by Jade Mere
After one last look, he made his way back up the stairs. He found his mother’s pencil on the top step where he must have dropped it. With his left hand, he scooped it up and held it close to his chest. He didn’t look back to the gates again. When he reached the top, he opened the door to the main floor. Like he’d expected, only moonlight flooded the entryway. The white floors glowed, shiny and dry. There was no dark thing on the stairway. There was no water.
He returned to his room exhausted. Before getting into bed, he slid his small table in front of the door. That way, if he dream walked again, the screech of the table against the floor would wake him if he tried to leave.
He crawled into bed and yanked up the sheets, his mother’s pencil still pressed firmly against him. His fingers curled tightly around it as he forced his eyes shut. Shivers and shakes ran through his body, but the blood had stopped, and his mind felt heavy with sleep.
Chapter 7
A WEEK went by, and Tahki did not dream walk again. His recollection of that night dimmed, and after a few days he’d convinced himself the whole incident had been fabricated due to stress.
Dyraien had brought him a present from town every day of the week: a new drafting table, reels of paper, a new kind of chair that swiveled from side to side—he really, really loved the chair—a set of pens, a new compass, several rulers, and lots of books. Most of the books were on architecture and inventions, but once he’d brought him a book of poems. Tahki had been surprised, but Dyraien said poetry allowed the mind to escape, and a brain at rest often produced the best ideas. Tahki tried to thank him, but Dyraien only smiled and said it was his pleasure, which made Tahki feel a little guilty he hadn’t come up with any ideas yet.
Tahki visited Sornjia early on the seventh day. “Did the paper come?”
“Not yet,” Sornjia said.
Tahki frowned. “It should be here by now.”
Sornjia stirred a pot of fish stew. “Tomorrow it will come, I’m sure.”
Gale sat at the table sipping tea and said, “If you’re not a prince, people don’t usually rush your order.”
“I’m sorry, Gale,” Tahki said. He thought she’d be furious.
“It has been nice,” she said, “having a helper. Don’t think my pistol collection ever looked so shiny.”
Sornjia smiled. He lifted a bowl of fish stew and handed it to Gale.
“You two are very different,” she said to Tahki, and shoveled in a mouthful of creamy stew. “Your brother is calm, compassionate, agreeable. You just complain a lot.”
“I don’t complain that much,” Tahki mumbled.
“Tahki is like a catapult,” Sornjia said. “He’s calm when left on his own, but if someone winds him up, that’s when he starts throwing stones.”
Sornjia’s comment made Tahki sound like an upset child, but something sparked in his mind when his brother spoke. He cradled the thought all the way back to the castle, mulling it over, drawing the lines in his head.
When he got to his room, he pulled out a book Dyraien had brought him titled The Woman Behind the Machine, an illustrated book about Adrinia Kov’kai, the current expert machinist who’d been responsible for the last seven great machine inventions. He forgot about dream walking, about the dark thing in his room, and for the first time in weeks, Tahki lost himself between thin black lines and carefully plotted points of perspective.
HE COMPLETED his floor plan around noon. Back home, he would have tucked his design out of sight for a week. It gave his brain a chance to reset and see the flaws. But he had a good feeling about this one. He’d created a twenty-foot launching mechanism that could be attached to the side of the castle and controlled from inside. It swiveled around the walls, so no matter what side someone attacked, the invention could be moved on a rail system.
With a smile, he gathered up his design and searched for Rye. It annoyed him he had to gain Rye’s approval before showing Dyraien, but a small part of him delighted at proving himself.
He found Rye in the stables mucking out gingoat stalls. The animals snorted when Tahki approached. Rye placed his hand on their snouts to calm them. He was covered in mud, and a thick earthy scent attached itself to him.
“That doesn’t look very fun,” Tahki said.
Rye shrugged. “Needs to be done.”
“Don’t you mind that Dyraien makes you clean up animal crap?”
“Dyraien doesn’t make me do anything,” he said. “And no, I don’t mind.”
Tahki approached one of the stalls. The gingoat nearest to him, a bulky beast with long white fur and black horns, snapped its flat teeth at him. He jerked back.
“If you show fear,” Rye said, “they won’t accept you.”
“I don’t need an animal’s approval.”
Rye petted its muzzle. “You sound like Dyraien.”
Tahki shifted his weight. “I have a completed floor plan. I’d like to show Dyraien before he leaves for town.”
Rye stepped out of the pen and frowned, like he’d already made up his mind not to like what he saw. Tahki bit his tongue to keep his temper down. Rye washed his arms in a trough and reached for the paper. His hands still looked filthy, and Tahki hesitated handing over the design.
Rye took it from him anyway. He looked over the plan in the same careful way he had at the fair. Then something lit up on his face. A kind of understanding or approval. Tahki could see it in his eyes: he liked the design.
Tahki repressed a smile and rubbed his left wrist. He focused on one of the gingoats. She stared back, big black eyes watching him like he planned on making dinner out of her. She snorted and turned her rear in his direction. Tahki scowled.
“This won’t work,” Rye said.
Tahki jerked his head up. “What?”
“It won’t work.” He handed the paper back.
“I’m positive it will,” Tahki said. “You can’t just take five seconds and decide it won’t.”
Rye picked up his shovel. “Even if it could work, this isn’t what Dyraien is looking for.”
“How would you know?”
“You created an external weapon, a weapon that looks like something Adrinia Kov’kai already designed, and attached it to the castle. Dyraien wants this entire castle turned into a machine. An oversized catapult won’t cut it.”
Tahki swatted at a fly. Rye had liked the design. He’d looked at it with such surprise, such open admiration. Why had he said it wouldn’t work?
“Maybe you’re what’s not working,” Tahki said.
Rye raised an eyebrow at him. “This should be interesting.”
“You’re so quick to dismiss an idea. I bet Dyraien found lots of solutions, but you keep rejecting them, so the project remains at a standstill.” Tahki didn’t really believe the words that left his mouth, but they kept coming. “Maybe you’re not as good a constructor as Dyraien thinks you are, and you know it, so you’re afraid to try my designs.”
Rye stared at him. Tahki thought he might take a swing at him, but Rye remained composed.
“You’re not used to people telling you you’re wrong,” Rye said in level tones. “So this is going to be hard for you to hear. When a goat acts up, Dyraien gives it three chances to correct its behavior. Good goats get to stay, and bad ones are sent to slaughter.”
Tahki swallowed. “You’re threatening me?”
“I’m saying that I train the goats myself to keep them out of the butcher shop. I’m the buffer between you and Dyraien, so listen when I tell you that if you don’t drop the entitled attitude, you’re going to find yourself out of a job.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some ignorant child.”
“Then don’t act like one.” Rye ran a hand through his hair. “Your design is sloppy. Rushed. I know you’re under a lot of pressure, but take your time. Dyraien is set on using the river as a power source. Maybe try incorporating that into your next design.”
Tahki turned from the stables and stomped back inside the castle. He didn’t ne
ed Rye’s advice, and he didn’t need to use the river as a power source. Water power had been used for centuries, but now, with all the new-age machines and inventions, it had become obsolete. He didn’t know why Dyraien was so set on using the river as part of the design. Maybe he didn’t think there was any other way. Maybe it was up to Tahki to show him a better solution.
He walked up the stairway and heard Dyraien’s voice down the hall. Before he knew what he was doing, he turned right instead of left at the top and headed toward the queen’s room. He stopped outside her door. Voices hummed beyond. He knew better than to go inside. Dyraien had said none of them were to ever disturb the queen.
He glanced down at his work. The catapult was a good, practical design. It would make a fantastic weapon. Maybe it had been inspired by something already done, but Tahki’s modifications fit all the criteria, except for the part about using the river as a power source, but that seemed a minor thing.
Tahki reached for the door. It opened easy.
Dyraien sat beside his mother on the bed, whispering to her. His head whipped up as Tahki stepped inside.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Dyraien said. “Get out!”
Tahki froze. He’d never heard Dyraien speak with such harshness. This wasn’t the same gift-bearing, flirtatious prince as before.
“I’m sorry,” Tahki said. “I found a drawing. I mean I drew a drawing. I drawn… I have drawn… here.” He stepped toward him and reached his design over, as if it were a shield that would protect him from the man’s sudden temper.
Dyraien snatched the drawing out of his hand.
The queen swayed back and forth. She reached for Dyraien’s arm and pulled him back down to her. “Such a beautiful child,” the queen muttered. “My only baby boy.”
Dyraien ignored her and kept his eyes on Tahki. “You found a solution? You’ve designed a machine?” A little softness crept back into his voice.
Tahki nodded.
“And Rye thinks it’s a good idea?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Dyraien unfolded the paper and scanned it. Tahki held his breath. The queen gazed wide-eyed over his shoulder, like a child looking at a picture book.
And then Dyraien frowned. “Rye approved this?”
Tahki swallowed. “He… he said….”
“Toxic!” the queen yelled. Her voice sounded deeper than before. Harsher. The voice of a woman who’d brought down kingdoms. “Toxic, foul, wrong!”
Dyraien let Tahki’s design fall to the ground. “Mother, please, we can’t have you worked up. You’ll hurt yourself again.”
Queen Genevi stood and smashed her foot against the paper. “Evil. Wrong. The sky is singing tears, the ground grows teeth to peel my skin.” She hissed and grabbed her head, and for one disorienting moment, Tahki was reminded of Sornjia.
Dyraien pushed her firmly onto her bed where she curled up and started to cry. He plucked the floor plan off the marble, grabbed Tahki by the arm, and dragged him into the hall.
“What the hell is this?” Dyraien said, the paper balled in his fist.
Tahki didn’t know what to say. His design had been clever, creative. “I thought it’s what you wanted.”
“What I wanted?” Dyraien said between clenched teeth. “Even my crazed, sick mother can see that this is all wrong, and she doesn’t even recognize me most days.”
Tahki felt his throat close up. The cruelness in Dyraien’s voice resonated through him. Before he could reply, apologize, beg for his job, he heard footsteps.
Rye ran up beside them, still covered in mud. “What’s going on? Why is the queen screaming?”
Dyraien let Tahki go and shoved the design in Rye’s face. “Did you really approve this? Did you tell him to come find me and show me this… this joke?”
This joke. Tahki’s work was a joke. He’d been so worried about Sornjia ruining his chances here he hadn’t seen the self-destructive nature of his own designs. Rye had been right all along: he was no good. And now, Rye would tell Dyraien the truth, and Tahki’s career would be over. None of them would ever trust him again.
Rye looked only at Dyraien and pulled the design gently from his grasp. Dyraien’s white knuckles eased a little.
“Yes,” Rye said. “I approved it.”
Tahki wasn’t sure he heard right. He stared at Rye, at his calm expression, not daring to speak, not daring to wonder why he lied.
“Nothing has worked so far,” Rye said. “I thought maybe we’d take a chance.”
Dyraien’s face relaxed a little. He studied Rye, and the longer he looked at him, the more composed he became. There was trust in his eyes, and something else Tahki couldn’t place. Hurt, maybe, like he wanted to be angry but something about Rye prevented him.
“I see,” Dyraien said. He turned to Tahki. “I didn’t expect Rye’s judgment to be so poor. I apologize for taking my anger out on you. Please, try harder next time. Things are not going well in the capital, and time is running out.” He faced Rye. “Be sure this doesn’t happen again.”
Dyraien strode back into the queen’s room and shut the door behind him.
Tahki tensed, bracing for the inevitable patronization.
Instead, Rye said, “I’d like to show you something.” He motioned toward the front door.
Tahki rubbed his wrist, listed a dozen horrible things Rye would do to him as punishment for disobeying a senior order, but followed anyway.
HE MOVED an arm’s length behind Rye. They walked northeast on the dirt road, and Tahki noticed the faintest bit of green blooming on the brown grass. The cool air chilled him, but it was better than the intense heat back home. One summer, he’d run outside without shoes on and burned his feet so badly an entire layer of skin had peeled off. He had thought he’d never walk again. How foolish he’d been, overreacting to a little burn, now that he had real troubles to worry about, like where Rye was taking him, if he’d lost Dyraien’s trust, if he’d be asked to resign.
After an hour, when his legs grew tired and the silence grew unbearable, Tahki said, “Are you taking me to the middle of nowhere to shoot me or something?” He meant it as a joke, but it came out a little too serious.
Rye slowed so they walked beside one another. “Has anyone ever told you you’re overly dramatic sometimes?”
“I like to think of it more as logical pessimism.”
“You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?”
Tahki shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with confidence. I know my flaws as well as my strengths.”
“And what do you think your flaws are?”
“Apparently, I’m overly dramatic sometimes.”
This won him a smile from Rye, and despite the recent failure of his design looming over him, Tahki smiled back.
And then he pictured himself kissing Rye. The sudden thought was both ridiculous and surprising, since Rye had never given any indication he was interested in him. And why should Tahki want him to be? He and Rye seemed worlds apart. Still, Rye had been right about the design. Maybe he really was looking out for him. Why else lie to Dyraien?
Tahki scolded himself for letting his mind wander to such a place. Now more than ever, he needed to find a solution. For the second time since arriving in Vatolokít, his architecture hadn’t stood up to expectations. If he didn’t get this next design right, he’d be finished.
They walked another ten minutes before Tahki saw a pile of stones in the distance. As they grew on the horizon, he noticed they weren’t rocks but ruins. They followed the Misty River up to the stones. Rye stopped inside a broken rock wall and folded his arms, waiting for Tahki to look around.
Tahki examined the rubble. The dark red and brown stones lay strewn across the pale dirt in an orderly fashion, like they marked graves. Broken pillars had fallen across the cracked ground. Bits of marble lay here and there. Part of the roof that hadn’t been demolished came to a point at the top in a non-Vatolok
style. Vines of brown ivy climbed the walls. He found traces of dark oak tables and some shattered blue pots. Then he came across one column still intact, and noticed small golden elephants painted on the side. On another wall, a half sun had been carved in relief.
He stared at Dhaulen’aii’s emblem, not quite registering it, like when a stranger calls your name but you don’t recognize them, and there’s an awkward moment where your brain tries to remember something that’s not there.
The Dhaulenian temple was out of place here. It didn’t appear destroyed from age or weathering elements. It looked ransacked. Tahki stopped in front of the altar. Back home, it would be covered in gifts for the gods to take back to their home, a place called the Dim. He remembered he and Sornjia would help their father craft colorful gifts out of paper to leave on the altar. Their father would tell them stories of the Dim, how when people died the gods brought their spirits back with them to this afterlife, where they were given a new body and new life. Tahki had asked his father why the gods did this, what they hoped to gain from the process, but his father’s answer was always frustratingly vague.
“It’s a Dhaulen’aii temple,” Rye said. He didn’t pronounce the name exact, but it was a difficult name to pronounce without speaking the language. Tahki almost corrected him but then thought better of it. “They used to have a lot of temples like these around the capital, but after the borders closed, they were demolished.”
Tahki’s thoughts turned dark. Did Rye know where he was from? Was he going to ask Tahki to leave, to turn himself in? Was this a courtesy? A warning? He’d read a book once where a man adopted a wild black-winged fox, but when the fox grew up, the man realized the animal didn’t belong in civilization, so he took the fox into the jungle and released it before someone killed it. Was that what Rye was doing? Releasing Tahki from his duties because he knew he didn’t belong? Maybe his plan all along was to get rid of him.