Brute

by Kim Fielding

“It hurts,” Gray sobbed against Aric’s shoulder. “It wasn’t supposed to. Please. I changed my mind. Make it stop.” Aric couldn’t make it stop, of course. He could only stroke the uneven stubble on Gray’s head as he hummed and waited for the dream to end.

  After what felt like a long time but might have been only minutes, Gray’s cries became whimpers and then died out altogether. When he slumped in Aric’s arms, Aric laid him gently on the floor and covered him with the quilt. Gray was still for only a brief period before stirring and sighing and finally sitting up. He rubbed at his face wearily. “L-lady Torctgud. She’s going to drink p-p-poison.”

  Aric’s heart lurched. “Poison? Is that what….” His memories of his mother’s death were fragmentary, which he’d always thought was odd. He should have recalled their last moments together with clarity. But what he remembered was that she caressed him and called him a good boy, and then she was drinking from a small flask, and then she was sprawled on the ground, unmoving and cold, with froth drying around her mouth. Had she suffered as in Gray’s nightmare? If so, had her son tried to help her, had he given her some dregs of comfort during her final agonies? Or had he cowered uselessly in the corner?

  “Aric? Wh-what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He left the room to report the dream to the guard. Usually when he returned, Gray would have already fallen back into an exhausted sleep. But this time he was still standing, as close to the bars as his chains permitted, his fine brows drawn together in a frown.

  “N-n-none of the others lasted this l-long. Th-they couldn’t bear it. And none of them h-h-held me when I dreamed.”

  Aric was slightly embarrassed to realize that Gray knew that he’d been stroking him, singing to him. Up until this point, Aric hadn’t known whether Gray was aware of what happened to him during the nightmares. “How well do you remember your dreams after you wake up?”

  “I remember every fucking detail.” Gray’s voice was flat, and he didn’t stutter. “I live those deaths, Aric. Every one of them.”

  Aric sat on the edge of his bed. He was glad the room was too dark to see Gray’s face. “How have you stayed sane?”

  “I tried to go m-m-mad. Thought it might ease my b-b-b-burden. B-but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” His voice broke slightly, and Aric could hear his harsh breathing. “Part of the p-p-p-price, I suppose.”

  The price for what? Aric wondered but didn’t ask. He simply sat on his bed, looking down at his lap, where his single hand was bunched in a tight fist and his missing hand felt as if it were doing the same. The nonexistent joints of his left hand ached, and his ghostly fingernails dug into invisible skin. For the first time, he wondered what had happened to his severed left hand. Had someone buried it as if it were a body, or was it just thrown away with the rubbish? He felt absurdly guilty for not mourning it properly. After all, it had served him well for a long time. It didn’t deserve to be discarded and forgotten.

  “My mother took poison,” he said, surprising himself.

  “H-h-how old were you?”

  “I don’t know. Six or seven, I think.”

  “W-was your f-f-father still alive?”

  “They’d hung him that morning.”

  “Ah,” Gray sighed. “B-both at once, and you so young.”

  “I survived. I did fine.”

  Gray didn’t answer right away, but his chains clanked softly. When he did speak, his voice was soft as well. “H-hanging is an easy death. F-f-fast. Painless. Some p-poisons are… g-g-gentle.” He spoke with an air of authority, as well he might.

  Aric found himself slightly consoled. Maybe his mother’s poison had been a gentle one. “It was a long time ago,” he said.

  “I b-betrayed someone I l-l-loved. A long time ago. But I can still s-s-see the look on his f-f-f-face, j-just as if it were y-yesterday.”

  “My mother… that wasn’t the same thing.” Only it was, at least a little bit. Because a part of Aric had always believed that he had betrayed her—and betrayed his father as well—by surviving. He should have drunk the poison too. Everybody in his village thought so. His great-uncle used to tell him that all the time, and not only when he was drunk. Aric should have taken the flask from his mother’s hand and finished the last drops, and he should have died that day along with his parents. But he had lived, making his parents’ legacy a laughingstock, a target, an ugly simpleton with no more value than a mule.

  He was not going to cry again.

  And just to make sure he didn’t, he leapt off the bed and yanked the blanket free, gathering it into his arms. He stalked to the shelves, where he grabbed the other spare blankets—three or four of them, all smelling sweetly of lavender water. He unbolted the cell and entered, threw the quilts onto the floor, and knelt to arrange them in a hasty pile. Then he lay down on them.

  After a long hesitation, chains clattered and Gray lay beside him, not quite touching but close enough for Aric to feel his body’s warmth. Gray was naked, of course, but Aric wore the trousers he’d hastily pulled on before telling the guard about Lady Torctgud. “Wh-what are you d-doing?” Gray asked.

  “This floor is too damned hard.”

  Gray laughed and then scooted closer. There was a certain amount of shuffling, and Aric swore under his breath at the chains, but eventually they settled on their sides, Gray’s back to Aric’s front. Their lower bodies didn’t quite touch, but Aric’s right arm was wrapped around Gray’s belly, Gray’s forearm was nested over his, and Aric’s nose was almost tickled by Gray’s short, soft hair.

  AS WAS often the case the morning after Gray’s nightmare, Aric woke up tired and slightly out of sorts. But he didn’t want to miss his lesson—today Master Sighard was going to meet them in the library—so he hurried through his morning routine, not sparing Alys more than a quick smile and a thank you before he rushed to bring breakfast to the tower. He ate quickly, finishing well before Gray did, and then paced the room restlessly.

  “G-go,” Gray laughed. “I c-c-can eat on my own.”

  Aric sped away.

  Despite Warin’s tales about his lessons in the library, this would be Aric’s first one. Most meetings with the schoolmaster took place in that large, bare room with the marble floors. Fewer distractions, he said. Even the windows were set too high to view more than the sky. But today they were to receive a lesson on geography and history, and that required maps. These charts, Master Sighard had informed them, were kept in special cases in the library, where they were all to be very quiet and not disturb anyone else who might be in there. And under no circumstances were they permitted to touch the maps—he had focused his glare specifically on Aric while he said that last bit, as if he expected the brute to shred one of those precious documents purely for entertainment.

  The library was housed in a building by itself, very close to the West Tower where the royal chambers were and where royalty and nobility conducted most of their important business. Aric had been in the West Tower only twice: on the day he’d first arrived at the palace and then again when Lord Maudit had summoned him and granted his boon. Aric had never been in the library at all.

  Quoen met him at the entrance. Her skirts were stained with whatever she’d eaten for breakfast, and she had a smudge of dirt on one cheek. Aric had a sense that Quoen’s mother sent her out into the world every morning clean and presentable, but that the tiny girl never stayed that way for long. Today she was as uncowed as ever by Aric’s size, and she stood with her hands balled on her hips. “Hurry up! What if Master Sighard bonks you on the head with his stick for being late?”

  The schoolmaster hadn’t yet used his stick on his oversized student, and Aric wasn’t especially worried about it. But he let Quoen wrap her hand around one of his fingers and drag him through the tall door and into the building.

  Aric’s breath left him in a whoosh. The room was enormous—bigger than a ballroom and with two levels of galleries along the sides. There was a dome in the ceiling and elaborate frescoes. Statues and ceramic
vases and paintings were tucked into alcoves throughout. There were vast wooden tables and countless chairs of either carved wood or upholstery. The ornately patterned tile floor was cushioned with carpets larger than any he’d ever seen—deep jewel tones of red and blue and yellow and green. Stoves with decoratively painted tiles were set here and there, although it was not yet the season for them to be lit, and the entire room was bathed in a warm golden light that poured in through high windows. But it was the books that left him paralyzed in wonder. More books by far than any of the shops in Tellomer—perhaps more books than all the shops put together. More books than a hundred men could read in their lifetimes. More books than he’d imagined existed. And there were also heavy wooden cases, some of them partially open so he could see the documents and scrolls stored inside. There were piles of dusty papers here and there, some of them bound with ribbon or string, and folded stacks of parchment and thin sheets of leather.

  Quoen gave a hard tug to his arm. “Hurry!” she repeated.

  Master Sighard was waiting for them at the far end of the room. He stood next to a long, low case, and his students sat on the floor in front of him, most of them wiggling with boredom. He was scowling. Aric hurried and then sat cross-legged behind all the children. The schoolmaster tapped the tip of his walking stick on the floor twice; the sound echoed loudly. “Today we shall discuss the historical importance of the Great River to our kingdom. I will expect you to be capable of drawing a rough map of the kingdom, as well as being able to recite—in order—the major developments that the river has brought.”

  He leaned his stick against the cabinet and then, moving with great care, picked up a rolled document that was nearly as tall as he was. He painstakingly unfastened the ribbons that held it shut and then held the document in front of him, his arms stretched so that he was gripping the document’s top corners. “This is a map of the kingdom,” he intoned. While some of the children looked bored, Aric leaned forward so he could get a better look. The map was done in various colors and contained symbols he couldn’t decipher. He did understand, however, that the blue part at the right—which was enhanced by several multicolored sea serpents—must be the sea. At the top there was a lot of green. The great forests, he guessed. A wide band of blue snaked through the entire landmass, beginning near the bottom left of the map and not ending until it met the sea.

  The schoolmaster pointed his nose at the oldest boy amongst his students—except for Aric, of course. “Falardo, show the location of Tellomer on the map.”

  Falardo unfolded himself—he was all elbows and knees and long, bony legs—and hovered his finger over the spot where the river met the sea. “Correct. And Harfaire?” Falardo peered at the map for several long moments before making a small triumphant sound and indicating a spot quite a bit lower than Tellomer and well to the left. Harfaire was not on the river, and a small range of mountains lay between it and the capital city. Currently, travelers from Tellomer had to cross the mountains, which was dangerous during the winter and the rainy season, or go by boat down the river to Porinar and then double back by land to their destination. The nearly completed bridge would give them a third option, which would reduce the length of their journey as well as save them the bother of transferring goods from boat to wagon. Aric’s village didn’t have a name because it had never needed one, but he supposed it might acquire one soon, and then it would be on maps as well.

  While Aric had been pondering these things, Master Sighard had continued to quiz Falardo. Aric didn’t see the need to learn these places since he’d never go anywhere. But then the schoolmaster asked his student to locate Racinas, and Aric suddenly focused his attention. Falardo hemmed and hawed for a long time, until Master Sighard huffed and said, “North, idiot. Look to the north,” and Falardo pointed at a spot near the sea but far above Tellomer, up amongst the forests.

  Aric listened as Master Sighard droned on about the importance of Racinas, which could be reached only by sea. It was an important source of income for the more southerly parts of the kingdom, from which it imported food and fabrics and many crafted goods. But it also exported the finest wool and dried fish of a sort that was especially popular amongst the Tellomerese nobility. There was gold up there too. And, it was said, Racinans were the most beautiful inhabitants of this kingdom or any other. Aric thought about Gray Leynham and Petrus the whore, and he was inclined to agree.

  “Racinas was founded even earlier than Tellomer,” the schoolmaster was saying. “It was once an independent kingdom, before King Trichtheo conquered it four hundred years ago. But it was very small then, truly hardly more than a village full of priests and acolytes who served the Vale of the Gods.”

  Without really meaning to, Aric raised his hand. “What is the Vale of the Gods?”

  Master Sighard frowned, then evidently decided that the answer would make a legitimate addition to the lesson. “It’s one of our most ancient and holy sites. Only pilgrims who purify themselves properly are permitted to enter.” With every p sound, the schoolmaster sprayed spittle on the unfortunate children who were seated in the front. “There is a sacred pool in the Vale. It is the pool in which Ismundo bathed his wife, the goddess Ebra, after she was wounded in battle with demons. You have heard this story, have you not?”

  Aric nodded. His great-uncle hadn’t bothered to send him to the little village temple, and the priests hadn’t exactly invited him in either; but when he was very young, his father used to tell him some of the tales of the gods and goddesses.

  The schoolmaster sniffed. “Ismundo bathed Ebra there and she was healed, and because the pool still contains her blood, pilgrims who drink the water may ask for a blessing. If the gods are in a good mood, the pilgrims will be granted that blessing. But because Ebra suffered, so must they: they must always make a great sacrifice in return.”

  “The price?” Aric whispered to himself.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Um, I’m sorry, sir. I was just thinking.”

  “Please stick to tasks of which you’re capable,” Master Sighard replied tersely as he began rolling up the map.

  The lesson ended soon after that. Quoen and the other children scampered away as soon as they were dismissed, but Aric approached the schoolmaster with his head bent. “Master? May I… I’d like to remain here in the library for a while, if I can. I won’t break anything!” he added hastily.

  “You must remain quiet. And don’t disturb anyone.” Master Sighard waved his arm to indicate the library at large, where only four or five other people were leafing through papers or searching the shelves.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The schoolmaster gave him a final warning glare before hobbling out of the building.

  Aric simply stood there for a very long time, so overwhelmed that he couldn’t imagine where to begin. Then he began to wander. He didn’t touch anything—he hadn’t yet worked up the courage—but he walked slowly, holding his head sideways so he could see the titles. He was pleased to discover that he could read many of them passably well. Some words he couldn’t puzzle out, but he’d been concentrating very hard on reading over the past weeks, and now as long as a word wasn’t too long or too esoteric, he could usually read it. An odd feeling gathered in his chest, and after a bit of examination he realized it was pride. Here he was, an ignorant, mutilated monster, but he could read. It was as if the entire rest of the world had a wonderful secret that had finally been shared with him.

  He wasn’t certain how the books in the library were organized, but it didn’t especially matter because he wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He was astounded at the range of books he found: history, sciences of all kinds, religion, magic, animal husbandry, farming, warfare, sailing. Some were ancient and some looked brand new. And there were books full of stories. It was one of those that finally captured his attention, mostly because of the golden dragon that was embossed on its brown leather spine. He checked his hand to make sure it was clean, wiped it on his trousers to ge
t rid of the sweat, and pulled out the volume. A quick perusal showed him that the book was full of bright pictures as well as words. With a broad smile, he took the book to the nearest chair and sat down to read.

  “Brute!”

  Aric looked up from a story about pirates and a princess, then gasped and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “Your Highness! I’m… Lord Maudit said I can have lessons and Master Sighard brought us here today and then—”

  Prince Aldfrid put up a hand. “It’s fine,” he said with a grin. “I was just pleasantly surprised to see you. You look good.”

  “Um, thank you.”

  The prince wore riding clothes and, truth be told, smelled slightly of horses. His long yellow hair looked windblown and tangled. And he had a thick book tucked under one arm. “I was just in your village the other day, inspecting the bridge. You’ll be happy to know that I stayed suitably far from the edge this time. They haven’t any giants left to rescue me.”

  Aric hid his own grin by ducking his head. “I’m glad you stayed safe, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure I’ll do some other damned foolish thing soon and end up swallowed by a sea monster or cursed by a witch or something. But how are you getting on, Brute? Lord Maudit told me you’d asked for lessons.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very grateful for them.”

  The prince pointed at the book that was still in Aric’s hand. “And putting them to good use, I see. That’s good. I was never much of a reader myself—no patience for it—but one of my brothers, Clithe, he nearly lives in this room. He’d be here right now if father hadn’t sent him off to negotiate a treaty with the Gernushians. I’m not trusted with such matters myself. Too foolhardy.”

  “Oh, sir, I’m sure you’re—”

  “Every bit as foolhardy as they say.” The prince shrugged happily. “Also headstrong and impatient. But how are you getting along, Brute? Apart from the lessons, I mean.”

  “Very well, sir. Everyone is very kind to me and I’m very comfortable.”