by CJ Brightley
“Sir, what’s wrong?” Saraid kept her voice calm.
He muttered something, but I didn’t hear it.
“Sir, please. What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes closed. “Hanil amai.”
“Sir, what’s wrong? Is the pain worse?”
He nodded once, his jaw tight.
“What else? Is there anything else? Are you cold?”
He nodded again. I don’t know why I didn’t see it until then, but he was rubbing his right foot across the top of his left, and I reached down to touch them. They were cold as ice.
“His feet are freezing.”
“Lani, go heat some water.” Saraid frowned. “I’d hoped the chills were over. Rub his feet, try to warm him. I’ll be back.”
She stood and left quickly, stopping only to put another blanket around his shoulders. I sat on the floor in front of him, speaking softly, though I don’t know what I said. I put one of his feet in my lap and covered it with my apron, and I rubbed the other between my hands. The bones felt strong and hard beneath my hands, the tendons like lean cords in his ankle. I could feel him shaking.
“Hanil amai,” he whispered again.
“Hush, darling.” I looked up in his face. His eyes were half-closed and his lips were pressed tightly together as if to keep them steady. He held his arm close, and his left hand was clenched so tightly I feared he would injure himself. “Let me see it.”
I rubbed my hand up and down his forearm, trying to relax the muscles. They felt like ribbons of iron beneath his thin skin. Lani brought steaming water for his feet. He caught his breath suddenly when I gently put his feet one by one into the water. After some minutes, he leaned forward, bowing almost to his knees, and his breathing slowed.
Saraid spoke to him, and he didn’t answer. She touched his good shoulder, and only then did we realize he was nearly unconscious, because he slumped to one side and we both had to catch at his shoulders and ease him back onto the couch.
“Lani, what happened?” Saraid asked.
Her eyes were wide and her lip trembled. “I think he just got cold.”
“Has he eaten anything?”
I answered that. “Only some berries earlier, and a little cheese. Hardly anything.”
She frowned and nodded, then looked at him again. He shivered under the thick blankets, murmuring at times. He switched between Common and Kumar without noticing, but even the Common I couldn’t make out clearly.
Saraid brought the tray closer. “Sir.” She touched his shoulder, and he seemed to wake a little. “Drink this.”
His long fingers wrapped around the mug, and he stared at it a moment, as if he couldn’t remember what it was. He took a sip, and then a long drink, and set the cup down on the tray. He took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly. He smiled, a wry little quirk as if he were mocking himself. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. Thank you.”
I frowned at him, not believing it at all.
He leaned back with his eyes closed, shivering.
He spent almost a month resting at the palace, regaining strength. It should have been longer, but he had a restless energy, a burning need for activity that drove him north again on the king’s business. In that short time though, much changed between us, all for the better.
Saraid insisted that he drink wine laced with valerian and other herbs and when he protested, the king’s explicit order prevailed. It helped him sleep through the pain at night and in long naps, forced him to rest.
One afternoon we went to the garden. I brought a book from the king’s library, a children’s story of sweet and beautiful fairytale love. I spread a blanket on the thick grass behind the rose bushes, mostly out of sight of the windows. He lay on his back, trying to hide his wince of pain at the movement, and I kept my voice quiet and low, hoping he would sleep.
The sun through the leaves dappled the pages. His face looked so peaceful that at last I thought he was asleep, his chest rising and falling with slow even breaths. I put the book aside quietly, marking the page with a blade of grass.
“What happens next?” He spoke with his eyes closed, sleepy and quiet.
“I thought you were asleep.”
He smiled and reached for me, resting the back of his hand against my shoe. Such an innocent touch, but it seemed to comfort him. “Almost. What happens?”
“Haven’t you heard this story a thousand times?”
“No.” He opened his eyes to smile up at me.
“Didn’t you read it when you were young?” His smile faded and I felt terribly guilty. “I’m sorry. I’ll read the rest if you want me to.”
I put the book back in my lap, holding the pages open with one hand. I tucked my other hand into his. He smiled almost sadly, his eyes closing in drowsiness. I read to the end, glancing up now and then to study his face. He looked almost asleep, but he squeezed my hand gently before bringing it to his lips and kissing my fingertips.
“We didn’t have stories like that.”
“What kind of stories did you have?”
He smiled drowsily. “Stories to make boys wish they were men. Stories of great battles and heroism, kings and quests. Valor. Death. Courage.”
“They sound magnificent.”
“They are. They are true, and that makes them glorious. But your story is also true.”
“It’s a fairytale.”
He looked up at me, blinking into the sunlight. “It’s a story of love. Love is true. Love is real. I wish I’d had more stories like yours. Perhaps I would know better what to do.” His eyes closed again.
I moved closer and ran my fingers through his hair. It was black as a raven’s wing, with the same bluish sheen, the slightest bit of curl at his temples. He had the long hair of a soldier, long enough to pull back with a bit of leather, though it was loose then. I felt bold, but I said exactly what I was thinking. “You have beautiful hair.”
His eyes snapped open and he frowned at me as if he doubted I was serious.
“You do. I like it.”
Then he laughed, long, almost silent laughter that shook him and left him breathless.
“What? Why did you laugh?” His lingering smile made me smile through my confusion and worry for him. It might have been the first time I saw him really laugh.
“I always hated it.”
“Why?” I couldn’t even remember that I, too, had once thought him ugly, a frightening contrast to Tuyet beauty. I saw him as indescribably beautiful, a perfection of the human form, dark skin like silk despite the scars, green eyes dazzling and magnetic, the color of emeralds.
“I wanted to be golden like Tuyets.” He smiled, eyes closed against the light, fighting the drowsiness of Saraid’s herbs. “Golden hair, skin golden or milky white, like alabaster. Eyes like the summer sky or a stormy sea.”
I bent down to kiss his forehead. I wasn’t bold enough to kiss his lips, not without some kind of warning, but I wished I was.
He blinked up at me, looking utterly shocked, and I couldn’t help but laugh a little in embarrassment.
He licked his lips. “What do your stories say I should do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I feel like I’m in a fairytale. A man like me isn’t kissed by someone like you, not in real life. Did Saraid slip something stronger into the wine?” He was teasing gently, something else I had never seen before. “It is a dream, isn’t it?”
He pushed himself up to sit, catching his breath with pain but then turning to me with a shy smile. “Not that I want to wake up.” He brought my hand to his lips, more solemn now.
“I don’t know how to do this, Riona. I haven’t read the stories. I’ve scarcely even spoken with women at all before you.” He bowed his head in quiet apology. “I want to learn. I want to please you. But I will need you to teach me how.” He kissed my fingers again, and I felt his lips trembling.
I was bold then, for his sake and for mine. If he was so brave in all other ways, I
would be brave for him in this. “We can read the stories together. And you might,” I faltered because the words sounded absurdly scandalous, but pressed on, “You might start by kissing me.”
His mouth dropped open in shock and then he grinned, laughter in his eyes. He cupped my cheek in one hand, eyes bright, and he bent to kiss me gently. On the lips. We were both shy, awkwardly tender, and afterward he smiled. “It’s a good start.”
The next day I took him with me to the library. “Have you read this one?”
“No.”
“Oh, what about this? Little Bird and the Raven. I think I like it better.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Let’s read it then.” I picked up the little basket of food and the blanket and started for the door, the book clamped under my arm.
“Let me carry something for you.”
“I’m fine.” But opening the door with my hands so full was awkward, and he took the blanket and book from me. I looked up at him, worried. He was still terribly weak, and even the effort of our gentle fight over the blanket left him leaning against the wall for a moment in exhaustion.
“I can carry it, Kemen.” I reached out my hand, hoping he would let me, but he shook his head.
“Please. Let me.”
Finally I did, but I kept a sharp eye on him as we went outside and walked through the garden. Though he was steadier than he had been, it bothered me, and when he was settled on the blanket I asked, “Why wouldn’t you let me carry it? You need to rest.”
Men are so foolish that way, thinking they have to act immortal, invincible, for us to love them, when we love their weaknesses just as much.
The wine with valerian was already making him sleepy, and he answered with his eyes closed. “I’m tired of being weak and useless. Besides, isn’t that what men are for, to serve those they love? Please don’t deny me that.”
I nearly lost my breath at his quiet plea. “I just,” I had to start again. “You’re the last person in all of Erdem who should feel weak!”
His hand found mine though his eyes remained closed, and he sighed as though he were fast falling asleep. I waited, but he did not speak again, and finally I began to read quietly. I thought he slept at one point, so I took a break to stretch my back. He shifted a little and I began again without prompting. He smiled when I took his hand.
The story was finished not long after, and he looked up into the leaves, squinting at the brightness, as though he were thinking very deep and serious thoughts. I touched his hair, ran one tentative finger over his eyebrows, and he smiled with quiet joy such as I’d never seen in him.
Finally he spoke, his smile gone. “You have no idea of my weaknesses, Ria.” He looked up at me.
“I have some of my own.”
He smiled quickly, appreciating the words but clearly thinking of something else. At last he seemed to take a deep breath. “I cannot read.” The words were quiet but very clear, and his eyes on my face watched for my reaction.
I sat in stunned silence, and I hesitate to imagine what thoughts went through his head in that eternally long moment. Everyone can read, at least every soldier and certainly every officer. Even servants.
Finally I did the only thing that I could think of. I leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, long and tender.
He was shocked, so surprised he didn’t even look happy about our second kiss.
“Thank you, Kemen.”
“For what?” Now he was confused, struggling to sit up.
My heart felt nearly bursting with love for him. I moved closer, so that when he did finally sit up with a catch in his breath from the pain, I was there to clasp his hands in mine and smile directly into his eyes. “Thank you for trusting me.”
He leaned forward to put his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. I wanted to see his face, but his hair fell so that I couldn’t, and I contented myself with an awkward embrace of his head, one hand rubbing his back in an almost unconscious attempt to comfort him. It was only a few seconds really, but it seemed forever. When he finally looked up at me, he was smiling through tears, one of very few times in my life that I saw him weep.
“I’m sorry.” He looked down, brushed at his eyes roughly.
I caught his hand in mine, touched his face so that he looked up at me again. “I love you. I don’t care if you can’t read. I love who you are.” I held his eyes with mine as I kissed his hand, held it to my cheek a moment longer.
He looked down, holding my hand in both of his, then brought it to his lips as he looked up and directly into my eyes. He did not hide his tears, and that too was a great gift.
30
Kemen
I didn’t see Hakan for over a week. I spent blissful hours with Riona in the garden and by the fire in a small sitting room. I was sleepy, drugged with valerian and whatever else Saraid put in my wine. I slept and ate and slept some more. Waking to Riona’s soft voice, her hand in mine, was like paradise. Her fingers in my hair made my heart skip. She kissed me. Everything was worthwhile; I would have walked through fire for one kiss, and she gave me more than one.
It would have been perfect, it was perfect, except for my guilt. I’d been terribly unfair to Hakan, hurt him as only a loved and trusted friend can. It was not until the next Seitsema, ten days after Saraid had opened my shoulder, that I finally went to his office.
Lani was just entering with a tray for Hakan’s lunch.
“Lani, please tell His Majesty that I request an audience with him. If he has the time.” She looked at me very oddly, since I’d never asked so formally before. I didn’t even know the correct protocol. He’d never asked it of me, and I had not inquired. I’d presumed much.
She nodded me in a moment later.
Hakan was already up, striding to greet me. I dropped to one knee, but he cut off my apology before I’d even begun.
“Kemen. Sit.” He sat across from me and pulled the tray closer. There was a cup already on his desk, and he filled it and the new clean one on the tray, which he slid toward me. “Have some tea. How are you?”
I studied his face a moment before looking down at my hands. He was very serious, kind but solemn. “I’m better.” I took a deep breath. “Hakan, I was out of line. It wasn’t…” but he shook his head.
“I know. I’m glad to have you back. Consider it over.” He smiled, as if he had put it behind him, but I saw the hurt in his eyes.
We drank our tea in silence, and I stared at the floor. Words. They’re like a weapon I haven’t learned to wield properly, flailing about and hurting those I love most.
“I suppose you’ll want to go back?” he glanced up at me, his expression unreadable.
“Aye.”
“I’ve drawn up the terms for a treaty. If you’re up to it. We can talk later if you’re tired.” He studied me seriously.
“Now is fine.”
He pulled some papers over and shuffled through them until he found a map, which he spread about before us.
“We will draw the border here, effective upon signing of the agreement.”
It was generous, giving them back nearly all the land we had taken.
“We will also give them thirty rams and one hundred and fifty ewes, of good stock.”
More than generous.
“They will pay tribute in kind, leather, wool, or livestock equal to the value of twenty lambs per year, due each spring after lambing. This will be used to support the school that will be established in Ironcrest. The school will receive other support, of course, but that’s a beginning. Tribute will first be due next year, and renegotiated ten years after that, if not earlier, to be paid as long as the school operates. The school will take twenty students, to start three months after the signing. It may take more students later, but that’s a start.”
I nodded. “It’s more than fair.”
“Aye. It is. I doubt they’ll argue much. But I’d rather have them grateful and improving their lot than desperate. If they have something t
o lose, they’ll think twice before resorting to raiding.”
“What about the women they kidnapped?”
He sighed heavily, then chewed on his lip as he thought. “Do what you can. I can’t imagine many of them are even alive. The Tarvil are not kind. But get them back if you can.”
“Right.”
We said no more about it that day, nor in the days until I left again. We ate together sometimes, and the words hung between us, though we both tried to pretend it had never happened. Hakan did not hold them against me. He was too compassionate, too understanding, for that, always quick to forgive, and he saw clearly enough that I had not been at my best or most rational.
But what comes out when you are pushed beyond endurance is often what lurks inside the rest of the time as well. The hurt remained in his eyes, and I wished with all my heart I could take back the bitter words I had thrown at him.
Aye, I had been bitter, but not at him. At myself and my failures. I had used him, used my service to him as an excuse. I could never have told him that, but perhaps he understood it as well. Once I wished to live, my service to him no longer required that I die. No doubt he noticed that irony too.
I think it was in the first week after my return to Stonehaven, but my memory of that time is blurry and disjointed. I’d been in the garden most of the morning, napping intermittently on a blanket in the shade of the willows next to the pond. The breeze blew the warm sweet scent of the roses over me, and the leaves rustled quietly. Riona had been reading to me, but she’d gone inside and Lani stayed with me. Someone was always with me. I wasn’t asleep, but my mind felt perpetually foggy.
Lani spoke very quietly, as if she wasn’t sure I was awake. “Kemen? I’m not brave.”
I smiled a little, too tired to open my eyes.
“Can I hold your hand?”
I nodded, and she slipped her hand into mine softly. I rubbed my thumb over the fine bones. “You gave me courage, Lani.”
She sighed. “I wanted to help. I didn’t know what Saraid was going to do. How much it would hurt you.” She sounded like she wanted to cry.