusion clouds his face. “Northern Rosvania?”
“No.” I walk a little faster, but he catches up.
“Wait. North? Like north north? Like Hedenskia north?”
“Does it matter?”
Tavik’s eyes widen, and he nearly chokes on his next words. “Yeah, it matters!”
“Why? You are foreign-born, too,” I point out defensively.
“There’s a bajillion Kantari. How many living, breathing Hedenski live outside Hedenskia? They hardly have any contact with the outside world, and they shut down their only two ports years ago. Even stepping foot on Hedenski soil is punishable by death.”
“A Vessel has no nationality. We belong to the Father alone.” I’m now hiking so fast, I’m nearly trotting, as if I could somehow outrun this conversation.
“How did you become an Ovinist Vessel, though? I thought the Hedenski worshipped trees or something.”
“Can we not talk about this?” I beg. I finally make a friend, and my stupid Hedenski past has to go and ruin it.
“But . . .”
“But what?” I stop and turn on him. The expression on his face is not the ghoulish pleasure most people take in the discovery of my origin. He looks genuinely upset to find out I’m from Hedenskia, fearful even. I think I’d prefer the ghoulishness.
“How did you get to Rosvania in the first place?” he asks me.
“The Goodson brought me.”
His eyes bulge. “The Goodson? The Goodson went to Hedenskia? When was that?”
“He led a missionary trip to Hedenskia ten years ago. When he placed a seedpod of the Grace Tree in my hand, the Father chose me, so he brought me to the convent.”
“By boat?”
This is my least favorite part. “No.”
I watch his eyes as his mind fills in the rest. If I didn’t come to Rosvania by boat, there’s only one way to go: through the Dead Forest, through the telleg, through the pale, faceless monsters that haunt the trees and devour anyone who comes near, the souls cursed to live on the earth for eternity. No matter how hard I push against the memories, someone is always forcing me to dredge up those days crossing through the Dead Forest, the way the telleg floated silently between the trees, the way they ripped every knight but the Goodson to shreds without care or emotion.
Tavik regards me with a face full of awe and horror. “Mother and Father. Did you see . . . ?” His voice trails off. He can’t even bring himself to say the word.
I don’t answer. I move. Tavik puts a hand on my arm to halt me, but I tear myself free, not just because I don’t want to be touched, but because the humming inside me swells, deafening in my ears, and I’m not sure I can keep a lid on it. I take a deep breath in and out through my nose to quell the thing inside me before I speak.
“Yes, I have seen the telleg. Yes, they are terrifying. Yes, I nearly died. And no, I do not want to speak of it.” My words are sharp and cold to freeze the burning inside me. I throw what’s left of the apple as hard as I can and listen for the satisfying thud as it lands before I keep walking, leaving Tavik to follow in my frosty wake.
Twenty-Five
We left the Pavane eight miles back, but a pall has settled over us—or over me, at least—since Tavik figured out where I’m from. We continue in somber silence until Tavik stops—just stops—right in the middle of the barley field.
“Is something wrong?” I ask him. It makes me jittery standing out in the open like this, especially when it’s not just raining but thundering as well, but he stays where he is. He folds back one of his sleeves and lets the rain wash over his bare skin, slicking the strange silver scars on his arm.
“Unbelievable,” he says.
“What is unbelievable?”
“All this water. All this rain. All this life.” He gestures at the expanse of grain surrounding us.
At the convent, on the rare occasion when someone spoke of the Kantari drought, it was distant and irrelevant, something that didn’t affect us. Tavik’s spare frame brings the reality of a drought into sharp focus. I’m half tempted to touch his arm to comfort him, but it seems to me that a well-fed girl doesn’t have that right, so I keep my hands to myself.
After a moment, he sighs and nods toward the outline of a town in the distance. “I th
ink that must be Lithgate.”
“Should we wait for sunset before we go in?”
He shakes his head. “We’re wearing these uniforms for a reason, so let’s test them out and see how they do.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking down the main thoroughfare of Lithgate, Brother Remur with a confident swagger and me—Brother Elgar—mincing along with my heart in my throat, waiting for someone to point at us and scream, “It’s them! Call the patrols!” Instead, our entry into Lithgate goes unnoticed. The few people we encounter pay us no attention. It’s as if the uniform of the Order makes both of us invisible and anonymous, two things I’ve never been in the whole course of my life. How incredible to move through the world without anyone knowing or caring. It’s a luxury I never knew I wanted until this moment.
I read each shop sign along the way until I find the one that says Brewers. The ornate lettering is formed from the branches of a painted tree like the one tattooed on Tavik’s wrist. I’m about to knock, but a handsome man in his thirties opens the door before my knuckles hit wood.
“You made it! Excellent! We’ve been on pins and needles,” he says as he stands aside to let us enter and drip all over the well-swept floor of his shop.
“Are they here?” a male voice calls from the back, and a moment later, another man comes into the shop. “Thank the Mother. We were on pins and needles.”
The first man grins. “I already said that. I’m Danov, and this is Rek. We’re very glad to see you, obviously. Here, let me take those cloaks. Can we get either of you a pint of ale? It’s the one thing that’s never in short supply here.”
I’m surprised when Tavik answers, “No, thank you,” at the same time I do.
“Don’t give me that look,” he chastises me. “The Kantari aren’t big drinkers, you know.”
Danov is tall and blond while Rek is stout with a southerner’s darker complexion, but I get a sense that there’s a family connection here, cousins maybe. They escort us upstairs to their living quarters on the second floor. Tavik and I take turns changing into the Brewers’ spare clothes in the single bedroom so we can hang our knights’ uniforms in the rafters to dry. Once we’re both warming ourselves by the fire in the main room, I ask for an update on the Goodson’s whereabouts, and Danov fills us in.