by ML Spencer
“Please. Don’t go,” Aram whimpered.
“Fine.” Markus sighed, walking back to the center of the cavern. “I’ll stay a little bit longer. But I do have to go soon.”
“Thank you,” Aram whispered, looking at the ground between Markus’s feet.
A long silence followed, during which Markus’s gaze roamed the hundreds of knots in the cavern while Aram just stood staring at the ground.
“This is so much work,” Markus said, prompted by a need to fill the empty space. “I can’t imagine. What inspired you to do all this?”
Aram looked up, though not at him. His gaze narrowly missed Markus’s face, instead looking off to the side. “I needed a place to organize them. To keep them all straight.”
“But … why knots? Why not something else? Like … something practical? Or interesting?”
Aram looked crushed. “Knots are the most practical and interesting things in the world!”
“How’s that?” Markus truly didn’t understand. Knots were just knots, just everyday things. No one ever gave a second thought to them.
Aram looked at him with an incredulous expression. “Knots are everything! I mean, everyone’s life depends on them! Look at your clothes. The fabric’s made out of little knots. Your trousers are tied with a knot. If you think about it, all of civilization is held together by knots!”
Markus didn’t think Aram had taken a breath the whole while all those words had been tumbling out of his mouth. “So … how did you … discover knots?”
Aram’s cheeks flushed, and he glanced down. “Ma says my hands are busy. I used to tap on things, but she couldn’t abide it. So she started giving me pieces of string to fiddle with. That’s when I started tying knots.”
Markus indicated the expanse of the cavern with a broad motion of his hand. “What are you going to do when you outgrow this cave?”
“Someday I’m going to be a sailor, and I’m going to sail around the world and search for every knot there is.”
Somehow, Markus had no doubt that Aram could accomplish exactly that. “And what are you going to do when you learn all the knots that exist?”
Aram looked crestfallen. His gaze dropped back to the ground and, for a moment, he seemed on the verge of tears. “I don’t have enough years in my life to learn every knot that exists.”
Markus had no idea what to say to that, and another long gap of silence followed, during which his thoughts turned back to the inspections he was supposed to be making, fearing his father’s anger if he didn’t get them done in time. He shifted awkwardly, made uncomfortable by the heaviness between them.
“I’m sorry, Aram. I have to get back.”
The boy nodded, wiping his nose. Softly, he whispered, “Will you be my friend?”
Markus managed a smile. “I thought we already were friends.”
For a moment Aram just stood there staring at him, his eyes filling with moisture. Then he rushed forward and slammed into him, catching Markus up in a crushing bearhug that made him stagger. Taken off guard, Markus didn’t know how to respond, so he stood with his arms out, feeling wretchedly uncomfortable. But pity finally got the better of him, and he let his arms drop, returning the embrace.
By the time he got back to the village gates, Markus was so anxious that his stomach felt like it had rocks tumbling around in it. A stifling fear had hold of his chest, and a sweat had broken out on his forehead. He’d been gone a long time, far longer than he ever should have been.
He turned up the dusty road between huts, at last arriving at his own home, which stood in the corner of the village. It was built entirely of wood, two stories tall, with six different rooms and even a stable out back. His father owned the biggest fishing fleet on the North Coast, and he was the wealthiest man in Anai. He was also a merciless taskmaster and an unbridled drunkard.
Quivering, Markus pushed the front door open slowly, carefully, taking pains not to let it squeal on its hinges. In the end, it didn’t matter. His father was standing across the room, a cup of grog in one hand, a thick length of tarred rope in the other.
“Where you been, boy?” His voice was heavy with drink.
“I’m sorry…” Markus whispered, his eyes fixed on the rope.
Chapter Three
Aram rushed through the streets of Anai, his spirits lifted higher than the treetops, face flushed with excitement, for he had a friend! An actual friend—a true friend!—who hadn’t called him simple or odd and had taken the time to admire his collection. It had been so long since someone had paid him any mind. Back when he was six, Paite the miller’s son had been his friend. But then, one day, Paite had stopped wanting to play. Aram had never understood why. He’d asked Paite many times if he’d done something wrong, but Paite refused to answer, no matter how hard Aram begged and apologized.
No one else had ever taken an interest in him. When the boys of the village collected in circles for games, they would just ignore him, even when he sat down right behind them or tried to press his way into the ring. Some boys would simply avoid him, while others would make sport of him. Others, like Jory, went much further, though Aram never understood why. He knew he was different; he just wished he understood how. There was something about him that put other people off, and he had no idea what it could be.
Over the years, he’d tried to change everything about himself. He grew his hair out. He cut it short. He tried smiling all the time. He tried not smiling ever. Either way, nobody noticed. He’d asked his ma what she thought was the problem, but all she would ever say on the matter was that he was just like his da and left it at that.
Aram didn’t like hearing that. Thinking about his father hurt, and often made him cry. Because, just like everyone else, his da hadn’t wanted him—so much so that Darand Raythe had fled the village and left everything behind, including his beloved wife.
Aram didn’t know what was wrong with him. He only knew it must be terrible to drive even a father away. Every time he thought about it, he ended up with a big knot in his throat. No, not a knot—he’d be able to untie that. The emotions that always strangled him were a horrific tangle.
But now he finally had a friend, and that made all the difference in the world.
When Aram reached his cottage, his mother wasn’t there. The goat was on the turf roof again, which was supposed to be his problem, but he hated getting it down. The goat always jumped onto the roof from the hill behind their house to nibble the new shoots of grass. It could get back down but, sure as fate, the spindly-legged thing usually forgot how. This time, it stood up there on the edge of the roof, legs splayed, bleating at him emphatically.
So he climbed. Aram pulled himself up onto the stone wall that rimmed the village, which buttressed the hill behind his house. From there, he jumped down onto the soggy muck on the other side that stuck to his sandals and made oozing noises when he walked. He climbed the hill to its apex, his muddy feet slipping on the new grass, and from there jumped down to the roof. The small goat was black and white and bearded, and when it saw him it lowered its head, looking to ram him. It took him a few attempts to corner it, as the goat had a way of dashing past. When he scooped it up in his arms, the goat struggled and tried to bite.
“Hey, now!” he gulped. He’d already taken enough beatings for one day.
With the goat in his arms, he slid from the roof to the wall and from the wall to the ground. With one last, human-sounding bleat, the goat jumped down, butted him in the thigh, then trotted off. Aram stood picking straw off his sweater with a smile, thinking of his new friend.
Aram spent the rest of the afternoon telling his ma about Markus, to which she replied, “Hmm” before scrubbing at his face with her kerchief.
The night passed slowly, for he couldn’t sleep, he was so excited. He was up until the wee hours, rolling around in the straw, and then he slept too late the next morning and woke to find the hut empty. There was a bucket of clean water by the hearth, and his ma had left him a plate of
bread and cheese. He settled down on the rush-strewn floor and stuck his bare feet near the fireplace to warm them. The fire in the hearth was never allowed to die; his ma kept the embers alive by covering them with ashes overnight then rekindled them in the morning.
Aram arranged his bread and cheese on his plate the way he liked to eat it: the cheese on one side and the bread on the other, all perfectly aligned. One slice of bread had the crust torn off, so he tore the crust off the other piece, so that they matched. Only after he was sure everything was neat and symmetrical did he start eating: first, all the bread. Then, the cheese. After breakfast, he pulled on a soft linen shirt and then set off to find his ma, hurrying through the dirt streets past villagers feeding chickens, drawing water, or hauling sacks of flour and armloads of straw.
He found his ma in the space behind Nedam Brahm’s house, carding wool with the usual crowd of goodwives, who sat on low stools around a large fire built to heat pots of boiling water. With her was Mistress Brahm, an older woman who was terminally exhausted from bringing a dozen children into this world. There was also Mother Groon, who was prone to fainting whenever Aram showed her a pet salamander or toad. And then there was Miss Bomeu, who had a long, narrow face only a horse could love. She’d been betrothed to Darden Walen, at least until Darden loudly proclaimed his love for another—any other—and departed forthwith for the city. Aram felt bad for Miss Bomeu.
“Where you been, lad?” his ma exclaimed. She was sitting on a stool in the corner of the hay-strewn lot, brushing wool between two fine-toothed paddles. “Get over here!”
Aram scampered forward and stopped before her, hands locked behind his back, hips twisting slightly back and forth. Mistress Braham inclined her head in greeting, a tart look on her face. She sat dry-picking lumps of wool, pulling the fibers apart handful by handful and separating out bits of hay and debris.
“Where you been, I asked!” Ma demanded.
“I overslept,” Aram admitted.
“Overslept. Hmm.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, you’re here. Now, start washing fleece!”
With a groan, Aram went to the pile of sacks where the raw wool was kept. Mister Braham purchased fleece from the low country, where sheep wool grew longer and thicker. Most of the fleece produced were bundled and carted to the port cities, where they were sold at wool markets. It was said that the Abadian Empire was built on wool, slavery, and opium. Aram had always wondered about that, because wool seemed too soft to build anything on, and he didn’t know what opium was.
Pulling out a raw fleece bigger than he was, Aram tore it apart and placed half onto a rug that had been laid out for the purpose. He then searched the fleece until he found the part that had once covered the sheep’s backside and began plucking out pieces of caked-on dung with his fingers. He settled in and got comfortable, knowing he’d be at it for a while.
“There’s a new governor in Telibak,” said Mistress Brahm, who would know because Mister Brahm made frequent visits to the city. “It’s said that he’s ambitious, and that he’s a whore of the Exilari. His men have been sacking villages up and down the North Coast.”
Aram’s ma nodded absently, intent on the carders in her hands, using long strokes to comb one over the other. Her gaze flicked up and met Aram’s for just a moment before jerking back again to her work.
“My father thinks the bard’s come spreading seeds of insurrection,” said Miss Bomeu, looking up from her wet picking.
“Your father wouldn’t know an ass from a bull’s foot,” proclaimed Mother Groon.
Miss Bomeu shrugged. “Still, you have to admit, it’s odd timing.”
“Rubbish!” snapped Mistress Brahm, looking scandalized. “Ebra of Starn does nothing more than remind us of who we are and where we come from. The Imperials have always seen us as a threat—that’s nothing new. They’re scared shitless and witless of the Old Blood. And the Exilari have hardly helped. All they do is brood in their cellars and stir the pot.”
Aram’s ears perked at mention of the Old Blood.
“Obviously, you haven’t met an Exilari sorcerer,” rasped Mother Groon. “Believe me, they can do far more than just stir a pot.”
“That’s enough,” Aram’s ma snapped, lowering her carders and looking sharply from face to face. “This is not a conversation for young ears.”
Aram was sure she meant his ears, even though they weren’t any younger than the rest of him.
His ma waved him away with a broad sweep of her carder. “Off with you, boy. Just make sure you’re home by supper. And stay away from ruffians!”
Aram was torn. He hated not finishing something he started, but he was filled with a thrill of excitement, for he would be able to visit his new friend. In the end, he obeyed his mother, though leaving all that wool made him feel agitated. As he scrambled out of the circle of women, he heard Mother Groon mumble, “You shouldn’t trust him alone, Marna. Just look at his face!”
He didn’t hear his ma’s reply, for he was off, rushing through the streets past rows of huts and cottages. He jogged past the farrier’s and the leatherworks, where Mister Ranner toiled all day tooling leather. He ran all the way to the other side of the village, where Markus lived alone with his father.
His new friend wasn’t in the stable yard, so he walked up to the window of the house and leaned inside, peering into the dim interior. But he didn’t see Markus there either. Instantly disappointed, Aram decided to go looking for him. He tried the stable first, which was empty, save for two carthorses and Mister Galliar’s prized courser. Then he went down to the wharf, where the fishing fleet was moored, but the boats were out, and Markus wasn’t there either.
He was about to give up and retreat to his cave when he saw his new friend walking up the lane, back hunched under the weight of a small fishing net, which was still an enormous weight for one boy to carry. He looked to be struggling, so Aram ran to him and took half the net onto his own shoulders. Sweat streaming from his brow, Markus nodded his thanks. Aram helped him lug the net back to the yard beside the stable, where they put it down and laid it out to repair. It was only when Aram put the net down that he noticed that Markus’s face was pinched in a peculiar way, and he was moving stiffly.
“You’re in pain,” he said.
It wasn’t a question, for Aram knew the look of someone in pain. He’d once had a hard time telling one emotion from another, but then his ma had started pointing out the expressions on people’s faces in different situations, which had helped a lot.
“I’m fine,” Markus muttered, but that just confused Aram more.
“You’re in pain,” he repeated, wondering why his new friend would lie to him.
Markus closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, puffing out his lips. “Yes, I’m in pain. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” said Aram, glad he’d been right, but saddened Markus wasn’t feeling well. He had a suspicion that Markus’s father had given him a beating. Baldur Galliar was a cruel man. Aram knew this, for his aura was indigo.
“Do you want a dram of whiskey?” Aram asked, for that’s what his ma always wanted whenever her hands ached.
“No.” Markus gave him a funny look. “I’ve got to mend this net and get it back before supper.”
Aram perked up immediately, for mending nets was what he did best. The nets the fishermen used were made of nettle-hemp and used only two types of knots: the clove hitch and the sheet bend. Not his favorite knots, as there wasn’t much to them, but they were serviceable knots and therefore worthy of respect. So he sat with Markus in the dirt of the yard, each with a part of the net spread across his lap, and got right to work.
By the time Markus was finished with his first section and started moving on to the next, Aram was already finishing his third section. He was starting to feel anxious, because the whole time they sat there, Markus hadn’t said one word, and his motions were stiff and mechanical. From the way Markus kept shifting his weight from one hip to the other, A
ram thought maybe there was something wrong with his back, but Markus had said he didn’t want to talk about it, so he kept quiet.
“Did you know the bard is performing this afternoon?” Markus asked at last.
“Uh-uh,” Aram muttered, close to finishing his portion of net.
“He’ll be in the market. If we can get done on time, maybe we can go see him?”
“Uh-huh.” Aram redoubled his effort, knowing that seeing the bard was important to Markus. His fingers flew through the knots, weaving as furiously as they could, never tiring. It took him only another couple of minutes to finish his half of the net and most of Markus’s.
Markus laid the heavy net across his lap, staring wide-eyed at Aram. “How did you do that so fast?”
Aram didn’t know what to make of the look on Markus’s face. He thought the expression was either fear or surprise, though he couldn’t tell which. He hoped Markus wasn’t afraid of him. He became panicked, worried that he’d done something wrong, just like he always did.
“What’s wrong?” he gulped. “What did I do?”
“Nothing.” Markus’s eyes were still wide. He shook his head slowly. “Nothing. You did everything right, Aram.”
A euphoric relief swept over Aram, so strong it made him dizzy. He let out a great, long sigh, sagging visibly.
“Let me just get this net back.” Markus folded the net and heaved it over his shoulder with a grimace of pain. “I’ll meet you at the market.”
“Let me help you,” Aram offered.
“No. I’d better do it myself. I’ll meet you there.”
Disappointed, Aram left Markus to his net and wandered back toward the center of the village. He found the marketplace swarming with a crowd of people, all waiting for the bard to make his appearance. He drew up at the back of the crowd, straining to look over the heads of the people in front of him, toward the wood platform the men of the village had erected for the bard to perform on.