The Well of Prayers

by Anne Boles Levy

  I turned around one tiny, furious, barely controlled step at a time, hoping I could keep my hands from wrapping around her neck. What did Amaniel think she was doing?

  She kept on: “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, mighty warrior, that all doubts have been removed from my sister’s name? Her textbook will help her healing skills. It’s chaste, as she says.”

  The book was back in my arms a moment later, and the brute actually apologized—to Amaniel. To me, Valeo only said: “Keep moving.”

  I narrowed my eyes and hugged the book to my chest. I also didn’t move. I had a brief moment of the purest, sweetest pleasure watching his face contort in rage. He turned bright red somewhere beneath that bronze bucket he wore over his head. I hadn’t believed for a moment that my life might be in danger. Something had changed in him, something I sensed I could exploit, though I wasn’t sure how, or what I was after, exactly. I’d stopped him cold, which was a power I hadn’t known I had.

  I gave him my sweetest I-hate-you smile as I spoke: “Happy Sabbath, First Guardsman Valeo and Nothing Else.”

  “Nihil’s balls! You little—” he said.

  “Language, please!” I feigned shock.

  “What, with that book of yours, don’t you know all about a man’s unmentionables by now? Maybe you need someone to teach you how they work.”

  This was when growing up by the docks came in handy. I’d heard replies to this kind of talk before. “You teach me how your unmentionables work? Well, I can’t imagine that would take long. It’d probably take longer to find them.”

  An out-and-out guffaw came from Amaniel’s direction. I grabbed her arm and the two of us strode off. Never mind the apology. Humiliating him was working well for me, too.

  Amaniel glanced over her shoulder. “He’s following.”

  Valeo overtook us in a few angry strides and planted himself between us and the bridge. I stood my ground and braced for a stream of obscenities. It never came.

  He shook his head. “You’re not doing this to me.”

  “I’m not doing anything to you.”

  “I don’t care at all about you. I’ve watched you come and go from here for days already, like I’m invisible to you. I wouldn’t give Nihil’s toe fungus for you.”

  Had he really been watching for me? And I’d walked right past him, not seeing him alive and well and glowering at me?

  The bottom fell out of my day. It had been a bad day so far, and I ought to feel worse about people dying. But this man had been alive, and I’d been oblivious. I was worse than an idiot; I was livestock, bleating and stupid and following the herd with my head bent and my eyes lowered.

  “I could have my pick of Feroxi warrior brides,” he said.

  “Congratulations.” A bitter tone crept into my voice.

  “They have lands and armies. You have only a vulgar book and a blessing from the Temple.”

  Amaniel shot a quizzical look at me. It dawned on me that Valeo and I were having two separate conversations. I was defending my book; I couldn’t figure out what he was defending. Why was he being this way? It’s not like I’d been deliberately avoiding him, and he still hadn’t ever bothered to point out his state of not-being-dead to me.

  “You don’t like me,” I said.

  “That, I know.”

  “I thought about you and grieved for you and hated myself for not getting that tonic made in time. Of all the things that happened to me that night—and ever since—not saving you was the one that ate at me the most. So you just listen.”

  Somewhere inside my brain, all foggy with rage, his new expression vaguely registered as amazement.

  “You’re going to escort my sister and me home and be pleasant about it, or at least not so grumpy. And then you’re going to forget the admittedly tiny part I may have played in saving your life and start thinking about some gigantic, beetle-browed warrior bride.”

  “With hairy legs,” said Amaniel. Nihil’s navel, how I love my sister.

  “And a big, cold castle,” I added.

  Amaniel lowered her voice. “I hear they wear their armor to bed.”

  “How adorable,” I said. “You and her and all that matching bronze.”

  Valeo folded his arms across his massive chest and scowled. “I don’t like where this is going.”

  I shrugged. “Well, we’re going home. You coming?”

  He stepped aside to let us pass, then stomped along behind us. Amaniel kept turning her head to narrate Valeo’s progress as we made our way across the bridge and beyond. I shrugged, pretending he was no more than an annoying street vendor hassling me to buy useless junk.

  “I thought you hated him?” I said after Amaniel’s fourth update.

  “It’s still a huge honor to have a Temple Guard escorting us,” she said. “Besides, I think he likes you.”

  I chuffed. “Reyhim’s passed his gold totem over your brain too many times.”

  She elbowed me in response. I snuck my own peeks over my shoulder as we strode along, half out of disbelief and half out of grudging pride that I’d managed, once again, not to get myself arrested or killed. But the disbelief part was winning. Valeo, a prince, was following me home. But I’d liked him, sort of, before I knew that. No, I hated him, even now. But he was following me home.

  I snuck another glance to make sure. He kept his mean, brooding face on and added a scowl for extra emphasis.

  This was too good to let the moment pass. I wanted to have him trail me all over the city until I wore out the soles of my sandals. Instead, we led Valeo to a quiet side street off the main market square, lined with merchants’ homes painted in eye-scorching hues, with window boxes and potted flowers in a riot of colors. It was the only street of homes in the commercial area, and the nicest address in the city. The three of us paused outside the portreeve’s official residence, a statelier place than our last house, with a gated entrance. Off to the side was Mami’s private hearth, where a cook and a serving man were hard at work.

  I sent Amaniel in ahead of me, hoping to have a word with Valeo, or maybe a few hundred words.

  All he said, however, was, “I have returned you in all pious trust,” and turned to go.

  “Wait,” I said. “You can’t just leave.”

  Could he? I still hadn’t gotten my apology. Then it occurred to me that was the smallest part of what I wanted from him.

  “You asked for an escort,” he said. “And I provided it. I have duties elsewhere.”

  “Your Highness, wait.”

  At that, he turned. “I am First Guardsman Valeo Uterlune of the Second Uncertain Unit of the Unsleeping Vigil over the Great Numen’s Borrowed Personage. I am not His Highness, not to you, not to anyone on this wretched island.”

  I blinked back tears, my fake indifference crumbling. “I have no idea what you just said. Your Commander made a point to call you a prince.”

  “I am a prince, but I am First Guardsman—”

  “Yes, yes, I got all that. Sort of. Don’t ask me to memorize it though.” Maybe I should’ve just let him go. Feeling all this contempt from him was worse than thinking him dead.

  “You’re crying.”

  “I never cry.” I sniffled and inhaled a hiccup. “I’m just confused why you’re so angry with me. Don’t you have heretics to hang?”

  He took several abrupt strides forward until he was once again using his superior height to make a point. “You find that funny, yes? That Nihil is crushing your backward little city under the heel of his boot? I never took you for shallow.”

  “Nihil’s navel, no! I mean, I didn’t, you … I was angry with you. For being angry with me.” I sounded like a complete fool. Honestly, sometimes I feel like every word that ever came out of my mouth should be painted vivid green like our plague banners, so people would know to avoid them.

  “You’ve no reason to be angry with me,” he said. “I will, however, show you what you should be angry about. You, of all people, making light of Nihil’s ire. You, of all pe
ople, when you have the most power to help.”

  “Ire? Me? Help?” What had I done? What power would I have?

  If he’d said I could fly or make the world spin backwards, I’d have believed him sooner than the idea that there was something I could do about the Azwans’ or Nihil’s ire or the plumes of smoke. If I could do something, I’d like to think I would’ve thought of it by now.

  “Meet me in front of the Ward gates on First Workday before you report to the sick ward.”

  Then he was gone, striding up the narrow street as though he owned it, thumb resting on his sword hilt, turning the corner without looking back. I watched him without tearing my gaze away until long after there was nothing left to see. It finally occurred to me to shut my wide-open mouth and stop stammering excuses and miserable replies to the empty air.

  I pushed open our gate, feeling its squeaks and groans like I’d uttered them myself.

  5

  A gracious hostess opens her mind as well as her hearth.

  —Sapphiran proverb

  Babba anticipated a crowded Sabbath eve by our hearth. Two sea captains with ships in port were making a courtesy call, and a few merchants and their wives had sent word they’d like to sample the new lord and lady’s hospitality. They rowed up to our private dock on the Grand Concourse, where the women of House Rimonil greeted them in our finest dresses, as Babba told us we were to do every Sabbath, our hair wrapped in colorful lace, a new strand of perfectly matched pearls dangling from Mami’s slender neck.

  We were keeping a tradition that stretched back before anyone knew to write down such things, before laws and rules and codes of conduct. Back then, a stranger showing up uninvited must’ve presented every kind of danger and no promise of reward. Breaking bread together created a bond of trust between guest and host; it was a singular stamp of civilization, and the household of the newest Lord Portreeve would see it honored.

  All these lofty thoughts circled in my head as I helped the cook with this platter and that bowl, elevating our simple meal in my imagination to great historical importance, made all the more urgent by the thought of those funeral pyres. I would make sure there would be one civilized spot in this city tonight—one place that was safe, if only for a short while—even if I had to struggle with a whorl of madness in my head over a living Valeo and his invitation. What did he mean, I had power? Over what or whom? What is it he wanted me to see?

  Never mind. I needed to distract myself. Too much was riding on this dinner and the mood it would set. Babba had to be convinced to do what no one else could, to use his newfound position to stand up for our city and persuade the Azwans to leave us be, and that was easier to do over wine and food and lively company.

  Dinner tonight was Babba’s favorite; lentil stews spiced to sear the palate, piping-hot flatbreads to eat them with, and a poached fish as long as the span of Babba’s arms. I had to slap Rishi’s sticky hands away more than once, until I saw Babba dipping a finger into the fruit relish and scowled at him. He flashed a guilty grin and snuck away.

  From around the front of the house, the gate rattled. A nod from Mami meant I should go answer. The air seeped out of my lungs. For a brief moment, I thought it might be Valeo, and then realized how utterly illogical that would be. Even so, my heart beat faster, and I caught myself mentally rehearsing something to say to him.

  As I rounded the front of the house, a newborn’s wail pierced the quiet street, along with a familiar woman’s voice shushing it. I peered through the iron lattice toward the dusky street. “Dina?”

  “Let us in, it’s not just the baby who’s hungry,” Dina said with a laugh. My cousin’s red-faced baby boy wailed from inside a sling across her bosom.

  “You’re quite the howler!” I said, jiggling the gate open. “An opinion on everything, I take it.”

  Dina’s husband peered over her shoulder. Faddar was chubby and barely out of his teens, his beard only a sparse crop of dark strands. I chuckled. “He looks like you, Faddar.”

  His wife poked him in the side. “It’s the baby fat,” Dina said. Faddar flashed a lopsided grin and shrugged.

  “Your cousin feeds me too well,” he chuckled.

  This is what happiness looks like, I told myself. Remember this when you’re picking through those red-ribboned scrolls. The courting notes were streaming in now that I’d turned sixteen, but my sudden value as a future wife owed more to Babba’s new position. I wasn’t sure I wanted to marry someone who saw me as a plank in his career path, or whose parents saw an alliance with House Rimonil as a safe harbor in a storm of trouble.

  Yet I couldn’t help browsing through the scrolls with Mami and my sisters, even if it turned my stomach to hear them sighing and giggling. Mami couldn’t resist doting on the florid pleadings of this or that third cousin or his shy best friend. Maybe I should marry one of them, she’d suggest with all the subtlety of a windstorm. No, the one with the handsome beard who used to tease me in school, Amaniel would insist. Not him. This other one is halfway to his first fortune at the Customs House. Yes, he’d do, they’d agree. Or maybe not. And then they’d start all over again.

  I refused to even think about a husband. I’d turned sixteen only a half-season ago, and even if the notes piqued my curiosity, it was only to see who’d written and if I knew him. I pictured none of them by my side, day or night. I could practice kissing my pillow with my eyes closed, but what good was that? When I opened them, it was time to don my blue smock and head to the sick ward. And the only men I saw there were battered or hungover.

  I led Dina and her family around to the dining patio.

  “Word’s out that two merchants are looking you over tonight, Hadara,” Dina said, lowering her voice. “Though, careful, it’s their wives you want to impress.”

  “Looking me over? Am I for sale?”

  “In a way, yes. They’ve got eligible sons.”

  Oh! Nihil save me from Eligible Sons.

  “I don’t think I’m ready,” is all I said.

  “You’ll be ready if your Babba says so. Anyway, mind what I tell you. The fathers just want to see that you’re good-looking and sweet. But your prospective mother-in-law? She’ll be sharpening knives for you.”

  “Knives? Meaning what, exactly?” I had enough to worry about besides possibly murderous future in-laws.

  “Ever wonder why the sons aren’t present while Dearest Mami makes your acquaintance?”

  “No, not really, I—”

  “Dina, love!” Mami was there to greet us, and all conversation stopped while she and the guests swore up and down the baby was the most adorable thing ever, and Nihil’s blessings were surely on the new parents, and may he bestow many such blessings in the future.

  But it was just as Dina had said. The two merchants’ wives kissed the baby’s head and then immediately looked over to see my reaction. What do you think of your new little cousin? asked one. You must love children, don’t you, Hadara? asked the other. How is working at the sick ward? Are you afraid of getting ill yourself? You do take good care of yourself, yes? I found myself going ’round and ’round with the questions until Babba motioned me away. I bowed to the ladies and made a prompt escape.

  I joined Mami and Amaniel as Babba leaned in to whisper instructions. “No matter how the conversation turns, I want smiles, yes? No tragedy, no politics, at least not from us. Smiles of welcome.”

  I knew he wasn’t talking about the nosy wives, but Mami gave him one of her cross looks. “We hardly need lessons in hospitality, Rim.”

  “Actually, we do,” he shot back, his voice still a whisper. “Every moment of this meal is a test. Make sure the new Lord Portreeve and his family pass inspection.”

  She gave him a peck on the cheek by way of an answer. “Girls, go help the cook. And Hadara, I know it’ll be hard, but make yourself as unnoticeable as possible, please. You’re the hostess tonight, not the main course.”

  Unnoticeable? I’d happily crawl under our house, even if it lacked
the stilts of our old one, for the chance to go unnoticed. But one glance at Babba’s stern nod at Mami’s instructions and I figured it was better to just perform another curtsy-bow and grab a platter. After I’d been handed a wine jug, I realized how utterly I was going to fail at Mami’s instructions. I had to ask Babba about intervening; Leba Mara was counting on me to convince him. How was I going to broach such a delicate subject while having to smile until my cheeks hurt?

  The longer the evening dragged on, the harder it became to keep that Smile of Welcome pasted on. Thunderous conversations rumbled from every corner of the long table. Speculation ran high that the Azwans would leave soon, or they’d stay forever, or the Temple was taking over or would leave us alone. Both ship captains had heard my story in other ports of call, but I didn’t match what they’d imagined: a “wild girl” ought to sport twigs in her unkempt hair and a crazy gleam in her eye. I politely poured the wine from a fluted pitcher, asked after their ships, and demurred most conversation. That was my role, and I fell into it with unusual vigor, even for me.

  I had to stay focused before I tipped the wine into someone’s lap. Babba couldn’t have anything to criticize before I got to ask about the warehouse.

  Mostly the men talked politics, which meant loud appraisals of the border war between Feroxi and humans on the mainland. Both races fought to control cargo routes and croplands. That much I’d gathered from a score of similar wine-fueled debates, even before all the troubles with the Azwan. It’d been going on for years.

  “It’s spilled over to here,” said one of the merchants, an overfed, jowly man with a permanent frown. “We’ve got our own Feroxi troubles these days.”

  “You’ve got nothing,” said a sea captain. “A few broken skulls and missing men? Where are the slaves they’ve taken or the razed villages? Where’s the cropland they’ve seeded with salt or the orchards they’ve axed?”

  The merchant pressed his case. “You’re saying we should wait until then? Until our whole island looks like the borderlands, like one giant boneyard? We should act.”