by G. Deyke
~*~
In the morning Ty shows me the chamberpot, and then guides me back down the stairs and into a chair. Breakfast is bread and water. Perhaps Ty and Mel have better food, but I am glad of my bread: it is easy to eat, even blindly. I am hungry enough to be glad of any food at all, and my legs and back still ache from the long ride, no better for what sleep I had.
“So. We need a focus,” says Mel. “Something of the child's, yes?”
“Or something of her parents'.”
But that is only because its parents are dead. I remember.
“The child's 'parents' here do not share its blood.”
“Yes, but what is theirs is hers. It will be easier to find this Rillik and ask her to give something up than to steal into House Alyar's servant quarters and find something that belongs to a child not yet three years old.”
I wonder how much of this is true. I don't believe it. A demon focused on something of Rillik's ought to kill Rillik and not the child she took in. But Ty plans to betray Mel, and he says this calmly, and she swallows the lie.
“You think she will give something up so easily?” she asks scornfully.
“My people are traders,” he says. “As a noble you ought to know that we can steal from people with words, just as you do.” There is bitterness behind the contempt in his voice. I wonder if it is real.
“Then we shall talk to her,” she says after a pause. There is coldness in her voice; I wonder if there is anger in her face. They must be speaking with their faces, with their bodies, but I cannot hear it. I cannot know it.
“I shall. The woman might sense your hatred for her daughter, and so refuse to trust me. Set your dog watching me, if you must, or watch from a distance. I very much doubt that she would notice one kretchin more or less nearby.”
“Very well,” she says. I picture the tightening of her lips, the touch of her finger to the scar at her cheek. I try to shake off the thought. I cannot see her. Better not to think of things I cannot know.
So we go to House Alyar's estate, to find this woman. We shall wait until she comes out – Mel has a description of her from the servant in Qualin – and we shall follow her, and once she is out of sight of House Alyar's estate Ty will speak to her. I am to listen (though Mel never tells me this directly – she does not speak to me at all) nearby, perhaps sitting on the street beside them, and Mel will wait not far away. She won't hear them speak, but she can watch them and see that Ty does indeed receive some focus from her.
So we go, and so we wait.
“That must be she,” Mel breathes at last, and walks away, so that the woman does not think she is with us.
Then Ty begins to walk, and I follow him. I hope I shan't lose him. I try to keep my head turned away from his scent and the sound of his breathing, as though I am only by chance walking in the same direction as he is. I wish I were more sure of where he is.
“Rillik Shiaran?”
When he speaks I sit down on the street, drawing up my knees and looping my arms around them. I keep my head down, as though I am looking at the ground.
The footsteps ahead of me stop, then come nearer. When the woman speaks I can hear the music in her voice: “Who are you?” She sounds almost frightened.
Ty's voice is very quiet. I must strain my ears to hear him. I am certain Mel can't hear him at all. He says: “My name is Ty. Your daughter is in danger.”
She is silent for a moment, then asks: “What do you know of my daughter?” The words run over each other in her haste.
“Her mother was a stranger to Thilua. Her father was Kerheyin of House Lithuk. To your right there is a young noblewoman, pretending not to watch us: that is Kerheyin's betrothed, and she feels herself wronged by your daughter's very life. She will stop at nothing to kill her.”
The mother of the child muffles a gasp. When she next speaks her beautiful voice is unclear. “Why – how do you know this?”
She sounds so afraid, unbelieving, accusing.
“She has hired me to summon the demon that is to kill your daughter. We traced you here from Saluyah. No, don't hate me – at least, not for this – I do not wish to kill her. That is why I am warning you now.”
“We must flee,” says the woman.
“She will track you, whithersoever you go. But if you will trust me, I can take your daughter away from Thilua, where perhaps the noblewoman cannot follow.”
A silence.
“You are welcome to come along, of course.”
More silence. Then the woman, Rillik, says: “No, she must find her own path. I always knew this day would come. But – so soon...”
“A child not yet three years old?” I can almost taste the doubt in his voice.
“Therrin is... an unusual child,” says Rillik. “My husband and I had no children, and so we were glad to take her in. I'm not certain anymore how she came to us – the wife of an assassin of the House we served then was given her by a nephew, I think; and she could not keep the child herself, as it was a great secret whose child she was. She gave her up to us. We were very glad at first...
“But little Therrin is...” she stops, takes breath, stops. “She is not...” stops.
“She is not all of this world,” says Ty.
“No, perhaps not. She seems to know what we are thinking half the time, for one. And her skin is so pale, and it never reddens nor browns in sun – and her...” she breaks off. “She is a beautiful little girl,” she says. “I thank all the gods that I was allowed to know her. And she is my daughter, if nothing else, and I love her as any mother loves her daughter. It makes no difference whether she shares my blood.”
“Spare me your defenses,” says Ty. “I believe that you love your daughter, and I will believe whatever else you tell me of her, and I will still believe you love her then.”
I am almost glad I do not see her face now. If he said such a thing to Mel – in such a tone – she would be furious. I am glad I do not have to see this mother's anger.
“Will you?” is all she says at first. Then she gathers her strength and goes on: “She... she grows older by the day. We kept her in Saluyah for a year, and she seemed to be nearly three then; we could not stay, for already she was in everyone's eyes. We took her to Qualin, and there said she was five, but after another year she looked seven; and so we fled to Quiyen. Here we have said she is ten. It has not yet been three years since her Naming, but she looks older than that already – twelve, perhaps? Thirteen? If you say she is not all of this world, perhaps that is why.”
“Then I am right,” says Ty. “She is of two worlds. There is a prophecy about your daughter, Rillik; I will not kill her because she yet has some greater part to play in fate. And I will help her to escape, if you trust me.”
“I have always known she was different,” says Rillik. “I know she must find her path. I shall be sorry to see her leave, but perhaps it is for the best: it has told on all of us, never staying more than a year in one place, and my husband has begun to fear how quickly Therrin grows.”
I wonder if he has truly only begun, after three years and a child who is almost no longer a child.
“How shall she escape, then?” asks the mother.
“I must make the noblewoman think all is well, and so feign summoning the demon,” he says. “Be sure Therrin is alone in the marketplace in three nights' time. If I have counted right, I may have family in port; if I do not, I shall buy passage on another ship. I shall summon a demon to keep the noblewoman at bay, and then escape with Therrin by sea, in the hope that she cannot follow us there.
“And one other thing – I shall need something of yours, so that Therrin may know me.”
“And why would I trust you? You have been hired to kill my daughter, and if I agree I have only made it easier for you.”
For a few short words, the derision that usually laces his words is gone: “I give you my word that I mean Therrin no ill.”
There is a longer silence.
“All right,”
she says at last. “I will trust you. Be sure you do not betray that trust.” I hear something clinking – it must be whatever she gives him – and then she says, “Thank you,” and I hear her leave.
I wait. It is easier to wait here than to stand without seeing, and not know which way to turn my head.
I hear footsteps again, and then Mel's voice: “Well done. Maybe you can trick a stranger.”
My throat hurts, because I know that Ty told the stranger the truth and is tricking Mel. It feels as though I have swallowed a stone. I stand, and although Mel has not asked me I tell her something of what I learned: “She said the child has grown old quickly, that she looks twelve or thirteen now.”
I have to force the words past the stone in my throat, and Mel does not respond. I wonder if she heard me. Perhaps not. Perhaps she no longer feels I am worth responding to. Perhaps... but no. I cannot think of this now.
“I have the focus, and I have learned that the child will be alone in the marketplace in three nights' time,” says Ty. His voice is the same as it always is. I cannot hear the lie at all.
“Very good,” says Mel. “Then you shall summon the demon three nights from now, and the child shall die at last.
“And now I would very much like to be back at the inn. We have ridden hard and long, and I must rest; and also I ought not to be anywhere I might be seen.”
We walk. I follow their voices.
“If I am to restore your dog's vision, I shall need some supplies for that as well,” says Ty. “Perhaps tomorrow I can search for them, if you have no need of me.”
“Do as you like,” says Mel. “There are things I must buy as well, and it would not do to have the two of you getting in my way.”
More quietly, she adds: “– and he is not my dog. You have claimed him, and you must account for him.”
I hear this, and it begins to sting, but I push the hurt aside. No. I will not think of this. I cannot think of this now. But I must think of it. I must think of it before Ty asks me again to help him. Perhaps I can go to the stable once we reach the inn, and be alone but for the steeds, and there perhaps I can bring myself to think.
But I cannot find them alone.
I have spoken but twice since we left the well, and I do not wish to break my silence now. I am afraid of what my words may bring, afraid even to think them. Nor have I thought of Mel, nor of all that she has done for me. Even when we rode for a night and a day and there was nothing I could do but think, I kept my thoughts from her.
But now I must think. And I must be alone. I will not think, I will not remember, if they are with me.
“Show me the stable,” I ask. It is so hard to speak.
“What for?” Ty asks. He sounds almost amused. His tone is biting as always – I try not to listen. Perhaps it means nothing. A man cannot speak this way always and always mean it. But still it makes me more afraid to answer him, to speak again.
And I do not have an answer.
“Steeds,” I say at last. My voice is small, and the word gives nothing away, but it is not a lie.
I fear that it may not be enough, but he guides me into the stable. “To your left is the steed you rode,” he says. I grope, and I find the door to the stall, and I find it so hard to let myself in, but at last I am with the steed and the door is closed once more behind me.
“I'll come back for you before supper, then,” says Ty, and then he is gone and I am alone. I can smell the steeds all around me and I can hear their breath. I reach blindly, and touch mine, and stroke its soft hide. I am glad that it is here with me.
I wish I had something to feed it, some scrap of dried meat or handful of grain, but I have nothing.
And in the end I did not come here to be with the steed, but to be alone. I find the back wall, and sit down in the straw, and try to calm myself. For a moment I am afraid that I am behind the steed, and that it may kick me; but it seems it has turned itself around, for I can feel its warm breath tickling my knees. I smile despite myself, and pet its great nose.
I hear it shifting, and when it snorts again it sounds quite close to the ground. I think it has lain down – I think it, I would think it even if my eye were merely closed and not blind – but I cannot know without seeing. And here comes the first thought that I have tried so hard not to think:
Mel stabbed out my eye.
I relive the moment in my mind. I do not want to. My thoughts run from it, but I must. I must.
My arms were tired, deadly tired, trembling. The water was beginning to spill from my cupped hands. And I was so afraid, so afraid, of spilling it – not for my sake nor Ty's but for Mel's. I could walk in the dark. He could walk in the dark, and even if he could not I might not have cared. But Mel, she could not. She clung to the light. Even in the kretchin tunnels of Therwil, she was loath to part with her candle. And all through the caves she seemed more and more afraid to leave the rivers, and then she saw the faces...
I was so afraid of dropping it.
And if she hadn't fallen into me, I would never have dropped it. This I know because I have done many impossible things, for Mel. For her I would walk on a hurt leg. For her I would forget the words that she swore. No matter how tired my arms, I would not have dropped it.
Mel stumbled in the darkness. She was behind me and my light was meager, and she stumbled, perhaps stricken by fear of her faces. She stumbled and she fell and she hit my back. I remember what it felt like, the sudden force against my spine, and I almost fell beneath her – but I did not, I put out a hand and I braced myself against the stone wall and the water was gone. I saw it fall, hitting the floor and my bare feet and some small drops of it all over my shirt, and then the light was gone.
Yes, I wronged her, my flower. She was so afraid, and I let in her darkness, when I was all that kept the faces at bay. And yet –
And yet, it was she who stumbled.
I saw the tears in her eyes. I know how I hurt her. She was angry, perhaps, but more than that she was afraid, and she acted in fear. This, I understand. Too often have I acted in fear. No, I cannot condemn her for this. But now I am blind.
I think again of the water she darkened, but I will not let the Queen of the Dark-dust decide for me who may be my friend.
My thoughts of the Queen of the Dark-dust turn to thoughts of my dreams. Yes, the Queen warned against her, and so did Snake. And I trust Snake, more than I trust anyone. And yet...
What of the water?
The Queen's water showed me nothing but the truth. It showed me my own memories. Perhaps they looked different through the water. Perhaps I looked on them from above instead of through my eyes, or perhaps not. I cannot remember. It was a dream, and in dreams all is strange, and it slips from my mind.
But I remember what I saw, and I remember what I felt. I did not feel what I felt when I lived the memory. What I felt must have been a lie. It must have been. But the Queen's water does not lie.
We were in the forest, Mel and I, quite near Therwil but away from its streets. She said that they were making a new cloak for her, warm for the winter, of beautiful red fox-fur. She said that the furs they might buy were insufficient. She said they would hunt for them themselves, to be sure her cloak was perfect.
She said she wanted to see the hunt.
I don't remember how we found it. Maybe she heard its cries, or maybe I felt its pain with my nature sense. But I remember that we found the fox, and that it was hurt. I don't think I understood why.
I saw this wounded fox and I wanted to save it, although I did not know how. I would have gathered it in my arms and taken it back to Therwil, and perhaps I would have looked for a healer, although I hadn't the coin to spare. But Mel would not allow me to leave our hiding spot. “Stay,” she said, and when I would not listen she hit me with one of her blue spells, and when I still would not listen she broke a switch from a tree and hit me with that.
The spell struck me in the back, and it felt as though my bones had melted and my blood turned to fire.
I fell to my knees, and I watched with wide eyes. I don't know where the hunters came from, but then they were there, and they killed the hurt fox before my eyes. I saw it and it was burned into my mind: a hunter grabbing its snout and pulling it up roughly, and then cutting the throat. At first there was nothing, but it screamed, a terrible sound filled with pain – and I felt its pain in my mind – and then the blood came, and I could see nothing but the blood and its wild eyes full of fear and pain – and as the blood flowed the life faded in my mind until it was gone. And I could not look away until it was dead.
I don't remember what I did, because I didn't know it even then. Perhaps I screamed. No doubt I wept. I remember only that I curled up like a rock on the ground, and that I tried to feel nothing and let everything turn black. For a long time it worked, but it did not work perfectly. I closed my eyes, but I could still see the blood through my eyelid, and I could still feel its pain inside me. I moaned or I screamed or I cried, and I curled up on the ground and I rocked back and forth, gently, slowly, and I tried to forget the world.
Mel would not have me forget her. “Get up, Arri!” she said, again and again, and when I would not listen she hit me with her switch, again and again. I remember the pain against my shoulder. Again and again she hit me, until at last the bruise became a welt became a wound, and I could feel the blood trickling down my back and arm. But her voice was nothing, and I felt the pain but I would not heed it.
“Stop this,” she commanded, and when I would not listen after too long a time she left me there, weeping and curled into myself and filled with pain.
It was the only time I would not listen to her. I could not listen. Then, I could think of nothing but the fox's pain, and the blood, and the way the pain had slowly faded into nothingness. But the echo of the pain went on and on and on in my mind, and it would not stop, and I could not stop it.
But when I saw this again through the clear water of the Queen of the Dark-dust, I saw that Mel hit me. She hit me not because I would not listen to her but because I could not. She could not feel that pain, that dying scream in her mind. She has no nature talent. She could not understand. And she was afraid, the Queen's water told me, she was afraid of losing me, afraid that I would no longer do whatever she asked of me.
And though then I was full of fear and pain and though I tried to shut her out, the Queen's water told me that she wronged me, and that she has done so all along, and that she thought and thinks nothing of my hurt. She hurts me to make me follow her. And now I know that I will help Ty, even to betray Mel, because she is not my friend, and she never was.
The steed has lain down, and I have crawled over to it, and now I am lying against its flank, sobbing into its mane. It lies still despite my emotion. I am glad in the back of my mind that it seems to be of mellow nature, but in its fore I can think of nothing but the anguish. I have lost Mel. I have never had her. She had me, and I never want to see her again. I want to flee.
I do not hate her – I think I do not hate her – I have never hated – but I fear her, I fear her so much, so much. I never want to be near her again. I never want to hear her voice. I never want to think of her again, to picture her, to know her mind.
I have feared her for many years, perhaps as long as I have known her, and I have feared her so much that I dared not know how much I feared her. And now I never want to think of her again. I know that this cannot be, for I must be with her for three days more, but when those days are over I will put all my thoughts and memories of Mel into a little box in the very back of my mind and I will lock it and I will bury it and I will throw it away and I will burn it and I will never think of her again. Never. Never in a million years.
I cling to the steed's silken mane, and I bury my blind face in its flank, and I cry bitter tears for the friend I never had and yet still lost, and for the years I have lost in Mel's presence, and for my fear: for I am very afraid.
The steed does not throw me off; rather it snorts warm air on my neck, and noses my hair, and licks me with its long forked tongue. Its nearness soothes me, and when my tears are spent I fall asleep clinging to the beast which bore me back to Quiyen, against its will and mine.