by J. A. Comley
“I'm sorry,” Starla said sincerely, heat flooding her cheeks. “Please, forgive me.”
The High Lord smiled. “Forgiven,” he said, turning back to his form.
Starla thought of all the haunted eyes they had passed on the way to the aid tent. They didn't seem to hate the High Lord here, they were just instinctively fearful of his palpable power. She smiled. It would be a good place to see his true colours.
“Excellent,” Horato beamed as they handed their forms back a few minutes later. “Now a quick tour of the various aid tents and an explanation of the camp's layout. That way, you'll be ready to go as soon as you get here tomorrow.”
Starla walked beside him as they returned to the Shanebury Inn, her stomach rumbling softly. The sun was already setting and lunch had been replaced by learning everything about the refugee camp while Horato related a string of personal stories from his impressive seven thousand years, old even by Trianon standards. She hadn't complained once and had shown a capable mind with her questions and ability to retain the information she was given. By the end of the tour, she had been able to recognise the words for 'food', 'water' and 'clothes' without his assistance.
“Would you like to learn how to read and write Pareon? I'd be happy to teach you,” Larkel said suddenly, wanting a legitimate excuse to spend more time with her.
“I would like that very much,” she said, smiling, a light dancing in her eyes.
Larkel recognised the look. The excitement of new information, a chance to learn. He had the same insatiable curiosity. He smiled at the thought.
“I can teach you over breakfast every morning.”
“Excellent.”
“I'm sorry I can't accompany you to dinner, Starla,” the High Lord began again as they reached the inn. He felt fearful of leaving her. Perhaps, in the night, her seeing him kill today would make her shudder away from him like everyone else.
“It is really not a problem, High Lord,” Starla said, waving a hand, her kind smile lighting up her face. The shape of her lips seemed to pull at some long lost memory. “I want to get an early night. Tomorrow will be busy.”
“Yes,” he agreed, returning her smile, then continued in a rush. “There will be a Makhi outside your room all night. Just a precaution.”
Starla nodded. After all she had seen today, she didn't feel any anger or resentment. “I understand, High Lord.”
“You can just call me Larkel, there is no need to use my title all the time.”
Her eyes searched his face a moment, making him uncomfortably aware of his scars. Again he waited for the usual malice or amusement or blatant curiosity. It never came. Instead, he found only kindness and something else he couldn't quite place. Something that twisted his heart.
She smiled. “Have a good evening, Larkel.” She bowed.
“Have a good evening, Starla,” he said after a moment, finding his voice. The thrill that had gone through him when she had said his name had left him breathless. “See you early tomorrow. And please don't leave without me,” he said playfully, then regretted the words as Starla's smile vanished and her eyes filled with regret and chagrin. “I'm sorry. I was joking.”
Starla shook her head. “It's all right. It's not that. I was just … remembering. Another place.” She sighed. “See you tomorrow.” She turned to head into the Inn.
Larkel groaned, then sighed.
“Am I early for supper, High Lord?”
The High Lord spun around. “No, Redkin. You are right on time,” he said, finding a small smile for the old Makhi, more like a father to him than a colleague. “Shall we?”
“Yes,” Redkin smiled broadly, leading the way up the street to their favourite restaurant. “So, tell me, how was your first day watching the stranger?”
***
The Makhi on guard was a stern-looking woman with iron-grey hair and eyes the colour of dark chocolate. She had given Starla one curt nod then returned to her book. Starla closed her room door behind her and hoped the kitchen would send her dinner up soon. She rubbed her eyes, trying to get Raoul's voice out of her head. Don't leave without me. She couldn't keep feeling guilty about something she didn't choose to do. Although she knew she was guilty of giving him false hope. She should have been firmer. But that night, hurt and confused, she just hadn't been able to find her will. He had been the only true thing in a night of betrayal. Distractedly, she started opening her parcels, laying out the tunics.
A sharp knock at the door made her stomach growl in anticipation.
“Good evening, miss,” said the yellow-clad servant, entering and closing the door behind her, “I am Mrs Fla'ik Lanteg. Here is your dinner.”
“Thank you, Mrs Lanteg,” Starla said, gratefully taking the tray. Larkel had said that felwy stew was similar to lamb stew. Starla hoped he knew what he was talking about, though he had refused to tell her how he knew what lamb was.
She half smiled, remembering his mischievous grin.
“May I help you store those in the wardrobe?” Mrs Lanteg asked, noticing the mess of tunics and sleeping shifts covering the bed.
“Oh, thank you,” Starla said, setting down the tray and lifting the sky-blue tunic from the bed.
“These are lovely. Savianna's designs?”
“Yes,” Starla smiled, enjoying the opportunity for friendly chit-chat. She missed Elise.
“And with silk ribbons, too,” the servant whistled softly through her teeth. “You're the first foreigner here in a long time who has so much money.”
Starla felt her cheeks burn red. Curse the High Lord for not telling her they were expensive dresses. How was she supposed to know how much three roses is?
“Ah, I see,” Mrs Lanteg said, hanging the cream tunic between the light rose and the lilac. “They were … gifts?” she asked, the last words laden with hidden meaning.
She dropped her voice and gave the door a cursory look, as if she could see the Makhi beyond it.
Starla shrugged uncomfortably. “I guess so. The King wanted me to have proper Galatian clothing and the High Lord was charged with carrying it out.”
Mrs Lanteg smiled sadly, shaking her head. She turned back to the wardrobe.
“What?” Starla demanded, not liking the funeral cast to the woman's actions as she hung up the sea-green tunic.
“Oh, nothing, miss,” she bowed, heading for the door.
“Please, Mrs Lanteg, what is it?” Starla said, stepping in front of the servant.
Mistress Lanteg sighed, looking distressed. “If I speak, please don't tell him.” Her eyes darted fearfully to the door again.
“You mean the High Lord? Very well,” Starla agreed, dropping her voice to a whisper, too.
“It's just, well, I have a friend who works in the palace and she said that the King didn't order any of the things you are saying,” she whispered in a rush, wringing her hands. “My friend was there in the Hall of Justice. She heard the King. He asked the High Lord to speak to Horato over at the refugee camp to place you in a tent near where the Makhi Healers sleep. You were to be given the rough, brown tunics they wear.”
Starla looked down at her hands, still clutching the sky-blue tunic. Was anything the High Lord told her the truth? She remembered the King speaking to the High Lord and shaking his head as the High Lord had gestured to himself. Was this the cause? Had he truly chosen to defy the King's request? She felt the old anger rise inside her. Perhaps he was just a very good liar after all. But no, she couldn't be completely wrong about him. Sharing minds felt too intimate for him to lie completely. She looked up suspiciously as the maid continued.
“I thought you had petitioned the King because you had your own money. That's how you ended up here at this inn. But now … the High Lord must have contrived all this, himself. He must also be paying your bill.” She darted her eyes around the room, as if expecting a hidden spy to jump from behind the partition. “I would stop accepting his gifts if I were you, miss. His motives can't be good. He must want something from you. Apart from the o
bvious, of course.”
Starla blushed crimson. Anger and embarrassment flooded through her. He did want something. Just not what the servant was hinting at.
“Mark my words, young miss, he'll have another gift for you, soon. An even more expensive one. Now, please, I should go,” the servant said, looking genuinely terrified.
Starla nodded, unable to speak, and sank down on the bed as Mrs Lanteg shut the door behind her. Her mind was in chaos. She had learned on that night back on Earth not to believe everything she heard but the Sacrileons didn't trust him, either. Everyone seemed both fearful of and angry at the man, mostly afraid. Maybe she shouldn't trust him so easily. Similarly, the maid.
Sighing, Starla began to eat her food. It did, indeed, taste a bit like lamb. At least he was telling the truth about that.
Why wouldn't he tell me how he knew that?
Frustrated, she ended her meal and began to prepare for bed.
There was a knock at the door. Securing her night robe tightly over her new sleeping shift, Starla answered the door. Her thoughts on the High Lord were no less chaotic but now she was also angry at herself for letting the servant's words take root so easily.
“Mrs Lanteg!” Starla said, surprised to see the servant again so soon.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss. The High Lord requested I bring this up to you immediately,” she said formally, bowing and holding out a long box.
Hesitantly, Starla took the box from Mrs Lanteg and opened it. Inside were five Galatian-style hair clips, each bearing a jewel to match each of her new tunics. They were delicate things, with the gold intricately crafted into flowering vines.
Shutting the box firmly, Starla looked down at the dark-haired servant. Her eyes looked back at Starla, knowingly. She stilled her chaotic thoughts. The High Lord had said the enemy worked by sowing chaos. Perhaps this woman was one of his spies. Or perhaps she really was just a friendly servant trying to help out a stranger being beguiled by the terrifying High Lord. She would know what the High Lord was like better than Starla did. Or maybe not, if the mind-sharing was all it seemed.
Starla shook her head. Those thoughts were all “ifs”. Her decision would have to be based on something she knew for a fact. She glanced down at the clips again. They certainly looked expensive. She would not have felt comfortable accepting a gift like this from any man she barely knew, regardless of what anyone said of him.
“Could you please tell the High Lo...” Starla stopped as utter terror flooded the plump servant's eyes, even the Makhi guarding the door looked up from her book. “Could you please bring me some writing supplies?” she finished, moving back to the partition and taking the red tunic over to her bed, intending to fold it.
As she did, she noticed it was also a Savianna design but with no ribbon, an older fashion. On a whim, Starla ran her fingers over the neck-line of the sky-blue tunic still on her bed. The ribbon didn't appear to be sewn in place but, rather, threaded through the vine-like embroidery along the top of the neckline with only a few stitches holding the ends together. She moved quickly back to the door.
“And a pair of fabric scissors,” she called to Mrs Lanteg's retreating back before shutting it.
While she waited for the servant to return, Starla took out the other four tunics and laid them neatly on the bed. The ribbons would make perfectly decent hair ties. The half-up, half-down fashion favoured here would be impractical for working at the refugee camp, anyway. Nodding to herself, she carefully folded the loaned tunic and placed the box of hair clips on top of it.
“Come in,” she called at the knock on the door.
“Hello, Starla. I just wanted to see if you got the hair clips. The servant I gave it to said she'd given it to one of her colleagues.” Larkel stopped talking as Starla jumped to her feet, shock and poorly concealed agitation on her face. “I'm sorry. You did say come in,” he said, holding up his hands apologetically.
Starla shut her eyes and counted to ten. There it was again, the sincerity in his voice, the peaceful feeling that seemed to surround her when he was near, despite the electrical charge his magic left in the air. And he had said something else, too. He hadn't given the clips to Mrs Lanteg, but to another servant. So that had been a lie from Mrs Lanteg. Who to trust?
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and scooped up the box. She reminded herself that, whatever the case, she didn't feel comfortable accepting such an expensive gift from a man she barely knew. Even if she badly wanted to.
“I did receive them,” she began, working to make her voice smoother and more polite as she continued, “however, I can't accept them. It wouldn't be appropriate.” She gave him a small, apologetic smile. “Thank you very much for the thought, and they are beautiful, but I have no need for them. I would appreciate it if you refrained from bringing me any more gifts.” Her voice and eyes held only polite rejection as she held the box out to him. “Oh, and I will have the red tunic laundered and returned to you tomorrow.”
“Oh! Forgive me,” squeaked a timid voice from the door way. “I brought the things you requested, miss.” Keeping her eyes downcast, the unknown servant quickly placed everything on the bedside table, bowed, and scurried from the room like a frightened mouse.
Starla didn't blame her. The High Lord looked terrifying. His face was a mask of stone, indigo eyes cold as the first time she had seen them, muscles tensed. But before that all happened, Starla had seen genuine pain fill his eyes. Without a word, the High Lord took the box of clips and strode out the door, shutting it none-too-gently behind him.
Starla sank down on the bed, tears threatening to pour over. The pain in his eyes had been so deep and terrible. Shaking her tears away, Starla took a deep breath. She would have to figure him out for herself, starting tomorrow. Help him to see that it wasn't personal, just the result of her upbringing.
Chapter 8
Secrets and Silences
Larkel took the looking glass away from his eye. The image of Starla in the refugee camp vanished. Sighing, he turned to the stairs that led back down into his office within the dark tower along the Tower Wall.
It had been a week since the day he and Starla had spent together. Every morning he would send Redkin to meet her in the inn's common room and they would spend breakfast together as she learned the Pareon alphabet. In this way, he had been able to keep his promise to teach her without having to confront the awkwardness and embarrassment caused by his behaviour. She learned fast and soon wouldn't need Redkin any more. After the lesson was finished, Redkin would escort her to the camp, where other Makhi would keep an eye on her as she worked. Redkin would return here and Larkel would immediately request a mind link to replay that morning's memories.
He had been pleased to see the flicker of sadness in her eyes the first day Redkin showed up instead of him, but she had never once asked for an explanation from the old Makhi. They were growing closer every morning. Laughing and talking like old friends. It hurt to watch.
A stab of jealously flared up in his chest and Larkel quickly squashed it. It was his own fault they weren't spending time together. He had let his guard down too quickly, let his sense of her personality draw him into a vulnerable position. He didn't know how to explain his feelings to her properly. She had rejected his foolish advance, anyway. Groaning, he collapsed into his chair. This morning he had decided to go up to her room, unable to stay away. Closing his eyes, he remembered.
“High Lord,” Starla said, bowing and ever-formal. She hadn't used his name since that first night, not even on the few brief occasions they had crossed paths in the camp, “I am nearly ready.”
She looked resplendent in her rose tunic, with a ribbon of the same colour holding her hair in a neat plait trailing to her waist. Her starla pin had been clipped to the left side of the tunic like a name tag. She had stopped wearing the shawl altogether after the second day at the camp and no longer looked uncomfortable in the form-fitting Galatian wear.
“Actually, I want to speak w
ith you,” he said, trying to hide his uncertainty behind command and hating how cold his voice had sounded because of it.
She stepped back to let him in. He took two steps into the room and sealed the door behind him with a spell to prevent eavesdropping.
“Starla, I need to know what happened. Why you were so cold—” he began, all the carefully planned words vanishing as her emerald eyes watched him critically.
***
Starla flexed her shoulders as she put down the heavy food basket she was carrying and looked around, hopefully. The Makhi who was watching her today was sitting in the shade nearby, testing new food supplies for poison and sealing others so that they would not rot, fanning herself with one hand. Silently, she cursed to herself. Of course the High Lord wouldn't be here, yet. It was too early. He came at lunch time and stayed for the rest of the day. She had watched him work as she took her break. Every moment he worked made the servant's words seem like more of a lie. Every word proving her own instincts about him true. All his actions and all his words drew her to him. He showed complete selflessness as he worked among the refugees. He never tired, moving back and forth between them, working as hard as any servant. She had nearly laughed out loud, seeing him sitting in the dirt with a small group.
“Hello, miss Starla,” a timid voice said at her elbow, drawing her back to the present.
“Aferion,” Starla greeted the young Cosmaltian man, her mind not fully in the conversation.
“I asked everyone at the meeting yesterday,” he began and Starla felt her heart quicken. She had asked his father to enquire after any humans living in Cosmaltia who had been expecting a baby. Or any Cosmaltians, for that matter.
She gave him her full attention and noticed that his dichromatic eyes held regret.
“No one knows any who fit your criteria even among those who are unaccounted for.” His voice held deep sadness, like everyone else's here. “I am sorry.”