by A. E. Shaw
When she says that, that she doesn’t know where everyone is, has no idea what happened, Kit begins to weep, from nowhere, tears sliding from his eyes with a silent speed that surprises even him.
Ali puts a quiet arm around him and pulls him close to her, whispering, “Shhhh,” and shaking her head at everyone else. “Ignore him,” she says, quietly, to Selina. “He’s tired.”
“How can she not know?” whispers Kit, through his unexpected flood of emotion.
Selina stops speaking.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“You’re so lucky,” Ali says, without a hint of the sadness writ all over her companion’s composure.
“I suppose I must be,” Selina says. She looks to Eliza, who has said nothing, whose face is harsh, tight, and written with an expression she doesn’t know how to caption.
Eliza shakes her head, and leaves the room without a word. Selina feels as if she’s had a bucket of cold water thrown over her, where what she would really have liked, is a hug. And, having given away her story so freely, she is also completely empty, naked without the cover of her own truths.
“Truly,” Ali intervenes, “you are exceptionally fortunate.”
Selina nods. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, but, I do believe you. I don’t know anything at all about this world. I don’t understand. I…I’m sorry…” because ‘sorry’ seems to be the right thing to be. She is overwhelmed by their faces, by their expressions, all varied, all carrying so much emotion and a visible weight of thought.
“I don’t know what to say to you. Please, we don’t mean any…” She can’t even form her sentences.
“The other one,” Ali says, with a heavy sigh, “Aiden.”
“Yes,” Selina says.
“What did you know about him?”
“I knew everything I could of him. I knew more about what he knew than who he was. He would read to me.”
“Do you know who his parents were? How he ended up there?”
Selina shakes her head. “I don’t think even he knew anything about that. He never seemed curious about it, never spoke about it. I assumed he had always been there, with the elders, just as Alej had.”
“And Alej. What did he speak to you of?”
“Little. He spoke of very little. Aiden was the one who talked all the time. He had lessons…” and she tails off because again, isn’t this giving too much without reason enough?
“But he would read to you? Did Alej read to you?”
“No…no, never. Aiden had all the books.”
“Aiden had all the books,” Ali repeats to Kit. “And the lessons, too.”
Kit sighs, “Lucky thing.” He turns to Ali. “You ever have any books as a child? I didn’t.” Back to Selina: “I’m not sure if you understand just how luxurious things have been.”
Selina stares now, confused. Of course she understands how fortunate she’s been. She’s from here. Don’t they understand?
How can there be so few people here, with such scattered and small-minded (compared, you see, with the grand way she’s used to Aiden talking about life, the earth and everything) knowledge? Is this it? She looks at them, there, the three of them. Are these the people that would rebuild the world? Or are they simply the last, destined to eke out whatever they have left, with the little there is around them?
As it comes, they are neither. But we’ll get to that.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Awakening
After endless carrying, pinching, hauling, lugging, Aiden finds himself finally, unceremoniously, brutally dropped on a flat, freezing floor. The absence of motion is nauseating in the most peculiar of ways, like stepping off a rough boat ride and finding that after all that wishing, dry land feels just as bad. The damage done to his body both before and during this journey hurts all the more now he’s laid out here, so he squirms, trying to turn and twist and rest himself into a position that doesn’t feel so bad.
From the temperature, from the smoothness of the floor beneath him, Aiden just about understands that he’s inside, although he doesn’t understand how he can be, because the castle has burned, and he has no concept of another building, not yet.
Then there are loud, loud noises he can’t place, crashes like gongs, maybe is a gong, people coming and going, talking, so many voices all at once, and then none, and then the silence. That lasts, and lasts. It could last forever, perhaps, and Aiden would still lie there, trying to be still and comfortable and wondering what it means. He’s used up his current initiative quota, and has only passiveness remaining now.
When the silence does break, it is with footsteps. Weighty, solid, rhythmic steps, growing louder, coming towards him. Aiden wonders if he should say something, if he should shout, but he doesn’t. He turns over again.
This, he thinks, this is why he’s special. This isn’t something he had imagined, but perhaps this is the way that it must be. Perhaps the stars stated it should be so. Can it really be so long since he saw his name written in the stars, so clean and perfect? Maybe they were just saving him the trouble of walking...wherever he is. After all, the great men and women who led the empires never walked anywhere. They were carried, too.
The footsteps stop. A pause, but one you feel.
Aiden feels himself being poked in the spine, the toe of someone’s shoe nudging him in the back. It isn’t a vicious kick, it’s more experimental. Checking for him.
Then there is a sound - is this person talking to him? As he tries to listen, he finds he can hear only the ringing in his ears from one of the many blows he received. Then, without warning (or possibly with it, but not one that Aiden could hear), there’s a grab and a pull in the fabric, and the sharp blade of a knife is stabbed through it, right up to Aiden’s eyeline. The knife is torn downwards, and there’s a dim glimpse of wood and carved something, and then he is displayed, open, sack shrouding around him, and he’s looking up, up into a face like none he’s ever seen.
The man has strong features, sucking-dark eyes, a square face with black hair slicked back into a geometric frame for his inquisitive expression. He’s dressed in a rich, luxurious red, running right down to the floor, a cloak, with…is that fur edging? This man is as a fairytale. Aiden smiles.
The man smiles back, lets go a laugh, even, throaty and deep. It pokers through Aiden’s ears, seems to open them up.
“Look at this,” the man says, in a resonant, grand tone which meets all of Aiden’s highest hopes for sound itself. “Look what we have here.” The language is his own, and the reverberations of it are delicious.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Aiden offers, and his throat lets him down; he slips into a wheeze at the “your”. His voice cracks and splinters as he tries to make good words come forth, and he finds himself instantly furious for this failure. In hope of making up for this, he holds out a hand, palm down, just like Jere did, on the off chance that this is a wise and welcome gesture. The look the man gives him as he does this suggests that, actually, it’s not either of those things. “My name is Aiden,” Aiden tries, once more, to remove any potential traces of doubt as to his identity which could be spoiling this.
“Oh, I know who you are,” the man says, “I know just who you are. I think we’d better clean you up a little before I make any formal introductions. I hope the troop weren’t too rough with you on the journey?”
“No, no…” Aiden lies, feeling certain complaints are never a sign of innate brilliance. What does this grandly-cloaked man mean, he knows all about him? If he does, then why is he not showering him with delight and gratitude? Where is his parade? (Moreover, where is it Aiden’s got his idea that greatness equals parades from?) Oh, so many questions.
“Can you walk? No, don’t try, it could be too pitiful; I’ll have them carry you to your quarters to wash and become better.” He sounds so assertive, so relaxed that Aiden concludes it must be the done thing to be carried. And this is sounding better, now, to wash and to become
better, those are sentiments expressed in precisely the way he understands they ought to be. Further, it suggests that the man knows that this isn’t actually the way that Aiden wanted to make his entrance; perhaps he will, after all, be able to present himself resplendent in his bejewelled and gleaming excellence.
The way in which he’s hoisted onto the shoulders of four men as if he were so much dead meat is not graceful, nor indeed necessary, as he’s so slight that one man might easily sling him over his shoulder and haul him anywhere, but Aiden interprets it as The Way Things Ought To Be, and he’s so thrilled by this that he barely takes in the grandeur of the hall he was unceremoniously dumped in the middle of.
He continues not to notice the corridor-length tapestries, the incredibly detailed and intricately carved columns that hold up a ceiling so high that it might as well be the sky itself, and he is so amused (and hungry, cold and confused) that he only laughs as he’s carried along and around more indoors than he had ever imagined possible. He’s carried up stairs and along more corridors, and then, finally, eventually, at last, he’s set down, stood on his feet. His knees buckle, and he flails for balance, and one of his carriers is good enough to catch him under the arms and heave him to a shrill-cold marble seat, set into the wall. Ahead of him is a long corridor, with a smooth, pale floor which has grates set into it. There are double doors that rise the full height of the large-scale interior, held open all the way down as if the corridor might be divided into several rooms. At the end, Aiden squints, struggling with long distance vision still, there is a darker room, with, all he can make out, many things in it.
“These are your quarters. Walk through slowly, make yourself comfortable. Someone will be assigned to you, and you’ll be fed and find all you need. Take your time.” The accent of the man who says this much is broad, different, again, from any that Aiden has known, but it remains most intelligible. He opens his mouth to thank him, but already he, and all those who carried him this far, have disappeared.
He takes a deep breath, leans his head back against the wall. He is at a landing-place, stairs over there, corridors left and right, but the one ahead is the direction to which he was pointed. He finds himself shivering, and, tentatively, carefully, takes to his feet, and walks forward.
As he reaches the first set of doors, he grows more cautious still, because there he can hear a noise somewhere, and he seems to be able to feel it reverberating beneath the soles of his shoes, too.
Behind him, the great doors close. Aiden looks this way and that, but no-one is present.
Water starts to cascade from the ceiling. He stops and unlaces his boots, confused that he hasn’t had a chance to remove them first, as he has no option other than to keep walking through the spray. It’s warm, wait, better than that, it’s amazing, he realises, as he’s soaked through. His silk shirt and trousers cling gratefully to his slender figure, giving up a torrent of sweat, blood and dirt. He missed the rain that sleeked Selina and Alej on their travels, so this is the first time he’s had an experience anything at all like this. For more than some time he stands under the water, turning and leaning and smiling, so infinitely grateful for the kindness of its touch.
Finally he reaches the other side of the water (because there is another side, at which the water is no longer flowing, and everything is marble and gold and there is a vast, sunken area which foams with something that smells sweet, unusual, and looks nothing like any bath he’s ever seen). More doors close, and the shower he walked through is gone.
He places his shoes to one side of the bath, and strips off his clothes at last, placing them all on a strange barred contraption to the side of the bath, This seems like the logical thing to do, until the contraption starts to clack and wobble. Before Aiden can reclaim his outfit, it’s retracted into the wall, where a number of whirring sounds begin, causing Aiden to recoil and make empty gestures of confusion, for a moment.
His clothes have disappeared. Completely. So has the thing he placed them on. Aiden pats the wall, where he can see the false panel that’s enclosed his belongings. Nothing happens. He decides that all must be for the best, and turns his back on it.
There are steps down into the bubbling water. He tries to make his way down them carefully, but slips, and falls straight in.
It is the most perfect and complete moment of his life. Encased in silky warmth, depth, heat, this is salted water which holds him, buoyed and cosy as anything.
Never mind the diamonds, the moment he saw the sun and the stars for the first time, none of that could even vaguely compare to the glory and swallowing beauty of the water, completely surrounding him. Time passes and more so, and Aiden is gloriously content. He’s never been so comfortable in his entire life. All the pains and discontents and indeed horrors of the last few days become fabulously irrelevant as he drifts between waking and unconscious, nursed by the heady scent of something beautiful, and the rippling hug of the water.
And then he realises the water is leaving him. He doesn’t remember ordering it to go. On the outside of this pool the world seems, once more, a harsh and freezing place to be. He is drawn to a vast, white cloth in the corner, so soft he can barely hold onto it, and he wraps himself up instinctively. He sits, and rests, and waits for nothing in particular.
The room seems warmer now, and its scent has changed to something so fresh and delicious, Aiden wishes he could take a bite out of it.
After still longer, the room feels cool once more, and Aiden makes his way further down the corridor, to the final section, which is, surprisingly, a full bedroom. Not only that, but this room has windows which allow a glorious sunlight in. Aiden doesn’t notice that, though, no, for glinting and sparking in the light, Aiden has spied his beautiful, beautiful diamond collar.
Oh, it looks so clean and new and it is shining, blood and filth gone, returned to absolute perfection. He strokes the necklace, buckles it around his throat; it isn’t even cold, it’s flesh-temperature, as if it were alive.
And there, beneath the ledge, are his boots, definitely his, sucked away when the wall consumed his clothing. And now they’re here, dry and, again, super soft and fresh as the day they were new on his feet. How is this possible? How can they be the same, but so much better?
At last, he takes in the wonder of the room he’s in. The walls are red, a kind red, a warm red, a rich red, and they have gold painted across them, there are gold highlights, there are pieces of furniture with jewels for handles and brackets and decoration in all the places you could possibly decorate something. This, this is undoubtedly his room.
Everything feels so luscious beneath his rough fingers, softer than anything he’s known, sharper and more beautiful. The wood seems more wooden, the gold more golden, the diamonds are simply better. The bed is a vast, four-posted affair, draped in swathes of velvet on the outside, satin, on the inside. The sheets are brand new silk. There isn’t so much as a single thread out of place. Everything is more than where it ought to be. Everything is exactly where he would have wished it would be, if you could have given him an option.
Aiden examines the grand cupboards and finds, inside, amidst the scent of wood and spice and other new things, shirts and trousers in white and black, silk, again, of course, entirely new, and pale blue silk shorts he finds so beautiful he can’t help but rub them against his cheek, lovingly. He pulls them from their thin bone hanger, and joyfully slips them on.
Set into the door of the wardrobe is a stunningly ornate full-length mirror. Aiden sees himself there, in the shorts, and laughs. Look at him. His hair, still a little damp, is swept back in a mockery of organised finery, his chest is hollow, his skin stretched in a patchwork of scrapes and ribcage; his arms are all sinew, as if a tangle of wire, his legs sticking, birdlike, from the shorts.
He considers the sight of himself thus both amusing and pleasing. He is strangely proud to see himself, very much alive and at last somewhere that will take him forwards. It is true that he doesn’t have the body of a stro
ng man, but he has strength in him - that much he learnt from Jere - and he does not have the body of a wise man, for all the wise men he ever read about were wizened and old. No, he is the perfect combination of all the attributes, encased the only way they could be that one could look at him and see self-evident perfection (Oh, Aiden…).
He slips a shirt on, and a pair of trousers, too. They are a touch on the large side, but they define comfort itself and he is so happy he might burst.
There is a knock at the door.
A man enters, without Aiden having proffered permission for him to do so, but, there it is.
“Hullo?” Aiden offers, and the man bows a little. Well, that is nice.
“Sir, His Excellency hopes that you find your quarters to your requirements? He will see you in the morning, once you have rested, and made the most of your evening.”