Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  It was so gross it was fascinating.

  Glancing around quickly to make sure no one was watching, Lyra grasped a section and pulled it straight above her head. When she let go, the lock held for a second until slowly, slowly, it sank back down. She laughed. “Ugh!”

  Gathering up more hair, she twisted and stretched it out in every wild direction. Lyra's mouth curled into a sultry pout when she was done and she murmured low and seductive to the reflection, “Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.” The woman in the mirror burst into giggles.

  A passing khari'na regarded her with an uneasy curl of her lip, and Lyra hastily patted her hair back down. Ducking her head she hurried onward to the first empty shower stall, embarrassed, but not so much that her cheeks weren't dimpled with a small, secretive smile.

  The hot, steamy water was heaven. Lyra shampooed three times before she felt clean. Then, she just stood there for a few minutes, basking in the hot water running over her skin. Ahhh … indoor plumbing.

  After drying off, she found herself staring into the mirror again, only this time, more critically. She spied wrinkles developing at the corners of her eyes. The rosiness of her cheeks, she thought, was beginning to fade into an aging pallor. Oh no, was that a gray hair? Maybe it was just the light. Lyra sighed.

  “Nearing thirty-seven, old girl.” Where did the time go? Lyra's disgruntled huff at her reflection jostled a loose wisp across her forehead. Well … never mind the aging body, she had shopping to do.

  Her hair got quickly arranged into her usual pair of temple braids that she drew around the sides of her head, securing them with a tie in back. Her soiled yellow raiment was happily relinquished to the overflowing laundry hampers in exchange for a clean green frock with yellow buttons down the front. Lyra suddenly felt remarkably refreshed.

  Finding a large basket and tote, and with her supply list and map slipped into her cloak pocket, Lyra was almost ready to go. Just one more thing.

  “'Na Lyra,” Hundt stated when he opened his office door at her knock. “What can I do for you?”

  “Keeper needs me to buy supplies and she told me to get the money from you.”

  Hundt let her in and went to a small safe behind his desk. The safe's key, Lyra saw, was retrieved from probably the most secure place on the planet: a chain round Gralion Hundt's thick neck.

  “Did she write down how much you would need?”

  Lyra showed him her list. “Yes. And she wants me to return any extra to you. Will you still be here later?”

  Hundt took a quick look at the list. “It does no' look too long.” He checked his wristwatch. “I can plan to be back here in two hours. Shall we meet up at sixteen o'?”

  Lyra nodded.

  When Hundt counted out the rednotes and put them in her palm, his hand lingered over hers a moment. Lyra looked up questioningly. “Keep your hood on and do no' do anything to bring special attention to yourself. You are an unjoined khari'na. There are those who would take advantage o' you if they knew.”

  Oh! She hadn't thought of that. “Okay.”

  Shoving the money cards deep into a skirt pocket, she said goodbye and strode off the khari'na station premises, making extra sure her faded velvet hood was securely in place. Why did she already feel like eyes were watching her?

  The Bansool market was an exciting, loud, colorful, dizzying kaleidoscope of sensory input for a first-time visitor. Brick-faced shops and painted businesses were strung together ten or more to a block on each side of the avenue. An even greater number of merchant carts and portable stands sat in front, crowding the narrow streets. Everything one could imagine was available for sale: produce, flowers, cookware, jewelry, spirits, live poultry … one's self. The bordello on the corner advertised rooms by the hour, one khar included—and if you wanted a second she was half off. The business appeared to be flourishing. Lyra's feet automatically diverted to the other side of the street.

  She passed a magazine stand touting, among other regular periodicals, the Bansool Banter Ladies' Journal—what passed for local news among the few literate women, she guessed—and continued to slide her way through the congestion of humanity. Her ears perked at the sound of street performers on stringed lyricords and various woodwinds. They played such engaging and spirited, toe-tapping music that Lyra nearly walked into someone: a heavily tattooed man, skin littered with pagan symbols, performing street sorcery and telling fortunes. She hastily skirted around the necromancer, making careful note of the location of his hands. They were likely quite skilled in the art of misdirection and surreptitiously guiding the unguarded rednote from out of an observer's pocket. She double-checked her stash as she walked on.

  Her first stop was the pharmacy for several bottles of fever reducing tablets and conception inhibitor medication in pill form. Much more convenient than her former homemade tea. Maehan had begun offering them from the caravan's supply her first full day in residence “just in case,” and Lyra hadn't argued. At the lotions and cremes boutique, Lyra lingered in the perfume aisle sampling the delicious scents of wildflowers, fruits, and herbs. The cloth store with its bolts of rich fabric in every color imaginable was just as enticing.

  Nearly every turn in the market was a new delight to her senses, so many fine things that she had only ever read about. And some she hadn't. The “amazing” Veggie Gobbler peeler/dicer/slicer/shredder (with bonus accessory storage bag) on the inventor's cart was quite something. Too bad the price was too.

  It was some time later that, with a grin of satisfaction, Lyra checked off the last item from her list: a few reams of paper. Maehan's map had been accurate and she'd encountered no delays. She felt pretty certain she had some time to kill before she had to turn around and go back “home” so Lyra scanned her surroundings for a possible amusement.

  And then she saw it—a beckoning beacon of clapboard and wood shake shingles in humble repose at the end of the street.

  Bless the Holy Creator! A bookstore!

  Lyra's family had owned precious few books throughout her life, but she loved them all. She loved the scholastic satisfaction of unraveling nature's secrets in scientific journals, the tickling bemusement of glittering fairy tale adventures, and the skin-prickling what-ifs of science fiction and its strange aliens in galaxies far, far away. This shop tempted her like no other.

  She should check the time, though, just to be sure her internal clock was correct.

  A watch on a wrist engaged in replacing a sagging price board over a modest tart stand looked promising. Lyra walked over. “Excuse me, sir,” she said to the bakery stand owner, “may I beg you for the time?”

  One more swing of the hammer from a sturdy, tanned—and rather dirty—forearm, and the man looked down at his watch. “It is half past fifteen, ma'am.”

  Good. Just enough time for a saunter.

  Her quick, grateful smile was received by a surprisingly dusty, unkempt, and honey-brown bearded face. Random flecks of dirt freckled the sun-acquainted skin. The languid collar of the man's work tunic declared an intimate, long-term relationship with unapologetic sweat. That rich baritone, however, carried a pleasant timbre, and … wow, what beautiful gray eyes …

  Oh dear! Lyra realized she had begun to stare. “Thank you. Uh, good day, sir,” she said, tucking her head. Be inconspicuous, you dolt!

  Spinning for the bookstore, she barely registered his, “My pleasure, ma'am.”

  The welcoming smell of leather bindings and fresh ink inside the near empty business immediately enveloped Lyra in a comforting cocoon of weal, its sedative magic pacifying her pulse, inviting her stresses to take a break. The stuffed center aisles surrounded by book-laden walls evoked an air of blithe amenability, and with every step, Lyra felt lighter. This was a place in which she could happily lose herself for weeks!

  Her pace slowed to a lazy stroll as her fingers brushed dreamily over richly stained spines and the thin, serpentine furrows of stamped lettering. Children's stories. Poetry. Fantasy. Instructional literature o
n machinery and cooking. World history. Philosophy. Speculations on mysteries of the planet. It was all here, a treasure of epistemic, pressed wood pulp delights, whispering the wisdom of the ages with softly rustling lips.

  A rue smile struck at Lyra's features with the thought of her ten-year-old, Verise. She would have joined her in the swooning for the printed word if she were here. Of Jon and Lyra's children, Verise was the most like her mother—a nature-loving book bug. But Lyra hesitated to pick one up. It would be so easy to become engrossed, lose track of time. She should just be content with wishful window-shopping.

  What she saw after the last aisle, however, blew that wise and prudent thought away.

  “No. Way!” she breathed in wonder.

  Along the back wall, between Daxim's Complete Dictionary and Zoology from A to Zethrin was her father's encyclopedia set! Not the actual set, of course, but a new printing. Very new. Third edition. Lyra had grown up with a first, but the emblem of The University of the Republic embossed across the front was the same. Her brightened eyes eagerly skimmed over the letters on the spines until they came to R. Yes!

  The caravan's purchases went to the floor. Lyra freed the large black volume with gold lettering from the entrenched collective identity of its neighbors, and sucking in a small breath of anticipation, opened it. The binding creaked deliciously. The crisp pages seemed to crackle with energy. Lyra started in, devouring its contents.

  Rabbits, rainbows, recession …

  … reefs, rifles, roundworms …

  # # #

  The old knot-riddled price board stubbornly resisted, but with a firm hand and years of dogged practice, Kade drove the nail straight, putting it aright once again. Meanwhile below, the hunched Reef consulted his confections, loading up a small bag of Kade's favorites for him.

  “I am in yer debt, my lord,” said the wispy-haired, little baker. “These old hands canno' swing a hammer like they used to.”

  Kade grinned. “Reef, I am just grateful they can still knead dough. You know I never buy from anyone else here.”

  Beaming, Reef placed the next nail into Kade's outstretched hand. “You have been sayin' that fer ten years, my lord. I may just start to believe you. Did you make a good sell today?”

  “Excuse me, sir, may I beg you for the time?”

  The question was tentative, in a softly rolling accent like the break of waves on the sand. One last, solid thwack and Kade looked at his watch. “It is half past fifteen, ma'am.”

  Upon turning, he was pleasantly surprised to find the sparkling voice connected to a lovely form in an old, deep violet cloak, and when their eyes met, Kade caught a glimpse of the most enchanting pair of light brown eyes he had ever seen.

  Then she suddenly dropped her head.

  “Thank you. Uh, good day, sir,” she quickly mumbled.

  The woman was already heading away before Kade could answer a, “My pleasure, ma'am.” What? Did he smell that bad?

  She hastened across the street all the way to the end of the block where she entered the bookstore. Her lack of a wedding necklet laying claim to her breast was noted.

  “I said, did you make a good sell today, my lord?”

  “Oh, er, aye,” Kade answered, turning back to Reef. The day had been a long one, transporting a hundred head of his sheep to Bansool, but he had succeeded in bargaining well.

  “You did? I am so glad. The wool from yer flocks knows no equal.”

  “The flattery is appreciated, friend,” Kade smiled, “but we both know the majority o' the credit goes to my father. I am only attempting to refine his stock further.” He glanced once more at the bookstore.

  “Aye,” Reef agreed, nodding his head. “He liked my snowberry tarts, as well, if memory serves correct.” The baker dropped a couple more in the bag before offering it up.

  Kade snorted. “The man was addicted to them,” he said, reaching for a powdered-sugar coated tart and popping it whole into his mouth. His grin through a mouth full of fruity and sweet, baked goodness held no shame. “He got me addicted to them, too.”

  With a careless wipe of his hand on his stained tunic, Kade took out his wallet, but his attempted payment was waved off.

  “They are on the house today—fer yer handyman services.”

  “Are you sure? I know your wife is requiring extra medical care these days—”

  “—And she would skin me alive fer takin' yer money after repairing our cart. Please, take it.” Reef determinedly presented the gift once again.

  With reluctance, Kade returned his wallet to his satchel. “You are a good man, Reef. Give my regards to Y'leen, will you?”

  “I will do that,” Reef said with a nod. “So are you heading home now, my lord?”

  “No' quite. I wanted to see about purchasing an encyclopedia set for my children there in Iech's Books.”

  “Ah, they will like that. Good day to you, my lord.”

  “Good day, Reef.”

  Continuing on to Iech's, Kade carefully reminded himself that he was only looking for books inside that building. He was no silly romantic. As a forty-year-old widower with two growing children and a farm to run he had higher priorities. Besides, he was still adamant in his decision of a couple years ago to not pursue any more “real” relationships. They always turned out complicated and the subsequent, inevitable breakups were such a pain. Therefore, he entered rather willfully, his firm, somewhat belligerent steps propelling him purposefully along, until his eyes betrayed him with a quick scan of the store. She was not in sight.

  … Good.

  Kade carried himself through the neatly swept business, past the aisles, past the attendant who nodded a greeting, all the way to the back until—Henna's bosom! There she was—of all places—planted smack dab in front of Caldreen's one and only option in comprehensive reference material.

  Stopping short, Kade was unsure if he was pleased to see her again or annoyed because of the internal conflict she was stirring. Probably a little of both.

  The woman stood there, a good head shorter than he, deeply engrossed in one of the set's volumes. Somehow, she emitted a lambent quality even in her preoccupation, like the room's light was drawn to her, gathering about her in a soft halo. The glow of her complexion alone tendered further radiance to a frame of glossy dark hair pulled away under a hood which, try as it might, fell sorely short of concealing such luster. The curves and angles of her neck and profile: decidedly feminine. Her lips: very touchable.

  Kade had enjoyed the company of many beautiful women in his life—his late wife being one of them—but this one was … different. She possessed no glamour, nor did she secrete any sleek, alluring sensuality. No. Her loveliness emanated from somewhere else. Was it the graceful way she carried herself? The intelligent expression denoting poise and personality? Or the set of that full mouth that said she enjoyed laughing?

  One thing Kade did know: she was not from around here. Her time-worn cloak and cropped boots encased her awkwardly, like a stocking trying to mold around a hand, and her accent did not resemble any of the regional dialects in the area. Something in the far recesses of his mind needled at him that he may have heard something like it before, but the vague sensation was fleeting.

  Aye. This woman was one hundred percent atypical.

  Well, since he had to be here anyway, he might as well say something. Kade approached and folded his arms across his chest, facing the wall like she. “Are you familiar with this set?”

  She didn't look up. “Yes, very.”

  Really?

  “Then, might I ask your learned opinion o' this collection?” he said, the tiniest hint of sarcasm coloring his tone. Fascinating woman or no, the urge to challenge such a bold answer was hard to deny.

  Without so much as a single pause for thought, she answered, “The dissertations on history and philosophy are clearly partisan, even prejudiced. Freedmal's conquest of the bushmen of the upper plains, for instance, is grossly idealized. And any of the great artists deemed u
npatriotic are only given passing mention. But … Spinnar's sections on animal husbandry and botany are first-rate. You can tell those are his specialties. I love his descriptors. They border the poetic.”

  Kade was undeniably astounded. “Are you telling me that you have entirely read every volume o' this set?”

  She halted in mid page turn, as if coming out of a trance. “Well … no. Not R. It was missing from my family's set.” The woman finally looked up as if preparing to show him her volume, but upon recognizing him, froze. She paled and clutched the book tighter to her.

  “Forgive me. I did no' mean to—” Kade began, but she was already placing the volume back on the shelf.

  She bent to pick up her things. “Excuse me, sir. I need to go.”

  No' again! “Now wait a minute. I was no' following you.” Without thinking, Kade reached for her loaded basket in the crook of her arm, but his hand was instantly knocked away. The force of her blow, surprising.

  Then the woman gasped, horrified, at what she had just done. “I … please, sir—” she stumbled, eyes wide with fear.

  “No, I am sorry. I—I did no' mean to frighten you.” Kade observed her clear apprehension with wonder. He sensed her heart racing, her body trembling with adrenaline. “I meant no harm. I was just asking about the set.”

  You moron!

  The woman watched him through cowed lashes, hesitating, as though fighting some inner battle. Speak or escape. Answer or run. Words appeared poised at her open lips.

  She turned and swept away.

  “Miss!” Kade followed in the woman's wake all the way to the entrance, until an unexpected sight made him pause. A mirror just left of the door reflected the image of a barbarous, intimidating man staring at him. Kade's forehead wrinkled in astonishment. Bloody zeth', I look like a deranged mountain hermit!