by Ako Emanuel
“Mmm,” she murmured, with relish. She craned her head forward eagerly for more. He gave a chuckle and fed her willingly.
“What time of the turn is it?” she asked, listening to the spoon dip and rise again. Her arms were getting tired. The bowl dipped. His hand cupped the edge, supporting it.
“It is eve-time. Av is just setting,” he replied.
She ate in silence for a time, sating her hunger, and considering.
“How are my eyes?”
He did not miss a beat as he answered. “They are much improved. Their progress is a little slower than I would like, but they are coming along fine.”
“And how much light can they stand?”
The spoon paused. “Some, I suppose; not too much, and not for too long a time.” It resumed its journey to her mouth.
When the spoon touched her lips again she captured it in her mouth, hesitantly touched the hand that held it. A spark of tingling passed through her at the contact with his skin, a tiny flush of pleasure that made her catch her breath. She did not pull away, however, as the wash of his senses passed over her, but followed the arm up to the shoulder and again reached toward his face. She felt him hesitate, then the spoon left her mouth and the bowl lifted from her hand and she felt him move forward. His hand cupped hers gently and pressed it to his face. She marveled at his warmth, wondered that she could reach for him with such ease now, that the revulsion at sharing his senses had lessened so much. She would have been alarmed if she had not been so involved in his touch. His cheek was rough with stubble still, and it was wonderfully male, the taste of dija berries coming through her fingertips. His presence drew her irresistibly. She smiled in spite of herself, stroking his cheek, felt an answering smile curve his mouth. Her other hand reached for the blind over her eyes.
“NO!” He pulled away, clattered to his feet with the sound of metal striking stone.
“But why?” she asked, in the act of reaching after him before catching herself. “I need to start using my eyes again sometime.”
“Do not remove the blind fold,” his voice said with harsh silver warning, but it was tainted blue with fear.
“Why ever not? You just said that Av had set - it should be safe. Is the candle light so bright? Or is it that you do not wish to be seen?”
His hoof steps clashed against the floor as if he were curvetting, and his fear of her seeing him crashed over her like a wave of sick water. She shuddered inwardly as it melted into her and gave way to a fear of something else that she could not read or place, but which seemed to become larger by the gran.
“Why do you wish so very much not to be seen?” she asked, puzzled.
His hoof steps clopped with no cadence, as if he were half-prancing in agitation, and his surprise rang in her mind. “I - don’t know what you mean,” he said, more than his voice betraying him. He stopped dancing. “Your eyes...”
“Are not the source of your fear,” she cut in, her voice a bit more harsh than she meant it to be. She softened her tone. “You do not wish to be seen. I know this. Why?”
“How do you know this? And why do you wish so very much to see me?” he retorted, his voice sour green, but beneath it a note of self-loathing.
Jeliya was more perplexed than ever. “Why - because you are a beautiful creature, Gavaron.” Her voice took on a hushed, awed tone as she remembered the glimpse of him in the rainforest. The vision of him flowed slowly across her eyelids. As a wuman the pale skin might not have been that appealing, but as the Katari-like creature it was exotic, and it had been browned to a reasonable tone by the light of Av. “Of course I wish to see you again, for more than a fleeting moment.”
Her words seemed to stun him. He stayed still for so long without thought or movement, and the connection rang with such emptiness, that he seemed, for a moment, not there at all. Then a tsunami of disbelief nearly overwhelmed her. Unable to deal with its bitterness, she let the matter drop and turned to another, more pressing subject.
“Kind one, we must talk about why I sought you out in the first place,” she said, dropping unconsciously into her court voice, firm, passionless, with just a hint of command.
A surge of apprehension hit her from him. She gritted her teeth and stood firm.
“Why did you seek me out?”
“I came seeking information.”
“About?” His voice was harsh and he did not resume his seat.
“About the Zehj’Ba - and the Av’ru.”
“What would I know about such things?”
Jeliya did a mental sidestep, hesitating, calculating. Had she truly erred? Her mind raced. No. He knew something. She could feel it. But how to pry it out of him? What had she to use as leverage?
“Surely you know how the Av’ru came to be and about the Zehj’Ba which even now seeks to destroy it?”
There was the slightest of hesitations. “No. No, I know nothing of these.”
He’s lying, she thought. “You do not know the Av’ru?!” she asked incredulously.
“I have seen it; I know of its existence,” he admitted grudgingly, “but I know nothing of its herstory or this ‘drain’ that you speak of. Therefore I see no point to your seeking me out to question me about them.” His voice was acerbic and his presence cold, but the fear was his weakness. She pressed on, hoping to make him slip into admitting something by which she could bind him, and at the same time, hating herself for having to do so.
“You do not lie very well, Gavaron.” Her voice dripped scorn. “I happen to know for a fact that you are closely tied to the Zehj’Ba, if you are not the actual source. You were too deeply involved in the events surrounding the Zehj’Ba for otherwise to be true.”
He scoffed. “Just what is it you think you know about me, little girl, and what does it prove if you do?” His words cut. He knew she had nothing to bargain with.
“I know that hundreds of cycles ago something passed through the Av’ru from the Lora’Lons, and not long after the Zehj’Ba began.”
“And this has what to do with me?”
“It was a being which passed through, Gavaron, one the likes of which had never been seen before or since anywhere in Ava’Lona.”
He was silent, his gaze hot on her, waiting for her to continue, but she out-waited him.
“So?” he said finally.
“The description matches you. Almost exactly.”
His laugh was forced and his fear was high. “You think I am that being? That I have been around that long?”
“Can you tell me where you came from? Why there are no others like you? Where your forebearers are?”
She felt her words fall like hammer blows upon him. He sidled away as if physical distance could distance her words.
“I can tell you nothing.” His voice was strange in its pain.
“Cannot or will not?”
“You have come a long way and endured much for nothing, Jeliya. The answers you seek, you will not find here.”
“And did Jenikia also endure much for nothing?” It was the lowest, most despicable thing she had ever said, and she knew it. It cut to the soul of him, and his soul cried out. Jeliya bit down on the shame and pressed the jagged knife deeper. “Did she endure the Rite of Purification and Expungement for nothing? Did she willingly let herself be rendered barren after the birth of my grandmother for nothing? Will her legacy become dust for nothing?”
“Stop it!” he cried, driven to his knees by the weight of the pain her words brought. “Jeliya, I did not know you could be so cruel,” he whispered, his voice a hoarse ash-gray tragedy, broken with pain. “I loved her more than anything, and I would have given my life so that she would not have known the pain that she endured! I have sworn to keep her legacy safe! Am I to betray her for you?” His tears of anguish coursed like rivers of flame down her face.
“I do not wish to be cruel, Gavaron. You have shown me nothing but kindness,” she swallowed tears, fought to keep her voice steady. “But if the Av’ru dies, then this
land will die, and the memory of Jenikia and all that she sacrificed herself for will die. Your promise to her will be aught but ashes. You know this, perhaps better than I.”
She felt him waiver, felt him acknowledge her words as true. “Well I know it,” he growled bitterly, the sting of her words still fresh. “But she could not have known what her request would bring to pass. How can I betray her? And yet, how can I keep it?”
Jeliya swallowed. She had wronged him, no matter that she was close to answers she sought. She had to atone for that.
“Gavaron, I - you must understand that I am fighting for the survival of my Realm. I have to use everything at my disposal to find answers. But honor demands that I must apologize for the cruelty I have dealt you. I can only plead desperation. I am twice in your debt. I give my oath to you, that you may ask any two favors of me when I have come to power, or of my family, should I pass on, as long as they do not threaten the security of this land.” She made the sign that sealed her words as formal. It was the strongest, most binding oath she could give, having the force of a High Order Rite. She felt him start in surprise - he knew the significance of her oath.
“Through this I ask your forgiveness,” she said quietly.
He chambered to his feet. “I - will consider - all that you have said,” he replied, gathering up the bowl and spoon. Jeliya wished she could reach out to him, wished that she could make some other gesture of atonement, but none seemed fitting. She wished that she could see his face. With that possibility closed, she did the next best thing - for as much as she disliked using the false-vision through his eyes, still the urge to see him was overwhelming, overshadowing that revulsion.
She opened herself to his sight, saw herself as he saw her, slightly blurred with shedding, unwiped tears. Then he turned away to move to the curtained doorway. On the way there he glanced into a polished obsidian mirror. And he seemed to gaze straight at her as she studied his face through his eyes. Their eyes seemed to lock; she turned away with a shudder. When she ‘looked’ back, he was gone.
CHAPTER XI
the turning of light was lost among the shadow places of the shelves...
The shelves seemed endless. Endlessly they wound, stacks upon stacks of books on row upon row of shelves. They closely hugged the wide spiral staircase, so close that one could reach over the railing and pluck any of her/his choice from the shelves...
But Staventu resolutely kept his eyes forward, looking neither left nor right, lest the lure of the books divert him from his purpose. He would have loved nothing better than to stop and peruse those shelves one by one, losing himself, perhaps for turns on end, among the ancient treasures they held. But he did not. He was here for an entirely different reason, in search of an entirely different treasure.
Few besides the Librarians ever delved this deep into the bowels of the massive Libraries themselves. Other book-lovers preferred to send servants, who in turn sent the Librarians in search of the required tome. Staventu was an exception - he loved the softly lit tranquility of the silent stacks, loved running his hands over the fine, worn leather of ancient texts. He loved losing himself, reading, among the shelves, a jumbled pile of books all around him. But this turn was different. This turn he had come in search of something of totally different value among the stacks, a thing not so easily read. A thing to rival his love of books.
The stairs ended and the walls opened out to a cavernous, domed, circular room, the walls of which were nothing but endless shelves of books. Long ladders on rails reached the height of these literary monoliths, and perched upon these ladders, like huge insects, were Librarians, from novice to senior researcher, working.
High-arched hallways, like gaping throats, led away from this central room in all directions. Staventu paused to ask a discreet question or two, and became the center of attention. People everywhere dropped what they were doing to bow to him, seeming more interested in abasing themselves than answering his queries. Finally he was able to ascertain down which passageway he might find his quarry. He hurried down the indicated hallway, away from the bows and murmured honorifics, the awed looks of novices, the inviting smiles of the young women and the sometimes hostile glances of the young men. Normally such things did not faze him - he was accustomed to it all, especially the shy and sometimes not-so-shy invitations. But this turn they made him uneasy, for some unfathomable reason.
The gloom of the tributary swallowed him, the little rit’light in its crystal globe that he carried at the end of a black iron staff the only thing that kept the shadows at bay. It chased them along. They clove before it and closed behind, an eternal dance for dominance. Distracted by his own thoughts, his eye slid to the left - and was caught by a book title. Beyond his ability to control, his stride slackened and his head swiveled from side to side, his eyes trying to devour the titles of books as he went past. Caught in an internal struggle between the lure of the books and his original reason for being there, he turned a blind corner and came upon that reason quite suddenly and with unchecked momentum.
“Oh!” his quarry yelped as he plowed into her. The books and papi’ras arranged around her went sliding and flying all over with a crash. She and he went down in an unsanctimonious tangle of limbs. He caught her and turned their fall into a controlled tumble with lightening quickness and easy grace. These were skills born of one who had spent hundreds of san’chrons practicing the War’don’mi, the Dance of Swords, with spear and sword and shield. He took the brunt of the fall on his back and shoulder, the other landing across his chest and middle. He grunted as the air was knocked from his lungs. Her hair came undone, long, thin guinne boiling across both their faces in a cloud of sweet-smelling black silkiness.
Both lay stunned for several heartbeats before his unwitting victim began struggling to disengage herself from him. He helped lever her off his middle. He reclaimed the glowlight as she groaned and sat back.
“Next time,” she growled in a testy voice, moving slowly as if checking for injury, “why don’t you just pull the bookcases down? Why don’t you watch where you are going, you great oaf! You’d think you were a first-term novice to be so careless!” She squatted back on her heels, trying to push the fine guinne out of her eyes and failing as they slid around her hands. They almost seemed to have a life of their own, as if once free, they were reluctant to be bound again. Half-blinded by them, she began searching around for the lost fastenings that had tamed them. All the while she continued to berate her assailant. Pentuk had not been having a good turn.
“Ak’suya give me patience, I’ll have to start all over again! Who are you to be let down here and not know enough to watch where you put your feet, charging around like a yoni’do bull in heat?”
Staventu picked himself up, feeling his face grow warm under the tongue-lashing. No one had ever dared speak to him so, not even his teachers! He felt indignant rage rise, then clamped down on it, quickly. She could not see who he was. She had no reason to suppose that she chastised a son of the High Family. His wrath, however, would have more dire consequences than hers, so he checked it. To incur his wrath would be the same as forfeiting all honor, and if he called no punishment on her, she would bring it upon herself. He had to smile, though. She had quite a sharp tongue when she chose to use it!
“My apologies,” he murmured, helping her sweep her guinne back and retrieving pale mother of pearl circlets from the jumble of books scattered about them. “You are right, of course.”
“Yes, well, you just destroyed three san’chrons of work,” she groused still, though her tone was not as sharp. She vainly tried to control the cascade of fine guinne and collect books and fastenings all at once. A low table slid over to lend itself to the clean-up process. He put the light in a wall bracket, then squatted to help her pile up books, cards, papi’ras sheets, stilos and ink pots on the table.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, keeping his voice low as she did. “If I may be of assistance...”
“No, don’t bother.�
� Her voice sounded resigned. “I’ll just have to make up for the lost time. Look, I’m sorry I was so hard on you - this has been a very trying turn, and it isn’t even half over. I’m sorry - uh, I don’t recognize your voice. What’s your na....” her voice seemed to dry up like a dying creek. Staventu glanced up to see why she had stopped speaking.
She was staring slack-jawed at him, forgotten guinne falling and parting across her forehead to reveal one large, incredulous eye, concealing the other. The things in her hands fell again in a loud, rustling thud that made him wince inwardly. Annoyed faces that had appeared at the first crash peered around the corner a second time, only to retreat again, quickly, at the sight of his royal visage. Pentuk, in all this time, sat as if frozen, her eyes riveted to him.
“Ah... I... arg...” she gurgled, whatever else she intended to say seemingly strangled off before it reached her tongue.
He lifted an inquiring eyebrow. Her eyes bugged; then her mouth snapped shut. She closed her eyes, swallowed, and very slowly made obeisance to him, going to her knees among the scattered books and bowing her head with her arms crossed before her. Her breathing sounded troubled.
“Pentuk, that isn’t necessary,” he said, uncomfortable. Such prostration always made him uneasy, even when it was warranted. He much preferred her berating him, or apologizing genially to this abject genuflection.
“F-Forgive me, Av’Son,” she gasped, her voice a liquid tremble. “I-I d-did not know, I...” words seemed to fail her.
“It is all right, Pentuk, I am not angry with you,” he said, touching her shoulder. She trembled beneath his touch. “It was an honest mistake, and it was my fault. I should have been paying attention.”