Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  Tharadis tried to blame the way she felt on Owan, though it wasn’t completely fair. Things between husband and wife would have been normal if Serena hadn’t been afflicted with her condition … but did that really matter? She was who she was, and if she struggled to hold on to something meaningful and good in all aspects of her life, even those that hurt, Owan wasn’t doing the same. She, at least, had an excuse for bitterness, if she ever felt it; she was the one suffering. But what excuse did Owan have?

  Without glancing up, she said, “I know that look on your face.” He could see the faint traces of a smile on her face.

  Tharadis realized his fist was clenched and relaxed it, letting out a breath. “More highwaymen, I take it.” He made a noise in his throat. “We don’t even have any highways.”

  “Then I think the appropriate term would be criminal.”

  “Crime in the farms is no worse than it’s ever been.” He shook his head. “It’s the second time this week he’s been gone. How long will it be this time?”

  “Tharadis,” she said softly, finally looking up at him. “I have my own way of dealing with this, and he has his. It has been harder on him than you can possibly realize, and he hasn’t given up on me yet.” The smile on her face blossomed rich and full, and even the hearthsflame couldn’t rival it. “He has his own kind of strength, and he’s kept his faith.”

  Tharadis mumbled something about stoking the fire and rushed out the back door. The clutching feeling in his lungs and dampness in his eyes must have had something to do with the smoke, though he was glad she wasn’t there to witness it.

  He was able to take his mind off that as he focused on cooking. Enjoying good food was one of the few bodily pleasures in which Serena could partake of, and Tharadis could admit he had more than his fair share of talent. Whenever he cooked, he was able to refuse her payment for the ingredients with the excuse he had every intention to eat what he had prepared, and she was welcome to anything that was left, since it would otherwise just go to waste. She had laughed the first time she had heard that one. It was the last time she had brought up repayment when it came to dinner.

  He always brought a few spices from his personal stash and would quiz her over what he had used. While she typically loved what he cooked for her, she didn’t have quite the discerning tongue he did, though her tasting skills were improving the more he cooked for her.

  She gave as good as she got, though. She was a thoughtful, discerning critic and offered suggestions as well as praise. While at first, she merely mentioned what she thought was wrong with a dish, she had recently begun to offer suggestions on what could improve it. Though Tharadis’s parents sometimes ate what he cooked for them, they didn’t give any more constructive feedback than “It was good,” or “Why don’t we try the lamb instead next time?” Serena gave him what he needed to feed his passion for cooking.

  He was halfway through skinning a root on the wooden cutting board when he realized he was in love with her.

  He paused, only briefly, before continuing to skin the root. The skins would be good for sweet bread, which he decided to bake later on. He pushed them off to the side before cutting the root into very thin slices.

  It didn’t matter—it couldn’t matter. Serena had been right. Owan had his way of dealing with things, she had her way of dealing with them, and Tharadis had his own. If she could live with her affliction, if she could endure such agony daily, then he could deal with a little pain of the heart. She had taught him that.

  The creaking of wood announced her leaning against the door jamb, watching him work. He didn’t turn to look at her in acknowledgment of her presence. He continued cutting, crushing, and sprinkling. The ingredients sizzled and popped on the cast iron skillet atop the oven.

  She took a deep, heavy, sensuous breath and let it out in a joy-laced exhalation. “Is that black cardamom?”

  Tharadis stopped what he was doing. Swiveled his head. “You can tell that from over there?”

  Her eyes widened. Again, that heartrending smile. “Am I right? Is it really in there?”

  With a practiced flip of his wrist, Tharadis tossed the knife in the air. He caught the blade as it spun with his right hand, and extended the handle towards her, resting the knife on his left forearm, bowing deeply at the waist with one foot extended.

  “It appears,” he said gravely, “that I am now the student.”

  He felt her move close to him, felt her hand rest on his shoulder. His whole body tensed, yet he kept as still as possible. He didn’t know what she was doing, but his mind spooled out endless possibilities, many of them wild and gloriously improbable. Here they were, alone in the clearing behind her house, far from town … her touching him.

  She took the knife by the handle, flipped it around, and placed the handle back into his hand. She bent forward, and he could feel her breath on his neck as she whispered in his ear.

  “Nice try. Get back to work, master chef.”

  * * *

  For some reason Tharadis couldn’t figure out, Dalton Threed just wouldn’t let him into the kitchen of his restaurant, called Sunflowers. He had had no compunction about hiring him most days, mostly for menial, back-breaking labor, but whenever Tharadis asked for a chance to prove what culinary skills he had, the portly restaurant owner, whose fleshy face wore a continual mask of stubble no matter how frequently he shaved, would cast Tharadis a suspicious look out of the corner his eye and mumble to himself about trusting skinny people with the preparation of food before walking off to wipe down the bar.

  Sunflowers had been an inn many years ago, one of the only ones in Naruvieth, but few enough people stayed overnight in town that didn’t already live there. The farmers that came in to market to sell their crops of drymelons and tanglewort and whatever else would deign to grow that year often had friends or relatives in town to stay with, and visitors beyond them were impossible, what with the Rift being what it was. No, there was little reason for another inn, but people always needed to eat.

  When Dalton’s father Ballow willed the Sunflower Inn to him—“best thing he ever did for me was die,” Dalton would say with a sharp nod that set his jowls to shaking—Dalton used his shrewd mind to convert it to a restaurant—and to Farshores with anyone who wanted somewhere to sleep. He had built a reputation for serving the finest food money could buy because, of course, Dalton had found the greatest chefs money could buy. Though Tharadis found the man to be somewhat of a slob and bastard in his personal life, Sunflowers set the standard for eating-only establishments, and several others popped up since then but could never reach the stature of the original.

  Tharadis hoped to own Sunflowers one day, or, better yet, start his own restaurant. But first, he had to start small, and prove what he was capable of. Even if that start was very, very small, he would do it.

  He hadn’t realized just how small that start would be.

  Tharadis was almost glad when Owan went off on one of his adventures, because then it gave him an opportunity to do what he loved most: cook for someone who could appreciate it. He didn’t know how long the path toward becoming a chef would be, but it felt like he had already achieved all of his dreams whenever he saw the look in Serena’s eyes as she tried his newest culinary creation. So, when he discovered that his brother’s wife would be alone again this night, he felt more enthusiasm than was appropriate.

  Over the month and a half since the night of his revelation, he had since learned how to subdue his feelings and desires. Serena was his brother’s wife; he had to accept that and move on. In a way, being around her, seeing her live and enjoy living despite all the trials she endured daily, gave him the will to deal with the situation that was. Being with her was a problem that provided its own solution. He could live with that, bittersweet as it tasted.

  Tharadis finished all of his tasks early. Dalton was impressed, if not altogether surprised, but still managed to dodge the question of when Tharadis would be allowed in the kitchen. “Cooking is women
’s work,” he said, though he didn’t sound like he believed it. Especially since Dalton himself was known to occasionally cook the finest fish anyone had ever tasted. Tharadis was wearing him down. Grinning like a boy half his age, he took his day’s wages from Dalton’s thick fingers—“never let a fool like that near my kitchen,” the man grumbled—and sprinted off to market.

  The sun was high in the sky as he walked the footpath to her house, the canvas bag slung over his shoulder, bulging with goods. Once he realized how he felt about her, he had stopped bringing her gifts. She never said anything about it, but he suspected she knew more about how he felt than he did himself.

  She sat with her legs crossed in front of her in front of the house, staring down the slope. Beyond the trees a few leagues was the sea, little more than a gray line barely distinguishable from the sky. She was staring in that direction, though she didn’t seem to see it. Or anything at all.

  Her raven hair, flashing red when it caught the sunlight just right, was bound up with one of the last hair clips Tharadis had brought her, shaped like a tiny silver comb with a small agate in the center. It was barely clipped to anything, and much of her hair had come free and was now dancing listlessly in the breeze sweeping over the treetops. It was shorter now, barely brushing her shoulders when the wind stilled. It almost seemed as if her hair had been hacked at with no precision at all, as if she had simply tried to rid herself of the hair that almost seemed to define her.

  She turned her head to indicate the spot on the ground next to her but didn’t meet his eyes. He sat as she did, legs crossed, and settled his bundle in his lap. His eyes searched the view for something worthy of his attention, but the woman at his side pulled at him. He continued searching.

  “Why a hearthsflame?” she finally asked.

  He turned. In her lap her hands rested limply, but Tharadis could see something within them: a wilted yellow flower, called a dunblossom. They were common, but fragile. They were used in the mourning ceremony, when a body was committed to the seas in hopes that someday, the soul that once resided within it would reach Farshores.

  He breathed in sharply when he saw it. He didn’t like this, her sitting by herself, contemplative, holding a wilted flower that symbolized death. Her dark brown eyes, he noticed, were unfocused, liquid, and slightly red around the edges. “It … well,” he began, “it perseveres. No matter what. No, it flourishes, not in spite of its harsh surroundings, but because of them. And it never gives up its beauty.” He suddenly felt foolish, as if he had stripped down naked in front of her. But then the feeling washed away as soon as it had come as he watched her lips curve into a faint, beautiful, yet somehow tragic smile.

  “It perseveres,” she said. Coming from her, it sounded like a benediction.

  A tear fell from her eye, rolled down her cheek, and clung to her chin. Reflexively, Tharadis raised his arm to wipe it away, but halted just as his hand left its resting place on his bundle. He clenched his fist and let it drop to his side.

  “You know,” she said, “I’ve never seen a hearthsflame. I mean, I’ve seen it at the market. It’s a pretty flower, but … it’s never stood out to me before. It’s always just been another flower. Severed from its roots and stuffed in a basket.” Her breath came raggedly. “But I've never truly seen it where it flourished.” He felt her eyes upon him. “I’ve never seen it … as you see it.”

  In the silence after her words, his pulse pounded in his ears. The hairs on his arms stood, the flesh beneath them tingling as if a being with feathered feet walked across them. There suddenly wasn't enough air in the sky to fill his lungs. But none of that mattered. All he could see was her eyes, liquid brown, the raven locks that fell around her face, the depth of her skin’s tan. All he could hear were her words, echoing endlessly in his mind. All he could taste and smell was the scent of her, the delicate perfume of hearthsflame, though he knew none grew here. She enveloped all of his senses. She was the world.

  “Serena—”

  “Take me to them,” she said. “Take me to where the hearthsflame grows.”

  * * *

  With one of her hands gripping his upper arm and the other behind his neck, he lifted her by her waist to her feet. They were fatally close to an embrace. Her could feel her trembling. Back before their teenage years, before the affliction had taken her, Tharadis remembered how she would sometimes bite her lip to keep from crying. Now, tears fell freely down her face as she struggled not to bite her lip. That would only compound the pain she was in.

  She stood only a moment before her knees gave out. She fell into his arms, sobbing and shuddering.

  “Don’t touch me,” she whispered as her embrace only tightened. “Don’t …”

  His arms held her up as much as they simply held her. She felt slight in his arms, though she had always had such … presence before. As if by willpower alone she commanded the seas themselves to do her bidding. Now, to see her so vulnerable, so weakened … it shook him.

  She kissed his neck and clutched him ever tighter. There was no romance in it, only purest gratitude. The scent from her hair filled his nostrils and it was—

  “Black cardamom,” he said, somewhat shocked. “You’ve been cooking without me.”

  Some moments passed. Still she shuddered, but said, “It was either that or starve. Owan can’t even boil water, you know.”

  “Still?” Tharadis clucked his tongue. “A shame, that one. A disappointment to the whole family.”

  Serena shook again. This time, though, it was with silent laughter. “And you know what? I’m pretty good, too.”

  “Hmph.”

  “I’d watch out if I were you. The competition will eat you alive.”

  Tharadis couldn’t help but laugh at that. When he subsided, he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. He could feel her throaty chuckle against his chest.

  “Where’s your crutch? I’ll go get it for you.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Mmm. Mixed in with firewood somehow. I wonder who put it there.”

  “I see.”

  She nestled in closer to him. “You made that for me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should have used wood that wouldn’t smoke so much.”

  “Had I only known.” Gently, so lightly that she could barely feel it, he ran his fingers through her hair. To get to the Face where the hearthsflame grew, they would have to ascend the path the main plateau—not an easy trek, even for someone healthy—cross through half of town, and hike down some of the steeper goat paths.

  There was no way she could make it, even if she was at her best and still had her crutch. “Well, there’s nothing for it. I guess I’ll just have to carry you.”

  “Tharadis.” Her voice was quiet. “You know I can’t ask that of you.”

  “Whether or not you ask it, the answer is always yes.”

  He waited for her to nod before scooping up her legs. She winced, but schooled her face to calm. “All right. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  She watched his face the whole way. He didn’t dare watch hers back, not when she needed him to focus on the path ahead, where one tiny stumble could send her crashing to the ground. Even though not being able to look at her was a challenge, feeling her gaze upon his face was reward enough.

  The streets of Naruvieth were thronged with people. It was still high heat, but business was business and wouldn’t go away just because you broke a sweat. It was as crowded as Tharadis had ever seen it. People clotted the streets, and even a couple arguments broke out because people were stalled from reaching their destinations. Despite all that, the crowds parted around Tharadis as he carried Serena. A few of the faces in the crowd he recognized. He caught glimpses of their scandalized expressions out of the corner of his eye. He stared straight ahead, ignoring them as best he could, focusing on his goal instead. Besides, at that moment, only one pair of eyes mattered to him.

  With the sun beginnin
g its western descent, the Face was blanketed in long shadows. Even so, the flowers would be impossible to miss. Descending the goat paths along which they grew was a task, holding Serena as he was. There was more skidding on his butt than walking, and a few rocks went up the bottom of his tunic. One or two lodged themselves where Tharadis would rather they not be, and he had to accommodate his stride to suit his awkward situation. Serena laughed a little. She had earned the right, he supposed. He laughed, too, and endured. He would adjust himself soon enough, but he would have carried on this way until the end of time if he had to.

  Of course, he certainly wouldn’t prefer that.

  Serena released his neck with one of her arms and pointed. “There!” He had never heard so much excitement in her voice, or anyone else's.

  He would have missed them if she hadn’t pointed them out. True to their nature, they grew out of a split in the rock, with nothing but sand for soil. The vibrantly green stalks, though thin, stood erect, their warm red petals open, reaching desperately for the sky, for the light of the sun. A few rays touched them briefly, and they were triumphant.

  “Put me down, please. On my feet.”

  He did. And as if she were any other woman, she stood straight and tall, and stared in unfettered and naked awe.

  She wept.

  She laughed.

  She turned and drew his face to hers, touched their lips together briefly, and said, “Thank you.”

  Tharadis did not carry her home. But he did walk by her side the whole way there.

  * * *

  It was long past dark. No man who cared for propriety would be in a married woman’s home at this hour, especially not with her husband camped miles away, chasing bandits through the wilderness. Tharadis cared nothing of propriety, and everything of Serena.

  She reclined in her cushioned rocking chair. In her hands was a small lump of gray wood that she was whittling. She frowned as she did, though it seemed to be a little more than concentration to cause that expression. When he had first seen her take up the hobby, he had been worried about her causing injury to herself, but she was defter with that little knife of hers than he was at cooking. She had been at it for some time, working at it here and there, and had a few more irregular lumps of gray drywood in a basket next to her chair of roughly the same size. He wasn't sure what she was making, but it was vaguely egg-shaped. When he asked the last time he was here, she said she wasn't quite sure yet either, but that perhaps it was actually an oval, with a flower blooming inside. A flower that only the two of them could see.