Ever

by Gail Carson Levine

  He sings softly,

  “Admat, the king’s king,

  The man’s master,

  The child’s pado,

  Who . . .”

  His voice breaks.

  “. . . cares for us all.”

  He weeps, stands, and wanders away from me toward his counting room.

  I don’t know how I will bear to spend my last month with my parents’ unceasing sorrow.

  23

  OLUS

  I WATCH KEZI THROUGH her sad day. Aunt Fedo visits again and takes her turn in Merem’s weaving chair. She is silent for the first time in my knowledge of her. After half an hour, she rises and goes to be alone in the reception room. They are each alone today: Kezi motionless at her loom, Senat in his counting room, Merem on her bed, Fedo in the reception room.

  I with my goats.

  In the evening I send my clever wind to Akka.

  24

  KEZI

  AS I’M FALLING ASLEEP, I wonder if Olus might be able to help me live beyond the twenty-seven days I have left. Maybe Admat sent him to me for that purpose.

  I don’t know what magic a masma can do. Perhaps a spell could make someone swear an oath that goes the opposite way from Pado’s. Whoever fulfills the new oath will have a long life. With Olus’s aid I could fulfill the second oath.

  Or Olus could cast a spell to slow time just for me. With such a spell I would live for years in my remaining days. Lonely years, unless he slowed time for himself as well.

  These are my foolish thoughts. Still, he is a masma.

  And I am half in love with him.

  At breakfast I tell Mati that I would like to visit the market. I must escape our sad house for a few hours.

  “I’ll come.”

  “No need.”

  She nods.

  To go into the street without Mati or Pado, I must bring a male servant. I pick Pazur, although I know he wouldn’t be Mati’s choice. Pazur has many friends. Some will be at the market. He’ll chat with them, and I’ll be free of him.

  Before we leave, while Pazur waits in the reception room, I run to my room. My everyday tunic is good enough for the market, but I change into my second-best—my best until Mati gave me the blue one. Second-best is pale purple with a white belt and white embroidery along the hem. I tie my hair in a ribbon and toss a few copper coins into my small tapestry sack, which I tie onto my belt.

  I remove my felt slippers and put on sandals. The market is near the city gates, a long way from our door.

  We join the throng on the King’s Road. I smell the market before we reach the first stalls: spices, smoky grilled meats, sweat, hides, wool. I see the striped awnings that shade the street from the summer sun.

  “Pazur!” A young man waves to him from shoulder-high stacks of baskets.

  “Go,” I say. “I’ll find you when I’m finished.”

  Pazur nods and is off.

  Someone is shaking timbrels. Someone taps a drum. Stepping high, almost dancing, I follow the sound.

  Chickens flap in their cages. The turtle woman stands by her wide bowl of turtles. Half a dozen men stand at the beer vat, paying their coins for pulls at the straw. Children cluster nearby, waiting their turn at the plum-juice vat.

  The musicians are playing next to a market cook, who is grilling goat meat on an open brazier. Poor musicians. Several people are eating the cook’s wares, but no one is listening to the music. The musicians’ coin cup is empty, and no wonder. Their rhythm isn’t interesting, although they gesture as the masters do. The drummer leans over her drum and shakes her hair. The timbrel shaker squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. He raises his arms and sways. The fringes of his shawl skim close to the cooking meat.

  Out of pity I put a coin in the cup and step side to side along with the simple beat. Something bumps into my toe. A ball of yellow wool! I bend over. Although the ground is level, the ball rolls away, trailing a strand.

  My heart pat-pats again. I follow the strand.

  25

  OLUS

  MY GROUND BREEZE rolls the ball of wool toward me. Kezi follows. Outfitted as a wool peddler with a deep basket of yarn, I wait outside the city gate.

  The wooden gate doors have been pushed inward because the city is open. Facing outward to the right and left of the gate are twin colossi, enormous stone lions with bearded human heads. I stand under the beard of the right-hand lion.

  My scheme had been to peddle my wool down Kezi’s street, but when I saw her making her way to the market, I came here.

  The ball of wool unwinds past the furniture makers, the sellers of remedies, the scribes for hire. Then it veers left, away from the stalls, beyond the water trough for the merchants’ donkeys and camels, and down the deserted final stretch of the King’s Road. When the yarn rolls through the gate, Kezi hesitates.

  I send the wool back to her and dismiss my ground breeze. If she fears leaving the city, she can take the yarn and go. I’ll find another way to speak to her. I don’t want to frighten her again.

  She picks up the wool and rolls the strand onto the ball. The yarn is speckled with gold. She scratches a speck with her fingernail. I performed the same test myself. The gold won’t come off.

  “Olus?” She rounds the lion’s huge paw.

  She knew it was me! “Greetings, Kezi.” I put my fist to my forehead.

  She bows her head. “Greetings, Olus.”

  We stand awkwardly, smiling but not speaking. Now that we’re together I have no idea how to start. I say, “Er . . .”

  She says, “Um . . .”

  We laugh.

  I collect myself. “You’re looking for something in the market?” This isn’t what I want to say.

  She holds up the yarn and laughs. “Wool.” Her eyes go to the wool in my basket. “Does the wool come from your goats? Do they have gold in their coats?”

  I shake my head. “The wool is from Akka.” I take a knife from the pouch at my waist and cut lengths from a few balls of yarn. “Here.” I give them to her, samples of Enshi Rock’s finest.

  “Thank you.” She arranges the strands in her palm.

  “Kezi . . .” I may never have another chance to be alone with her. “Kezi, I know about your pado’s oath. I know you’re to be sacrificed.”

  To my astonishment, she nods. “Admat sent—”

  Screams come from the market.

  26

  KEZI

  SMOKE RISES ABOVE the gate lion’s head. Olus drops his wool basket. He grasps my arm and we run toward the market.

  A stiff wind hurries us along. I fear that the wind will fan the flames, but it dies when we get close. We race around the edges of the stalls. Although the smoke is thick, Olus seems to know where to go.

  The timbrel player shrieks as he rolls on the ground, afire. Flames shoot up from the meat brazier. A woman slaps at her burning sleeve. The cook’s straw cushion and several baskets are on fire. My feet dance up and down. I don’t know how to help. Flame creeps up a bamboo awning pole. If the awnings catch, the whole market will go.

  Liquid pours down on the pole and the cushion and the baskets. I look up. The plum-juice vat is in the air above us, dumping its contents.

  The water trough flies above the burning musician. It tilts. His garments sputter and hiss.

  The fire is out. I look for Olus and see him rolling a length of carpet around the arm of the woman with the burning sleeve. He seems to be concentrating only on her, but I know better. This masma saved everyone.

  A wind blows the juice vat and the trough away from the market onto the King’s Road, where they clatter down harmlessly.

  Someone cries, “A miracle!”

  A woman shouts, “Admat saved us!”

  A man’s voice rises, singing,

  “Merciful Admat,

  Who loves his people

  More than he loves

  His righteous fire.”

  Many voices chant, “Thanks to Admat.”

  I chant too, but I
also think, Thanks to Olus, Admat’s masma.

  Pazur runs to me. “Mistress! You are safe!”

  “And you?” I ask. There is soot in his hair. I notice ashes drifting down, soot in everyone’s hair.

  “I am well. We should go home now.”

  People are chattering to each other. No one has heard of such a marvel as has just taken place.

  “I haven’t finished,” I say. “Mati knows I’ll be here all day.” I start for the weavers’ stalls. As I walk, I stuff my ball of golden wool into my tapestry sack.

  Pazur follows me to a rug stall, where I go to a pile of carpets. I study the top one carefully, then lift it off and study the next. The workmanship isn’t as good as mine, but I pretend to be interested.

  Around me the market is settling into its ordinary state. Vendors resume their cries. Even the timbrels and drum begin again.

  Pazur sits on a low stack of carpets. In a few minutes his eyes close. His head lolls sideways against an awning pole. I move to the next stall, where a merchant displays his yarns.

  “You won’t find wool as fine as mine here.”

  Olus is at my side. He has his wool basket again.

  “I want to see your yarn in the light.” I lead him past the sleeping Pazur, through the market aisle, and out into the sunshine.

  We walk several yards until we are beyond earshot of the shoppers but still in plain sight.

  “Olus, can you fly?”

  “No, but I can ride my winds.”

  His winds?

  “I can lift you, too. Would you like to ride my winds?”

  I would like to ride Admat’s winds. I nod eagerly.

  “Would you like to visit Akka?”

  I could live a full span of years and never see more than Hyte. “Yes, I would like to see Akka.” But I can’t simply go. “Wait. I’ll be just a minute.”

  I run back to Pazur. “Wake up!”

  His eyes open. “I’m awake, Mistress. I wasn’t asleep.”

  “Pazur . . .” I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. “Tell Pado and Mati I’ll return—at the latest—when all the figs are ripe.”

  He jumps up and seizes my arm.

  I pull away. “Don’t touch me!”

  He drops his hand.

  “Tell Pado and Mati about the miracle here. Tell them I’ve seen a sign.”

  His mouth drops open. I leave him. In a moment I am with Olus again. “Where is Akka?”

  “In the north. Beyond the hills.”

  Will everyone see us fly?

  Clouds blow in and cover the sun. This masma is powerful! Thick fog covers the King’s Road and the market.

  “Ready, Kezi?”

  “Yes!”

  27

  OLUS

  “I MUST HOLD YOU or you’ll fall.”

  Being held seems to her more dangerous than flying, or more against propriety. She looks away from me, then back, searching my face. I don’t know whether I should smile or speak, but I do neither. Discover what you will, I think.

  “Then hold me.” Her face is pink.

  I send my wool basket sailing to my pasture, where my herding wind is minding my goats. I touch Kezi’s shoulder, then cradle her in my arms. My strong wind lifts us. My wet wind drags some fog along for concealment.

  I wonder what she’s guessed about me. After the fire in the market, her hopes may be too high.

  We rise slowly. Her cheek is against my chest. I can hardly think. I recite into her hair:

  “Evergreen Akka,

  Where the gazelle races the tiger

  And where the rivers

  Splash ribbons of foam

  On the gray-maned mare

  And her foal.”

  Kezi, I think, addressing her in my mind, love Akka. Love me. What I will tell you will seem impossible. Believe anyway. Do what I say to save yourself, to save us both.

  My quick wind increases our pace. When we are far enough from Hyte, I disperse the fog.

  28

  KEZI

  DIZZY WITH FLIGHt and the nearness of Olus, I shut my eyes, then open them. I don’t want to miss anything.

  How much closer to Admat’s sun are we? An eagle flies by, not far above us.

  Air streams across me. I feel a mighty swell of wind beneath me. My left arm is pressed against Olus, but I put out my right with my palm open to catch more of the wind. I spread my toes in my sandals and wish my feet were bare.

  I’d love to see Hyte from the sky, but positioned as I am, I can only look up and out. “Olus?”

  He says something.

  “What?” I shout.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he shouts back.

  “May I look down at Hyte?”

  He turns me so my back is to him. I am tilted downward. We are stretched out against each other. I gulp in the rushing air and try to ignore the feel of him.

  Hyte is just a thick smudge on the horizon, but the stepped outline of the temple is clear. I can even make out the triangle of the ramp that leads to the sanctuary.

  The wind lifts us higher. The temple shrinks to a dot and the city to a shadow. When they disappear entirely, Olus turns me so I am facing in the direction of our flight.

  I think, My love is thoughtful.

  My love? Yes, my love.

  I love the hairs on Olus’s arm that catch the morning sun.

  Admat, is this when you send me love, before I’m to die?

  The low hills around Hyte are brown, speckled with green dots of shrubs and date palms.

  As we fly higher, the hills rise too. After a while I grow hungry. The morning is passing. The morning of my twenty-seventh remaining day, if I’m still to die.

  29

  OLUS

  THE AIR CHILLS. I wrap us in a cocoon of my summer wind.

  “Please don’t.”

  I take the cocoon away but fly lower. Although she may not care, I don’t want her to suffer the acute cold. We are nearing my first destination, where I will tell her everything.

  Here we are. I fly over it.

  “Wait!” she cries. “Go back. It’s . . .” She turns her head, and I see her excited face. “It’s impossible!”

  We circle. “Do you like it?” I’m grinning. This is what I hoped for.

  “It’s miraculous!”

  “Does that mean you like it?”

  “Very much.”

  We circle three times. Then my gentle wind deposits us in a meadow a few yards from the base. “This is a waterfall, the falls of Zago. We’re on the border of Hyte and Akka. The Zago River flows through Akka.”

  From Enshi Rock, Hannu and Arduk can see us here. All the gods can if they like.

  Kezi runs to the riverbank. In a moment she is wet with spray. Laughing, she sticks out her tongue to taste the water. Then she pulls off her sandals and steps delicately onto the closest wet rock. She dances from rock to rock to the ledge behind the curtain of water.

  “Everything is wavery!” she cries. “You should see it.”

  I hesitate, although the ledge is hardly confining. Only water will separate me from open air.

  “Come, my love!”

  Love? Her love! Of course I join her.

  In the dim light her face glows. She is blushing and her hand is over her mouth, but she doesn’t take back the words. Although I’m uneasy in the small space, I lift away her hand and kiss her. I taste the water on her lips. Afterward she clings to me, a closeness I don’t mind at all.

  “What do you think?” She gestures at the water.

  “Very wavery, my love.” I don’t want her to be alone in saying my love.

  She slides out of my arms and spreads her arms to embrace the rock wall. “I like Akka.”

  This is not my favorite spot.

  “Look!” She has found a narrow opening that leads into a cave.

  I watch as she slips through the fissure. I imagine myself being trapped inside, the fissure closing.

  After a minute she emerges. “There’s enough room fo
r us both. In the cave, the falls boom. Do you want to hear it?”

  “No!”

  “Oh!”

  I fly my quick wind back onto the grass, ashamed at the relief I feel.

  After a short while she joins me. She gestures and asks, “Are these mountains?”

  “Foothills. The mountains aren’t far.”

  “Olus! If these are the feet, how tall are the mountains?” Before I can answer, she sinks to her knees and runs her hands through the grass. “Smooth! Hyte grass is spiky.” She stands. “Was there something dangerous in the cave?”

  “No.” I’m embarrassed to tell her about my fear.

  She takes a deep breath. “I’ve never met a masma before.”

  “I’m not a masma.”

  “Please forgive me.” She touches my arm. “I was taught that masmas are evil, but you’re good. I think you’re Admat’s masma.”

  I decide to confess. “I was afraid to go in the cave. Small spaces frighten me.”

  She smiles. “I used to be afraid of pigeons.”

  I smile back. “Why?”

  “Their red eyes. I thought they killed people at night.”

  “How did you stop fearing them?”

  “I don’t remember.” Her smile fades. “Now I’m afraid of the priest’s knife.”

  It is time. “I’m truly not a masma. I’m the Akkan god of the winds.”

  30

  KEZI

  “DON’T SAY THAT!” I want to run back into the cave for safety, although my love has boasted all safety away.

  A minute passes. The sky is still blue. The forest that climbs the feet hills does not catch fire. Olus is not covered with boils.

  He shouts, “I am the Akkan god of the winds.”

  I shout, too. “Admat, you are the one, the all.”

  “What can I show her?” he says to himself.

  “Don’t show me anything.”