by Martin Davey
Unsurprisingly, Maronghavian was rather loquacious in his declarations of love for the Keepers. Once Ysora had learned to ignore the simpering idolatry, his story was interesting, telling as it did of the first war of Deliverance. Some of it was hard to believe; Maronghavian had armies as many as thirty thousand strong facing the Keepers on the field, told of masses of steel-armoured men on horses over twenty hands high, archers blocking out the sun with their arrows of death. Ysora couldn’t imagine such a thing, no doubt Maronghavian’s excitable nature was colouring his recollection of events.
Barely three lines into her reading and the door was opened, setting her heart to racing and Ysora to jumping from her chair like a guilty child. A warm breeze rolled in through the door, reminding her of home on the cliffs at the end of the world. Guardian Cioran was alone, wearing his green smock and his hair tangled as usual, his eyes tired and rimmed with purple rings. “Ysora. I hope you’ve had a productive morning?”
Ysora looked down at the books. “I’ve been reading as you said, Cioran.” She found herself pitying the man and the long hours he had to work. He was a good man, every time she looked at him with his sandy hair and his clear eyes and the way he spoke with understanding and love, she knew he was good. So why would he lie about her mother, about what had happened in Yerotan?
Cioran nodded. “Good. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I’ll make you one, then I had better get to work.” Ysora touched the paper in the pocket of her skirts to reassure herself it hadn’t fallen out anywhere the Guardian would find it.
“Nonsense, nonsense. You’re a guest here, Ysora. I couldn’t have you running around after me.” Cioran went into the kitchen and Ysora heard him rummaging about, setting the water to boil and the chinks of mugs being placed on the counter. He came back in wiping his hands on a towel. “So, what did you learn today, child?”
Ysora couldn’t help her eyes sliding back to the books. Strange that she didn’t feel more fear when spying. She felt dirty and she felt guilty. But not so much fear. The thought of being caught brought a dread of the look on Guardian Cioran’s face, a look of disappointment, maybe even hurt, rather than what he might do to her. “I only read Maronghavian again. Mainly about what happened in the First War.”
Cioran still had the towel in his hands. “Ah. Maronghavian. You seem to have taken to him, Ysora. An emotional young man, he was. We have much to thank him for, especially our knowledge of what happened in the early years of the Deliverance. Some of the other historians of the time weren’t quite so dramatic in their writings.”
“It can be a little hard to read sometimes.” Ysora said. “With all the divine talk and praising the Keepers at every moment.”
“And yet you still go back to read more.” Cioran smiled, his eyes fixed on Ysora. “For instance,” he turned away now, picked up a fatter volume from the table. “I notice you read more Maronghavian rather than read this new book I gave you. Stories of the start of the Second War of Deliverance. These written by a man known only as Jesin, a soldier who became a historian for Keeper Diothan. A man of action and adventure, a man of mystery. Nobody knows where he came from and nobody knows what happened to him in the end. Perhaps he might be more to your reading tastes, Ysora?”
Ysora hadn’t even read the title. But the way the Guardian looked at her as he spoke of Jesin made her wonder; his clouded grey eyes fixed on her, intent. A man of action and mystery: that’s how she thought of Tiege. Could that be why Cioran thought it might be to her taste? No, that was nonsense, there was no way Cioran could know of her dealings with Tiege. Ysora cleared her throat. “What happened to Maronghavian? In the end, I mean? I’d have thought he might still be around for the start of the second war.”
“And so he should have been, child. He was captured in the rebellions that began the war. Taken to Porferri and the Prince of the Marches where they asked him to denounce the Keepers.”
Ysora sucked on her lip, thinking of how she had sighed when reading of Maronghavian’s love for the Keepers, how he had gloried in their every action and word. She didn’t need to ask what decision the historian had made at the Prince’s castle. “What did they do to him?”
Cioran took a breath, his grey eyes hard and cold as a winter’s afternoon. “They did what they did to all the prisoners of the Second War. They drove nails into his kneecaps. Then the Kneeler wouldn’t be able to debase himself before the Keepers. Then, when he still wouldn’t recant his faith, they cut off his penis. He had given up his manhood when he prostrated himself before the new gods. Then when he still didn’t relent his love of the gods...”
“Okay, okay,” Ysora bowed her head and lifted a hand. She almost felt as though she knew the man after reading so many of his words the past days. In future she would read them in a new light, with less impatience. “Even in the end he didn’t denounce the Keepers?”
Cioran shrugged. “Why would he denounce his faith because the unenlightened tore at his body?” He looked genuinely confused by the question. “His immortality was guaranteed, his torturers would be forever forgotten in the mists of time. A moment’s pain is as nothing compared to the glory of eternity.”
“A moment’s pain? The poor man must have died in total agony.”
“Pain I hope neither of us ever experience.” Cioran smiled, though his eyes were still cold. “But here we are three thousand years later still speaking his name, still reading his words. The Keepers are truly immortal but those who are faithful and honest in their devotion can also grasp the fiery tail of eternal life in their own way.”
Ysora looked at Cioran, his careless dark hair, his cool grey eyes, his scrawny body. He always had the air of a man just stumbling out of a library into the glaring sunlight. Nothing like the dark, dangerous, amused aloofness of Tiege. Why would anybody want to spy on such a careless, unthreatening man? Did they really think Cioran had anything to do with the slaughter at Yerotan? Did she herself really think he would have had anything to do with it? But if not, why would he lie about her mother? Thoughts, questions, suspicions and worry welled in her mind, inexorable as a dark tide in moonlight, yet one single question washed to the surface, “Did he have to die to live on in eternity? He could have renounced the Keepers and his words would have still lived on; the Prince of the Marches would have released him, would the Keepers have destroyed his books just because he wanted to live?”
Cioran smiled as though he had hoped she would have asked that question. Despite his tiredness, he seemed to be enjoying their conversation. “Ah, but if he was the kind of man to have renounced the Keepers, renounced his faith so easily, then would those words have existed at all? If he was a man so fickle and easily turned away from the truth of the gods, then would he have been the historian at all?” Cioran looked to the kitchen. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a mug of tea?”
Ysora shook her head. “No thank you.” Strange that she felt so comfortable with the man. He said he had married her mother when really her mother had died choking on her own blood with an arrow through her neck. Or had she? Did it really mean that Tiege was telling the truth just because he could name the tree that Redmond had climbed as a child? Was she being swayed by Tiege’s air of mystery, his long legs and his dark eyes? Was she really that shallow? She followed Cioran to the kitchen, watched him pour the boiling water, add a spoon of tea leaves. Nobody could call Cioran dark and dangerous. Homely and dishevelled maybe, but never dark and dangerous. “My mother,” Ysora said. No, she couldn’t have based her judgement purely on how attractive Tiege was. She was stronger, deeper than that. Cioran looked at her through the steam of his tea. Ysora smiled, trying to keep her eyes on his. “She loved her tea. Used to have me making it for her all the time in here. Always complained I never put enough sugar in for her.”
The Guardian poured the milk, smiling down at his mug as he did. His eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. “I’m sorry, child. I sometimes forget how much you must miss your mother.�
� He stirred his drink, the spoon chinking against the mug. “And I think she must have missed you more than you realize. When I lived with her, she could drink nothing but coffee or water, she always said tea gave her stomach ache. Maybe the ache was the memory of you making her the drink?” He took a sip of the steaming tea, seeming to smile at Ysora over the rim of his mug.
Ysora’s stomach lurched. Her mother had never drank tea, she had told Ysora once that it gave her the runs, a horrifying image that had never left her, the thought of those bony buttocks having the runs...even now the image made her shudder. And Cioran had known this. Had she made the wrong choice? Had she been shallow enough to let Tiege’s mystery sway her judgement?
“You look a little pale child, would you like to sit down?” Genuine concern on Cioran’s face.
“No, no. I should really be leaving for work.” Ysora lifted a hand to ward off the approach of Cioran. “Thank you for the books.”
“Tomorrow morning then? I promise to have something different prepared for you.” The steam of the tea swirled and curled about Cioran’s face as he smiled at her.
“I’ll be here. I do think I’m learning about the Keepers. I think I can’t be as quick a learner as my mother, though.”
Cioran waved a hand, sending the steam from the mug to fluttering about. “Nonsense child. Nobody is quicker or slower than anybody else when it comes to learning of the glory of the Keepers.”
Ysora held the Guardian’s eyes for a moment as she looked at him. He seemed so intelligent, so knowledgeable, so understanding. And yet the two things she wanted his understanding of; her dreams and the history of Yerotan, she could never speak of to him. “Thank you, Cioran, for all you’ve done for me.”
Cioran could only hold her eyes for a moment before looking away to the floor as though embarrassed. “No matter child, we all need help sometimes with our faith, with understanding our place in the world.” Ysora was almost at the door when he spoke again, “Oh, and Ysora?” She looked back. He hadn’t moved from his place in the kitchen. “Take the book with you if you like. The Maronghavian one. I think we’re finished with it now.”
She felt his eyes on her all the way out of the house, the book clutched under her arm.
The walk to the inn was a pleasant one, the sun dappling on green leaves and cool shadows striping the road. Already she was beginning to be recognized in the village, men nodding or lifting a hat in greeting, and women smiling at her as she passed. One such woman fell into step with her, the weeping willow that marked the Keepers’ Truth where she worked just coming into view over a row of thatched roofs. It took Ysora a moment to recognize Addison.
“I hope Tiege didn’t upset you too much the other day. He can be a little abrupt sometimes,” the shorter woman said, walking next to her, delicate and graceful as Ysora could never hope to be. She reminded her of the dancer in the dream.
Leap step stoop swirl spin bend.
Ysora caught her breath at the memory and tried to shorten her steps, not slouch her shoulders. “It was nothing really. I think I must have been tired after my journey, that’s all.”
Addison’s hair shone in the sun like finely spun wheat. When Ysora left her hair free like that, it grew thick and wild as a knotted forest floor. “I noticed he followed you into the inn afterwards, I asked him not to, but he was having none of it. He didn’t upset you any more, did he? I keep telling him to be more polite.” A laugh, false and fake as barrowman’s silver but still the laugh sounded pretty. Addison waved a delicate hand in the air. “But you know what men are like.”
No. Ysora didn’t know what men were like. Or, if she did know one thing, it was that of all the men she knew since she fled Yerotan, none of them were what they first appeared. “Yes, it’s almost as though they have a mind of their own.” She forced a smile for the shorter, prettier woman.
“Oh, Ysora!” Addison tapped her on the arm with the back of a hand, her laugh familiar and false. “But really,” the laughter died as quickly as it had begun, her eyes questioning as she looked up at Ysora. “I do hope he wasn’t trying to start an argument?”
And then Ysora knew. Whether it was the questions, whether it was the probing eyes, whether it was the insincere smiles and laughter, or whether it was just woman’s intuition. Addison was in love with Tiege. Of course she would be. Despite herself, Ysora couldn’t help feeling attracted to the man. Silly really, of course pretty women like Addison with their wide smiles and straw-spun hair and dainty steps would love Tiege. If the dancer from her dream were here now, she’d probably love the man too.
They were on the same road as the inn now; Len was out pouring a bucket of something green into the gutter, passersby dodging out of the way of the splatter. Ysora looked at Addison; she’d almost forgotten the question. “Er, no. No, he even apologized I think. He spoke of you mostly, I think.”
More laughter, embarrassed, bright as the sun shining through the leaves of the weeping willow. Len spat into the green and pulled his pants up over his belly as he watched them both approach. “Good. You’re here. Thought I was going to have to take some coppers off you. Here,” he produced a dirty rag from a sagging pocket. “Someone’s been sick in the privy.”
The rag had bits of hair and brown solid things sticking to the grey. Ysora didn’t move any closer, instead she smiled at Len. It felt almost good to see him. No matter the filth, the greed, the fat; here was a man she could know. No secrets with Len, he wanted his food and his money and to sleep in the same filthy bed on a night. “You keep that thing, Len.” Had he really kept the rag in his pocket? “I’ll see to it.”
“Oh. You work here?” Addison almost sounded disappointed. She even frowned prettily, her nose creasing. Surely the woman couldn’t think of her as a threat? Ysora almost laughed at the thought.
“She is lucky enough to work here, but don’t be jealous, miss. I still need some pretty serving maids to bring the customers from the whore’s house.” Len stuffed the rag back in his pocket and tried his best smile, his cheeks shining fatly in the sun.
Ysora left Addison to her fate and went to look for the vomit. Len hadn’t been joking. The vomit pooled around the privy, thick and gloopy. It had carrots in it and other white and green things. The splatter had even hit the walls as high as her knee. She sighed and went to look for the mop.
The mop bucket, when she found it in a closet full of broken brushes, broken plates and cups and dirty rags, smelled almost as bad as the sick. Stagnant water pooled in the corners, stinking even more as she pulled the bucket out.
She got water and set to cleaning, her nose wrinkled as the mess moved and pooled with the mop. Somebody obviously couldn’t handle their ale, the sick stunk of it. She drained the mop head and swirled it around some more.
“The Keepers are cruel indeed if this is all they think you are fit for.” The voice came suddenly from behind her.
Ysora jumped, her stomach lifting in her chest. Tiege was leaning in the doorway, his eyes dark and hooded in the dim light of the privy. Only one window high in the wall let any light in, and that was dirty and smeared. Another job for later, she thought. She turned and carried on mopping, rolling the mop in the vomit. “I wouldn’t know what the Keepers think me fit for, I still haven’t had the Dream. I don’t suppose I ever will now.” She turned again, hoping the emptiness she felt in her breast didn’t show on her face. He really was handsome, his dark hair curling about his brow and collar, his beard framing his full lips. “And what of you? A strange work they chose for you. Some Dream that must have been when they asked you to spy on their own Guardian.” She carried on cleaning, the mop making slopping noises.
Tiege leaned back in the doorway to look behind him, his arms still crossed. Ysora drained more water into her bucket and a black-gloved hand landed on hers. She hadn’t heard him come into the room. Tiege’s dark eyes, the colour of polished chestnuts, were close to hers. “My work is as a secretary to farmer Mashin. That is the only work I do. Never f
orget that.” His hand tightened on hers, the grip painful. For just a moment Ysora thought she could smell fish on his clothes and ale on his breath; then the hand loosened and Tiege smiled and the smells faded. “Anything else we happen to do or speak about, is something I’d rather not have shouted across a room.” He was still close enough to kiss, his breath now smelled of almonds. “If we are ever caught or found out, it wouldn’t just be the Keepers and their servants after our blood, believe me. My Master doesn’t take failure well, trust me on that.”
Despite Tiege being so close, Ysora had to strain to hear the last of his words. He was holding the mop with both hands, just as she was, as though they were stirring some huge potion together. Ysora pulled the mop away, the bucket sloshing dangerously on the floor. “Sometimes I wonder if you saw what you say you did at all. Cioran is a good man.” He would never squeeze her hand like that. Tiege stood close enough for her to elbow him in the stomach as she mopped. She tried to resist the temptation.
“He might be the best of men.” Tiege sighed. “But he is still a liar. You ask a man who lies to you about your mother’s death to teach you about faith and love?”
She knew he was shaking his head behind her. She remembered the letter she had copied in Cioran’s study. It felt like a lead weight in her pocket. She straightened and put the mop back in the bucket, the floor almost clean. “And what do you know about faith? About the Keepers?”
Tiege’s dark eyes met hers. “My Master taught me about faith, Ysora. When he found me fleeing this place and took me to his home in the woods to the west. He taught me all about faith and truth long forgotten. Did you find anything today?”