Alisiyad

by Sarah R. Suleski

  “Thanks.” She took it and drank. The water was brackish tasting. It was a far cry from the Chaiorra River, but their path had led them away from it, and it was hidden behind some hills to the west. According to Martilia, the river would angle back toward them the closer they got to Elharan. Liseli wished it was close enough to run down to right now and wash the taste of well water from her mouth. She handed the ladle back to Russ, and glanced over at the Alisiyans as he drank again. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to the otherworlders, instead busily eating so as to be on their way again. She would like to share some of their food, but found that she liked being with Russ apart from them for the moment. She had something to say to him, which made her feel awkward, but she needed to say it.

  “Um, Russ.” She paused to scratch her shoulder. “I’m glad that you’re here.”

  He stopped with the ladle halfway to his mouth; his eyebrows went up and he blinked for a moment. “Really?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s nice to have s-someone who’s at least familiar.” Suddenly her neck itched, too. “Otherwise, you know, it would be really weird.” She’d wanted to say that having him around made her feel safer around the strangers, but just couldn’t get it out.

  Russ shrugged and ducked his head. “Sure.”

  “And I was thinking; this really could be worse.” She lifted the other corner of her mouth in a smile. “I could have come here with Jim . . . or Glenn. I would have killed Glenn by now, I really would have.”

  He’d started to swirl the ladle around the bucket as she talked. “Hmm. I believe that,” he said to the water.

  “Ha.” She threw a mock punch at his arm.

  Russ let go of the ladle, and reached out to touch her elbow, tentatively. “Liseli, I’m glad you’re with me too,” he said. “If it wasn’t for you I’d be face down in a puddle. Thanks.” He dropped his hand from her arm.

  Liseli cocked her head to the side and grinned. “Yes, I did almost throw out my back dragging you to the river. You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll try not to be as useless now that I’m not sick anymore,” he promised.

  She rolled her eyes. “I already told you that you’re not useless.”

  “Guess I just wanted to hear it again.”

  He was, she could tell, working up the courage to try kissing her a second time. Not in front of the Alisiyans, she thought, darting a glance toward them before she turned her face away from Russ. She still wasn’t sure if she wanted to let him kiss her again; what had happened a few hours ago had been so sudden, and it was too much to think about on top of everything else. She shouldn’t have made him drink from her hands, what a silly stupid thing that was!

  “Would you like to eat with us?” Martilia called out to them, and Liseli was glad for the interruption. She’d said hurtful things to Russ in the past, she knew, but right now she just didn’t want to reject him outright, though neither did she want to add more encouragement to what she’d already given. Not until she’d had more time to think. Later, when they were home again, she would give it more thought.

  “Come on, let’s eat.” She slid down from the stones and went over to join their new hosts.

  Liseli and Russ had learned a few more things about the Alisiyans from the women as they walked that morning. Oan and Ivira’s father had died within the last year — of a sickness Martilia did not specify. The mother had been a weak woman, according to Halla. She had barely survived Oan’s birth and died after Ivira’s. So she had been dead for many years, and was not remembered by Oan. Halla called herself “something of a healer” in the valley, and she had tended to both parents. Pillari and Martilia were taking the children to the festival in the Elharan for the first time in their young lives. Martilia said they hoped it would cheer them and take their minds off of their recent loss. Pillari, Martilia told them, was the leader of the small mountain village they came from.

  Liseli thought that the situation explained why the children referred to Pillari and Martilia as Grandfather and Granamae. The children must view them as old because they were in a position of power, and they had taken the children in as a part of their responsibility to the community. She was satisfied with this conclusion, and didn’t bother to ask Martilia if it was right. It made sense, because they certainly weren’t old enough to really be grandparents.

  Lunch was bread, cheese, and dried meat. After the short rest, they continued on. The scenery was unchanging — open hills dotted with clusters of woods. The mountains marched along to their right. Halla said that the mountain range continued all the way down to the sea, where it ended in towering cliffs. Liseli watched the sparse clouds drift lazily by, and her mind drifted back to the overcast Tuesday yesterday had been in Wisconsin. It was probably still gray and drizzly, there. It is only Wednesday, right? She paused to make sure. Yes, it had only been one day. It had been about this time yesterday that they’d . . . that it had happened.

  She wondered how the kids at the Burger House were covering for her and Russ. She wondered if her family was starting to worry, yet. She usually slipped into the house unannounced at night, but in the morning she made breakfast and got Lara ready for daycare. Mom would have noticed she was gone in the morning, if Leona hadn’t mentioned her absence the night before. That is, if Leona had even come home the night before. Well, at any rate, by now Mom at least should be pissed off at her for not helping with Lara that morning.

  She had no idea what she was going to tell them when she got home. They didn’t even know about her and the Mill, and she didn’t exactly want to mention that in her explanation.

  Halla had picked up Ivira and was carrying her as they walked. Ivira lay her head sleepily on the woman’s shoulder, and asked for a story. Halla began to speak in a low, calming voice. Liseli listened to the hypnotic rhythm of her speech, only half paying attention to the story at first. It was a tale of gods and goddesses, deities who each lorded over their own little part of nature. A family of such gods, to be exact. It was a story of tragic, forbidden love — about a sister and brother who wed each other against their father’s will.

  No kidding, Liseli thought. Ick. She thought it was an odd tale to use as a bedtime story for a little girl, but after a moment she realized that the story probably didn’t even matter. Maybe Ivira had heard it a thousand times before. Maybe it was as traditional and familiar as wicked stepmothers and poisonous apples. What mattered was Halla’s soothing voice, and the way she stroked the child’s dark hair with her gentle, reddened hand, lulling her to sleep.

  Early in the afternoon they reached the top of another hill, and Liseli stared down at a narrow valley. The mountains rose up close on the right, with the wide blue of the Chaiorra running down alongside. Foothills rolled to the left, and the valley ran straight and long between them. It was dotted with quaint looking farms the whole length — houses and barns with thatched roofs standing amongst furrowed fields. At the southern end of the valley stood what looked like an ancient castle, only much larger and sprawled out. Tall stone walls rose up around buildings of the same old gray blocks.

  Halla gently nudged Ivira awake, and pointed. “There it is; Elharan.”

  “It’s like stepping back in time,” Liseli said to Russ.

  “That’s true,” said Currun, appearing beside them. “One thing you can say about Elharan, it never changes.”

  “Everything changes,” Halla shook her head. “It is only that you cannot always tell by looking at it.”

  Currun jerked on his mule’s rope and walked past her. “Some people never change,” he said.

  She smiled. “Not as much as they would like other people to think.”

  Currun made a little snort, as if to say touché.

  Martilia broke in on the exchange cheerfully; “Well, it will be good to see Eliasha again.”

  “Hm,” Halla said briefly, turning away. She didn’t look bothered, not exactly, and her walk was nonchalant as she followed Currun down the path. But Liseli could i
magine her saying Speak for yourself to Martilia. She stared after her, wondering what it really meant.

  Martilia didn’t seem to notice. “You children will like her; she’s your age, and a lovely girl.”

  A moment passed before Liseli realized that Martilia was addressing her and Russ along with Oan and Ivira. She broke her attention away from Halla. “Eliasha is . . . ?”

  “Arlic’s granddaughter.” Martilia tilted her head toward Liseli. “Seventeen this year, I believe. Though it seems like only yesterday when she was born and—”

  “She is the lady of the house where we will be staying,” Pillari interrupted, giving his wife a silencing look. Martilia smiled, not appearing the least bit miffed at being cut off. Not even guilty about almost saying something that she wasn’t supposed to.

  “Ah.” Liseli wanted to ask Martilia what the end of her sentence was. But she couldn’t think of how to phrase it. Not with Pillari glowering off into the distance like he didn’t want to hear one more word on the subject. She felt that she had to say something, though, for just that reason. She wasn’t his docile little pet female, and she was disappointed in Martilia for allowing herself to be pushed around so. “Well,” she expelled the word defiantly. “She sounds very interesting. I’ll look forward to meeting her.” Oh, brilliant.

  “Me too.” Russ nodded, but there was a strain in his voice. He scuffed the ground with one foot and gave her a furtive little worried look, which she tried to pretend she didn’t notice.

  “Then let’s waste no more time here,” said Pillari, jerking on the mule and heading down the hill after Currun. “Come along.”

  Chapter 8 ~ Elharan

  A horse drawn carriage stood waiting at the gates of Elharan; a small elegant black stagecoach decorated with silver trim. On the doors and the horses’ halters was the same design as on Pillari and Currun’s dagger sheaths. Liseli finally asked if the symbol had any special significance.

  “It is the Erykumyn family crest,” Pillari answered, as he handed the mule over to one of Arlic’s servants. “That,” he pointed to the center design on the coach door, “is the Adayzjian letter E. These traceries symbolize the three houses of the Erykumyn — we are of the Byzaukyn Erykumyn, therefore on our crest we also have the B, and the symbols of War, the knife and fist.”

  “Oh . . . .” Liseli peered closer, fascinated by the meanings hidden among the decorative lines.

  “Why war?” asked Russ.

  A footman opened the door, and Currun answered as he climbed inside; “Byzauki is the God of War. We are—” he paused “—we were the loyal servants of the Byzaukyn. A family tradition.” He tapped his fingers across the doorframe once, then shrugged to himself and sat back.

  Before anyone could make a response, Pillari said, “I see Arlic was not expecting so many of us; he sent the small coach. We shall have to make due — one of us should ride on top with the driver.”

  “I will,” volunteered Halla. “I prefer the fresh air.”

  “Halla, do you think it’s really . . . seemly for you to be riding around the streets on the top of the coach?” Pillari admonished.

  “Yes.” Halla folded her hands and pursed her lips. “I am a guest in this city, I have no ob—”

  “You are still the Mayor’s wife.” Pillari crossed his arms.

  “I thought you were their sister,” Liseli blurted in surprise, snapping her head up from studying the door.

  Halla looked at her with a half-lidded smile. “I am their sister—” she indicated to Pillari and Currun. “Their spouse-sister.”

  “Oh . . . right.” Liseli nodded. She straightened and took a step back, accidentally bumping into Russ.

  “I am not an Erykumyn,” Halla continued, “I was born an Althyan. We are healers and lovers of the green world, we have no ambitions in . . . war,” she sniffed out the last word.

  Pillari almost rolled his eyes. “I will ride on top,” he said, climbing up next to the driver before anyone could complain.

  “May I ride with you, Grandfather?” asked Oan.

  Pillari reached for him and helped him climb up. Halla shook her head with a smile and climbed inside. Martilia, Ivira, Liseli and Russ followed.

  The inside of the coach was upholstered in deep emerald green velvet. It smelled musty, as if it was not used often. Martilia, Ivira and Halla settled down on the side opposite Currun. Russ plopped down next to the window, leaving the last spot between himself and Currun. Liseli stood hunched over between the seats and bugged her eyes out at him meaningfully. He stared back at her with his eyebrows furrowed, uncomprehending. She jerked her head to the left.

  “What?” Russ asked.

  “Mm.” She jerked her head again. He looked at Currun, who had his arms crossed and was glancing between them with amusement.

  “She would like you to move over so she does not have to sit next to me,” Currun said, slowly enunciating each word. Liseli blushed.

  “Oh . . . .” Russ slid over to the middle, and Liseli sat down between him and the window. She looked across at Martilia, Ivira, and Halla, and then out the window at the countryside, but pointedly avoided looking to her right.

  The footman shut the door, and the coach began to move. They passed through the gates, Liseli watching with interest as they rolled over the cobblestone streets of Elharan. The streets were narrow, and buildings of wood and stone rose up tall on either side. People walked past — there were not many horses or carriages, though there were quite a few mule-drawn wagons filled with various goods.

  Liseli turned away from the window and looked across at Halla. “How come you walked all the way here from your village?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just take a carriage?”

  “We don’t have carriages up in the mountains,” Halla told her. “You must pass through steep ascents and narrow gorges to reach the Adayzjian Valley. We travel light and take with us the only the animals we need to carry our belongings. I confess I would prefer to ride across the foothills on horseback at least, but it is impractical.”

  “Oh.”

  “Besides: it is only one and a half day’s walk if one leaves early in the morning,” said Currun.

  “Are you excited to be in Elharan at last?” Martilia asked Ivira. The little girl shrugged, looking tired as she leaned against Halla. Liseli knew how she felt. She glanced at Russ, and he gave her a startled look. She shook her head and leaned against the wall of the coach, resting her forehead against the edge of the windowpane as she resumed watching the city go by.

  “Arlic’s house is the largest in the city.” Martilia turned to Russ and Liseli. “It is at the southern end, standing watch over the rest of the buildings. It will take a few minutes to reach it.”

  Russ nodded. Liseli thought above saying something, but forgot about it in a moment, her eyes drooping shut as the carriage gently swayed to the sound of the horses’ hooves clipping. As she sank into the velvet seat she was reminded of how badly she had “slept” the night before, on the cold ground. The hard glass was cold against her face, and she felt the lines of the woodwork being imprinted on her forehead, so she turned away and looked at Russ again. She blinked to remain alert.

  “Tired?” he asked, leaning his head to the side to get a better look at her face in the shadows.

  “A little.” She tilted her head the other way. She tried to sit straight against the back of the seat, but in a moment she was drooping forward and sliding down again. By the time they reached Arlic’s house, she had fallen against Russ and was sleeping on his shoulder. He’d cautiously looped his arm around her waist to support her. When the coach stopped she awoke with a jerk and blushed. She sat up and touched her face, feeling the imprint of denim-jacket-seam running down her cheek.

  “How . . . what should we call your bro . . . hus . . . the mayor?” she asked, trying to rub the mark away.

  “What do you mean?” Martilia looked at her with a slight crease between her eyes.

  “I mean . . . you call him Ar
lic, but that’s awfully casual. At least where we come from, it would be pretty informal, and—”

  “Mayor Erykumyn or ‘Sir’ will suffice,” Currun said. “He has been called Lord Arlic or Judge Erykumyn in the past.”

  Liseli nodded. Russ shrugged.

  “You haven’t asked me how I would like to be addressed,” said Currun, raising both eyebrows. Halla sighed.

  “What do you wanna be called?” asked Russ obligingly.

  He smiled in a thin line. “‘Currun’ will suffice,” he said, then opened the door without waiting for the footman, and stepped out.

  The rest of them disembarked. Russ and Liseli found themselves staring up at Arlic’s House. It was a mansion; great blocks of stone and high ornate windows, almost gothic in style, with a turreted roof standing gray against the blue and white of the sky. It was imposing, standing at the top of a hill looking down over the rest of the city. The southwestern curve of the city wall ran across the back of the property, and another wall encircled the house and grounds to the north and east, separating it from the city streets. Their carriage stopped inside the walls, in front of a long staircase leading up the massive ebony doors in the front of the building. The crest of the Erykumyn was inlaid in silver on the dark shining wood, and as Liseli stood there gaping, the doors parted and the Adayzjian E was split. Two servants walked out, pushing the doors, then stood on either side of the doorway.

  She took her eyes away from the sight for a moment, to catch Russ’s reaction. He was staring down to his right; she looked and saw the mules being led down the paved slope to a large livery stable set in the wall. “Wow. I didn’t expect it to be so . . . fancy,” she said, lifting one hand to her face as she tried to take it all in.

  “You like it?” Russ looked at her sideways.

  “It’s—”

  “My brother is coming to greet us,” Pillari broke in.

  Liseli snapped her attention back to the front doorway, to see a tall man in his late thirtiesor early forties, descending the stairs. He looked similar to Pillari and Currun, tall and lean with trim dark hair. But he did not have the pouncing aura his brothers did; he sauntered down the steps easily, in calf-high suede boots. He was dressed in dark colors: streamlined black pants and shirt with a maroon overcoat that fell to his knees. The outfit struck Liseli as neither modern nor old-fashioned, but rather like a costume for a movie set in the latter century, which was still trying to look cool for the modern audiences. Liseli didn’t know what to make of him; he didn’t fit the picture she had expected. He should be older, and paunch; balding and sporting a graying beard instead of a neat black goatee and mustache. If Pillari had not announced him, she would have assumed that the Mayor’s dandy spokesman or butler had come down to meet them.