Buried Heart

by Kate Elliott

  Their enthusiastic curiosity is a bit overwhelming and thus I’m relieved when a soldier wearing a Lion Guard badge appears and beckons to Ro, who waves to us. As I follow the sedan chair under the gate the attractive guard flashes me the kiss-off sign in challenge, and I’m so delighted that I send it right back with more zeal than I intended. But as we walk into a garden once reserved for the holiest of Saroese priests, I realize it’s not any competition over Ro that rouses me. Love isn’t a victor’s ribbon to be snatched away from another adversary. It’s the chance that maybe someday I can go back to the Fives that makes me respond this way.

  If the Fives survive the war.

  General Inarsis awaits us beneath an arbor. The old scholar whom Maraya protected in the temple sits in a sling chair padded with extra pillows, a cup cradled in his hands. The two men have been drinking together.

  “Here is the poet Ro-Emnu, who brought you across the Stone Desert. He will show you to your new home. May you bide there in peace, Domon.”

  “My thanks, General.”

  As Ro’s friends respectfully help the elder into the sedan chair and cushion him with pillows, I sidle over to the general. Even though he has made himself Protector of all Efea, king by another name, he waits for me to speak first.

  “General Inarsis—”

  “Honored Protector,” corrects Ro.

  “Honored Protector and General, you should assign me to the spider scouts.”

  Inarsis lifts an eyebrow. “Should I? Is all the acclaim going to your head?”

  “I’m probably the only person in this city who has actual experience as a spider scout.”

  “I don’t think you’re officer material, Spider.”

  “I don’t want to be an officer or even a soldier, just a trainer. At the stable where I first learned the Fives, all adversaries had to train fledglings as a part of their own training, so I have some experience.” I close my hand into a fist, feeling the strain even that movement still causes my injured wrist. “I need a job to do while we fight this war.”

  “This war is not going to be over quickly. I daresay it will never be over, not as long as foreigners covet our land and our wealth.”

  “Which is why you need to incorporate the spiders into the new army. I can train recruits in the basics of operating them.”

  Ro crosses his arms. “I thought you were going to stay with your mother. Hasn’t she suffered enough wondering what happened to you?”

  “Honored Poet, let it go,” says General Inarsis in a mild voice. He turns his keen gaze on me. “Why should I trust you, Spider? When we last parted you were determined to set Lord Kalliarkos on the throne.”

  “Yes, to my regret I was. I see now that I was mistaken.”

  “Mistaken in your loyalties?” He watches me closely.

  “Not in the way you mean. I was mistaken in believing that the change Efea needs can come about through them.”

  He reflects before answering, while I fidget.

  “Very well. Report at dawn tomorrow to your new unit.”

  “Thank you, Honored Protector. Can I get Missenshe transferred to the spider scouts? I think people with experience as adversaries might be fastest at getting the coordinated movements necessary to operate the spiders effectively. I can train them as we march south.”

  “You think an untrained spider squadron should march south with the strike force?”

  “I do. Spiders aren’t just strong and deadly. They’re a disguise too. The Saroese won’t guess it’s us.”

  “You never stop spinning the Rings in your head, do you?”

  “Never.”

  A subtle smile transforms his harsh expression. “I’m glad to hear it. Honored Poet, you are dismissed to take this elder where he needs to go.”

  Ro opens his mouth to say something to me, realizes that I have not in fact spoken directly to him yet, and closes it. Inarsis chuckles.

  With a smirk, I say, “Yes, I’m coming with you, Honored Poet.”

  I walk behind the sedan chair, its curtains drawn, as Ro and his three friends carry it out of the temple, across the square, and through the streets of Ibua. Once away from the Saroese-built district along the river, the city turns into a maze of confusing lanes that double back on each other or dead-end in fragrant gardens. The only familiar structures I see are fountains crowned with the animals of the menageries, just like in the Warrens of Saryenia.

  We enter one of the typical outdoor Efean taverns, although at this time of day it’s almost empty, with only two napping cats and a child sweeping. Past the kitchen a narrow passageway cuts between high walls and opens into a garden. Here a house built in the Efean style stands in the shade of a massive tamarisk tree.

  An old woman sits on a bench, face turned to the sky. It takes me a moment to recognize her as the oracle my family was entombed with. Fresh air and sunshine have brought color to her cheeks. She looks more relaxed although she twists her hands over and over in her lap as if it is a nervous habit picked up during her decades of imprisonment inside Eternity Temple. As our feet crunch up she turns to watch us arrive, and it’s clear she recognizes Ro with a mixture of relief and disdain.

  “Have you not troubled me enough with your questions? I’ve told you everything I know five times over. Also, the new cook makes the lentil stew too spicy, and that nice boy who drew up water and sang in such a sweet voice left to join the army. I was not aware you people were allowed to join the army.”

  They set down the sedan chair. The three friends hurry back the way we came, eager to get a drink at the empty tavern.

  Ro walks over to the bench. “We have brought you a gift, Princess Selene. Something you lost long ago.”

  Princess Selene. I shape the name but can’t find a place to fit it in the history I know about the generations of Kliatemnoses, Serenissimas, and all their relations.

  Parting the curtains, the old scholar leans forward to take in a breath of the perfumed air. “What garden is this, poet?” the old man asks.

  The oracle stares at his aged face for so long that a bird flits down from a tree to peck at the platter of fruit sitting on the bench beside her.

  “Kallos?” Her voice trembles on the name, and I remember how, in the tomb, she mistook Kalliarkos for someone she knew. She grasps her cane and rises. The bird flies away in a blur of wings. “Is it truly you, my beloved Kallos?”

  “Who is that?” He turns his head to seek her direction by the sound of her voice.

  I take his hand and help him out of the sedan chair. He doesn’t even ask who I am or why I am assisting him. There’s a light in his face that’s painful to see, where a feather of hope collides with an ancient wall of grief. She stares, sways, and makes no protest as Ro tucks a strong hand under her arm.

  As the old man and I approach, she speaks in a trembling voice. “They told me they’d killed you.”

  He stops, hearing her words clearly now, and extends a hand. “Selene. Is it truly you? Have the gods answered my prayers even after all this time?”

  Ro nods toward the bench, and I seat the old man there. For an instant I think the oracle will collapse from sheer emotion, but Ro eases her down beside the man she lost so long ago. Then the poet takes my hand and draws me down the path after his friends. I glance back to see her touch the old man’s scarred face, and yet her expression is not one of horror but of unlooked-for joy, as radiant as the sun rising after its long darkness.

  I wipe tears from my cheeks. Ro doesn’t let go of my hand and I’m so overcome that I don’t even want to shake it off.

  “They are the last survivors of the previous family battle over the throne, which took place two generations ago,” he says as we keep walking. “How spiteful, to separate two innocent lovers for more than fifty years.”

  “You wrote about those events in your play, didn’t you? But I’ve never heard their names. I didn’t even know they existed.”

  “The official histories buried the story. Instead we were all
taught that after the tragic early deaths of her father and uncle, Serenissima the Third became queen, the benevolent ruler who showered generosity upon all. But that’s not what happened. I’ve heard the whole story now from someone who lived through it. The throne was intended for Serenissima’s younger brother, Kallos, but she wanted it for herself. She killed her father and an uncle because they stood in her way. And then she married her other uncle, who took the name Kliatemnos the Third, and made him her puppet.”

  Much as Gargaron and maybe even Menoë intend Kalliarkos to be a puppet, I think as Ro goes on.

  “At first she claimed to be ruling as regent for Kallos, because he was still a child. She had him raised in isolation, far from the court, together with his young cousin, Princess Selene, who was the only child of the murdered uncle. She and Kallos always knew their situation was precarious, that they lived on Serenissima the Third’s sufferance. They only had each other to trust, and they fell in love.”

  “That’s so heartbreaking,” I murmur.

  “Heartbreak is the wine of poets,” he murmurs, flashing a look at me from his handsome eyes. “As I contemplate every day you refuse me.”

  To my annoyance, I blush but I don’t look away, because I won’t back down. “Then what happened?”

  “When Selene gave birth, Serenissima killed the baby and imprisoned them in different temples.”

  “Why didn’t she kill them too? She’d already murdered her father, her uncle, and the baby.”

  “They don’t know. Since I’ve still found no private records from that time, we may never know.”

  We have reached the passage that leads out of the hidden garden and its secrets. Ro halts under the shade of a massive sycamore.

  “Jessamy. I’m glad you left the palace. The royal air may smell of nectar but it’s nothing but poison. We’ll drive out the Saroese—”

  “All of them? Even Denya and Cook?”

  “‘Cook’? She has a name. You should use it.”

  “You’re right, I should,” I mutter, shamefaced since I can’t help but wonder if Father ever knew that Cook’s name is Yenia. “But that doesn’t change my question.”

  “Foreigners settled in Efea before the Saroese arrived. Including some Saroese. But they came to become part of Efea, like a guest who decides to marry one of your cousins. So I don’t care about the ordinary people who live and work here now. We can make our peace with many of them. But not with the palace and the temples, their rulers and their gods. Never with that.”

  I think of Queen Serenissima, who let her son, Temnos, be killed and then was herself dragged through a gate into darkness. Of Selene, who lived so many long years trapped inside a crushing prison. Of my father and Kal, each threatened by Gargaron.

  “Never with that,” I echo.

  He rests his hands on my shoulders quite boldly.

  “I’m glad you came home to us. This is where you belong.”

  He smells of orange blossom, like he’s rubbed petals onto his skin in anticipation of this delicate moment. His lips part as he leans in, leaving a pause to allow me to speak, to refuse. But I don’t speak. I don’t refuse. My heart, so long bricked up, has started to crack the seams of its prison. He’s here, and he’s fine, and he’s so brilliantly alive.

  “Jessamy,” he whispers.

  His mouth brushes mine, warm and urgent. I sink into his embrace without shame. There’s no one to judge us. Nothing to hold us back.

  Nothing except the memory of Kal’s face in shadow as he said he could not live with himself if he knew I’d been killed because of him. He broke it off because he thought forcing me to go would keep me safe. And when he discovered he was wrong, he sent people to look for me because he is trapped in a besieged city. I’m the one who didn’t want to face the truth about putting him on the throne. He knew better, and I didn’t listen.

  I take a step back, out from under Ro’s hands. “I’m not ready.”

  By the stunned look on his face, I might as well have slapped him.

  “You still believe you’re in love with him!”

  “Is kissing me really about me? Or is it about who you are, and who Kal is? And which one of you wins?”

  “You can’t see past your misguided adulation of your Patron father. Much less Lord Kalliarkos, the golden prince.”

  “You like Kal.”

  A wry smile softens his face with a rare sweetness. “I do rather like Kal, don’t I? He’s so hard to dislike. So good-looking. So sure of his place in the world. So pleasant to people, because he can’t imagine what it’s like to be treated as rubbish. He listens, and he tries to do better, and people praise him for it. It infuriates me. And yet I still like him. How annoying is that?”

  His words pry a smile out of me. “I like you better when you’re not so sure of yourself.”

  “How much better do you like me?” His seductive poet’s voice shivers through me. “You want to be with me, Jessamy. Admit it.”

  “I can imagine being with you, yes. Then I remember your one hundred other girlfriends and I think I’m not so enamored of being one hundred and one.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Am I the only one who hasn’t immediately succumbed to your charm? Is that what this is about? Because you did win the trial between you and Kal. I chose Efea.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “Then what am I compared to all the other girls you flirt with and kiss?”

  He puffs out a breath of air, momentarily stymied, then puts on one of those dazzling smiles that draw people to him as we are all drawn to heat when it is coldest.

  “When the threads that bind a heart to the past are severed and the old ways scattered to the four winds, how do you raise a new world, a new land, a new life? You gather the bones and from them weave a new garment: its warp is the words and memories passed down from the last of the elders, and its weft is the courage and determination of those raised in the wilderness. From this fusion a spark kindles to become the light that will guide you home. You can be that light, Jessamy. You’re the fiercest self I have ever met, as bold as lightning. How can my poet’s heart resist?”

  At dusk Mother takes us girls to the island.

  “You were out with the honored poet for some time today,” says Mother as we cross the square, dressed like any humble family, unremarkable except for the fact that we have escorts on every side and people dropping to one knee as they recognize her.

  “That probing question wasn’t very subtle, Mother.” Amaya elbows me with a violent dig into my ribs that makes me jump. “Did you K-I-S-S him, Jes? Are you going to get married? How many children do you hope to have?”

  “Ow! Stop it, you beast!”

  “Ha ha. You’re so funny when you’re flustered.”

  “I am not flustered! Just getting ready to grind your pretty face into the dirt.”

  “Could you two stop arguing like children?” Maraya glares with her best eldest-sister superiority. “It’s so embarrassing.”

  “Girls. Hush. We are entering a sacred place.”

  In respectful silence we walk across the rocking pontoon bridge.

  “There is so much we will never be able to recover,” Mother says as we climb newly cleared stairs. The lamp she holds is unlit because there is just enough light to see. The entire hill is covered with structures, concealed beneath vegetation that has grown here untouched for five generations. “We’ll clear away what we can. And rebuild with what is still here.”

  At the top she leads us up a final set of stairs to a platform carved with the signs used to identify the obstacles of the Fives court. Lanterns wink along the river, bobbing on boats, shining amid the lanes of Ibua. Stark bluffs mark the edge of the desert lying beyond the floodplain.

  Mother gathers us close: me, Maraya, Amaya, and little Safarenwe tucked in a sling against her hip. Our escort has remained at the base of the stairs, allowing us to climb alone, just she and her four girls pretending to be an ordinary famil
y even though nothing will ever be the same for us again.

  “Ibua the heart,” Mother says. “This is where we begin.”

  “Ba ba ba,” says Safarenwe, clapping her hands.

  “Where Efea began?” Amaya asks. “Right here? On this island?”

  Maraya says, “I just today read in the Archival material that scholars claim—”

  “Maraya!” Amaya and I interrupt her at the same time, in the same voice.

  Mother pats us each on the arm, but she is smiling. “This is where we begin. We can’t remake the past that is lost. But with the threads of that past we can weave the cloth of our future.”

  “Do you still love him, Mother?” I ask, because I can’t help but ask.

  “Of course a part of me still loves him. But I can no longer trust him. We tried so hard, yet the well was already poisoned. Isn’t that the cruelest thing of all?”

  “Like Kal and me.” Although I think I’ve whispered the words so only I can hear, Mother puts a comforting arm around my shoulders.

  We stand for a long time as the stars come out and the wind curls around our bodies. The river streams below like years and memories pouring away toward the sea in an unstoppable rush.

  “What will happen to Efea if we lose?” Amaya says. “Father is the best general in the world and, as Jes has reminded us more than once, the army he commands is better trained and better armed. The king and queen have all Efea’s wealth at their disposal while we have to keep count of each chicken and jar of olive oil to feed thousands of people who have fled their homes. And besides all that, there are foreign invaders here too.”

  I grasp her hand. “This trial isn’t over yet. We have the advantage of knowing how many spinning rings are in place, whereas they don’t know we’re in the game.”

  “Do you really think we can win?” She asks not because she’s frail and frightened but because she’s clear-eyed and brave.

  “What matters is that we fight for Efea,” says Mother. “That we have taken our stand at long last. Here. Now.”

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