He wore his hair long, and it brushed the high collar of his jacket, which was a burnt umber color. Walnut dye, she thought. Home-made. It made her wonder whose fingers had pushed the needle in and out—a mother, somewhere, or a sister, or a lover, or a daughter. Or his own fine fingers, talented and sure.
It did no good to think like that. She put it out of her mind, put her pack down.
“You’re on the floor,” she informed him brusquely; he nodded, as though there was nothing else he could have expected—well, was there? There was one small bed, not much wider than shoulders-width. There wasn’t much floor, either, really, but between the two they’d run out of options.
He put his back up against the wall and let himself down gently, mindful of his limited balance and wary of the bonds around wrists and ankles. Once on the floor, his head dropped back against the wall with a muffled thump, eyes drifting closed. Lidy, though, wasn’t quite done with him.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” She kicked her pack to the side of the bed farthest from him and sat gingerly on the railed, ancient mattress. “A magician, bound by magic. You’re like a fairy tale, Paul. You’d think that rope’d been woven by elves, or something. But it’s the humans that matter, when it comes down to it. Isn’t it, Paul? One human—me—chasing after an evil murderous magician.”
He shook his head as he muttered. But now, no longer expecting some dead and arcane language, she thought she caught a word or two. Alguin had been a Latin-based language, the way English used to be once upon a time. It too had changed with the eons, but there lingered some similarities—unless it was all in her head. Ehbril sounded a lot like evil, for instance. Looking at him, at his liquid dark eyes and the something looking out from them, she thought perhaps he was promising her. Or praying to her. She couldn’t be sure. The sound edged her feet forward on the floor toward him, and she had to still them with firm hands on her knees.
“So it wasn’t love,” she said slowly, “that made you kill. That’s something, I suppose.”
His speech was beseeching, whatever it was. She leaned forward, supporting herself with her elbows on her knees, holding them down.
“But she believed you, that girl did. Belief was her mistake, not love. You killed in the name of belief, then.”
Paul raised his head, fixing her again with his dark eyes. Very slowly, he pronounced a long string of clearly-syllabled words; with a quietude, but with a passion, a fervor raging beneath. Lidy watched his mouth. She couldn’t catch it all, but the gist was there, unless, again, it was in her head:
He didn’t kill for love, he said. That doesn’t mean he does not love, but that he does not kill those whom he loves. He would not.
The last part was repeated three times, then four, and then a torrent of promises as though he wanted to imprint the words on the walls of the room. His eyes were closed, and his fine-featured face haggard. Lidy was across the room before she knew it, five quick steps, down on her knees before him, her hands cupping his face, his mouth warm and moving only an inch or two beneath her own as he promised the air that he would not.
“Alright, alright,” she breathed, on fire, “you’ve done it now. Is it because I understand? I don’t understand. But because I’m starting to? That’s it, Paolo. You’re cut off.” She fumbled with the gag, which she’d stuck in her back pocket, and her shaking fingers bruised his mouth as she bound him with it. He could be outraged, could be angry; but his eyes above the dirty gag, above her still-working, convulsively flexing fingers, were only sad.
He was silent. She was safe. She kissed him now through the gag, hands behind his head pulling him forward, knees spread on either side of him, half in his lap, barely knowing what she was doing. The dirt of the fabric in her mouth, and Paul was curiously gentle. The bonds held him back, that and his bound hands, fingers wide-spread, caught between the two of them. One finger moved, and that was all.
When the shaking need subsided, Lidy sat back on her knees, away from him, and looked him in the face. Blood stained his sallow cheeks in a blush, for shame, for passion, for how close he came to freedom—she didn’t know. She didn’t want to.
She cleared her throat.
“Now I know how you got them,” she said. “It’s the voice, isn’t it? Not just the words. It makes sense to me, I understand it. You’re not that handsome, Paolo. I wondered how you got them. Now I know.”
The circles in which she spoke were growing wider, ripples in the pond, in the stream of consciousness, in the conscience. He had one. She believed it. She stood up, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Stood over him for a moment, looking down. His eyelids were half-closed, hiding the black depths, and his hands looked pathetically empty, when they’d seemed so full only a moment ago.
She said, “A long way to go tomorrow.”
He stared straight ahead, quiet and calm, as she turned out the light.
She wasn’t sleeping, but lying long awake in the dark when she heard the noise. She’d been waiting for the sounds of attempted escape; she held her breath, made her body rigid as she concentrated on the sound.
But it wasn’t the harbinger of a run for freedom. Paul was awake, too, and the dry brush of skin against skin sounded abnormally loud in the silent room. There was that, and then a faint gasp escaped him, and she realized she was hearing the sounds of pain.
She sat up in the dark, fumbling for the switch. The light glared out at them in disapproval, and Paul was looking up at her, his mouth forming noiseless words, his hands held out to her. Blood on his palms.
She went to her knees before him—uncomfortably reminded of their positions only a few hours earlier, but she pushed this aside. His skin was bonding, growing together; the work of the rope, so well enchanted. There was blood as though of a new birth, and the growing skin was pale beneath it. Lidy sucked in a breath, and Paul made a slight sound at the back of his throat.
She pulled her knife from her pocket and flicked it open.
“Hold very still.”
But he made the sound again, eyes flaring wide. Telling her something—warning her. She hesitated, then pulled the gag from his mouth, aware of how ludicrous the action was. It wasn’t as though she could understand him—
“Qe inhmi,” he said. “Qe ithal. No ethro mak, no ethro est.”
She thought over what she knew of the rope and its manufacturer. Not much. But Paul’s words, whatever they meant, were adamant.
“It shouldn’t be cut,” she said slowly. “Or it can’t be. Hold on.”
She slipped her fingers through the space beyond his joined wrists, found the knot where he was tied. It wasn’t the knot itself, but the rope that kept him from undoing it. It took only a few seconds for her to unravel the ends and remove the rope. She dropped it to one side, reached for his tangled skin with the knife. He stopped her, and took the knife for himself.
She had time for only the briefest feeling of panic, but he wasn’t pointing the knife at her. He wasn’t paying her any attention at all; with deft and practiced fingers, loosed from their bonds, he turned the knife around and, carefully, edged it between the grappling skin of his wrists. He bit his lower lip, but made no sound. The blood flowed freer for the blade. The skin separated, and he pressed harder, and Lidy shrank back into herself for the watching.
His two hands free once more, he gave her the bloody knife, and pointed to his ankles. “Ayathi,” he said. “Qe ethal.”
The words, she thought, meant help. And please.
She shucked his trouser legs up over his calves. Though the bonds over his ankles hadn’t done their work as quickly as those on his wrists, she could see the skin beginning to knit itself together. She put the knife down, undid the knot, and without cutting he reached down to wrench his joined ankles apart. There was less blood here, but still some. He sat panting from the pain, and Lidy stumbled upwards to stand.
“Hold still,” she said. “Don’t—don’t say anything.”
From her pa
ck she took a shirt, and ripped it up to bind his wounds. The old fabric was stubborn; she had to use her teeth to start the tear. But he waited for her there, silently, arms and legs spread, dripping blood on the unvarnished hardwood floor. Lidy gave a shaky laugh as she got to her knees in front of him again.
“We’d better get out of here early, just to avoid the cleaning bill.”
She began to wrap his wrists, but the look on his face was pensive. She wanted to ignore it, but against her better judgment she paused, fingers laced lightly around his arm, the bandage entangled in them. “What? Go on. Say it.
“En yo lavel,” he said, nodding toward the washstand near the door. “Qe ethal, Lidy.”
Hearing her name made her start. He pronounced it with the thick accent that stained all his words, but it was clearly identifiable all the same. He’d never used it before. She stood, before she had time to think about it, and pulled him up with her by the elbow.
“I’m watching you,” she said. “Don’t even think about running for the door.”
He smiled, slightly, a little ironically; the door would not do him any good. There was still noise from downstairs. The inn kept late hours, and everyone, by now, knew who and what he was. No, he’d have to go for the window. She left him at the washbasin to tug on the window frame, making certain it was closed as securely as possible. There was a latch, which she flicked shut.
Paul took advantage of the water to wash his dusty face, to dampen his dust-covered hair. They’d been on the road for long enough that water was a blessing; looking at him, dripping on the floor, she longed to do the same. Or, better yet, an entire bathtub filled with water, cool and calm. Lidy sighed, and reached for the bandages again.
Paul stood quietly as she wrapped him up, wrists first, then ankles. When she straightened again he was quite close to her, the water making droplets of damp on his shoulders, and his dark hair tousled, and his eyes enormous.
The gag was away on the other side of the room.
“Not one word,” she told him fiercely. “Not one single syllable of whatever-it-is language you’re supposed to speak. You may have a way about you, but not when it comes to me, mister. I’m on to you. You can’t trick someone who knows the rules of the game. You can’t.”
Paul dropped his head, tilting it, leaning forward just enough that when his lips moved they nearly brushed her own. All he said, though, was her name.
And again.
“Lidy. Lidy.”
“I preferred it when you were cursing at me,” she said hatefully; she wanted to spit at him but was kissing him instead. Wanted to claw at his face but her arms were around his neck, in his damp hair. Wanted to tie him up and watch him meld together and bleed till he was dry, but his arms were around her, and there was nothing holding him back, anymore. He wasn’t speaking, now, but his voice had already done all it could; all the magic he had was in voice and thought, and for a poor magician that was quite a trick. Lidy surged and tumbled at the top of a waterfall, waiting to go crashing over in a barrel, but something held her, something had hold of her hands.
He did.
He held her quietly, held her still, looked her in the eyes and said, the third time, “Lidy.”
She understood it all, that he was willing her to remove the last rope, the only one that bound him to her and kept him a captive. That he was what he was, and she couldn’t expect any mercy when she had offered him none. That this was a game, and she was about to lose. That for all intents and purposes, she was already dead.
She paused. He waited. He opened his mouth, to say it again, maybe to ask her—though she wouldn’t understand—but her hands were moving now. She cried a little, not much. He kissed her again as she undid the knot, kissed her shaking, both of them shaking, and when the rope was on the floor between them and he had won, he drew back just a little. The knife was in his hand.
He laid Lidy on the bed, crossing her wrists in front of her. The uncut rope he handled carefully, and bound her hands together. Her body was a captive, clear to anyone who looked just at her wrists, her ankles. But her face showed something different; there was a freedom there that he loved to see, her eyes still open and the lines gone, a silence that was like emptiness, but full.
He put a cold hand on her still-warm face, a caress, and the bandages on his wrists brushed against her roughly. He repeated his words from before, as though she hadn’t gone past hearing.
“Ay yo meret se antha anor thene.” I do not kill for love.
He smiled gently at her, as though expecting her to smile back. He whispered something else.
“An preador,” he said. But for freedom.
He arranged her carefully, in the way in which she would be found. He tied the knots just so. They would come looking for them in the morning, he knew. The both of them would be gone.
LADY OF THE CROSSROADS
Christine Lucas
Samothrace, Aegean Sea, 961 AD
Her servants think their old, blind mistress is also hard of hearing, and rarely hold their tongues in her presence. Irene does not correct them. The incessant gossip of simple, uneducated peasants is one of the few remaining pleasures of her cloistered life. But not today; today they keep their voices low, muttering and sniffling and whispering.
She tilts her head sideways. Her right eye is lost but, sometimes, she can see lights and shapes through her left. Shadows of things that are, ghosts of things that were, or dreams of what will soon come to pass. But today she sees only anger and grief and despair.
Irene shifts in her seat, struggles to make out the servants’ words. What are they complaining about now? Her son, the Magistrate of Samothrace, had a visitor from Constantinople earlier this morning. What did the Emperor demand this time, that caused such unrest among her servants?
Soon she tires, her seat of fine cedar wood under the ancient olive tree too hard on her aged hips. She hits the cobblestones of the front yard with her walking stick and calls her maid.
“Merope! Where did you go? I need to go back inside! Now!”
“I’m here, my lady.” Rushed footsteps to her side, and strong arms help her stand. More sniffling.
“And what’s wrong with you?” asks Irene, annoyance seeping in her voice.
“My grandson… They have commandeered his ship and conscripted him for the fight against the Saracen pirates of Crete.”
“Ah.” So that’s what the Emperor’s emissary wants. More supplies. More men. More ships. She squeezes Merope’s arm. “Take me inside.”
“Of course, my lady. Come.” Lament lingers in Merope’s voice as she guides Irene over the doorstep.
Irene follows, wishing she could take her harsh words back. One more regret in a long line of all the little things she could have said or done differently. The ailment of old age, this pains her more than her aching joints and useless eyes. As they walk down the hall, they hear men’s voices. Irene walks toward them, and her maid’s grip on her forearm tightens.
“My lady… ” Hesitation stretches Merope’s voice.
“Oh, hush! Let me listen.”
All the everyday noises of the household become as loud as the church’s bell in Irene’s ears. Merope’s rapid breathing beside her, the cat stalking mice in the kitchen, the creaking of the wooden planks of the floor echo inside her head. She stops and listens to the men, barely daring to breathe.
“…The locals have suffered enough, Captain,” says Theodorus. “Surely, our neighbors in Thasos and Lemnos can provide you with more supplies?”
“I will visit them in due time,” says the captain, his voice cold. “But your boats fare better in strong winds. We need small, versatile vessels to deliver messages and supplies to the ships and the land forces. The Cretan Sea has claimed too many lives already.”
“And you’ll need men to sail them, I’m sure,” says Father Isidorus. “But, Captain, all the villages are in deep mourning. On my way here I saw only black-clad women and broken old men.” He lowers his vo
ice. “Unrest is brewing. The people mutter curses under their breath. I beseech you, seek boats and men elsewhere.”
The captain scoffs. “Because some toothless hags mutter heathen curses? Certainly not!” Fingers tap a wooden surface. “Do the mutterings of illiterate women scare you, Father?”
Irene’s fists clench. Not all women of Samothrace are illiterate.
“Of course not!” Offense edges the priest’s voice.
“One omen is best—fight for your country.” The captain’s voice quivers with pride. “But I would never expect simple village women to understand that.”
Irene grins. So the captain is an educated man. But not a smart man.
“Do not quote Homer to me, Captain. I do not love my country any less than you.” Theodorus sighs. “Heed not our women’s words. Their simple minds can only grasp the little things of their households. But still, it’s true that our resources run low. Perhaps, Captain…”
Irene turns away, her pulse racing. “I’ve heard enough,” she whispers, and starts toward her room, practically dragging Merope behind her. Her feet do not need a guide; they never did.
The time of pretenses is over.
***
In her small room, her fingers trace the covers of her old books—old friends she misses so very much. A handful of treasures she acquired one by one from vendors and monks of Athos on their way to the Holy Lands who had traded them for food and passage. Of all the things she lost when her eyes turned cloudy—her son’s face, the blue stretch of the Aegean Sea, the sunlight through the branches of the sacred olive tree—Irene misses books most. Homer, Sappho, Pindarus, Aristophanes: their words flash clear in her mind, and she clings to those memories with all the strength of her old bones. Once she loses these too, she’ll be truly blind.
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