The Hidden Icon

by Jillian Kuhlmann

  “What if I told you that a people were brought into the world with fists clenched, grew from sucking babes pounding at their mother’s breast to children whose only games were violent ones. When men and women they come to be, no tool can they wield, no tender stroke can they make, for still their hands are balled. There are a few wise folk among them who want to open their fists, but they’re afraid, sure that fingers wound so tightly from the womb can mean only one of two things: that within their fists they hold a great secret in need of protecting, or an evil that must remain forever caged.”

  He paused, drawing his thumb over my fingers, running it along the well created between my nails and my palm. The cold, or his touch, shivered me from head to foot.

  “I would like to know, do you think it a greater loss to go to their graves with hands clenched, never knowing, or open them and suffer, if that is what they’re meant to do?”

  When Gannet looked at me, it was as though I had commanded it, our eyes charged by my power, or his, or both. I didn’t speak, and didn’t need to, answering him when my hand unfurled like a flower, cupped within his larger one. With his other hand he lifted mine, clasping them both together with his hands, a house to warm them. Because we were touching, I knew that he had suspected my answer already. It had once been his. More keenly than any sense of him I had in that moment, however, was the feeling of his skin against mine, the warmth, the cautious pressure of palm and fingertip.

  A cough interrupted us, and Gannet dropped my hands with far less ceremony than he had gathered them. One of Rhale’s servants stood a few paces away in the prayer garden.

  “A meal has been prepared, and will be served within the hour. Fresh clothes and hot water are ready in your rooms.”

  He seemed anxious to be away as soon as his message was delivered, and Gannet advanced upon him, signal enough that he could depart. I remained rooted to the spot, for sense and senses both had fallen to the stone when Gannet released my hands. When he didn’t look back, my voice rose like a bird’s call from my lips, not a threat this time, but an entreaty.

  “What did you find, when you opened your fist?” I asked, borrowing from his metaphor, whether it had been intended as one or not. He had taken the test, same as I would have to. Gannet stopped, but he didn’t turn, didn’t look.

  “Another closed within it.”

  And down the stairs he went, leaving me to wonder if this second fist had been his own, closed still because there were things about himself he couldn’t know, or if it had been mine, all along.

  Chapter 17

  Rhale was a gracious host, though his temper turned with every course brought out at dinner. It was ludicrous enough to be bathed and dressed and seated at a formal dinner, anyway, after having grown accustomed to taking my meals in my lap. His company was doubly curious. I couldn’t decide if his moods were the product of disposition or age, but when no one commented upon the eccentricities in his manner, I didn’t, either.

  I learned much as I sat quietly, eating everything that was put in front of me with a voracity that betrayed our last, lean days. Keeping my mouth full made it rude for anyone to ask me questions, and as there was nothing they could ask me about myself that I’d want to share, my strategy seemed sound. Antares supped with us, but none of his guard, as well as Morainn, Imke, Gannet, Rhale, and two young men I assumed at first were his sons. They had seated themselves on either side of him, and though they didn’t feed him, they came nearly to it, filling his plate, wiping his chin free of dribbled gravy. Their tenderness had nothing in it of the love of sons, and more of love of another kind.

  “I was never a campaigning man,” Rhale announced over a dish of greens tossed with nuts, wilted slightly and heavily spiced. The comment seemed directed at no one, nothing preceding it but a polite compliment from Antares regarding the tenderness of the beef. “Though I could have lead one of the Southern expeditions, if I’d wanted to.”

  I made a point not to stop my steady consumption, though my attention was far more attuned to the old man than it was to the meal. I needed a distraction after this afternoon, after Gannet. I didn’t look at him now, and had not, but wanted keenly to feel his eyes on me.

  “It is a fine thing you did not, Lord Rhale, for we might not have the pleasure of your company now,” Imke offered. I sensed from her a strange desire to please him, as though she were currying favor instead of speaking truth. Rhale huffed, and one of the young men steadied his glass as he nearly toppled it with a blind gesture down the table.

  “I may speak ill of the dead as I lost a son to the damned sands, and I’ll tell you that was a headless army if ever there was one. Men like your father,” he said, gesturing to Morainn, who nodded dumb assent, and to Antares after, “and you, well, you’re a breed apart from the rock skulls of my generation. Nobody else has lived as long as me, and why do you think that is?”

  No one answered as Rhale dug into a pudding studded with fruit, and I gathered that such questions were not in want of answers. I was, however, and saw in Rhale an eagerness to speak that I hadn’t encountered in anyone else. That he could speak so callously over the death of his own child chilled me, but did nothing to still my tongue.

  “Surely your wisdom made you a great councilor in the late war,” I speculated aloud, sorry to have followed Imke into blind flattery but not for what it might win me.

  Rhale’s head shot up as he made short work of the pudding. His eyes narrowed on me, little to be read in their milky age.

  “What does the conquered have to say about the manner in which they’re beaten? If I’d been consulted we would have had our victory years ago, you wrenched sucking from your mother’s breast and not here a grown woman, with skills and troubles born of that condition and others, besides.”

  My heart quickened at how candid he could be where others could not, or would not. Did he know who I was? There was nothing explicit in his words to suggest that he did, but the nearer we drew to Jhosch the less faith I had in Gannet’s insistence that my identity would remain a secret. I sensed that this man, at least, had little concern for keeping secrets.

  Charged by his lack of discretion, I lifted my spoon as a bowl of soup was set to cool before me.

  “You underestimate us. Had we known you wished to strike at the heart of my family, I think that I would be among them still.”

  Rhale laughed heartily at this, and I felt more than one pair of eyes upon me at the table. I had Gannet’s attention, at last, but I didn’t indulge in a glance, focusing instead upon the soup. My feigned disinterest drew the old man out further.

  “In the hereafter, maybe. But with their kind,” he gestured at Gannet with a chortle and a hiss, “everything must be done as it is written. Blood must be spilled, war must be raged. Death is her trade.”

  His words weren’t the senseless ramblings of an old man, but I was sure now that he didn’t know who I was. What role did the dread goddess play in the lives of these people, if he should mention her in such a way? Gannet had insisted I return with them, but he’d never been clear as to why. I took a deep breath before next I spoke, knowing that it would turn the tide of what came next, if not halt it completely.

  “But where is it written that she must revel in it?”

  No one had any answer for this, not even Gannet. I had looked to him when I spoke and not to Rhale, witnessed his lips parted slightly in anticipation. I wanted him to answer me that it was nowhere, nowhere, when both of us knew and everyone around the table, too, that the answer was everywhere. Even now, how could I reconcile myself to such a monstrous existence? I couldn’t accept even that I had killed a man in my own defense. Would there be more graves for Gannet to dig?

  I had a vision, then, of his face ashen, pale with grave sickness or near death, the same parting of lips with the intention to speak but no words issued forth. Hands swam before his face, many pairs and one of them mine. Were those my slim fingers weaving around his neck to strangle him, or clapped over his mout
h to stifle his breath? Did I punch out his eyes with pointed fingers? The last pair of hands worked hurriedly among the others, and I saw the mask loose and dip from his brow, startling their terrible work, sparing his life.

  When I returned to myself Morainn was speaking, had steered the conversation away from waters that I could disturb, and Gannet was looking at me still, the tight set of his lips like a seam in iron.

  What did you see?

  How did he know, always, how it was with me? I looked away, and as I summoned the will to deny him entry to my mind, I buried, too, the torturous images, hoping that they were nothing but my imagination.

  It was not so late after we concluded our meal that I could retire to sleep, but neither did I want to suffer further the assembled company. One or two at a time I could manage, but I grew tired of the games played, and my part in them. I thought perhaps I could return to the prayer garden, but it was dark now and surely bitter cold. Resigned to my quarters but not to the warmth of the fire within, I was surprised on the stair by Morainn, following after me without servant, or guard, or brother.

  “I’ve asked one of Rhale’s men to bring us a cup of punch,” she said, gesturing up the stair. “Shall we?”

  I could do little but oblige her, and lead the way up the remaining stair to the landing where Gannet and I had been quartered, his door closed and mine slightly ajar, spilling the fire’s glow onto the stone. Inside, heavy robes that had not been there before were draped across the chairs by the fire, and a little table stood waiting between them for Morainn’s promised punch.

  “Lord Rhale is nothing if not hospitable,” Morainn sighed, though her tone teased a little that he was known widely for many other things. Still, we bundled each into the robes provided, and were not seated but a minute before a servant arrived with a steaming flagon and two simple but finely made cups. He poured a healthy sum of the brew for us both, and didn’t wait to be dismissed before going out again. As I raised the cup to my lips, I could smell the spice in it, the strong, sweet scent that promised a sore head in the morning if I drank too fast, or too much.

  “You needn’t pay him any mind, you know,” Morainn began, and I sensed that she worried over how bold the old man had been, though needlessly. He didn’t know. I took a drink before I spoke, wetting my lips and spirit both.

  “I’m grateful for a little candor, now and then,” I admitted, tucking my feet underneath of me, shoes and all. Morainn smiled, sampling her own punch.

  “I just hate being spoken of as though I am little more than my office, and thought perhaps it might be the same for you. Even if he didn’t realize what an egregious ass he was being.”

  Morainn smirked and a laugh escaped me, as unwitting as Rhale’s words.

  “I am still getting used to attention of any kind, I suppose,” I answered, grateful for the opportunity to voice what I felt, instead of wondering if it had been read already. “At home I was the youngest of five, and hardly the best subject for admirers or gossips. Among my sisters, especially, one would think there were three of us, and not four.”

  Though I didn’t speak in contempt, I was not so guarded as to disguise completely what petty jealousies I felt where my sisters were concerned, even now, when it seemed we were to lead such different lives. Even under Ambarian martial law, they would have options, while I would have even less than what I’d imagined as a child. Their leisure and their pursuits in the arts, in diplomacy; they would be mothers, wives, scholars. What would I be, or should I rend the world so that they might be robbed of their futures, too?

  My face must have darkened, for Morainn reached across, laid a hand upon the arm that didn’t steady my hot cup. My answering smile was weak. We had not much time now before she was properly home, and I didn’t think there would be casual drinks by the fireside then.

  “Imagine how it must’ve been for my brother,” I exclaimed, stirring to the sentiment even as I feigned it. “Coddled and teased, with no one to coddle and tease himself but me, who was as mild as a nesting bird. No wonder he is the way he is.”

  Morainn’s expression was thoughtful, even if a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. I was reminded of her treatment of my brother when he had come for me near the start of our journey, which seemed so long ago I was sure it was another life, another person’s life.

  “What was his favorite of your stories, your brother?”

  “He had many,” I said softly. “Though he always asked me for the story of Goshi, who deals in secrets. Do you know it?” Even as Morainn made to answer, our attentions were both diverted, for in that moment a sound traveled through the thick tapestry hung in folds over the room’s window. I rose and Morainn behind me, and I could feel her grin upon my back. Shivering slightly, I pulled the heavy weave aside and I could hear it better then, the rain.

  “One of the last of the season. It will all turn to ice and snow after this,” Morainn observed quietly at my shoulder, our faces framed in the window for anyone on the ground below, any spirit watching from above. I could give little thought to ice and snow with the gentle shower to distract me, steady as a dream, with drops that splashed fat against the stone of the window’s frame. The rains I had known in Aleyn had never been like this, all urgency, quick and violent. I could see several grooms below dashing from the stable toward what I assumed was the servant’s entrance to the manor proper, their whoops and laughter born on a chill wind to our ears.

  I could have gone on the rest of the night at the window, my fingers giving over to the pale cold, my eyes frozen open upon a scene that was more satisfying than strange. Morainn put her hand near mine, guiding the tapestry over the window once more to shut out the cold and the wet.

  “No matter what happens, Eiren, you’ll have me. I will be sister and brother to you, for having my hand forced in separating you from them.”

  Morainn left no room for a response and I didn’t think I could manage one, my surprise and sadness, my pleasure, blended to mute gratitude on my face. She smiled.

  “You can tell me of Goshi another night.” Leaving her drained cup on the little table between the chairs, she departed.

  Though compelled to pull the tapestry back again, or more daring still to go up to the prayer garden and feel the soft touch of the weather on my face, I didn’t. The first because it was not so tempting as the latter, and that because I didn’t want to see Gannet so soon. If there were ever a night fit for prayers, for seeking the guidance of whatever deity it was paid their penance upon his face, it was tonight.

  I was sorely inclined to utter a few of my own, but retired instead, slipping fitfully into dreams bone dry.

  We were expected next day to remain abed until his lordship did, which was too late even for travel weariness. I could only imagine the cost the delay would have for Antares, who was eager enough to be away that his want could stand in for each one of us. Despite the curtain heavy across the window, I woke with the sun, which, though later here than I was used, was the only thing familiar to me. I dressed in my traveling clothes, which Rhale’s servants had struggled to clean and repair the evening before, leaving them folded and showing little evidence of their efforts next to a basin for washing. Water in a pitcher was threatening to turn to ice, but I forced myself to wash before hurrying into my many layers. I only just refused myself the cloak as I descended the stairs, eager more for occupation than I was company as I scouted the corridors of the estate.

  Only one door was thrown open on the second floor, and this to a room I thrilled to see: a library, shelves stuffed full of bright tomes and crumbling ones, tables and desks tumbled over by someone who had clearly studied at a length too great to clean up after themselves. Though there was no one in the library that I could see, I stepped hesitantly into the room, wondering if perhaps some of my secrets might be revealed here. I wouldn’t need to wheedle or play to such teachers as these books could be. After a moment I hastened to a shelf, tilting my head to better examine the spines of the bound tomes
, the scroll cases and trailing ties. Many were in a script I didn’t recognize, but not the same as the one Gannet had given to me.

  Crouched on the floor, I pried from the lowest shelf a particularly ancient looking text, folded between two graying covers of some animal hide. I was tricked by my eyes or the gray light – for in this room Rhale had windows set with glass, a luxury he had not invested in the whole of his home – into thinking that the characters etched upon it were kin to those in my book. I rose, thinking perhaps to retrieve it, when I noticed a painting above the door that my original vantage had not shown.

  A young man waited in the shadows of a circle of standing stones, his features muted all but for his grin, which was at once charming as a babe’s and as sly as a sand dog’s might be if such a creature could smile. A few lines of glinting paint near his hand confirmed for me that he held a key.

  “My great, great, great-grandfather,” a voice announced. I started, eyes sweeping down to the doorway beneath the painting, where Rhale stood, still in his dressing gown and heavy sleeping robe. His eyes were much sharper in the morning light than they had been last night. “Can’t you see the likeness?”

  I looked back up at the painting, my color betraying my worry at having been caught here, wondering if I was not allowed. Rhale, however, didn’t seem to mind, hobbling over to one of the cluttered tables and taking a seat.

  “He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted,” he sighed, making a half-hearted motion towards one of the texts, but joining me in looking at the painting. A rendering of Charrum on the wall was not the same as seeing sirens beneath the waves outside of Cascar, but I found it curious that Rhale claimed him as an ancestor. He was toying with me, perhaps, or delusional.

  But I could read him well enough to know that he, at least, believed what he was saying.

  “What did he want?”

  At this, Rhale chuckled, as though that had not been the response he’d anticipated.