Buried Heart

by Kate Elliott

  Kal can look as pleasantly unassuming as my mother as he circles in for victory. “Look at it with my eyes, Doma. Even a highborn lord, heir to two thrones, can marvel at a girl who will let nothing stop her.”

  He smiles winningly. Her flat stare doesn’t thaw.

  “Kiya.” Inarsis steps forward. “I think it’s a good idea.”

  “You’re not Jessamy’s mother!” she retorts with more belligerence than I ever thought she had in her.

  Inarsis raises both hands, palms out, in appeasement. “Yet she’s not wrong. A quick victory for Nikonos will hurt us all.” He nods at her in a conspiratorial way I can’t like. How deep runs the plot that’s clearly at work among the Efeans? Does my own mother not trust me enough to share what she knows?

  Curling her hands into fists, she says, “Very well. Give us a moment alone.”

  The three men go over to cluster around Mis and the babies, far enough away to give us the illusion of privacy if we speak softly.

  I’m still angry but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let her walk into an ambush. In a low voice I hastily say, “Wenru isn’t what he seems. It’s as if there’s a different self in his body. You need to be careful.”

  “I am aware there is something unusual about Wenru. But I can handle a baby.” She raises a hand to seal my attention. “Your situation concerns me far more. Now listen to me, Jessamy.”

  My name on Mother’s lips can sound as praise, as resolve, as encouragement, as love. But right now her tone takes a steep dive, like she’s plunging in for a kill.

  “Lord Kalliarkos may believe he can treat you with the same consideration he would show a Saroese woman of his own rank—”

  “Mother!”

  “—but this is not their land. They build their palaces and temples atop what once were our cities and holy places. They trample our dignity beneath their feet. They live on what they steal from us, our hearts, and even the sparks of our lives.”

  “If that’s what you think, then I wonder you could ever have fallen in love with Father.”

  She takes my tone not as sarcasm but as a question. “I was young and naïve. I mistook a handsome smile for something it wasn’t. No Saroese man can ever treat an Efean woman with the respect an Efean man will show her.”

  “So is that what all this conniving with General Inarsis is about?” I lash back. “Are you going to marry him, since he’s a good Efean man?”

  She actually laughs. I know I can never ask her to forgive Father, but this dismissiveness infuriates me.

  “That’s what you want for me, isn’t it?” I go on. “A nice Efean life with a nice Efean boy like Ro, who, I should mention, seems to have a girlfriend in every tavern.”

  “The honored poet Ro-emnu has behaved toward me as would a dutiful nephew over the last few months. He made my life easier during a difficult time.”

  Her championing of Ro goads me over the edge.

  “It’s like you want me to pretend I’m not half-Saroese. Like you want me to forget I have a Saroese father and to act like I’ve never been anything but Efean. Well, I won’t, because no matter what you wish, people will still throw names at me. I’m proud of who I am. I will make my own choices. And Kal and I will not end up with broken promises, not like you and Father!”

  The instant I say those final words I’m horrified at how petty they are. I press a hand to my mouth but it’s too late. The memory of the day Father abandoned the life they had built together twists a shadow in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper through my fingers as tears well up. “That was an awful thing to say.”

  Yet my harsh words finally soften her. She never takes her solemn gaze from me, nor would I dare insult her by looking away.

  “You’re right to scold me, Jessamy. You and your sisters are half-Saroese, and you shouldn’t be ashamed of it, and no one should ask you to repudiate any part of yourself, not even me. Especially not me. But please listen. For your father and me to fall in love and try to build a life together was unusual but not unheard of. No one really cares if a lowborn Patron man cohabits with a Commoner woman, even if they aren’t allowed to marry under the law. But Lord Kalliarkos has a claim to the throne. The moment you become his lover, you will be marked for death, not by Efeans, not by the ordinary Saroese who live and work in Efea, but by Garon Palace, his own noble household. Do you understand me, Jessamy? Do you?”

  I can’t say no. I won’t say yes.

  So I say nothing.

  She wipes away a tear and then embraces me, her strength and affection the shelter I’ve known all my life. “Come back to me, my fierce Jessamy. Don’t get lost in a false dream.”

  She can’t disguise the fear in her voice: She’s not sure if my loyalties lie with her or with Father. With Efea or with Efea’s Saroese rulers. The truth is, for all my bold words, I’m not sure either.

  4

  A wiry Efean man named Khamu guides us northeast, inland away from Mist Lake. We stride along farmers’ paths that wind past fields, ponds, and uncultivated land. It’s a hot day, the blue sky like polished lapis. Normally people do not travel long distances with the sun blasting overhead, but we have to warn my father and get Kal to the safety of the army.

  For most of the weary, sweaty day, we circle wide around every village, avoiding people no matter who they are. We dare not speak, communicating by army hand signals. So when Khamu abruptly signals “down,” we drop right where we are on a path cutting through a palm grove interspersed with pomegranate trees. I’ve been given an iron-bladed hoeing stick so I can pretend to be a farmer if we run into soldiers, but it’s the knife General Inarsis gave me before we left that I grip tightly as we wait.

  A hand grabs my sandaled foot. I look back. Mis tips her head in a question, and I shrug. Behind her, Ro has unsheathed the sword we took from the soldiers Kal killed.

  Kal is crouched beside the trunk of a palm, sword held ready. It’s so hot he’s stripped off his vest, wearing only his keldi and a bundle slung over his back. I’m briefly distracted by shoulders honed by all the climbing he used to do when he still ran the Fives, but then he raises a hand to cup his ear in the signal for “listen” and all my senses focus on the threat.

  A splash sounds from a nearby pond. Footsteps pat a rhythm on the ground. Someone is coming up behind us.

  We scramble to get out of sight, shielded by leaves. I peer through a gap as three barefoot Efean youths amble into sight, carrying baskets heaped with dates and pomegranates. Khamu calls in the manner of a dove, three times, and the youths halt.

  “If you are honorable travelers, you are welcome to ask for hospitality from our dame council,” says one in a high, light voice. They giggle nervously and race away, vanishing around a bend in the path.

  Khamu stands. “I think we’re far enough that we can safely enter a village now. We’ll see if we can get mounts here.”

  Mis takes the lead, with Ro falling into step behind her and Khamu taking up the rear guard.

  I fall back to walk beside Kal.

  “I like the dress the dames gave you to wear. It looks good on you.” His intimate grin makes me smile. “But you and Mis can’t ride in dresses.”

  “I have my Fives gear.”

  “Fives trousers are too lightweight and they’re seamed for agility, not for riding. You’ll be chafed and blistered in half a morning. If we really can get horses here, I have a spare pair of reinforced cavalry trousers. They’ll fit you.”

  He pats the strap of the bag he’s carrying. The thought of wearing his clothes makes me blush a little.

  “No Patron trousers for me to change into instead of this keldi?” Ro asks over his shoulder.

  “They didn’t invite you into the conversation, Honored Poet,” says Mis. “Keep your thoughts on the words you’re going to have to say to persuade the dame council to help us.”

  Either Kal has gotten too much sun today or he’s blushing too. I take his hand, astonished by how easy it is, how I could ne
ver have imagined that one day this would be an ordinary act. Not that it feels ordinary.

  He murmurs, “We have no parents or relatives looking over our shoulders, Jes.”

  “I know. Not until we reach the Royal Army.”

  “You two! Give me silence,” Mis calls back as if Kal is not a Saroese prince who could have her executed for disrespect. “There’s a specific protocol we need to follow when we enter a village as strangers.”

  A post supporting a lantern marks the edge of the village. As strangers, we aren’t invited up onto the boardwalks linking the houses, so we walk on the main wagon track into the central square.

  Villagers have gathered, alerted by the youths. Children jiggle in excitement at the sight of newcomers, but the adults stare with skeptical expressions. About half of them carry weapons. No one says a word. I’m nervous and Kal keeps his head bowed, but Ro looks around with an easy smile although of course he doesn’t speak.

  Three old women appear. Mis steps forward to address them in Efean.

  “Honored Dames, my name is Missenshe, daughter of Hametwe, daughter of Rihanwe the perfume maker, of Saryenia. On behalf of the honored poet Ro-emnu and his entourage, I request shelter.”

  They smile on Ro like benevolent aunties. “Welcome, Honored Poet. Your name is known to us. How may we assist you?”

  He uses the flourishes of an actor: a swept arm, a lift of the eyebrows. “I come to you as a fugitive, carried in the sheltering arms of the Mother of All. I arrive with my companions. Missenshe you have met. The honored sir Khamu acts as our guide.”

  He then settles a hand on Kal’s shoulder exactly as an actor playing a master marks his faithful servant for the audience to see. “This is my groom and loyal bodyguard, Kallos.”

  Everyone looks at the strange sight of a rather grimy Saroese youth dressed in a workingman’s keldi.

  “Kallos?” Kal mutters under his breath, recognizing only the Saroese name out of all the Efean words Ro said.

  “Kalliarkos is a prince’s name and would give you away in an instant, but both lowborn and highborn men may be called Kallos,” I reply softly. I don’t know whether to laugh at Kal’s disconcerted expression or to punch Ro for finding this exact way to aid Kal by making him stand in Ro’s shade.

  Ro goes on in Efean. “I have fled the city of Saryenia lest I be arrested, for the Saroese king cannot abide a poet of my particular magnificence casting aspersions on his history. We barely escaped with our lives. Your hospitality nourishes us at a moment in our journey when we might falter, and we thank you. For our part, we will not let your generosity go unanswered. Of course I will declaim for you from my most recent play, the one the Saroese king himself banned.”

  The villagers eat up this prospect, and in truth I’m curious too, not that I’ll ever let Ro know that. But he’s not done as he finally steps away from Kal.

  “But that isn’t all we have to offer,” he says, gesturing to me. “This adversary won her first Novice trial at the King’s Court and became a Challenger on the strength of it. She saved the Royal Army of Efea from defeat by escaping an ambush and bringing a warning to the Royal Army’s commander. You’ll not defeat her easily when she takes on all comers!”

  “What?” I say.

  “Perhaps her fame has reached you here already. This, my friends, is Spider.”

  “Spider!” Whispers buzz through the crowd as they stare at me in delight. A voice pipes up in the refrain: “She’ll fight for Efea, and win!”

  “Yes, my friends.” Ro gestures with his hands as if to beckon them closer to hear a momentous secret, and since he is speaking in Efean, the words stay a secret from Kal. “The tomb spider, the herald of that which has reached the end of its time on earth, does indeed fight for Efea and Efeans.”

  In answer, several of the villagers call out the phrase he’s coined: “Efea will rise!”

  It feels as if everyone knows their part in a play except me, but I’m given no chance to demand Ro explain what he’s up to because he is immediately invited to bathe away the dirt of travel and swaggers off, surrounded by admirers.

  “Is every girl in this village determined to be the one to charm Ro?” I say to Mis.

  “I thought you didn’t like him, Jes.”

  “I have complicated opinions about the poet.” But he’s not the person I’m worried about. When Khamu takes Kal with him to the pastures to discuss borrowing mounts for the next stage of the journey, Mis catches me before I can follow.

  “You have to run now that Ro has volunteered you. It’s an honor to the village.”

  “Will Kal be all right?”

  “Khamu will watch over him. Anyway, no one here cares about Kal now that Ro has declared him an ordinary laborer. But you running a trial is a big deal. It’s part of the exchange of hospitality.”

  After I wash my hands and face and drink down a bowl of broth, I dig my Fives gear out of my bundle and change. Three adversaries are waiting for me beside the Fives court: a stocky older man named Ofru, a gangly boy about my age called Kenwis, and a sleek, strong, and very pretty young woman who goes by the name Precious.

  “Precious?” I can’t hide my surprise.

  She shades her eyes to look in the direction in which Ro went. “It’s actually Itet, but everyone’s called me Precious since I was born because I was the first girl after my mother gave birth to five boys. Do you think the poet is going to come back to watch us?”

  Mis and I share a look.

  “I’m sure that is his intention,” I answer with a steadfastly straight face.

  “Then I’ll run,” she says magnanimously as Mis stifles a giggle.

  Ofru leads us through a warm-up menageries, the long sequence of movements that trains our bodies in the patterns we need to run the Fives. He uses a form of menageries closer to the one I learned at Anise’s stable than to the one our trainers Darios and Tana followed at Garon Stable. I slip into the flow of my early training as easily as a fish sliding back into water.

  We finish and draw for starting positions. Precious preens as Ro is seated on the guest porch in a sling-back chair in the company of the dames and honored elders. Young people serve them drinks.

  The poet’s life in Efea is a burden, clearly.

  I look around for Kal but don’t see him amid the gathering crowd. I’m surprised by how many wish me good fortune. That just makes me more determined to win.

  The village court is sturdy but simple. Pillars has movable canvas walls. Trees is a series of posts that can be fitted into different post holes. Traps has ropes, beams, and nets that can be shifted around to create variety. Rivers is a set of tilting planks dusted with sand. My competitors are good, but my serious training gives me the edge. I want to offer them the best thrills I can, so I throw in a few flips and twists. The crowd is cheering, “Spider! Spider!” as I reach the fourth platform in the lead, only to find myself staring over an entirely unfamiliar configuration that looks nothing like spinning Rings.

  Long afternoon shadows patch the central area, where a wide spiral path encircles a tall scaffolding: the village victory tower. The spiral path has four pebbled strands, each a color representing one of the four outer obstacles: blue, green, red, and brown. There’s no trick or turn here that I can see, just a choice, so I take the blue spiral. My feet crunch on the tiny rocks. The spiral’s curve gets tighter and tighter.

  The victory tower is taller than I realized because it is set into a large well with sheer stone sides. It’s hard to tell how far down it goes because there’s water below but depths don’t intimidate me. I jump from the pit’s edge to grab a ladder set within the scaffolding. I’m well ahead by now, yet as I climb the crowd begins laughing.

  I discover why they’re amused when I reach the top with its superb view of the flat terrain now mostly hidden by dusk.

  There is no victor’s ribbon.

  Confused, I feel the jar of the tower as another body leaps onto the ladder. Ofru gives me a jaunty wave and c
lambers down.

  Down.

  It’s so easy a trick that I overlooked it entirely. I can’t help but shake my head, half laughing and half-disgusted with myself.

  A bell rings out of the depths. The villagers cheer the victor.

  Of course I climb down, because I have to see. The enclosed space smells of dirt and secrets. Ofru is seated on a ladder rung, feet dangling just above the water. Beside him a handbell hangs from a hook on the tower’s scaffolding. He’s holding a brass cup.

  “I didn’t expect this,” I say, perching beside him.

  It’s too dim to see his expression but I hear the grin in his tone. “You ran that trial well, Honored Niece, but you were looking for the wrong landmark.”

  “Why a bell in a cistern instead of a victor’s ribbon on a tower?”

  “The Fives court represents the land of Efea. Water is the blood of the land. The bell represents the pulse of the Mother of All’s heart.”

  “Do you ever run a trial so you win by climbing up?”

  “A victory tower is the Saroese custom, not ours. We use ours as a watchtower, to keep an eye out for people we need to hide from. But to win a trial, you must climb down to ring the bell. It’s traditional for the victor to pour well water over their head.”

  He dips the cup into the water and pours a few drops out onto his hair, then generously offers the cup to me. “You try it, Adversary. You earned the right.”

  Here in the depths, there’s an uncanny whisper, maybe just the slow voice of the still water or maybe the five souls of the earth trying to speak to me. When I tip the cup over my head, I pour too much, a big splash, and Ofru laughs in a friendly way. But the cool water sliding down my face feels like a blessing, not a mistake. For an instant I feel that the land of Efea has whispered a secret in a language I don’t understand.

  He hangs the cup back up beside the bell and we climb out.

  Kenwis and Precious are waiting. Kenwis enthusiastically gives me the kiss-off sign as a show of respect. I flash him the sign back as a courtesy, and he bounces in excitement as he starts asking me questions about my practice regimen. He breaks off when Ro saunters up with a flock of admirers behind.