The Still

by David Feintuch

  I fidgeted. There was no combination of sleepers I found tolerable, save that I have my own chamber, as befit my station. Before I could devise a way to suggest it, Rust overthrew my plans. “Genard can sleep with me, my liege. As can Chela. You and Fostrow will have more room, two to a bed.”

  I slammed down my mug, beer sloshing on my hand. “How if I proclaim myself, and ask lodging in the name of my House, since you’re too stingy to buy it?”

  Rustin’s voice went quiet, as the forest before a fearsome storm. “I have few coins, my prince. You’d have me toss them to an innkeeper, instead of providing food?”

  I tossed my head. “Do as you wish, vassal.”

  He tore viciously at his bread, attacked it. Then, “Innkeeper!” He waited until the man appeared. “You have one room unused, yes? Set the bed for my companion, here. The soldier and the boy will share, and the girl and I will have the other.”

  He pulled his purse from inside his breeches, held it below the edge of the table, counted out the pence. I couldn’t tell what remained. “Good night!” Taking Chela by the hand, he stalked off. She ran along, docile, turning only to flash me a grin of malice.

  Tossing and turning on my straw during the night, I heard every creak of the joists, the windows, perhaps of the straw in the next room. I knew to a certainty that Rust would sport with his housegirl.

  I willed myself to fall asleep, fidgeted until the straw was matted and stony. Finally, I slipped on my breeks, padded shirtless down the stairs to the silent eating room, sat alone in front of the embers at the hearth, rocking, hugging myself. I smelled of dried sweat; my hair was awry, my eyes glued half-shut. And I had a thirst.

  Someone had left a wide-mouthed mug, nearly full of beer or water. I licked my lips, reached for it, hesitated not knowing why. Slowly, as if of their own volition, my fingers opened, and I placed my palm atop the mouth of the mug. Were the liquid an inch higher, I could stroke it with the palm of my hand, caress it with my fingertips.

  I rested my left hand atop my right, pressed as if trying to meld my palm with the rim of the glass. Why, Mother, couldn’t you trust me with the Vessels? Now, while Rustin rutted with Chela, I suffered humiliation and agonies of self-denial, and for ... what? I’d lost the kingdom to Uncle Mar, if not Tantroth. I had but a haphazard crew of ragged followers who cared not one whit for me.

  Slowly, I rocked my torso, head bowed, holding my hands still over the glass. Forward, back. Ah, Mother. Would that you were not under the cold earth.

  After a time, I woke with a start. Slowly, I peeled my aching wrist from the mug, rubbed the indent left by its rim. Wearily, I stood, looked down into the still liquid of the glass. Then, I crept up the cold rough steps to my solitary room, closed the door.

  “I won’t put Elryc into a cart; he’d be cold when we took him out!” Hester glared as if it were my fault. “There’s nothing for it but to stay, ’til he’s himself.”

  A light rain tapped on the windowpane. “He can’t be that ill. Just yesterday—”

  “Your brother burns like the demons’ lake.” Her swollen knuckles tightened, over the rough plank table. “I can’t be away from him. See for yourself.” She stood, grimaced, hobbled toward the stair.

  “Come along,” I said to Rust. It was more order than request. Somberly, he followed.

  Elryc lay dozing atop a straw mattress. My nose wrinkled; the chamber held the dank odor of sickness. “Give me to drink, Nurse.” His voice was the high pipe of a child, with a thready weakness that startled me.

  “How are you, brother?” I took the glass from Hester, raised his head from the pillow.

  He slurped. Water ran down his chin, across his puny chest. “Roddy, did you hear them last night? Demons, on the windowsill!”

  “Nonsense.” My tone was gruff. “A fever vision.”

  “Two of them, with black horns.” He coughed, from deep in his chest, cried out in anguish. “Oh, it hurts.”

  “Good.” Hester prodded his leg. “Cough more, boy. It keeps you alive.”

  I waved it away. “What foolishness is this? Let him rest in peace.”

  “Cough!”

  “Hester, take some air, regain your sense. I’ll—”

  Her fingers clawed at my hair, wrenched me from the bedside. “What know you, ignorant lout? Let him cough out the demons, lest they seize his lungs! Begone.” She swept me to the door. “And take your overgrown shadow along!” She hurried Rustin along in front of her, slammed the door in our faces.

  Rust shrugged, a smile flickering. “Did she ever marry? I pity the man whose wife has such a tongue.”

  “If so, he killed himself.” I trotted down the stairs, out into the cool rain. “Come, let’s see what delights the town has to offer.”

  “You jest.” He hunched down his head, walked alongside. “Where’s Genard?”

  “With the horses, I suppose. Who cares?”

  Just off the main road was a small market square, but only one stall was set up for the day. At the edge of town, an ambitious House of Rites was constructed of quarried stone, with a tile roof. Set in the outer walls were niches and alcoves designed for decoration, but vacant. “Looks like their coin ran low.”

  Rust pondered. “I wonder if there’s a Ritemaster.”

  I scurried after. “You need to cleanse your soul?”

  “Don’t we all?” He took the steps two at a time, tried the door. It was unbarred.

  Inside all was dark and gloom, until our eyes grew accustomed. Then, the tall narrow windows served well enough. Rust advanced toward the Circle of Rites.

  “How may I help you?”

  I jumped. The voice from the shadows was deep and strong, the face bearded.

  “Hail, Master.” Rustin put on his best face. “Is the place open to travelers?”

  “For most Rites. There is that of initiates, but you need not concern yourself with intruding.”

  Rust bowed. “Thank thee for thy welcome, Ritemaster.”

  “Onter, I am called. What would you, here?”

  “The Rite of Cleansing.”

  I stirred, not overjoyed at the prospect of a dreary hour mumbling the expected responses. “Rust, I don’t need ...”

  “Wait at the inn, if you prefer. I won’t be long.”

  I sighed. Outside was a bleak drizzle, and we’d be stuck in this forsaken hamlet another night at least. I had no hurry. “All right.” I took my place at the Circle.

  The Ritemaster looked us over. “Who are you?”

  Rust spoke before I could. “I am Rustin son of Llewelyn, of Stryx Keep. My friend Roddy’s mother worked at the castle.”

  A lie, and to a Ritemaster. I hoped it wouldn’t annul the peace Rust hoped to find.

  The Ritemaster seemed to accept his words. “We won’t see many more of your kind, until Tantroth is decamped.”

  “Pray that it’s soon.” Rust.

  “Aye, but little chance of that. He’ll dig at the walls of the keep ’til winter, I warrant.”

  Rust pursed his lips, but said nothing.

  “And then, who knows. They say the boy Prince turned coward and fled, and Duke Mar is beside himself with worry.”

  I recoiled from Rustin’s sharp jab, to nurse my ribs. My mouth snapped shut.

  The Ritemaster sighed. “Ah, well, who can blame the child, with fair Elena but recently laid into the ground? He must be greatly hurt.”

  My unspoken rebuke melted like spring snow. I settled on my haunches, awaiting the Rite.

  The aim of the ritual was to rid the soul of worries and fears, of the self-contempt engendered by unspoken sins. Confession was made to the Vessel of Rite, not to the Ritemaster, but at home I’d oft suspected the Master listened too carefully to one’s whispered words, and so I usually withheld that confession which wasn’t seemly.

  Today, I felt grubby and unclean, both of body and soul. Chela’s arrival had driven a wedge between Rustin and me, and I resented that he didn’t have sense to send her packing. Th
e moment she appeared, I should have put my foot down. But I’d been distracted by Fostrow, and now it was too late.

  As a result, at night I writhed in torment, imagining the pleasure that was denied me, and could take only the feeble substitute of my hand. Though Rustin did his best to bide his scorn at my virginity, Chela did not. Her saucy grin, wriggling hips and provocative stare were deliberate incitements. Try as I might to ignore them, my mind went ever to the enchantments of her body.

  Like anyone, I knew the ritual almost by heart. I muttered the responses at the proper times, waited until the clay vessel was passed. When it came to me, I found myself whispering the dark and petty jealousies, the resentments, the lust that consumed me. After, the Ritemaster smashed the vessel, bowed to end the Rite.

  We got up from the cold floor and stretched. I felt surprisingly better. Rust put a copper in the offering bowl, thanked the Ritemaster once more. “By the way, does the town perchance have a steamhouse?”

  “On the edge of town.” He pointed. “A few minutes walk.”

  “Is there a charge?” Rust colored. “Our journey was in some haste, and we haven’t much coin.”

  The Ritemaster smiled gently. “No. It’s open to all.”

  We emerged into a drizzle. “Satisfied, now?” My voice was caustic.

  “I feel better. Don’t you?”

  I shrugged, reluctant to admit the truth. I glanced both directions, wondering what else we could do to pass the day.

  “Come.” As if he were Prince and I vassal, Rust strode back toward the inn.

  I hurried to keep up. “Now what?”

  “Fresh clothes. You don’t want to wear those filthy things again, do you?”

  “If you think I’m about to roast myself in a steaming—”

  “There’s cool water too, and tepid, if you’re fearful.”

  “Of what?” I was indignant.

  “A hot bath.” I swiped at his arm, but he evaded me, raced up the stairs. “I’ll get your clothes, if you like.”

  I followed him to the room, dug my saddlebag out from under the straw where I’d hidden it. My crown, wrapped in a shirt, filled one bag. Reluctantly, I pawed for a garment. “This is a waste of time.”

  “But you’ll be clean.”

  Before I could object, he clapped my back, ushered me toward the stairs. I made up my mind to resist. “Rust, go on ahead, I’ll—”

  “No, you come too.” He propelled me along the hall, dropped his voice. “I find your reek offensive.”

  In a white rage, I stalked across the road, tramped through the mud toward the edge of the wood, debating whether to seize a stone and bash in his head. By the time we reached the brick steamhouse my rage had ebbed only slightly.

  Rustin struck flint, lit the taper, used it to ignite the kindling that waited in the hearth, while I gathered more wood for the next user, as was the universal custom.

  The steamhouse was a crude affair, with little adornment, but had tubs for washing, stones to make the steam, an adequate supply of water. Built around a well, it featured two clammy tubs that one filled with buckets, an arduous task Rustin left to me. I was too cross to object, and after a while the hard work soothed my fury. The water was cool but not unpleasantly so, and when the tubs were full, I stripped off my clothes, sank in with a sigh.

  I wiggled my toes, resting my neck against the headboard, my nose barely above water. “It’s nice, but rather pointless without soap.” In the next tub, Rust splashed.

  “Lucky that one of us remembered. I’ll toss you mine, when I’m done.” He lathered. I suppressed a pang of envy as his muscles rippled. He had the body and the bearing of a king. I was clumsy as a houseboy, unless I set my mind to maintain a regal manner. Authority came naturally to Rust, while I had to strain to achieve what I deserved.

  A splash, that woke me from my musings. I wiped my eyes, groped for the rough soap.

  After, soaking in the cool tub, girding for the steam to follow, I felt almost forgiving of his crudity, his brutality of expression. “Rust?”

  “Aye, my prince?”

  “What are our stations, yours and mine? Are you vassal or friend?”

  “Why, I—” He swallowed. It surprised me to see him disconcerted. “Can I not be both?”

  “Are you truly my vassal?”

  This time he didn’t hesitate. “To the very life, my lord.”

  “Then why do you bully and insult me? Does that show respect?”

  He climbed out of his tub, sat nude and dripping on the edge of mine. Our eyes locked.

  “And why do I allow it?”

  He essayed a smile. “Perhaps because you enjoy it?”

  “I hate you when you’re vile, or haul me about like a baby or a dimwit.” My tone held a petulance I wasn’t sure I felt. “Why can’t you be courteous and respectful?”

  “I’m vassal, not servant. There’s a difference.” He scooped a handful of water, ran it through my hair. “My blood is noble, as is—”

  “And that!” I slapped away his hand. “Always you’re playing with me, as if I’m a stuffed doll.”

  His voice grew taut. “What would you have me, my lord? Shall I be vassal, and no other?”

  “Yes!” I heaved myself out of the tub, took the shovel from the wall, padded barefoot to the hearth, prodded the stones baking on the red embers. “Let’s get on with it, before I’m too cold.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Rust’s voice was without inflection. First closing the windows, he took the shovel from my hands, carried the rocks carefully, one at a time, to the pit. I sat on the bench, one knee curled under my chin, while he drew two buckets of water, set them aside, took the clay pot, filled it, splashed water on the white-hot rocks.

  He sat, on the bench opposite, breathed deep.

  In the flickering candlelight I waited for steam to fill the room. Outside a bird chirped hopefully. Rust sat patiently.

  After a time, I found the silence oppressive. “I didn’t say you couldn’t speak.”

  “Yes, my lord. What shall we talk about?”

  “Stop it, Rust!”

  “Aye, my lord.” He said no more.

  Pulse throbbing, I stalked around the pit, stood in front of him, raised my fist. He gripped the bench as his eyes met mine.

  Slowly, I lowered my hand. “Demons take you!”

  “I’ll be what you want of me, Roddy, but I can’t cleave myself in twain. Would you have servant, or friend?”

  “Vassal!”

  “Aye, my lord. I am that.”

  I wanted to throttle him, but again he’d defeated me. The more humiliation in it, as he’d had no need even to raise a finger. “Be what you wish,” I muttered, and went back to my corner to sulk.

  Rustin threw more water on the rocks, until the air was thick. My sweat coated me like a chill blanket, but the soap had cleansed me and the feeling wasn’t unpleasant. Despite myself, I began to relax.

  “We should do this more often.” Rust’s tone was peaceable.

  “Aye.” I knew I sounded curt, and, sighing inwardly, chose to soften it. “I’ll have Hester load a steamhouse onto her cart.”

  He giggled. Then, abruptly, “I’m sorry my manner troubles you, Roddy.”

  It was why I couldn’t hate him for long. “It’s all right, Rust.” I stood, indicating I’d had as much of the steam as I could manage. He doused the rocks, overwhelming their heat with the rest of the water. I shivered.

  “I do want you to be a great king,” he said.

  Basking in his transparent sincerity, I stood hugging myself while he poured a cold clean bucket of water over my head. I gasped, rubbed water out of my eyes, groped for my towel.

  “You’re handsome, Roddy, when you care for yourself.”

  “Hah.” I was half a head shorter than he, and nowhere as muscled. In my silver mirror, I sometimes glimpsed a calculating expression I didn’t much care for. What would he say, if he knew I’d oft practiced his smile, alone in my chamber?

 
We dressed, tidied the bathhouse for the next user, went out into the day. In companionable silence, we started back to the inn. My bundle of old clothes seemed soggy and distasteful, and I held them with reluctance. Nonetheless, I thought, Rustin carried his washing fetish too far. I stepped over a mud puddle. Even when you’d been riding on a hot day—

  “Look.” Rust sounded amused.

  Genard churned down the road, arms windmilling. Halfway to us, he sprawled headfirst in the muck, bounded again to his feet, resumed his run. I watched with amusement.

  “Come quick!” He sucked in breath. “Elryc’s dying!”

  “Lord of Nature!” A stab of fear wrenched my gut. Not Elryc, so soon after Mother. I’d be truly alone.

  “Hester sent Fostrow one way, me the other. She says to hurry!”

  We raced back to the inn. I scrambled up the stairs, flung open the door to their room.

  Hester’s eyes were bleak. “Hear his lungs gurgle. He can’t draw breath.” She bent over the small form that lay listless on the straw.

  Elryc’s chest rose, fell again. The movement seemed so slight.

  I cried, “Do something!”

  “I know not what!” With an effort she tottered to her feet, moved toward the door. “The crisis came so fast I had no idea ...” She pulled herself together. “I’ll seek an herbs-man. Perhaps he’ll know a remedy.” She brushed Rustin aside. “You boys stay with him, at all cost. If he goes, it mustn’t be alone.” She vanished.

  I stroked Elryc’s head, snatched away my hand. “He burns!”

  “He’s been hot since the morn.” Genard moved close.

  “Get away, you’re covered in mud.”

  “This room’s stifling.” Rustin crossed to the window, threw it open. “How can he breathe, without air?”

  Obstinately, Genard kept his place by the bedside. I gritted my teeth. In a moment, I’d fling him from the window.

  Elryc muttered, opened his eyes. His breath rasped. “Roddy. You’re all staring. What’s wrong?”

  I sat. “We’re worried for you, brother.” I kept my voice light. “You slept long.”

  “Aye.” He drifted off. After a few moments he was back. “It’s more, isn’t it?” He studied us. “Do I die?”