by Aaron Yeager
It was bothering her that, in the heat of her argument with Evere, she had flippantly boasted that Alder would take her punishment. At first, she thought that it was the reactions of the others that were making her uneasy. They were, after all, foreigners and didn’t realize that in Wysteria such a thing was commonplace. However, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that their surprised stares weren’t what was bothering her. It was bothering her that she had made the suggestion in the first place, but she couldn’t imagine why that should nag at her so much.
From her perch on top of the dresser, Deutzia shimmered happily, which caught Athel’s attention. “Sure thing,” Athel said, as she stood up and walked over, removing a special pouch from which flowed a pure amber colored liquid. Hai’i Milia Carminie, or Milia’s milk, in the common tongue. Sap from the royal tree of the Forsythia family. Deutzia would need it to sustain her until she took permanent root, and Athel was beginning to worry because her supply was beginning to run low. Deutzia hummed in a motherly fashion, soothing her worries, and Athel smiled, gently brushing the tips of her leaves as she took out her sprayer and moistened Deutzia’s leaves and stems.
In the corner of the room Sumac slept quietly. Athel walked over to her and thought for a moment about her dwindling supply then gave Sumac some Hai’i Milia Carminie as well. Deutzia sparkled calmly.
“I appreciate the offer,” Athel answered, “but you know that if it came to that, I would go home to get more.” Deutzia sparkled in relief, and Athel’s mouth opened in surprise. “You were bluffing, weren’t you? Oh, you deceptive little twig.” Athel and her tree laughed. It felt wonderful to have someone who understood her so completely, who knew every inch and corner of her soul. It made Athel feel complete, and at the same time, she felt a little sad for the others on the ship. They were curious to her, and she watched them often from afar when they didn’t know she was looking. They were completely alone, like a single star in a dark sky. Their thoughts never left their own minds. It seemed like such a strange way to exist, like water in a cup instead of part of a flowing river. It was no wonder to Athel why her people rarely interacted with outsiders. It was so easy for them to hurt each other, because they never felt the hurt they inflicted. Oh, they had the pains of a conscience, but they could never actually feel the pain of another the way Wysterians could, or the joy. It led to their societies being a rather motley collection of individuals bumping into one another, rather than actually congealing into a single unified whole. It was so strange to Athel, that they could be standing right next to one another, yet there was nearly infinite distance between their minds and hearts, while on Wysteria, no matter how far away someone was physically, so long as they touched the living trees, their souls touched.
Athel looked down at her feet and regretted wearing sandals for so many years. It had been a long time since she had felt her mother’s presence, and she knew now that she missed it.
Athel had observed that because of their aloneness, foreigners reached out, trying to connect even in a shallow way to those around them, but they only skimmed the surface of their souls. They never really connected the way Athel did with Deutzia. Tendrils without roots.
The only exception seemed to be Evere and Mina, who occasionally displayed an ability to read each other's thoughts that seemed, to Athel, absolutely treelike at times. She had not yet decided if it was actual thought sharing, or if they had simply spent enough time around each other that they were able to make educated guesses. She had thought about asking them about it on a number of occasions, but had yet to work up the nerve to do so. Evere was difficult for Athel to approach. She had never had a man be her technical superior, and she found herself at a loss to know how to interact with him. She faked it by pretending he was a woman when she spoke to him, but that just felt strange. She always found herself staring at his beard and slipping back into the commanding tone one used when addressing men.
Mina was certainly approachable, but Athel felt she was like a whirlpool. Once you started talking to her she’d suck you in and wouldn’t release you until you had shared embarrassing stories and tried on a few new outfits to see what looked best. Athel shivered at the thought. She could think of little she considered more demeaning than dressing immodestly for the viewing pleasure of men, and yet women like Mina did so with pride. It was something she knew she would never understand.
Ryin, on the other hand, was very easy to understand. Like his uncle, Jasin, Ryin loved the sky and loved being a sailor, although he’d never admit it openly. He’d just grumble about something that was bothering him and change the subject, but Athel had caught the look in his eyes when the sun was setting, touching the horizon like a melting pat of butter, and she knew that he loved sailing as much as she did. Perhaps he felt that hiding his true feelings gave him strength or protection.
Athel found herself wishing for some cookies when her thoughts were interrupted by a timid knock at the door. She knew it was Alder without having to open the peephole. Only he would knock on a door so softly to avoid any possible irritation to the occupant within.
“If you want to come in, you’ll have to knock properly,” Athel shouted out, turning Deutzia’s pot a quarter-turn to one side. There was a long pause...then another knock, just as soft as the first one.
“I said you need to knock louder, Alder,” she shouted again.
“If you already know it’s me, then why do I need to knock again?” came the mousey reply from the other side. Athel walked over in frustration and threw open the door. Alder was standing there holding a metal tray covered in steaming sugar cookies. Athel couldn’t help but smile and allowed Alder to enter while she grabbed three of the sweet warm cookies and shoved them into her mouth.
“Oh, these are scrumptious, Alder. I love it when you show up with something I’m craving like this,” she said, crumbs falling out of her mouth and onto the floor.
“I am very pleased to hear that,” Alder replied, taking out a dustpan and sweeping up the falling debris.
“You know what would go perfect with these?” she asked, but before she could answer her own question, Bunni skipped in wearing her little maid costume and holding a cool mug of cocoa. Athel let out a squeak of delight and took the mug, dipping her cookies into it as Bunni skipped out again. The treat improved her mood tremendously, and she was amazed that Alder could so perfectly guess what she liked and the way she liked it. Most people like their cocoa hot, but Athel only liked it when it was cold to use it for dipping; she never drank it any other time.
Alder understood her so well, and she found herself feeling very curious about him as she ate her cookies.
“Mr. Bursage, I was wondering what you were like when you were younger,” Athel asked.
“I don’t suppose I was much different than I am now,” Alder responded smartly as he took out a wet towel and began cleaning off the dressers.
“I mean, what was your day like? Cooking classes, etiquette instruction, stuff like that.”
“Actually,” he commented as he cleaned, “I was not allowed. Madam Bursage felt it would be a waste of resources.”
“Wait,” Athel interrupted, furrowing her brow. “So how did you learn all this stuff?”
“Stuff?” he critiqued.
“Yes, don’t try to correct me; I know ‘stuff’ isn’t a proper word for a lady. Answer the question.”
Alder sighed. “I taught myself, usually late at night when no one was around.”
“That’s when I’d practice with my sword,” Athel added, finding a common point as she took a drink.
“Then a few years ago Madam Bursage was receiving Lady Buckthorn for a private dinner, and the potato soup made the househusbands sick when they tested it before the dinner.”
“I remember that. The potato famine took out the entire crop that year.”
“Yes, and with only an hour before the dinner, Lady Bursage went into a panic. That is when I volunteered to make the dinner with the remai
ning untainted ingredients.”
“And let me guess, it was incredible,” Athel said, swallowing the last of the cookies.
“She was very pleased,” Alder said, letting off the faintest hint of a smile. “After that, she allowed me to begin serving as a potential househusband.”
Athel was impressed. Lady Bursage was a strict woman, nearly impossible to please. For Alder to have gained her favor was quite an achievement and for him to have earned the right to bear her surname even more so. Athel looked at him oddly for a moment. It suddenly seemed wrong for him to be kneeling on the floor before her.
“I want you to sit up straight,” she commanded happily, setting her cocoa down.
“My Lady?” he asked, without raising his eyes.
“I want to see what you look like sitting up.” Athel pulled over a chair and bade him to sit before her. Alder moved hesitantly, as if he expected this to be some kind of trick or trap, and Athel frowned at his mannerisms.
“Come on, don’t be so stiff,” she bade, grabbing his bony shoulders and shaking them. “Relax and sit up straight.” He sat up and even managed a shaky smile. She sat back and regarded him anew. He was certainly nothing special to look at, with his large pouty eyes, pale complexion, and frail physique, yet she knew he had an internal strength that she wished he would show on the outside. If he could overcome so much adversity to become the lead househusband of the Bursage family, good enough even to be betrothed to the queen’s daughter, then he certainly had the potential to become much more than he currently was. There was something admirable, even noble about him, and she wanted him to show it.
“You know what we need to do with you?” Athel asked at last.
“What, my Lady?” he asked uncomfortably.
“We need to teach you to stick up for yourself more. Stop looking down at the floor like that. Look people in the eyes when you talk to them.”
“Yes, Lady Athel,” he said without raising his eyes.
“Come on,” she said playfully. “Let’s practice. Look me in the eye and ask me for something.”
Alder became very uncomfortable at the request and swayed slightly from side to side, as if fighting against something. Athel sat in silence, watching him squirm with rapidly draining enthusiasm.
“It can’t be that hard,” she egged, a frown appearing on her face.
“I can’t,” Alder finally said quietly. Athel felt her anger rising within her. It was strange for a man to refuse an order, and she recognized her mother’s training taking effect in her.
“I command you, as your matron,” Athel said humorlessly in her mother’s forceful tone. “Look me in the eyes!”
Alder writhed and fought as he sat in his chair, tortured internally by something he seemed powerless to overcome. Finally, he stopped. His shoulders drooped and his eyes became moist with forming tears.
“You don’t understand,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t make myself do that, even if I tried.”
Athel snorted derisively and stood up, towering above him. “Then you are not the man I thought you were. Who could refuse such a simple request?”
Athel was about to show him the door when she heard a noise. Too soft to hear properly, she paused, waiting for it to occur again.
“Why did you refuse Captain Evere's simple request?” he asked quietly. From her perch on the drawers, Deutzia shimmered accusingly, but Athel ignored her.
“Say that again,” Athel dared. Part of her knew that she was supposed to feel rage at his impudence, but to her surprise, instead she felt intrigued. Alder was standing up to her.
“The simplest solution to save Miss Sotol would be to return to Wysteria and persuade your mother, but you completely refused to even entertain the notion. Why?”
“Because it wouldn’t have worked,” Athel dismissed. “Once my mother has her mind made up she can’t afford to change it. It gives the impression of weakness to the other families.”
“But, my Lady, that is not true and you know it,” Alder insisted. “Queen Forsythia has altered more decrees than any other Queen. Indeed, her openness to entertain other points of view has strengthened her political ties with the other Braihmin and Kisatriya families.”
Athel’s intrigue turned to defensiveness. She didn’t like where this line of questioning was going.
“You’re deflecting,” Alder concluded. “What is the real reason you refuse to return to Wysteria?”
Every fiber in Athel’s body seemed to want to run from that question. She could think of a thousand ways to dodge it. Fake anger and storm out of the room. Accuse Alder of gross indecorousness and make him feel guilty, or even feign hurt and fake a few tears, yet she found herself answering the question instead.
“I can’t go back to my mother,” she began. “If I ask for her help, it will be like giving up everything I have earned. I’d be admitting to her that I can’t do anything on my own and that I’m still nothing more than her little child.”
Athel sat down on her bunk. “I couldn’t stand that,” she admitted, terrified by how honest she was being. “The only thing I was born for was to learn to take her place, and I’ll fail at anything else I do until I accept that sentence. That’s been drilled into me since I was a sprout.” Athel folded her arms, ready to shrink away and hide, but Alder stood up and sat down next to her reassuringly, and she found the strength to continue. “If I go back,” she concluded, “then I’ll be admitting that I’m not real, that I’m just a tool, born and bred to do a job, without a life of my own.”
Athel felt a tear trail its way down her cheek, and she blushed with embarrassment.
“Please do not feel ashamed for your tears,” Alder calmed as he took out a handkerchief and wiped her cheek. “Your tears are what make you real.”
Athel smiled and laughed a little, an honest laugh, and for a moment she felt real. She was not following any script, any rehearsed posture or studied response; she was just a girl sitting with a boy. The thought make her feel a little silly, and she playfully nudged against him.
The nudge shouldn’t have done more than sway him, but his position on the edge of the bunk caused him to lose his balance, and Alder fell over, his bony limbs flailing awkwardly and knocking down the cup of cocoa as he tried to grab hold of something. Athel chuckled warmly at the absurdity of it, and saw with relief that he was smiling as well. Then she noticed the cocoa stains all over his uniform.
“Oh, your shirt,” Athel warned, looking around for the towel he had been using earlier.
“Please accept my apologies, Lady Athel. That was very clumsy of me.”
“Nonsense,” she said, picking up the towel. “I’m the one that knocked you over.” Athel began rubbing at the stain, trying to get as much of it off before it set in.
“Please, Lady Athel, you do not have to worry yourself,” Alder said, uncomfortably.
“We need to get this in water right away,” she warned. “Hurry and take it off while I get something to soak it in.” Athel grabbed her wash basin and filled it with water. When she looked up Alder was standing uncomfortably, still wearing his uniform. With a huff, she raised his arms and pulled off his shirt, plunging it into the water and sloshing it around.
“Okay,” she said turning around, “That should keep the stain from setting.” She walked over to her closet and removed a white robe and handed it to him. “You can wear this until your shirt is dry.”
As she handed him the robe, she saw how he shivered. It was not from the cold. His chest and back were covered with horrible scars. Raised ridges of jagged white tissue that overlapped each other, like a rough spider web. Athel was so shocked all she could do was stare as he put the robe on. From the way he was behaving, it seemed like he expected to be whipped anew.
“What did they do to you?” she whispered in astonishment.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted, “just...a reminder of my failures.”
Chapter Thirty
Candor Over Ale
> Privet Tamarack squinted his eyes as he stumbled down the Thesdan street. Everything about this place seemed too bright to him. The banners advertising wares from distant kingdoms in dozens of languages seemed to scream as they caught the light from the rising morning sun, so he consoled himself by staring down at the adobe-colored sand beneath him, but even that felt too much for him as he plodded forward.
“Hello, sir,” a young shopkeeper said in common, his thick Thesdan accent straining at Privet’s ears as he spoke. “Would you like to try your luck at an accolade wheel?”
“Like I want to get buried in junk mail,” Privet grumbled as he caught hold of a tent rail to keep his balance. He could feel the rough Thesdan fabric rubbing against his skin, and he swore he could hear the sound it made, even over the blaring of the upper-tier shopkeepers as they advertised a ten-minute sale as part of their morning rush.
With a sigh of relief, Privet reached his destination, a small windowless pub called The Kaminu, with its large friendly sign sporting a twisting dragon mascot. Privet preferred this particular spot because it was perpetually dim inside, and after his long night of searching his head throbbed with a headache from lack of sleep, and he could think of no better way to soothe it.
“What can I do for a thirsty man?” the aging barmaid asked politely in the traditional manner.
“Give me whatever you’ve got for a roaring headache,” Privet responded, heading for what was becoming his favorite stool in the corner. He liked that seat not because it was softer or more secluded than the other bar stools, but because of the man who always sat in the stool next to it. The man was tall, with tanned skin and dark hair that was pulled back into a lengthy ponytail. His trimmed goatee twitched slightly as he brought a mug of ale to his lips, and his loose-fitting cavalier shirt was open at the chest, revealing a strange necklace made of various animal teeth leafed with gold.