by J. Naomi Ay
He nodded, waving at the torn lining of a man’s black wool coat. Beneath it was a pair of trousers with a large rip in the back seam and a pair of lady’s fine silk gloves with a burn in the palm of both hands. These holes were odd, for they were perfectly round and singed in a circle. I guessed them to have been caused by a lit cigarette. Reweaving them would take me more than two days, a task I dreaded for it required patience and considerable skill.
“Can you repair them?” the Duke asked, already lighting up a fresh cigarette.
He blew a ring of smoke into the air of this tiny room, filling it with both his stench and disdain. I pitied the poor lady whose hands had been inside these lovely gloves, for surely, her palms would have suffered the same fate.
“Yes, m’lord. I can fix them, but it shall take me quite some time.”
“You have until tomorrow,” he declared before departing. “See that you repair everything as if it was brand new.”
The door shut behind him, and the lock was turned, trapping me inside to breathe the foul air and dwell upon his words. I grew fearful of what would happen if I failed at this task. For a few moments, my heart raced, and my breath came hard and short in my chest.
For a moment, I thought to scream and to pound upon the door, but who would open it? No one, for all servants would suffer the same fate.
“Calm yourself, Ailana!” I heard Grandmother’s voice in the back of my head. “Do what you have always done. Stay alive by the prowess of your thread and needle.”
Throughout the night, I sat in that chair, my fingers stitching with rarely a moment’s break. The lighting was poor and my back ached, but I did not stop. My stomach growled for I was given nothing, not even the workroom’s broth to drink. When my fingers grew sore and bled, I tore cloth from my blouse and wrapped them tightly.
As I worked, my mind wandered far away. I thought of my son, my beloved Amyr, and I imagined him watching over me from the heavens, his soul at peace. If he had lived, he would be fourteen or fifteen years by now. I wasn’t sure exactly, for I had no clue how long I had lived in this camp. If by some twist of fate, Pellen had managed to keep my son alive, he would be nearly a grown man.
Setting my sewing down for a moment, I imagined if Amyr lived, if he grew strong, how things might change. In a few years’ time, Duke Korelesk would have met his match. In a few years’ time, Amyr---Amyr would have been---. A soft tapping at the door interrupted my thoughts.
For a moment, my heart ceased to beat and my breath caught in my throat. I had finished only a single glove, and not even begun the coat and trousers.
“Yes?” I gasped, fearfully. “Come in.”
Slowly, the door swung open just a crack, revealing a young girl’s face. She was pretty, with a wide clear, gray eyes, and soft chestnut hair that curled around her ears and fell to her shoulders.
“Are you finished?” she asked me.
“Kari-fa!” I swore, as I spied a thin brown mustache above his full red lips. No, this was not a girl at all, but a boy similar to the age my Amyr would have been. He was soft and feminine and as he held out a hand to retrieve a glove, I saw a circular burn mark in the center of his palm.
“Take them with you,” he ordered. “Pack everything. We have to leave.”
“To where?” I asked, when I found my voice.
The boy looked over his shoulder, to the hallway from whence he came, before turning back to me and whispering so softly, I could barely hear.
“We’re going to the Imperial Palace in the Capitol City. The Duke means to declare himself the king. We have conquered all other armies and no one stands to block our way. Hurry up. I will sit with you in the bus, while you finish repairing my other glove.”
The next day, I returned to the Capitol City, traveling alongside the boy, who was called Petya. We rode in the servant’s bus with the other household staff, and none spoke, save an ancient butler who mumbled unintelligibly under his breath.
Before arriving, I finished both of Petya’s gloves, which he wore as soon as I drew the final stitch. Afterward, I repaired his trousers and his coat, but I did not dare to ask him how his clothing came to be so damaged.
At the Imperial Palace, we were assembled in the central courtyard, by the beautiful glass fountain that was built by the Great Emperor for his beloved wife.
“I am the new king,” Marko of Korelesk declared, demanding that we all make obeisance before him on our knees.
King Marko spoke more of his plans, but I paid no attention, even though his voice was like a wasp in my ear. Instead, I stared at the fountain, at the brilliant rainbow of colored water, and I dreamed of my son, who would have filled this garden with roses if he was king.
“I hate him,” Petya whispered in the midst of the new king’s speech. “I hate him. I would kill him in an instant if I could.”
“Hush!” I cautioned him. “Do not speak ill of our new lord.”
After that, we did not speak another word, for the boy turned his face away.
I continued to stare at the fountain and dream of a day that would never come. In this dream, all the people of this planet would bow before a new king, who had eyes that turned the colors of the rainbow, depending on the light.
The people would love this king, for he would be kind and have a joyous smile, one not unlike my own. The people would say this king reminded them of his ancestor, the Great Emperor, for under his rule, we would prosper once again.
In fact, the people would whisper amongst themselves that it was almost as if the Great Emperor had been reborn, for it was he, the son of his great-grandson, Mikal, who was the last to descend from the Imperial Blood. As for the new king’s mother, well, she would be quite content standing by his side as he reigned upon the Imperial Throne, for that woman was none other than a poor, Karut seamstress, me.
Chapter 21
Dov
I decided I hated the sea. After our last voyage in Jan’s tiny boat, I had vowed never again to sail across the ocean. I had no need to return to the other continent. I had no desire to reclaim my familial duchy of Kildoo, and frankly, I enjoyed living in the motherland, so I figured there would never be a reason I should have to travel again.
I was wrong. Amyr came and bid me pack my few belongings, as well as find a horse for our trek back to the King’s village.
“I don’t have a horse,” I said, to which he just gazed at me with his strangely colored eyes. “I guess I’ll have to find one.”
“I guess you will,” he repeated. “And, do it quickly. We ride at nightfall.”
I went to the Farmer Lehot, who had always been kind to me, especially when he had caught me stealing raspberries from his bushes, or apples from his trees. Instead of grabbing my ear and dragging me to the Village Chief for punishment, he would make me pick the ripe berries until my hands bled from all the scratches.
Farmer Lehot had a daughter, Lorinda, who was just my age, which was why I liked to spend so much time around his orchard. Purposely, I’d steal an apple, just to earn the chance to perch in one of his trees where I could watch Lorinda churning butter on their porch.
Lorinda was tiny, even smaller than me, with long, dark thick hair that was perfectly straight without a single curl. When she moved it was as if every hair followed her in tandem. I loved to walk behind her watching this dark, silky curtain swing from side to side, imagining what it would feel like in my hands.
If her hair wasn’t beautiful enough, Lorinda’s eyes were like two limpid pools of mud, the kind that would swallow you up in just one step. They were framed by long thick lashes in the same color as her hair, and her red mouth was always open in a circle.
The only part of Lorinda that wasn’t absolutely perfect was her left front tooth, which instead of pointing down, stuck out at an angle. I used to imagine what it would feel like to kiss those sweet round lips, to feel that tooth poking through the delicious softness, bumping my tongue.
On the other side of the orchard, Farmer Lehot had some pastu
re land where he kept his goats and sheep, as well as several horses to pull his carts. Lorinda had a pony and when she wasn’t doing her chores, invariably she was upon that pony’s back.
It might have been the heat or dehydration that made me so whimsical in those late summer days, but as I sat in the trees picking fruit, I dreamed of the two of us on the pony galloping away. We were both so small and the pony fat, he could have easily carried us together, or so I thought. Imagining Lorinda pressed against me in a saddle nearly felled me from a tree.
Now, when I needed a horse, my first thought went to Farmer Lehot. I would go ask him if by chance, I could borrow a steed for just a few days.
“I’m off to the King’s Village,” I would declare. “No, I don’t know when I shall return, or if I ever will, for I have been chosen to become a warrior to fight the Mishaks.”
Undoubtedly, Lorinda would hear this and come running to my side from wherever she was. She might have been in the barn and there might be pieces of hay stuck in her hair.
“Take my pony,” she’d insist. “I’ll ride with you so I can bring him back.”
Then, the two of us would travel to the King’s Village in the same saddle just as I had dreamed.
“Dov!” Amyr snapped, still staring at me. “Hurry up.”
“Yes, Amyr,” I mumbled, heat searing like a burn across my face.
I ran to the farmer’s house and presented my case to borrow a horse, while waiting for Lorinda to magically appear. Unfortunately, she was at the market selling boxes of fruit and berries from her stall. Her pony was in the back pasture, and I could see now he was obviously too small to carry two.
“You’ll take one of my old draft horses,” the farmer insisted. “I’ll arrange to have him returned to me. Bless you, little Dov. You’re a brave young fellow.”
So, there I was astride this enormous furry beast, while all of the other warriors rode sleek and fast fighting steeds.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Amyr whispered when the other boys laughed at my ancient mount.
I wouldn’t have, but they laughed again when Torym, the fisherman, challenged me to fight. I knew that would have been a losing proposition for me, and had Lorinda not emerged from the market to watch the show, I never would have slid down from the back of that horse.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to fight anything except the urge to take the horse and disappear, after Amyr killed the fisherman with a single blow from his blade.
“Why did you do that?” I asked him later, during the trip to the King’s Village, as we rode side by side, and alone at the back of the pack. “He was a decent fellow. Nothing was bad about the fisherman, Torym.”
“It was necessary,” Amyr murmured. “Sometimes I must act even when it doesn’t appear to make sense.”
“But, why did you let him hit you, if you meant to kill him anyway?”
Amyr snorted. “It is my strategy. You ought to learn this since you are so very small. If they think they can best me, they let down their guard. Furthermore, it absolves me of any guilt when I take them out.”
I didn’t think Amyr ever felt guilt, nor remorse in this life, or any other. I did, though. My heart was soft, not a stone like his, and kept replaying the whole event over and over in my mind.
As Amyr swung his knife at Torym, I saw Lorinda approach from the corner stall, her mouth open, her protruding front tooth, a tiny speck of white.
Amyr’s hand and blade connected with Torym’s head, followed by the sound of bone crunching. Lorinda screamed the fisherman’s name, before fainting. She fell over like a rock, her body thudding as it hit the wooden boards, her head knocking against the neighboring stall, before she passed out.
My instinct was to jump down from my horse again, and run to her side, rescue my love, but Amyr was already mounted and demanding we move out.
“Get going,” he ordered me, leaving me no choice but to follow, to obey his command, for I was his squire, forever his servant, and his eyes and ears.
After two days of travel, dirty and wet from the rain, as well as hungry from lack of food, we arrived in the King’s Village. Not five minutes later, I was told we must board a boat. I wanted to protest, but my opinions were neither asked for, nor desired. Despite my reluctance, in a matter of moments, I was once again upon the waves.
At least this time, the vessel was fairly large and I could stand on the deck and heave my sickness into the sea. The wind was cold and it helped to calm my stomach a little bit.
“Come below, Dov.” The boy called Bear waved to me. “You must learn of our mission and be marked.”
Mission? Marking? I didn’t want either of these things. I wanted only to go home to Lorinda, who I now realized, had fainted at the death of another man.
I didn’t jump off the boat, or swim back to the shore. Instead, like a good soldier, I followed Bear down below into a room that was hot and filled with odors that alone would have made me sick.
“Ay yah, Dov!” Amyr waved, an odd smelling cigarette perched precariously upon his lip. Like everyone else, he was naked above the waist, while Pori worked intently, drawing something upon his back. “What do you think it is?” Amyr slurred, the cigarette obviously more than just tobacco leaves. My friend had certainly changed in the King’s Village, and I wasn’t certain it was for the better.
“It’s an eagle, Amyr,” I muttered, noting the newly inked black wings that spread across his shoulders, recalling a similar marking at another time, although I couldn’t say exactly where or when.
“Ay yah, of course,” Amyr laughed drunkenly, his eyes flashing in a million colors all at once. “What else would I be? I am the same as I have always been.”
“You are next, Dov,” Pori murmured, waving a needle in my direction. “What creature owns your soul? Every warrior of Karupatani must be branded with their animal spirit.”
The only creature that came to mind was a woman, or to be specific, Lorinda, for every waking and sleeping moment, my thoughts were entirely upon her.
Amyr made a huffing noise.
“Dov,” he shook his head, “that one was not for you. You will thank me later, as will Jan. Ach, what I must do on your behalf.”
“What are you, little Dov?” Bear called, perched on a bunk. “Something small. Something light of weight, yet something that flits about. I know! You are a hummingbird.”
“I am not!” I protested. “I am not anything at all.”
“Maybe, a rabbit,” Borak snickered. “The type that likes to run and hide in holes.”
“Or, a goat,” his brother, Turak called from across the room. Before him were stacked many empty bottles of ale, as well as a pile of butts and ash from dozens of cigarettes.
“Dov is the phoenix,” Amyr announced, rising to his feet and stretching out his back. The great black eagle quivered, looking fiercer than it did when he was still. It was a good rendition, though. Pori was quite the talented artist. “Come now, Pori. Put a phoenix upon Dov’s arm, for he shall rise from the ashes once again.”
A phoenix. I liked that. It, too, was a great and noble bird. Although, I didn’t desire any marking, if I had to have one, this could be it.
I removed my shirt and let Pori create, although the swaying, hot room made my head spin and the scent of old smoke and ale-laced breath sent my stomach lurching. As soon as the rendering was finished, I lurched up the stairs, before I spewed all over everyone.
That night, I spent up on the deck as I had all the ones before. There I sat on a box filled with ropes and floats, and wrapped in a blanket I had stolen from a berth below.
The sea was calm and the air was warm, when Amyr sat down beside me and lit a cigarette. I watched him flick a finger and from nowhere fire appeared. He drew long and hard on the smoke and then, like a dragon blew it all into the air. How he had changed from the sickly, weakened youth to this man who was hard and cold as steel!
“We land in Farku tomorrow,” he said, his face turned up to
the morning sun, his eyes alight with a thousand colors, before they turned a dark and angry red. “We will set fire to the land, to the buildings, and all who dwell within, and then, you will rise from the ashes like your spirit bird once again.”
“Me? Not me. You. You are the one, the MaKennah who has returned.”
“Not I, Dov. Not this time. Now, I am merely Amyr, son of Pellen, shopkeeper from the Karut ghetto in Farku, and Ailana, seamstress to the King. You are the phoenix, the firesetter. You are the one who will command. By birthright, the throne is yours for you are the sole grandson of the Duke of Kildoo.”
Chapter 22
Ailana
Once arrived at the Imperial Palace and settled into another tiny room in the servant’s wing, this time with a bed solely for myself, I was summoned to the Lord Chamberlain’s office. There, I was declared the Royal Head Seamstress and given a key to an empty room to use as my shop.
It was, in fact, the same room, the same desk, the same needles and threads, and the very same table where I had worked once before. Long ago, it seemed, nearly a lifetime in another world, I had sat at this same window mending and sewing.
That was when I still had hopes and dreams that might someday come true, when I had coins in my pockets, and fine department store dresses to wear. That was also when a handsome noble man met me by the fountain and shared with me his soul, and later, I shared with him my body.
Now, every day, I stared out at the frozen courtyard, for the winter had come and was vicious, punishing us with heavy snow. The gardens were nothing but skeletons of dead shrubs, and the rose bushes were empty and layered in ice.
I never left the servant’s building even to walk about, so did not see how the ocean had breached the seawall on the palace’s eastern shore. A maid, who cleaned the apartments of the nobility, told me that all the sand had eroded until there was none. All that remained was a wall of large, black boulders and the frigid waters splashing upon them. Angry, bitter ocean tears were cast upon the windows, no matter how high above they were.