Home Ground (Darshian Tales #4)

by Ann Somerville

  “I will, I promise.”

  Kefeinwe grunted, whistled to one of his boys to fetch a stool for his highness, and once Juimei was comfortably seated, left them in peace, going off, secateurs in hand, to do something unspeakable to a fruit tree. Juimei thought it looked uncomfortably like vegetable castration, and decided he’d rather not watch.

  “So, what’s that?” he asked the lad, pointing to a vine with a yellow flower.

  “That’s the befe plant. Each flower will turn into a pod. They’re really easy to grow. And next it is the rivkinez root, which we plant to keep the pests off the befe, and because the root’s good for coughs.”

  Gravely, in the manner of one of Juimei’s old tutors, Giwade named all the plants, and their uses, and their pattern of growing, and the pests which attacked them. Juimei was simply astounded that a boy of not quite thirteen could hold all this in his head, and apparently understand how it all linked together. There was more to learn in this few square yards of dirt than the most complex doig-ito match—and though one could eat doigs, Juimei had to admit Giwade’s garden might be a tad more useful than an ito game.

  “Neka was telling us about her garden in Darshek, and the one at the academy there,” Giwade said rather wistfully. “She said they’ve got the biggest library too, and pictures of plants from all over Periter. I’d love to see it.”

  “What about the academy in Visiqe? They’ve got some pretty good books there too, or so I’m told.”

  “That’d be good too. But I don’t suppose I’ll see either of them.”

  “Giw, what if I told you that you could go to Visiqe? To live there, and maybe even study at the academy—learn all about the plants of Andon? Would you like that?”

  His eyes lit up. “Really? Then I could come back and make the best garden, couldn’t I.”

  “Er...well the idea would be to move everyone there. All the Blessed, I mean. And me too. My father, the king, thinks it would be a good idea if we did. What would you think of that?”

  Giwade stared a little, then without ceremony, sat down cross-legged on the grass next to his plot. “You mean, forever? Not to come back here?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. I’d be sad.”

  Juimei cocked his head. “Why? All your friends would be with you, and I’d be there, and Neime too—and you could go to the academy when you were a little older. You can grow plants in Visiqe, I’m almost certain.”

  Giwade shook his head, and distractedly poked at the soil with a stick. “No, I couldn’t stay there. Yuzin and Timinke and Gemeli and all the others are here and I couldn’t leave them.”

  “My dear boy, they’re dead. They don’t need you to sacrifice yourself to them.”

  “They’re dead but they aren’t gone away. I see them sometimes.”

  “What?” Juimei jerked in astonishment. “You mean, you see their ghosts?”

  “No...it’s hard to explain...it’s not them but like...them inside...their spirit. What makes them them,” he said.

  “Their essence, you mean?”

  “Yes. Yuzin is usually with Nuveize, and Timinke watches Laovei. Gemeli comes and goes—I see him a lot. He’s the clearest—maybe because he was like me. I miss him the most, I think, but when I get sad, he comes and sits with me.”

  Benevolent god. “Uh...you don’t see someone with Wepizi, do you?”

  “Oh yes. A lovely lady. She feels so nice to me. When he’s sad, she comes to him. It’s his wife, I think.”

  “Oh.” Was the boy telling the truth? But of course he was—Giwade didn’t know how to lie. “Does she feel...annoyed at all?”

  Giwade shook his head. “No—just sad, when he’s sad. She’s not sad now.”

  “Oh...good. Uh—you know, perhaps you shouldn’t tell him about it. It might upset him. And the others.”

  The boy nodded. “I know—Nuveize already said not to. She couldn’t help knowing because of her talent, but she said most people wouldn’t be able to understand and it would make them sad. You won’t tell him, will you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Wepizi was beginning to get over his grief. If he thought his wife was still there, but untouchable, it would torment him into an early grave. Juimei hoped that was his reason for not telling him, at least—he refused to be jealous of an invisible, unknowable spirit. “But...if his wife came all this way with him, then surely your friends would come with you, Giw.”

  “I don’t know they would. I might not be able to feel them in a big place like Visiqe. I don’t think I could deal with so many people either.”

  He had a point, Juimei thought. “But the others—do you think they might be happier?”

  “I don’t know. Iome wants to be a healer, and Jozin wants to travel. Helinoa might think it was fun. Laovei will go wherever Neime goes. I don’t know what Yikil or Saimiri or Quezine would like. You should just ask them, Jui,” he said, with devastating simplicity.

  “I will. But what if the king said you had to go?”

  Giwade stared at him solemnly. “Would you make me?”

  The image of the boy being forced onto a boat or a cart by soldiers made him physically sick. “Not I. But it would still be something that you ought to do, if the king commanded it.”

  “I wouldn’t want to annoy the king—but I couldn’t do it. I like it here. If I can’t stay here, then I want to go back to the mountains. The king didn’t bother us up there, and we didn’t bother him.” He looked down at his plants. “I guess I would have to leave this behind,” he said in a sad little voice, already resigned to losing his treasure.

  Juimei bent and put his hand on Giwade’s shoulder. “Now don’t get upset, lad. I’ll find an answer, somehow. Why don’t you collect your cuttings or whatever they are, and do what you have to do. I’ll watch. Maybe I’ll learn something from you.”

  “Are you sure you won’t make me go if I don’t want to?”

  “I promise that I won’t, son. I swear that on my mother’s life.” But whether someone else might have to, he couldn’t swear, and Giwade was more than bright enough to understand what he didn’t say. “Go get your plants,” he urged gently. “Leave the hard decisions to me—that’s my job.”

  Giwade climbed to his feet. “I trust you. You’ve been really good to us. I hope your father will listen to you.”

  “I hope so too.”

  Juimei wasn’t so sure. But he would have to try to convince his father that Giwade, at least, would be happier if left where he was. Giwade’s talent was one they could overlook. It wouldn’t be so simple to do that with someone as militarily useful as Jozin or Helinoa or Saimiri, or as logistically important as Nuveize or Yikil—or, frankly, as potentially dangerous as Kilinze and Quezine. It would be easy for his father and the council, bedazzled by their extraordinary powers, to forget the people behind the abilities. Juimei had to at least try and remind them they weren’t dealing with puppets, or they would be no better than the warlords who had been driven from Andon by Juimei’s own ancestors.

  It was easier, for now, to focus on the problem of the Blessed. But the other problem—that of his own future—was more troubling, more confusing. He wished he had Giwade’s certainty about his own wishes. He wished he could just follow Wepizi’s desires, or let someone else make the choice. It would make it all so much simpler. But then he should be used to this by now. When had things been simple—or easy—for him at any point in the last five years? He just had to get on with it—no one could do this but him now.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Wepizi found his friends hard at work. Romi and Karik were training the soldiers who were to go with them up into the Tuqul range, but a few others who weren’t going, listened and learned anyway. There wasn’t a lot of slack to be taken up in the barracks—even with the increased establishment, they had more than enough work to do—but the Darshianese visit was too valuable and important not to benefit from, and a week with Romi and Karik would do many o
f their younger soldiers more good than a month of simple duties.

  Romi waved as he walked across the training track. Wepizi came over—Karik didn’t interrupt the lecture he was giving, but he gave Wepizi a little smile as he continued to talk. Romi came to meet him, taking him off to the side so as not to interfere with the class. “I wondered if we’d see you this morning. Is everything all right?”

  “Ah—perhaps not. Have you got an hour or so to spare? I could do with talking to you.”

  Romi looked around, clearly made some rapid assessments, then nodded.

  “Until lunch, certainly.” He held his hand up, and Karik lifted his head. “Back at noon, can you hold things down here?”

  “Sure. But I need you after that.”

  “I’ll be back for lunch.” Karik nodded, and then Romi clapped Wepizi on the shoulder. “Come on, you can show me the new barracks.”

  That was a good idea—Wepizi needed to speak to a couple of people there, and they could walk past it and have some privacy. He felt a little guilty for stealing Romi’s time and his own, but his soul was too disturbed for him to concentrate, and Romi was such a good friend. He’d understand.

  Having told his people where he was off to, and how to find him, they fell into step, walking up the street and through the town gates.

  “You lost a lot of wall,” Romi noted. The new timber was pale and stark against the older trunks, very obvious.

  “Yes. I never thought we’d have it repaired by now—Kilinze cut six hundred trees down in a day with his talent, and Jozin flew them all in. You should have seen it—it was like a mountain flying over our heads.” He grinned wryly. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget seeing that but I suppose you’re used to it.”

  Romi smiled. “I wouldn’t say that—our Gifted always have a surprise up their sleeves. Makes my little tricks seem pretty small stuff.”

  “Useful though.”

  “Yes. Wepizi, you didn’t drag me out here to talk about my gift. What’s wrong? It’s his highness, isn’t it? Something happened last night? Did you split up?”

  “No, no—at least...not yet.” Romi shot him a quick look. “Jui’s parents have written to ask him to come back to Visiqe. It’s a wonderful opportunity for him—they want him to become a councillor, take a real part in government. They also want the Blessed to go to Visiqe, live there under the control of the crown and council like they do in Darshek.”

  “And you?”

  Wepizi shrugged. “If he asks, I would go—but he won’t ask because he wants it to be my choice.”

  “So he’s definitely going to go.”

  “He doesn’t know. He’s been so very homesick, but at the same time, he’s settling down here. He’d stay if I asked—but I can’t for the same reason he can’t.”

  “Gods, Wepizi. No wonder you look like shit. I’m sorry. What do you want to happen?”

  “I truly don’t know, my friend. I want to be with him. I want him to be happy. I want to do my job well. I want to be happy. I don’t know how to make all these things come to pass.”

  “Sounds like what I had to decide when Karik and I got together,” Romi said, nodding sympathetically. “But I had his uncles making it easy for me. Maybe the king will order you to Visiqe anyway.”

  “Unlikely. They have leps coming out of their ears in Visiqe and not that many who can do my job or want to. Unless I ask to transfer, or fail in some catastrophic way, I think I’ll be here for a very long time. Until I retire, if I wish it.”

  “Do you? Your family’s a long way away. So’s Lema,” he added quietly.

  Wepizi placed his hand over his heart. “No, Lema’s here and always will be. I miss my family, but they know what a soldier’s life is like. I can take long service leave every so often—I get more of that now with the promotion—but I accepted that separation when I joined the army. I suppose I could use my leave to travel to Visiqe, but....”

  “That’s a hell of a way to maintain a relationship,” Romi finished for him, with a little grimace. “I know. I guess the question is—how important is the relationship? Do you think it’d survive you moving to Visiqe, or him staying here? Does he make you happy?”

  “Yes, he does. But we’ve both been thinking this is something that could end very soon because he’d been talking of going back to Visiqe. Now it’s a reality...I don’t think I’m ready for it to end. But I can’t...bring myself to offer what I did for Lema.”

  “A life-bond? Why? Because of her? Would she disapprove of him? Or do you think it’s disloyal to her?”

  Wepizi distractedly returned the salute of two of his soldiers as they passed by. “I don’t know. Is it? I swore to love no other, and yet I do. I swore to marry no other....”

  “While she lived, Wepizi. While she lived.”

  “My vow was for life. My life. I never expected any of this, Romi,” he said, knowing he sounded slightly petulant. “I wasn’t looking for it at all.”

  Romi smiled. “Neither was I. I told you that this might happen—would you listen? Of course not.”

  “Thank you, my friend, for your kind support.” Romi chuckled. “I don’t think Lema would disapprove. I know she’d want me to be happy. But I still love her—I always will love her. I feel it’s wrong not to be able to give Jui everything of my heart.”

  “Has he asked for it? Has he asked for a life-bond? Maybe he understands.”

  “How can he? He loves no other. He’s never been bereaved. He deserves more than I can give him. Maybe he should go to Visiqe—pressed together here, bonds form that would not in a larger group. Now what’s so amusing?” He stopped and glared at his grinning companion. “This isn’t a joke, my friend.”

  Romi laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s not and I’m not laughing at the situation. It’s just you sound like me. I had an almost identical conversation with Karik about why he and I were impossible. As you can see, it was tremendously successful.”

  Wepizi had to chuckle. “Oh yes, it certainly was. It’s not the same situation.”

  “No, but you’re forgetting that Juimei has a free choice. So do you. If he makes you happy, then be with him. The life-bond isn’t something you want, and he’s not asked for it—if he does, then you talk. You love him, and you love Lema too. He knows that. If he wants to be with you anyway, then that’s his decision. I knew Lema. I know the only thing she really wanted was for you to be happy and at peace. If Juimei gives you that, then you’re doing what she wants. You vowed to love her always—that’s not changed.”

  “If Karik died, could you love again?”

  “He’d be a hard act to follow,” Romi said, his eyes going a little distant at the thought of something so sad. “So was Lema. But yes. I’m not saying it’d be easy, or that I wouldn’t compare everyone I met to him, or that I wouldn’t grieve for a very long time. But if he died tomorrow, and later I met someone who I cared for as much as I care for him, I know he wouldn’t want me to be alone. If I thought he was the kind of person who would...I wouldn’t love him. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes. Yes it does.” Wepizi sighed. “But Juimei still has to make his decision.”

  “And will you go with him?”

  “I’d have to decide if it would do him more good if I did or did not. A soldier isn’t necessarily the best partner a prince of the blood could have.”

  Romi made an extremely vulgar noise. “Piss on that. Those fancy courtiers would look like utter milksops next to you, and you know it. They’d be ragingly jealous of Juimei having you in his bed.”

  “Perhaps,” Wepizi said, smiling at the idea. “His...former lover—the count—is going to return to the council. If Jui goes back, my support would make a difference. It won’t be easy for him—his disability makes it easy for people to attack and mock him. He still has very little armour against that.”

  “He has to decide to endure that on his own. He’s an adult, and would have his family there. You can’t be his protector—if he’s got an oun
ce of pride, he’d refuse to allow it anyway.”

  Wepizi had to acknowledge this was so. Juimei was a very proud man, and hated being dependent. Attempting to save him from the count of Wedeiloizui would do him no favours.

  “You’re right. I really thought this was all behind me, you know.”

  “You of all people should know not to ever say never again, my friend. Is that the memorial?”

  “Yes. It was officially blessed last week. A very moving occasion.”

  They had walked past the new barracks, and were approaching the graveyard. The stone edifice raised to the memory of the earthquake victims stood new and bright, the granite as yet unweathered, the gold lettering and the bas relief still perfect and clear. In years to come, it would fade, as would the memories of the dead, and the pain their loss had caused. That was natural—but for now, the memorial served as a place where those who had lost loved ones could come and grieve in privacy and dignity.

  They came up to it now—flowers lay at the base, and what looked like a carving in wood made by a child. A gift, perhaps, to a beloved grandmother, or a lost sibling—they had buried sixteen children, including three infants and their mothers. Wepizi found himself telling Romi about each name listed on the memorial—many he’d never met, but had come to know through the love and sorrow of their families and friends, people who wanted to share the memories with others while they were still raw. He felt like some of these people were friends he had lost before he’d had a chance to know them.

  “It’s very beautiful. Very dignified. It’s a wonderful thing to have here, I think,” Romi said, deep respect in his tone.

  “It was Jui’s idea. A good one. He doesn’t want it just to be a place of sorrow, but a place of hope, and of celebration of the spirit of the town. I think it is already. Sometimes I come down here, and I see people just sitting by it, thinking, remembering. The children play around it, and look at the names and the carvings. It’s already become part of the town’s heart.”

  “The town’s become part of your heart, I think. You’ve really fitted in here, haven’t you?”