by Graceling
LATER, WHEN Katsa was dressed and Helda grappled with her wet hair before the fire, there was a knock at her entrance. Katsa’s heart flew into her throat, for it would be a steward, summoning her to her uncle; or even worse, Po, come to read her mind and hurt her again with his explanations and his excuses. But when Helda went to the door, she came back with Raffin.
“He’s not the one I expected,” Helda said. She folded her hands across her stomach and clucked.
Katsa pressed her fingers to her temples. “I must speak to him alone, Helda.”
Helda left. Raffin sat on her bed and curled his legs up, as he had done when he was a child. As they both had done so many times, sitting together on her bed, talking and laughing. He didn’t laugh now, and he didn’t talk. He only sat, all arms and legs, and looked at her in her chair by the fire. His face kind and dear, and open with worry.
“That dress suits you, Kat,” he said. “Your eyes are very bright.”
“Helda imagines that a dress will solve all my problems,” Katsa said.
“Your problems have multiplied since you last left the court. I spoke to Giddon.”
“Giddon.” His very name made her tired.
“Yes. He told me what happened with Lord Ellis. Honestly, Katsa. It’s quite serious, isn’t it? What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”
“Honestly, Katsa.”
“Why do you keep saying that? I suppose you think I should have tortured the fellow, for doing no wrong?”
“Of course not. You did right. Of course you did right.”
“And the king won’t control me anymore. I won’t be his animal anymore.”
“Kat.” He shifted, and sighed. He looked at her closely. “I can see you’ve made up your mind. And you know I’ll do anything in my power to stop his hand. I’m on your side in anything to do with Randa, always. It’s just … it’s just that…”
She knew. It was just that Randa paid little heed to his son the medicine maker. There was very little in Raffin’s power to do, while his father lived.
“I’m worried for you, Kat,” he said. “That’s all. We all are. Giddon was quite desperate.”
“Giddon.” She sighed. “Giddon proposed marriage to me.”
“Great hills. Before or after you saw Ellis?”
“After.” She gestured impatiently. “Giddon thinks marriage is the solution to all my problems.”
“Hmm. Well, how did it go?”
How did it go? She felt like laughing, though there was no humor in it. “It began badly and progressed to worse,” she said, “and ended with my coming to the realization that Po is a mind reader. And a liar.”
Raffin considered her for a moment. He started to speak, then stopped. His eyes were very gentle. “Dear Katsa,” he finally said. “You’ve had a rough few days, what with Randa and Giddon and Po.”
And Po the roughest, though all the danger might lie with Randa. Po the wound she would remove, if she could choose one to remove. Randa could never hurt her as Po had.
They sat quietly. The fire crackled beside her. The fire was a luxury; there was barely a chill to the air, but Helda had wanted her hair to dry more quickly, so they’d set the great logs burning. Her hair fell now in curls around her shoulders. She pushed it behind her ears and tied it into a knot.
“His Grace has been a secret since he was a child, Kat.”
Here they came, then, the explanations and the rationalizations. She looked away from him and braced herself.
“His mother knew he’d only be used as a tool, if the truth came out. Imagine the uses of a child who can sense reactions to the things he says, or who knows what someone’s doing on the other side of a wall. Imagine his uses when his father is the king. His mother knew he wouldn’t be able to relate with people or form friendships, because no one would trust him. No one would want anything to do with him. Think about it, Katsa. Think about what that would be like.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes on fire, and his face softened. “What a thing for me to say. Of course you don’t need to imagine it.”
No, for it was her reality. She hadn’t had the luxury of hiding her Grace.
“We can’t blame him for not telling us sooner,” Raffin said. “To be honest, I’m touched that he told us at all. He told me just after you left. He has some ideas about the kidnapping, Kat.”
Yes, as he must have ideas about a great many things he was in no position to know anything about. A mind reader could never be short on ideas. “What are his ideas?”
“Why don’t you let him tell you about it?”
“I don’t crave the company of a mind reader.”
“He’s leaving tomorrow, Kat.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean, he’s leaving?”
“He’s leaving the court,” Raffin said, “for good. He’s going to Sunder, and then Monsea, possibly. He hasn’t worked out the details.”
Her eyes swam with tears. She seemed unable to control this strange water that flowed into her eyes. She stared at her hands, and one tear plopped into her palm.
“I think I’ll send him,” Raffin said, “to tell you about it.”
He climbed from the bed and came to her. He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Dear Katsa,” he said, and then he left the room.
She stared at the checked pattern of her marble floor and wondered how she could feel so desolate that her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t remember crying, not once in her life. Not until this fool Lienid had come to her court, and lied to her, and then announced that he was leaving.
HE HOVERED just inside the doorway; he seemed unsure whether to come closer or keep his distance. She didn’t know what she wanted, either; she only knew she wanted to remain calm and not look at him and not think any thoughts for him to steal. She stood, crossed into her dining room, went to the window, and looked out. The courtyard was empty, and yellow in the light of the lowering sun. She felt him moving into the entrance behind her.
“Forgive me, Katsa,” he said. “I beg you to forgive me.”
Well, and that was easily answered. She did not forgive him.
The trees in Randa’s garden were still green, and some of the flowers still in bloom. But soon the leaves would turn and fall. The gardeners would come with their great rakes, and scrape the leaves from the marble floor, and carry them away in wheelbarrows. She didn’t know where they carried them. To the vegetable gardens, she guessed, or to the fields. They were industrious, the gardeners.
She did not forgive him.
She heard him move a step closer. “How … how did you know?” he asked. “If you would tell me?”
She rested her forehead on the glass pane. “And why don’t you use your Grace to find the answer to that?”
He paused. “I could,” he said, “possibly, if you were thinking about it specifically. But you’re not, and I can’t wander around inside you and retrieve any information I want. Any more than I can stop my Grace from showing me things I don’t want.”
She didn’t answer.
“Katsa, all I know right now is that you’re angry, furious, from the top of your head to your toes; and that I’ve hurt you, and that you don’t forgive me. Or trust me. That’s all I know at this moment. And my Grace only confirms what I see with my own eyes.”
She sighed sharply, and spoke into the windowpane. “Giddon told me he didn’t trust you. And when he told me, he used the same words you’d used before, the same words exactly. And”—she waved her hand in the air—”there were other hints. But Giddon’s words made it clear.”
He was closer now. Leaning against the table, most likely, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on her back. She focused on the view outside. Two ladies crossed the courtyard below her, on each other’s arms. The curls of their hair sat gathered at the tops of their heads and bobbed up and down.
“I haven’t been very careful with you,” he said. “Careful to hide it. I’d go so far
as to say I’ve been careless at times.” He paused, and his voice was quiet, as if he was talking down to his boots. “It’s because I’ve wanted you to know.”
And that did not absolve him. He had taken her thoughts without telling her, and he had wanted to tell her, and that did not begin to absolve him.
“I couldn’t tell you, Katsa, not possibly,” he said, and she swung around to face him.
“Stop it! Stop that! Stop responding to my thoughts!”
“I won’t hide it from you, Katsa! I won’t hide it anymore!”
He wasn’t leaning against the table, hands in pockets. He was standing, clutching his hair. His face—she would not look at his face. She turned away, turned back to the window.
“I’m not going to hide it from you anymore, Katsa,” he said again. “Please. Let me explain it. It’s not as bad as you think.”
“It’s easy for you to say,” she said. “You’re not the one whose thoughts are not your own.”
“Almost all of your thoughts are your own,” he said. “My Grace only shows me how you stand in relation to me. Where you are nearby physically, and what you’re doing; and any thoughts or feelings or instincts you have regarding me. I—I suppose it’s meant to be a kind of self-preservation,” he finished lamely. “Anyway, it’s why I can fight you. I sense the movement of your body, without seeing it. And more to the point, I feel the energy of your intentions toward me. I know every move you intend to make against me, before you make it.”
She almost couldn’t breathe at that extraordinary statement. She wondered vaguely if this was how it felt to her victims, to be kicked in the chest.
“I know when someone wants to hurt me, and how,” he said. “I know if a person looks on me kindly, or if he trusts me. I know if a person doesn’t like me. I know when someone intends to deceive me.”
“As you’ve deceived me,” she said, “about being a mind reader.”
He continued doggedly. “Yes, that’s true. But all you’ve told me about your struggles with Randa, Katsa, I needed to hear from your mouth. All you’ve told me about Raffin, or Giddon. When I met you in Murgon’s courtyard,” he said. “Do you remember? When I met you, I didn’t know why you were there. I couldn’t look into your mind and know you were in the process of rescuing my grandfather from Murgon’s dungeons. I wasn’t even sure my grandfather was in the dungeons, for I hadn’t gotten close enough to him to sense his physical presence yet. Nor had I spoken with Murgon; I’d learned nothing yet from Murgon’s lies. I didn’t know you’d attacked every guard in the castle. All I knew for sure was that you didn’t know who I was, and you didn’t know whether to trust me, but you didn’t want to kill me, because I was Lienid, and possibly because of something to do with some other Lienid, though I couldn’t be certain who, or how he factored into it. And also that you—I don’t know how to explain it, but you felt trustworthy to me. That’s all, that’s all I knew. It was on the basis of that information that I decided to trust you.”
“It must be convenient,” she said bitterly, “to know if another person is trustworthy. We wouldn’t be here now if I had that capability.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t tell you how sorry. I’ve hated not telling you. It’s rankled me every day since we became friends.”
“We are not friends.” She whispered it into the glass of the window.
“If you’re not my friend, then I have no friends.”
“Friends don’t lie,” she said.
“Friends try to understand,” he said. “How could I have become your friend without lying? How much have I risked to tell you and Raffin the truth? What would you have done differently, Katsa, if this were your Grace and your secret? Hidden yourself in a hole and dared to burden no one with your grievous friendship? I will have friends, Katsa. I will have a life, even though I carry this burden.”
He stopped for a moment, his voice rough and choked, and Katsa fought against his distress, fought to keep it from touching her. She found that she was gripping the window frame very hard.
“You would have me friendless, Katsa,” he finished quietly. “You would have my Grace control every aspect of my life and shut me off from every happiness.”
She didn’t want to hear these words, words that called to her sympathy, to her understanding. She who had hurt so many with her own Grace, and been reviled because of it. She who still struggled to keep her Grace from mastering her, and who, like him, had never asked for the power it gave her.
“Yes,” he said, “I didn’t ask for this. I would turn it off for you, if I could.”
Rage then, rage again, because she couldn’t even feel sympathy without him knowing it. This was madness. She could not comprehend the madness of this situation. How did his mother relate to him? Or his grandfather? How could anyone?
She took a breath and tried to consider it, piece by piece.
“Your fighting,” she said, her eyes on the darkening courtyard. “You expect me to believe your fighting isn’t Graced?”
“I’m an exceptional natural fighter,” he said. “All of my brothers are. The royal family is well-known in Lienid for hand fighting. But my Grace—it’s an enormous advantage in a fight, to anticipate every move your opponent makes against you. Combine with that my immediate sense of your body, a sense that goes beyond sight—you can understand why no one has ever beaten me, save you.”
She thought about that and found she couldn’t believe it. “But you’re too good. You must have a fighting Grace as well. You couldn’t fight me so well if you didn’t.”
“Katsa,” he said, “think about it. You’re five times the fighter I am. When we fight, you’re holding back—don’t tell me you aren’t, because I know you are—and I’m not holding back, not a bit. And you can do anything you want to me, and I can’t hurt you—”
“It hurts when you strike me—”
“It hurts you for only an instant, and besides, if I hit you it’s only because you’ve let me, because you’re too busy wrenching my arm out of its socket to care that I’m hitting you in the stomach. How long do you think it would take you to kill me, or break my bones, if you decided to?”
If she truly decided to?
He was right. If her purpose were to hurt him, to break his arm or his neck, she didn’t think it would take her very long.
“When we fight,” he said, “you go to great pains to win without hurting me. That you usually can is a mark of your phenomenal skill. I’ve never hurt you once, and believe me, I’ve tried.”
“It’s a front,” she said. “The fighting is only a front.”
“Yes. My mother seized on it the instant it became clear that I shared the skill of my brothers, and that my Grace magnified that skill.”
“Why didn’t you know I would strike you,” she said, “in Murgon’s courtyard?”
“I did know,” he said, “but only in the last instant, and I didn’t react quickly enough. Until that first strike, I didn’t realize your speed. I’d never encountered the like of it before.”
The mortar was cracking in the frame of the window. She pulled out a small chunk and rolled it between her fingers. “Does your Grace make mistakes? Or are you always right?”
He breathed; it almost sounded like a laugh. “It’s not always exact. And it’s always changing. I’m still growing into it. My sense of the physical is pretty reliable, as long as I’m not in an enormous crowd. I know where people are and what they’re doing. But what they feel toward me—there’s never been a time when I thought someone was lying and they weren’t. Or a time when I thought someone intended to hit me and they didn’t. But there are times when I’m not sure—when I have a sense of something but I’m not sure. Other people’s feelings can be very … complicated, and difficult to understand.”
She hadn’t thought of that, that a person might be difficult to understand, even to a mind reader.
“I’m more sure of things now than I used to be,” he said. “When I was a child I
was rarely sure. These enormous waves of energy and feeling and thought were always crashing into me, and most of the time I was drowning in them. For one thing, it’s taken me a long time to learn to distinguish between thoughts that matter and thoughts that don’t. Thoughts that are just thoughts, fleeting, and thoughts that carry some kind of relevant intent. I’ve gotten much better at that, but my Grace still gives me things I’ve no idea what to do with.”
It sounded ridiculous to her, thoroughly ridiculous. And she had thought her own Grace overwhelming. Alongside his, it seemed quite straightforward.
“It’s hard to get a handle on it sometimes,” he said, “my Grace.”
She turned sideways for a moment. “Did you say that because I thought it?”
“No. I said it because I thought it.”
She turned back to the window. “I thought it, too,” she said. “Or something like it.”
“Well,” he said. “I imagine it’s a feeling you would understand.”
She sighed again. There were things about this she could understand, though she didn’t want to. “How close do you have to be to someone, physically, for your Grace to sense them?”
“It differs. And it’s changed over time.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it’s someone I know well,” he said, “my range is broad. For strangers, I need to be closer. I knew when you neared the castle today; I knew when you burst into the courtyard and leaped out of your saddle, and I felt your anger strong and clear as you flew up to Raffin’s rooms. My range for you is … broader than most.”
It was darker outside now than it was in her dining room. She saw him, suddenly, in the reflection of the window. He was leaning back against the table, as she had pictured him before. His face, his shoulders, his arms sagged. Everything about him sagged. He was unhappy. He was looking down at his feet, but as she watched him he raised his eyes, and met hers in the glass. She felt the tears again, suddenly, and she grasped at something to say.