Russ stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around. Underneath the balcony was a shaded area with windows in the wall above stone benches. The path led away from the stairs, branching off toward the garden in one direction, and leading out into a courtyard with a fountain and watering trough in the other. A stone archway separated the garden from the courtyard. Russ headed into the garden, glancing around for any sign of people. He felt guilty, for some reason . . . even though no one had told him he had to stay in his room until dinner, he didn’t want to be caught. Well . . . . It was more like a suggestion, really. Or a strong hint. An indirect order.
Anyway . . . . He walked past a rosebush, a stretch of tall yellow and white flowers swaying in the breeze, and a spread of tiny purple buds like carpeting. The path branched again, one way leading out into an open area set up with tents, the other leading past tall trees and ferns growing in the shade. Russ went to the left, into the trees. There were more benches, strategically placed on beds of neatly trimmed grass with stepping-stones leading up to them. Russ saw statues of people and animals, then birdbaths, birdhouses, and a small gazebo overgrown with vines. He crossed a little stone bridge over a stream, pausing to lean over the side to look at the lily pads in bloom and the hints of fish gliding below. Liseli would have really liked this. He was sure of it. He’d never actually heard her talk about liking gardens . . . but . . . . Hell, I think it’s kinda cool, anyway . . . .
At one point deep in the trees he felt as if he was in a real woods. A real, wild woods. It was cool and dim, and when he looked all around he could see the depth of trees instead of seeing out past them to the bushes and flowerbeds beyond. To his left he caught site of a building nearly hidden among the plants. A narrow path of stepping-stones led toward it, and he took the turn-off. The building was small and square, covered in ivy. The stones stopped at an old wooden door. He glanced up at the slate roof, and down at the thick overgrowth, then stared at his feet for a moment. He wondered if there was anything wrong with going into the building. Probably.
Russ glanced around, yawned, scratched his head, and attempted to nonchalantly put his hands in his non-existent pockets. He seemed to be as alone as ever . . . . He sidled around the edge of the building, leaving the stones and climbing through the thick grass. There were windows framed in the ivy, and he peeked through the first one. He saw windows lining the other side of the building, shining hazy afternoon light into the room. It was difficult to make out what exactly was in the building, though, with the shadows and the faint glare. He could make out the outlines of objects, but didn’t see anyone moving around inside. Maybe it was a tool-shed.
Back in front of the door. It’s probably locked, anyway. He reached out and took the doorknob as if accepting the offer of a handshake. The iron was smooth around the edges but had little pits and bumps of texture across the top; it was cold and hard, and didn’t turn. He jiggled it back and forth for a moment, thinking, Damn. He stopped and let go, looking at the handle for a moment. Maybe it was just stuck . . . a sticky door. Rusted mechanism, or something. Probably was just a tool-shed, anyway.
He turned away and took a step down the path, then stopped. Maybe just push on it a little and it’ll come unstuck. He turned back, and tried leaning on the door as he jiggled it. It didn’t budge. Russ paused and scratched his head absently. He’d seen something that didn’t look like a tool, inside. It was like one of the statues lining the paths in the open areas. He thought he’d seen a gray hand in the shaft of light. Or maybe he’d imagined it out of the shape of a . . . hedge-trimmer.
Russ kicked the door gently with the toe of his sneaker (which the servants had apparently not seen fit to confiscate). It didn’t budge, but he didn’t really expect it to . . . . But now that he thought about it more, he couldn’t get the image of the hand to fade or become something else. It had been extended, palm upwards, forefinger pointing with the other fingers curving slightly up and away. Beckoning, or asking for something. If he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the door he could almost see the gray stone arm climbing up past the elbow . . . connected to what?
The door had to be stuck. It couldn’t be locked. He could feel it wanting to open, coming that close to falling open. Something was stopping it. Rust . . . gunk . . . swelling from humidity in the air. Something. It couldn’t be locked. He had to see what was on the other side.
“Come on,” he muttered, thrusting his shoulder at the wood. It creaked. He closed his eyes and tried to see the gray hand again. He knew that this time the latch would give and the knob would turn. It was only a matter of giving it a quick little yank and . . . open sesame. With a faint click, the handle gave way the door shuddered inward.
He cracked open the door, peeking in around the corner. A high, round window in the back wall shone a beam of light downwards, backlighting a statue of an angel. Actually, no. It didn’t have any wings. The side windows cast light to balance out the round one, and he could see the carved face of a woman. A wreath of real flowers was draped over the rendering of hair piled on top the head. He thought the folds of a dress falling over feminine curves looked remarkably soft and real, for stone. The left hand was poised demurely with the fingers touching the base of the throat; the right hand extended toward the door. Russ stepped into the room. He left the door hanging open, for more light, and looked around.
On the spaces of wall between the windows hung paintings. They were done in thick, dark colors, and were hard to see. The statue stood on a pedestal in the very middle of the room. There was another, lower stand in front of it facing the door, and on that sat a large leather-bound book. Potted flowers ringed the stands. Around the edges of the room were various items; some pottery and smaller statues interspersed with tables and benches. On the tables stood little knick-knacks, seemingly random odds and ends. An ivory comb and a silver clasp sat arranged with a wooden flute. A shelf of small books ran alongside them, and a glass frog sat as a paperweight over a sheet of handwritten music.
Russ inspected all of them, feeling as if they were the pieces of an odd little puzzle, which could fit together only if he knew the rules. He didn’t touch anything. Not even when he came to the back of the room and found a small guitar sitting on the bench, nestled in a blue cape which trailed to the ground. Instead he stepped back and looked at the wall — save for the small round window, it was completely covered in paintings and sketches. He cocked his head to the side and squinted at them.
It was mainly people and animals, and some scenes of buildings and landscapes he didn’t quite recognize. There was one large picture of a beautiful woman who sat holding a ball of flame in her hands, while a tall red haired man stood at her shoulder, both of them staring at the ball in wonder. Several small children played on the floor at their feet. Only it wasn’t actually the floor, it was a black expanse, as if the people were floating, or the painter hadn’t done the backdrop yet. The woman wasn’t so much sitting as crouching. It was a weird picture.
He saw another picture of what looked like a dog, only it was standing back on its hind legs, and its front legs dangled at its sides, extending into something halfway between hands and paws. Its tail was long and draped across the floor, curling around its feet. When Russ looked at the face he could almost feel the feral orange eyes of the dog staring down at him while the jowls raised in a menacing sneer. Huh. He wondered if that picture could be by the same artist who had done the floating family, and had painted all the other portraits of things like deer, birds, smiling people and pleasant city streets.
He inspected the paintings for a signature, and found a common mark on all of them. He couldn’t really read it, but it looked like the same thing. Huh. It was a cool picture, though. Devil dog. Or something.
Russ returned to the front of the statue, and looked around for a plaque or engraving that would say who the statue was of, or was by. There was nothing. He carefully opened the large book, letting it fall naturally to a part near the beginning.
The left-hand page of the book was penned in a language Russ couldn’t read. The right side, however, was in daintily handwritten English. “ . . . with the coming of mankind. Azmanvalli and Zalisha perceived that it was good for their children to walk among the strange beings from afar, and to know them, begetting offspring to fill the Seventh. They called together the Six, and revealed their plan. These Three of the Six obeyed their parents’ will: Ederi of Earth, Althya of Growing, and Arkilli of Beasts. But Alisiya of Air made her will known, to remain above the Seventh, alone and chaste. This will her parents respected. The eldest of the Six, Aldia of Night and Auchai of Water, agreed to their parents’ plan in voice, but in secret they rebelled, sister and brother wedding each other. These Three did they beget: Byzauki of War, Ricalli of Shadows, and Osvira of Passion. Then Azmanvalli and Zalisha became aware of the union, and Azmanvalli was sorely aggrieved . . . .”
It was some kind of weird history book, Russ thought as he came to the end of the page. He turned it over; it crinkled slightly, disturbing the silence. So, Azmanvalli was pissed about his kids mating . . . . Well, that’s one thing Mom doesn’t have to complain about, Russ rolled his eyes and smiled briefly at the idea, but then shuddered when he thought about Kyla. He wondered who had taken the time to write out this whole gigantic book by hand.
A flutter of movement to Russ’s left caught his attention. He looked up and froze, seeing a young woman standing outside the window staring in at him. Her expression was composed, as if she found him mildly interesting but not the least bit surprising. When she saw that he saw her, she turned with a hint of a smile and walked toward the front of the building. Russ thought about fleeing, but only got as far as the doorway before he found himself face to face with her.
Chapter 9 ~ Eliasha, part 2
The girl was thin and pale, like all the Alisiyans he’d met so far. She wore a braid of black hair like a crown around her head, and little flowers decorated it. “Where are you going?” she asked, stepping to the side when he tried to dodge her. He noticed how tall she was; almost as tall as him.
Okay. Don’t be an idiot. “Nowhere, I guess.” He tried to look nonchalant as he stepped back into the room. “Hi. I was just walking around, saw the building, thought it was a tool-shed . . . .”
“It isn’t. And it ought to be locked. I will have to reprimand the groundskeepers for leaving it open,” the girl said, seeming unconcerned as she followed him inside. He kept inching away until he felt the bookstand against his back.
“Don’t do that, I—”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. I reprimand them all the time; they are quite used to it. Who are you?”
“Russ. Markson. Russell Markson,” he said, then thrust out his hand. “Hi.”
She looked at him for a moment as his hand wavered, then she reached out and gave it a firm shake. “Hello. It isn’t considered proper for a woman to shake hands with a man she doesn’t know.”
Damn. “I’m sorry.” Russ tried to yank his hand back, but she held onto it with a sly smile. “Ummmm . . . so w-who are you?”
“Elly. Erykumyn. Eliasha Erykumyn,” she said, mimicking him. She let go of his hand, and he put it behind his back. Her dress was a lightweight tunic which left the shoulders bare, and she had a shawl of sheer material draped across her elbows. She was like the statue brought to life.
“Oh. You’re the lady of the house.”
Eliasha tilted her head back and laughed. She was pretty, and she knew it. “Yes. And you are one of those otherworlders who has everyone in a fit,” she rejoined. “I suppose I should apologize for failing to welcome you with my grandfather, it was very rude of me not to be present. Now you may apologize.”
“What for?” Russ watched her warily as she sauntered to the left, passing him.
“Why, for barging into Aysha’s memorial, and—” she paused, lifting her shawl across her shoulders and folding it over her chest, “—for staring at me. It really isn’t polite.”
Russ rolled his eyes. “Okay, for one, I’m not staring, and two, there wasn’t a . . . keep out sign on the door.” He crossed his arms and tried not to look guilty. Oh, she thought she was something, all right . . . giving him a little minxy glance over the shoulder as she turned away.
“It didn’t have a welcome sign, either.” Eliasha ran her left hand over the edge of the tabletop, sauntering toward the back of the room. Then she spun around and smiled, “But, now I’m going to thank you.” She paused, and affected a pout. “Aren’t you going to ask me ‘what for’?”
Russ shrugged.
“Well, Grandfather and his family are all in such a dither over you and your companion, that he hasn’t bothered to be angry with me for not being here when you all arrived.” Eliasha walked back and rested an elbow on the edge of the statue’s pedestal. “And so, even though I neglected my duty as the lady of the house, I will probably not suffer another tedious lecture for it, because everyone is too busy trying to figure you out.”
“My pleasure.” Russ edged away from the book and statue.
“Now you can thank me.”
“Thank you.”
She giggled. “You are thanking me because I’m not going to tell anyone that you were snooping where you ought not to be.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I was just . . . curious,” said Russ. “I’ll leave.”
She affected an injured expression, folding her hands over her heart. “Why? Because I’m here? Have you decided already that you don’t like me?”
“No, I . . . look, you caught me. I’ll got back to my room and wait for—”
“Where is the fun in that?” She shook her head and put one hand to her hip, tapping her collarbone with the other. “Hm?”
Russ sized up the distances between them and the doorway — he was a little closer, if he jumped really quick he—
“I hate sitting around doing nothing.” Eliasha glided away from the statue and came between him and the door. “I love being out and about, exploring. Do you? Or do you just like snooping?”
“Oh, I love being out and about.”
“Wonderful.” She smiled as she followed him toward the back of the room. “Then we have something in common, already!”
“I guess.” Russ bumped into a table and heard a clink. He lunged to straighten the object that had tipped over — a tall silver frame with a red glass pendulum suspended from it. As he tried to stand it up Eliasha reached out and took it from him.
She balanced the frame on her palm and flicked the little pendulum. “You ought to look where you’re going,” she said, watching the glass as she lowered it to the tabletop.
“Look, maybe I should just leave.” Russ stood still, feeling hedged in by the trinkets and edges, and the girl. He tried to circle the statue to get to the door, but she was too fast, spinning around to the other side, facing him again.
“It is me, isn’t it?” Her eyes widened. “We’ve only just met and you want nothing to do with me. Am I really that horrid?”
The room seemed ever smaller. “No, it’s not . . . that,” said Russ, hoping she didn’t make any sudden movements. “It’s . . . .” He backed up and sank down onto a bench in defeat. “What exactly do you want?”
“That’s a very bold question to ask a girl you’ve just met!” she said, fighting a delighted smile.
“Yeah, well, you’re kind of bold so I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Russ shrugged.
“Am I bold? Is that it?” She cocked her head to the side and adjusted her shawl. “Is that making you uncomfortable?”
“No.” He didn’t exhale.
“It is. I’m sorry.” She lowered herself next to him on the bench in one fluid movement. “Don’t mind me, really — Halla says I’m brazen and flirtatious, and that is quite true. I am a terrible hussy.” She nodded and touched his arm. “You will have to ignore it.”
He drew his arm closer to his side. “You get a kick out of teasing me.”
Eliash
a drew her hand back and feigned shock. “A ‘kick’? Does that mean pleasure?”
“More or less.”
“I may be a flirt, but I’m not cruel.” She sniffed. “I don’t take pleasure from your discomfort.”
“Uh-huh.” Russ looked at her sideways. “Everyone does.”
“All right, then.” She smoothed the edge of her shawl down and looked away, for the benefit, no doubt, of giving him a better view of her neck and shoulders. “If you insist. I am only trying to be friendly. If that bothers you, it is your own affair. Perhaps your culture condemns friendliness between men and women.”
“You can get a kick out of teasing me if you want, I don’t care.” Russ shrugged, starting to relax a little. He remembered Pillari saying that she was only, what, seventeen? Just a kid, really. And she was predictable for all her “boldness” — the reason behind her flirting was obvious: amusement. That’s the only reason girls had ever paid attention to him. He just had to stop squirming and acting like he thought Liseli was going to walk in at any moment. But he couldn’t lose her interest totally, otherwise he wouldn’t find out anything from her. “I have a question.”
“What?” She turned back to him, dropping the miffed guise.
“Why is everyone ‘in a dither’ about me and Liseli?”
Eliasha hesitated, seeming caught off guard for a moment. But then she shrugged. “You’re otherworlders. Heavens. There haven’t been otherworlders in Alisiya since King Leeton broke the gates nearly one hundred years ago.”
He scratched the back of his head, trying to think of which question to ask next. “Why’d he do that?”
“Because he didn’t want anyone encroaching upon his territory, of course.” Eliasha pursed her lips daintily, as if he had asked a very silly question. She stood up. “Don’t ask me anything more about King Leeton.” Russ wasn’t sure this time if the affronted look was feigned or not. But she’d been the first to mention the man . . . .
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