The Grass King’s Concubine

by Kari Sperring

  “Ideas,” said Yelena, eyes bright, ears pricked. And she batted at his ankle.

  “Ow!” said Marcellan, pulling back. “Are you hungry? Here, this is nicer.” And he laid a handful of dried fruit down before them.

  Food was always good. The twins nibbled on the fruit, all the while watching him. They burrowed their way under his garments, pressing as close as close to his skin, coating themselves in its scent, its textures. They chewed on his hair, licked his hands and face, bound themselves to him as far as they could. “Well,” said Marcellan, “I see I’m in favor again.” He rubbed a hand along one furry spine. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  Yelena arched back against him. “We’re here to learn you.”

  “Our man,” said Julana.

  “Ours.”

  They sat in his lap to watch him weave, heads following each movement of his hands across the loom. Out of the hanks of thread, the picture grew and grew, golden trees rising against a background of ocher and green, scarlet birds perching in their branches. “I should add you two,” Marcellan said, and his hands danced. There, curled up together in the very crown of a tree were two brown slim bodies. “Us,” said Julana, craning forward to look.

  “Man has learned us.” Yelena sniffed at the fabric carefully. “Us and not us. Same shape. Wool smell.”

  “Like a mirror,” said Julana. The twins knew mirrors, had long ago learn to ignore their lies. “A mirror made of cloth.”

  “Like a mirror.” And Yelena curled back down into Marcellan’s lap. He stroked her head, and she pressed closer, eyes closing. Julana coiled against her, lulled by the rhythm of the loom. They remained there even when Shirai brought in food, poking their noses onto the tray to thieve small tidbits. Marcellan laughed and indulged them.

  “They are perhaps better not encouraged, those creatures,” said Shirai. “They take advantage, sometimes.”

  “They do no harm,” Marcellan said, scratching Julana under her chin.

  “We do what we want,” Yelena said, baring her teeth at Shirai.

  “Grass King says we can,” said Julana.

  Shirai raised his brows at them. “They do chew things. You must take care over that.”

  “I will. Thank you for the warning.” And Marcellan fed a lump of cheese to Yelena. Shirai smiled and offered a similar piece to Julana.

  “Cadre can’t stop us,” Julana said, mouth full. “Not unless the Grass King tells them.”

  “Perhaps.” Yelena said. “Good that it’s Shirai. Sujien would drive us away. And Qiaqia…”

  “Qiaqia…” Both twins shivered.

  Marcellan looked down into his lap, “What’s wrong, little ones?”

  “Feed them and they’ll forget,” said Shirai.

  Perhaps that ought to have been true. The twins were not built for enduring emotions. They bounced and played, fled and trembled, snarled and clawed and slept, and each thing was absolute and entire within its unique moment. And yet, ever since Marcellan had come before the Grass King, everything within them had begun changing. Hour by hour, they had come to circle him, focused on this entertainment that was somehow larger than any game they had ever played before.

  If game it was. The twins did not know how else to act, fixed as they were on the moment’s goal. They did not know to count time or feel change, only to be themselves as those selves were found. Somewhere in the days and nights of lurking to watch, of following Marcellan about the palace and seeing it again through his questions, they had changed. They had learned love, without ever having a name for it.

  That night, they slept in the crook of Marcellan’s arms, deep limp animal sleep, and their dreams were full of wide skies and stone buildings, of cramped and smoky dwellings, and the strange warm scent of humankind. They shifted and stretched, rolling in their sleep, restless and disturbed. Whiskers quivered and shrank back, limbs lengthened, fur retreated, patch by slow patch, revealing sallow cold skin. Under closed lids, eyes altered, noses pulled back. Bodies grew large to crowd each other, bumping and nudging and shoving. One of them—perhaps it was Julana—pushed at a sharpness that pressed into her ribs and wriggled. The other turned, seeking space in which to uncurl. Feet caught, legs tangled, one of them pushed again, and they tumbled, an ungainly tangle, onto the tiles beside the pile of carpets and cushions on which Marcellan slept.

  Blinking, startled, they leaped apart, ready to bite and bristle. Dark eyes met dark eyes and locked. No fur, no whiskers, dull senses…Yelena said, “Cold.”

  “Cold and big.” Julana began to shake. “Can’t smell. Can’t hear.” She grabbed for her sister, knocked her down, hands clutching. “Not right. Not comfortable.” She shook her head. “Talking doesn’t work right.” Her ears were held back, ignoring her desires to twitch them. The ground was too far away. “Bad. Bad.”

  Yelena pulled free of her. “Quiet now. Still now.” Her skin burned her, too thin for the air. The tiles were hard and chill. She curled to sit. “Think. Think.” Her breath came short and sharp and tight. Julana reached for her again, and this time she let her sister take her hands. “Listen,” Yelena said, and her voice was dark and harsh to her ears, “we learned. Remember. We wanted to learn.”

  “Learn,” Julana echoed, and swallowed. She looked at her twin, at herself, at the long limbs and stiff torso. She said, “We changed…”

  We changed,” Yelena said. “We learned to be human shape.”

  19

  The Mica Forest

  JEHAN WOKE WITH A BUMP and found himself sprawled in the bottom of the boat on top of the saddlebags. He pushed himself upright with one hand and blinked. “What?”

  “Shore.” A twin perched on the boat rail, dressed and clear-eyed. “Boat found it.”

  The boat had run straight into it, judging by his bruises. His neck was stiff. Jehan wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, rubbing at the ache. The other twin, still ferret-shaped, jumped into his lap. In the stern, Clairet chewed on a mouthful of something. The container that held her feed stood open. He leaned forward and closed it before she could eat too much, then asked, “What time is it?” and realized at once that the question was futile. The twins did not deal in the time that he knew. He wriggled some more, stretching out his shoulders. “Where do we go now?”

  “Into the forest.” The sense of urgency was gone from the twins’ behavior. The one on the rail scratched at her arm. The one on his knee pushed herself under his hand, looking for attention. He stroked her head, and she cuddled closer.

  He said, “What forest?”

  “This forest.” The human twin put her head to one side. “Trees to echo the dead wood. It touches on the domain of darkness.”

  He shook his head. He should have known better than to ask. “Are there people living in it? Animals?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And what about food and water?” Which twin was this? “Umm, Yelena?”

  “Julana.”

  Did they do that on purpose? He did not know. It seemed likely. He said, “You fed the pony. Thank you.”

  “She was hungry.”

  He picked Yelena out of his lap and set her on the bench, then rose to his feet.

  The boat had come to rest on a low, sloping wash of sand. It curved away on both sides, black and gray and brown, studded here and there with clumps of stiff grasses. In front of them, it mounded up into rolling dunes, held tight by more of the strange grass. He could see no trees. To his right, perhaps two hundred yards away, a strand of something darker glistened, snaking down into the moss. A river. Hopefully a river. Gathering up the canteen, he jumped over the edge of the boat. The moss drifted and sighed, making lazy forays for his feet as he walked along the strand. Underfoot, the sand creaked, giving gently under his steps, a little moisture seeping from it. Relief swept him, shivered into veins and muscles and skin. He broke into a jog, felt the air warm around him. Perhaps, after all, it would be all right.

  He could smell water, a blue sharp smell unlike
any other. At the lip of the stream he stopped, dropping to his knees. Most of the bed was dry, but a single stream still flowed at its center. There, the bed was brilliant with crystal sparks, blue and green and citrine. He dipped a hand into it and felt it explore him with its chill fingers. There was no hint of stagnation, no obvious contamination. He scooped a little in his palm and brought it to his mouth. Yes, the scent was good. Carefully, he sipped. Crisp, perhaps a little acrid, as if it had flowed over iron somewhere. He hesitated. It would be safest to make a fire and boil it before using it to refresh his supplies. And if there was water here, he could hope—he could choose to hope—that Aude, too, had water, wherever she was. With enough water, he would survive and she would survive, and they would find each other.

  “The water is good,” Julana said, from behind him. He had not heard her approach. Yelena was perched on her shoulder: Clairet followed them, trailing the strap of her halter.

  He said, “Good as in you’re pleased we found it, or good as in safe to drink?”

  “Safe.” She said down beside him. “Sand makes clean.” Yelena jumped to the ground with a thump and skittered down the bank. Julana said, “We drink now.”

  He had to trust her. He had trusted them this far, and they had yet to be caught in a lie. He scooped up another handful and drank. Beside him, Clairet lowered her nose into the stream. The water slipped over his tongue, ran cool down his throat. He closed his eyes, let himself sink down on his heels. Enough water. He wanted, abruptly, to shout, to sing, but squashed the impulse. There was a sufficiency of craziness already, in the twins. Water dashed into his face, and he opened his eyes again, blinking

  Julana knelt in the stream, once more naked, gathering up handfuls of water and throwing it, over herself, over her twin in the shallows, over him. He said, “Hey,” and she turned toward him, dripping and wicked and, yes, laughing. He filled both hands, throwing it over her, and she made a sudden lunge, grabbing his forearms and pulling him down. Off balance, he toppled and landed facedown in the stream. Water welcomed him, wrapped torso and limbs, teased and tugged and tickled. He hauled himself up, spluttering. He said, “Stop that.” Did ferrets like water? He had not thought so, and, indeed, Yelena had retreated back onto the shore, her fur standing in disapproving spikes.

  Julana said, “Why? Human shape likes to do this.”

  Jehan left that one, dodging as she splashed him again. He tugged off his boots and waded out. Water cloaked him, waking skin from its long slumber under chill and grime. He ducked under the surface, let the stream soak into him, before scrubbing with his hands at hair and arms and such other parts that he could reach without stripping off. Julana shrieked and splashed and bounced, while her sister huddled on the bank, shaking her damp pelt. In the end, he was not clean, but he was less dirty, and that was a good deal. Back on shore, he rummaged out a dry—if grimy—spare shirt to change into. Yelena crept into the pile of his discarded outer garments to dry herself.

  He ate a few mouthfuls of the remaining food, while Clairet dozed. Julana had tired at last of her sport and clambered out of the stream, drying herself on the ragged shift before putting it back on. He kept his eyes averted from her. Yelena climbed onto his knees and sat there, eyes half-closed. Absently, he rubbed her throat, and she looked around at him, nose twitching. He offered her a corner of his jerky. She sniffed at it and turned away.

  He could not blame her. It was stiff and tasteless. It would do until he found better. The promised water had appeared; he must take heart from that and believe that food would follow.

  Julana said, “We go on now.”

  “All right.” Jehan reached for his boots, pulling them back on before retying the saddlebags and filling both the canteens to the brim. Strapping the bags back onto Clairet’s saddle, he hesitated. She had dragged him to the Stone House, followed him into this underworld, negotiated the boat. Reaching around, he unbuckled the straps of her halter and slipped it over her head.

  He looked back at the twins. “Which way?”

  “We go along the stream.” Julana stooped to pick up her twin. “Come.” Her bare feet left no traces on the sand as she walked. He followed her. Clairet kept pace with him. The stream led them into the dunes, carving a curving route between their crests, sloping back and up. Tufts of grass dotted the sides of the dunes. Clairet nosed one and pulled back, whickering. Jehan reached out to touch a clump; the tall leaves were stiff and straight and sharp sided. When he pushed at a tip, it shattered under his finger. Not vegetation at all, but rock crystal, growing up through the sand. Wherever it was that food would be found, it was not here. He picked his way carefully, not wanting to fall and slice a hand or arm. The first dunes gave way to taller ones, bristling with their stony growths. The stream shimmered and chattered. Despite his best efforts, Jehan’s skin was soon etched with thin scratches. Beside him, Clairet nudged and pushed, providing support, which only he seemed to need. Julana was tireless and sure-footed, brushing past the grass as it if were not there. At the top of yet another rise, he dropped to his knees, gasping, and she stopped.

  She said, “Not time to rest. Not yet.”

  He let his head hang, getting his breath. Then he said, “Why? More guardians?”

  “No.” She hunkered down beside him, and her twin hopped from her shoulder to the ground.

  “Then we can stop.”

  “Place is empty.” She drew patterns in the sand with a fingertip. “Not interesting. Not…not fruitful.”

  “Is that dangerous?”

  “No, but…” She shook her head. “Better not to be here too long. It might get bigger.”

  It was another of her oblique pronouncements. Whatever she meant by it was not apparent to him. For all he knew, it might not even matter. Nevertheless, he hauled himself back upright, leaning on patient Clairet. “Come on, then.” Yelena jumped onto his foot and he picked her up, settling her on the saddle.

  “Good.” Julana hesitated, looking at him. “Better to rest later. Man will see.”

  “I have a name.”

  “So?” She turned, began again to walk. “Names are.”

  “I thought you might wish to use it.”

  She looked at him again and her brows drew down. “Why?”

  He did not know why. He said, “Instead of calling me ‘man.’ I mean, I don’t call you ‘ferret.’”

  She stopped, looked at her twin. Yelena’s ears flickered. Julana said, “Names don’t matter. Men think they do. Names just are.” Another silent exchange. Then Julana said, “Marcellan said…Marcellan said that names hold on. Descriptions change. Julana is Julana. Yelena is Yelena. That just is.”

  “Well,” Jehan said, “I’m Jehan. And I prefer that to being called man.”

  Julana scowled, scuffling her feet in the sand. She said, “Complicated. We don’t like complicated.” She put a hand out to her sister.

  Yelena bit her. She jumped back, spitting. She said, “I don’t like complicated.”

  There was a scrabble, a thud. Yelena leaped to the ground on the other side of Clairet from Jehan. Sand puffed and slid. Then she stood, in woman shape and also scowling. She said, “Names hold. And holding matters.”

  “Man can hold himself.” Julana stared at her toes, evading her sister’s gaze.

  “Man can hold himself in WorldAbove,” Yelena said. “Not always in WorldBelow.”

  “Marcellan holds.”

  “Marcellan is Marcellan. Jehan is Jehan.” Yelena cocked her head and turned to Jehan. “Jehan is right for him.”

  “Not my business,” Julana said, but her voice was low.

  He had spoken lightly. He had not expected this. He looked from one twin to the other and said, “I don’t want to cause a quarrel…”

  “No quarrel.” Yelena said. “Laziness.”

  He did not want to pursue it. He did not know where it would lead. He said, “Shall we get on?”

  The twins were silent a moment. Then Julana shook herself and shrank down into
her ferret form. She crouched on the sand, back arched; when Yelena reached for the tunic, she pattered away to sit underneath Clairet.

  Jehan hesitated, then reached down to her. She bared her teeth at him; as he began to pull back, she latched on to his sleeve, scrambled her way up his arm to his shoulder. He stood, and she jumped, to land on the saddlebags with a thump, where she curled up with her back pointedly to both him and Yelena.

  He said, “Should we…?”

  Yelena’s nose was in the air. He looked from twin to twin. Clairet nosed him and began to walk carefully down the side of the dune. He followed. A moment later, Yelena joined him. He did not know what to say to her. He did not want to go on being called simply “man.”

  Aude would take it as her right to be addressed precisely as she chose. Aude would probably insist on “Madame.” His lips quirked at the vision of the twins calling him “Lieutenant.” Having resigned, he retained the right to the title. His uncle, back at home, had insisted most strongly upon his own “Captain.” Jehan had never thought himself likely to do likewise. And now, of course…Assuming he found Aude and that together they escaped this place and were able to return to the Silver and Brass Cities—and assuming that her uncle had not found a way to have their marriage overset—he was likely to spend the rest of his days being known as “Aude Pèlerin des Puiz’s mésalliance.”

  Yelena said, “It has a meaning, this name Jehan?”

  “Not that I know of. I was called for my mother’s grandfather.”

  “That is meaning.” Yelena frowned. “Names make bonds.”

  They had told him theirs with no demur. Did that mean that they considered themselves bound to him? That was not a prospect he could welcome. He said, “I didn’t intend…”