by Ila Mercer
Most nights, perhaps to ease his guilt, Lars joined Ari - telling yarns, bringing a bottle of fire water to share. Ari only pretended to drink the fire water. He did not like the way it burned his throat or made his head spin. So, Lars usually drank the entire bottle by himself. Consequently, the guards would carry him out when it was time to lock Ari in.
On the day after his arrival at the Keep, Ari was taken to the library by Lars. It seemed a curious room to Ari at first, for he could not understand its purpose but then Lars explained that the rectangular objects lining the shelves were books. And books, he explained, contained the symbols that could be made into words.
At first, Ari could not stand the smell of the place. The residue of dead animals filled the air – which Lars explained was the leather covers of the books and though Ari was keen to learn, it saddened him that the Dracs tainted even this action with death.
Lars was not a good teacher. He became distracted and often left on the excuse that he needed to attend to business of one sort or another. Sometimes he lasted until lunchtime, but often he left long before this and then Ari would struggle on alone, trying to decipher the strange symbols.
‘You’ll get eye strain if you don’t take a break,’ Lars would say. ‘Come for a walk in the forest. Have a decent break. Allow some of what you have learned to sink in.’
But Ari would merely shake his head. He did not have the luxury of time. He had only six moons until the judgement. Then he would know if he was allowed his freedom.
*
It was a week after living at the Keep, that Ari ventured from the library. He was making slow progress, and it seemed to him that the Brother Sneet had set an impossible task – knowing that he must fail. He decided perhaps Lars was right after all, that he was trying to force the learning, rather than allowing it to seep quietly into his being.
Lars was delighted. ‘We will go hunting,’ he said.
‘Then I don’t wish to come,’ Ari replied.
‘No, no,’ Lars said shaking his head. ‘I meant mushroom hunting. There was a nice rainfall a couple of days ago. Not that you would know, with your nose stuck in a book all day. So we’re bound to find some mushrooms by the creek. It will be a nice treat for our guests this evening.’
‘Guests?’
‘The Sia’s from Yawmouth. They arrived late last night.’
‘They are women?’
Lars laughed. ‘Oh, they are much more than that. Sia Katarin is heir to a massive fortune and her cousin, Sia Mika, is a young and comely widow.’
They struck out after breakfast, with Yaron riding on Lars’s shoulders. The small boy was very stern, never smiling and still mute. But his eyes were everywhere, and Ari was certain nothing escaped his notice. Curiously the boy’s gaze did not linger longer on Ari than they did on anything else. He seemed unaware of Ari’s origins, unlike others in the Keep. That morning, as the trio passed through the courtyard, maids had tittered, the smith had paused at the forge and the stable boys had stared, gawp-mouthed.
Once they were striding across the field, with a couple of hounds at their heels, Ari grew easier again. He stooped to pick up sticks and rocks along the way.
‘What are you doing?’ Lars asked, after Ari had gathered his third stone.
Ari tucked the stones into his pocket. ‘It’s a habit,’ he replied, deflating slightly. Yes, who would read his signs now? This country was as mute as the boy.
Before long they came to the stream. The dogs snuffled and wuffed, as they chased a scent down the bank. Yaron climbed down from his father’s shoulders, plucked a long stick from a fallen tree, and began to swish it through the long grass.
‘Over here,’ Lars called to Yaron, and the small boy stopped and turned. ‘I found a huge one. You can pick it if you want,’ Lars said, trying to infect the boy with his excitement. Yaron trotted over to his father, plucked the mushroom, and slid it into the mouth of the bag. But he did not look his father in the eye. He turned away and began his sweeping with the stick again.
Lars stared after his son. His eyes full of longing, full of hurt. It was painful to watch.
By midmorning they had filled their bag with an assortment of mushrooms and began their return to the Keep.
Under the warmth of the sun, Ari felt sweat trickle down his face. It made the stubble on his cheeks itch. ‘How do you bear this?’ He asked Lars.
‘What?’
‘The way this feels?’ He said tearing at the light stubble with his nails. ‘It is unnatural to scrape the hair from the face. It leaves my skin red and raw.’
Lars, whose flirtation with a beard had lasted two days at the Keep, replied. ‘You’ll become accustomed to it. Just stop your scratching. It’s making it worse.’
‘There are some things I will never understand about your people,’ Ari said, giving his cheek one final brush.
‘If you think this strange, then you should see what the women folk have to put up with.’
*
After they handed their bag of mushrooms over to the kitchen maids, Lars encouraged Ari to continue with him. ‘You’ve seen so little of the Keep since your arrival. And you need to broaden your education – a man does not gain wisdom by book learning alone. That’s in the Cartal, you know?’
‘Very well,’ Ari replied. ‘I am weary of words.’
‘Good. I’m keen to show you around. With your fresh set of eyes, you help me to see things in a different light. In return I shall tutor you this afternoon. Win, win.’
‘Win, win,’ Ari said with resigned smile. He wondered how long Lars would last at the books. But Lars had a point, how was he to understand these people unless he joined them? Hiding in a room with a candle and a book taught him little about Dracodia and its customs.
They started their tour in the western wing of the Keep by climbing a curving staircase to the second floor and entered a room filled with light. Someone had opened three of the tall sashed windows and the curtains swayed like great strands of sea grass in an ocean current. Blossom scent drifted into the room from the nearby orchard and, in the far corner seated near a closed window, five women bent over their laps. They looked up as Lars and Ari entered.
The woman closest to the window smiled and beckoned for them to come closer. She had hair unlike anything he had ever seen – as though made of fire. She put down her sewing and rose to greet them, while the other women averted their eyes and busily continued to strike the cloth between their fingers.
She was beautiful, in a simple way. Since coming to the Keep, Ari had noticed that many of the women made a great fuss of their hair, their clothes, even the expressions they wore on their faces. Always they were guarded in his presence, and he did not know if it was because they feared him or whether they were always like this. However, the young woman who rose to greet them was different, she held his gaze. As she approached, Ari noted that her eyes were like the vivid green of new leaves and her cheeks were freckled, though he had not yet learned the word that described this phenomenon. She wore her hair loose and plain so that it hung prettily about her oval shaped face and dressed in a modest cream shift without any attempt to draw attention to the size of her waist or breasts. When she moved, it was with the unrehearsed elegance of a cat and her smile completely disarmed him. She could not know who he was, Ari decided, or she would not be so forthcoming.
‘Katarin,’ Lars said, hands outstretched. ‘Sias,’ he said, acknowledging the others.
Katarin took Lars’s hands and pressed his fingers before dropping back. Now that they were close, she was a little shyer, glancing at Ari with a hint of the smile still lingering on her lips.
‘You must be Ari,’ she said, meeting his eyes briefly. ‘Senna Jogan regaled us with tales of your heroism.’
Ari could feel the heat rise in his cheeks and he suddenly felt foolish. What was he thinking? Allowing himself to be swept away by one friendly smile- a Drac woman too - yet he was at a loss for words.
‘Ari, this is
Sia Katarin. From Yawmouth. Her father owns the largest fleet this side of the South Seas.’
So not only was she a Drac, he thought. Her family were also responsible for much of his people’s misery.
‘Yes,’ she said, following on from Lars’s comment. A troubled expression flit across her features.
‘Ari, Yaron and I went into the forest this morning and gathered a large bag of mushrooms,’ Lars said, including the others now. ‘And they will be served for dinner this evening.’
‘What a treat,’ Katarin said, smiling once more. ‘They’re Mika’s favourite, aren’t they?’ She turned to face the raven-haired woman who had sat closest to her.
‘As long as they know how to spot the difference between a toadstool and a mushroom,’ Mika said, with one brow raised.
‘Oh,’ Lars said, clutching his heart. ‘You wound me with your doubt. I am the best fungus huntsman in Dracodia. But I can’t vouch for my friend here.’
‘Then I will have to nibble with care,’ Mika said, letting her lip curl into a half-smile.
She was the comely cousin, Ari realised, whose mate had died. She was striking too, more like the women of his own land with her dark eyes, high cheekbones and proud chin. And yet there was a delicacy to her nose and brow that balanced the strength of her other features.
‘How are your studies progressing?’ Katarin asked Ari. ‘Senna Jogan told us that you are teaching yourself to read Drac.’
‘Well enough,’ Ari replied. He did not want to admit how much of a struggle it had been.
‘And Lars is tutoring you?’
‘He’s a fine teacher,’ Ari replied.
‘I can’t imagine that,’ Katarin said with a laugh. ‘Sorry Lars, but I remember how it was when we were children. You were always sneaking off when your tutor wasn’t watching.’
‘I admit it,’ Lars said, holding up his hands. ‘I don’t love the book. Not when there are so many other things I could be doing.’
‘I could help, if you wished,’ Katarin offered.
Ari began to shake his head.
‘She’s a very good teacher,’ Lars interjected. ‘In the years when she lived here, she got me out of many tight corners with my tutor.’
‘It’s a very generous offer,’ Ari said, ‘But…
‘I won’t take no for an answer,’ she said, pinning him with that disarming smile again.
‘Well, thankyou,’ Ari replied, dropping his eyes. He hated the effect she had on him. It immobilised his body while churning his innards.
‘I can help this afternoon, if you wish,’ she said.
‘Of course, he wishes,’ Lars leapt in.
It was such a speedy response that Ari realised Lars was only too eager to offload the burden of his promise.
‘You’re in better hands, my friend,’ Lars said, with a shrug.
‘Then I am lucky,’ Ari replied.
‘And anyway, I have little to do at present,’ Katarin said. ‘At home, Papa would have me balancing his ledgers or scribing his letters, but here I am expected to sit and sew. And there is only so much of that a maiden can take.’
‘See, she is a wit too,’ Lars said. ‘We are lucky she is soon to be part of the family.’
Ari turned to Lars in surprise. ‘I’m glad that Yaron will have a mother again.’
‘Oh no,’ Lars laughed, shaking his head. ‘She is intended for Worrel.’
At this Katarin bowed her head. And though Ari could not see her expression, he saw signs in her body. Her shoulders had turned rigid, like a gazelle ready for flight.
*
For the rest of their tour Ari’s thoughts kept returning to Katarin. She was not the first pretty woman he had ever seen, but there was something about her that unsettled and intrigued him. She had been playful, warm, open - until the mention of her betrothal. Then she had tensed. But why? What was she afraid of, he wondered.
‘Whatever possessed him to pull it apart?’ Lars said, scooping something from a bowl on the mantle piece.
They were in the nursery but there was no evidence of Yaron. About the room there were many objects, including a black lacquered horse that rocked, a series of wooden blocks with the Drac symbols painted on each face, dolls of various sizes, a small set of table and chairs, books and more books. In his village at home, the children played with sticks, stones, water and sand. They played in the trees, they played on the beach, but most importantly they played with each other. Yaron’s room though abundant with treasures seemed poor in the ways that truly mattered.
Ari came forward to peer into Lars’s hands. In his palm, he held a pile of metal scatterings and a silver body, finely detailed to resemble that of a bird.
‘What is it?’ Ari asked.
‘A nightingale. When you wind the lever, it sings – or it used to, I should say.’ He shook his head. ‘And now it appears to be ruined. His mama brought it back from the markets of Lacnor city for him a year ago.’
‘Perhaps it can be fixed,’ Ari said.
Lars shook his head again. ‘One would need tools, or fingers nimbler than you or I possess.’
‘Can I try, at least?’ Ari said.
Just then a nursemaid bustled into the room. She dipped her head, when she noticed Lars. ‘Sorry Senna,’ she said. ‘I di’nt mean to disturb you.’ Then she noted what Lars held in his hand. ‘He cried for a week after doing that.’
‘Why did he break it? It was his favourite toy.’
The nursemaid shrugged. ‘He di’nt say. But he rarely says a word nowdays, anyway.’
‘What? He has spoken to you?’
‘Very little,’ the nursemaid said. ‘Mostly when he’s dead tired. It’s like he forgets that he’s not allowed to speak.’
‘Not allowed to speak?’ Lars’s voice rose. ‘Who told him he couldn’t speak?’
‘Why you, Senna,’ she blushed as she said it, and averted her eyes.
‘That’s preposterous. I said no such thing,’ Lars exploded.
‘Yes Senna. Sorry I di’nt mean to cause offence. Perhaps I should come back to tidy later.’
‘Yes, perhaps you should,’ Lars huffed, and the nurserymaid retreated with haste.
Once they were alone again, Lars released a great rush of air. ‘The gall of her… I would never tell my son he was not allowed to speak. Why, I implore him to speak to me all the time.’
‘Children often get confused by the things we tell them. Is there anything you could have said that would make him think he was not allowed to speak?’
Lars rattled his head again. ‘Nothing I can think of.’
‘About his mama perhaps?’
‘Of course not.’ He snapped the words like they were pellets being fired from a thunder stick.
Ari decided to use more tact. ‘I’m sure he will speak again. At least you know that he can now – that he is not impaired.’ What he really wanted to say was this: your boy is grieving. It was so obvious. And the fact that Yaron had pulled apart a cherished gift, given by his mama, had to mean something. ‘I would like to fix the nightingale,’ Ari offered once more. ‘If it can be repaired perhaps you can give it to him at bedtime, when his guard is at his lowest. Maybe then he will speak to you about what’s in his heart.’
‘If that could get my son to speak again, I would be forever indebted.’ Lars said as he transferred the pile of springs, rods, cogs and metal plates into Ari’s waiting palm.
Twice over, thought Ari, but did not say it.
*
That afternoon, while Ari waited in the library for Katarin to appear, his stomach churned again. Why did it do that? He wondered with annoyance. There could never be anything between them. She was betrothed and, even more importantly, she was Dracodian.
As he waited, his eyes wandered over now familiar objects – the green glass vase on the side table brimming with freshly picked lillies, a small brass statue of a bull on the mantle, the rows and rows of books in cases that towered all the way to the ceiling. By the window sat
an overstuffed chair that reminded Ari of a squatting toad. And, of course, the desk where he worked by the light of a candle, now had two chairs, side by side. After a couple of days of being in the room for hours and hours he had ceased to notice these things and now it made him realize how quickly he had settled into this new pattern of life. He wondered what his mother was doing right now. Was she scraping metta from the bower tree? Or perhaps she was pounding dolla grains into flour. The children would be down at the river, pulling tikker from the slow flowing part of the stream. In daylight hours so much of their life was bent to the task of food production or building or making clothes. They had little time for idleness, except after dark.
He sighed as he opened his book to a fresh page and began to practise the curving letters. He had decided he would not only learn to read the strange symbols. He would reproduce them too, so that he might write a journal about everything he observed. There were many things that repulsed and confounded him about the Dracodian way of life, but he was starting to see that it had its merits too, and he could imagine that some of the things he was learning might benefit his people. If he ever managed to return to them.
A gentle tapping at the door interrupted Ari’s musing. And then Katarin appeared. She smiled tentatively at him as she entered.
Despite his intention to remain aloof, Ari could feel his stomach dive again. She was even lovelier than he remembered.
Behind Katarin, another entered. It was Mika, with a sewing basket slung over the crook of her elbow. She nodded at Ari and then settled into the toady chair by the window.
‘I see you have already made a start,’ Katarin said.
‘Oh, this,’ Ari said, turning the page, ‘it’s nothing.’
‘Can I see?’ Katarin asked, as she lowered into the chair beside him.
Reluctantly Ari turned the page back. He felt embarrassed as he looked at his scrawls.
‘Show me how you hold your – Oh, you use a reed pen. Why not a quill? You don’t need to dip it as often as the reed.’
‘I prefer the reed,’ he answered, not wanting to explain that he could not in good conscience use an instrument that was plucked from its rightful owner.