The sun
stood at midday, its light washing down over the roofs of the busy
provincial town. Though it was still spring, the day was already hot
and the brightness cast everything into stark relief. The edges of
the houses, their window frames and balconies, stood out sharp and
hard and all their colors, as well as those of the surrounding new
leaves and flowers, were washed to a vivid glow as were the white
garments of two figures scrambling up the pillars of an upper balcony
on one of the larger houses. One pulled herself up onto the roof in
a fluid feat of strength, then reached down to give the other a hand
and together, they half ran, half crouched across the shingles, their
long loose hair trailing behind them, two barefoot maidens on the
edge of womanhood. At the edge of the roof they halted, measuring
the distance between it and the next building across the ally. The
gap was only a few feet wide but the drop to the ground below enough
to inspire caution. Again, the one girl took the lead, leaping the
gap as light and graceful as a deer, then turned, gesturing
impatiently for her companion. The other hesitated, skittish, and
made several false starts before gathering her courage to make the
jump. Her comrade reached out to catch her, steady her balance, and
pull her forward when she reeled back dangerously. At last,
breathing, hard, they perched on the sloping roof of the cloister,
the ceramic tiles hot under their feet from the midday sun.
"I still can't believe you talked
me into this, Shalana," the first girl snorted.
"I still can't believe you're not
curious, Kaz...even a little." Shalana shook her head in
exasperation.
"Mostly I care about how much
trouble we'll get in if we get caught here. We're not exactly well
hidden, you know. Anyone could just look up and see us. And don't
call me Kaz."
"Let's go behind that tree over
there. That should give us a little more cover." The tree in
question was several yards to the right, just before the corner where
two of the walls joined. They sprinted for it, bent almost double
and sometimes using their hands for support. Shalana trod on a loose
tile, sending it clattering down into the courtyard. At last they
crouched down among the branches where they spilled over onto the
roof, their hearts beating furiously.
The two girls were both students,
borders, servants really, at the local sanctum for the arcanely
gifted. But there the similarly ended. Shalana had the cleansing
gift which could turn dirty water pure and make spoiled food safe to
eat. The most powerfully gifted could even drive out some
infections, though this was properly the preserve of those with the
healing gift. But, even if Shalana's gift turned out to be
relatively minor, nothing would stop her from living a normal life.
If anything, it would make her more valued as an employee, as a
citizen, and as a bride. On the other, hand KazaKu had the battle
gift which endowed her with more than human strength and dexterity
and a powerful resistance to fatigue and injury. Even if the side
effects of this type of gift had not been an extremely violent
temper, her options would have been limited. Those with the battle
gift made fine warriors but were good for little else and, since
women could not be warriors, she was left in a decidedly
uncomfortable position.
Due to her gift's strange nature and
its violation of normal social expectations, most of the girls of the
sanctum kept their distance from her. Only Shalana would seek her
out from time to time, which may have been why she had allowed
herself to be talked into this ridiculous stunt. It had recently
become known that prince Beatrus, ruler of all the land, had sunk
still further into the nameless sorrow that had plagued him for years
and, in fear for his well-being, his advisers had decided to relieve
him of the burden of ruling for a time and sent him away to the
tranquility of a monastery. When Shalana had discovered that an
important and secret guest was staying at the cloister next to the
sanctuary she immediately became convinced that it was the prince and
decided to go spy on him.
There was just one problem with this
plan. In order to get to a place where she could look down into the
courtyard of the monastery she would need to climb up one of the
support poles of their covered balcony, flip around onto the roof,
then leap across the alley onto the roof of the monastery. This
acrobatic feat was a bit much for Shalana to perform unaided but it
would be no trouble at all for someone like KazaKu. Even though
KazaKu realized she was basically being used, she had accepted out of
a combination of loneliness and a desire to flaunt her superior
physical skills and show a "normal" girl that there were
some things she was better at. And, indeed, hauling Shalana up onto
the roof like a bag of flour while she whimpered in fear was the most
fun she'd had a long time but now, sitting on a hot roof staring down
into an empty courtyard, which was as uncomfortable as it was boring,
she was starting to have second thoughts.
"Look, look, someone's coming."
Shalana pointed excitedly.
KazaKu slapped her hand down and
hissed, "Keep still can't you?" Despite her earlier
protestations, now that she was in the position actually see the
prince, she did notice a certain excitement tingling in her nerves as
the figure moved out from the shadow of the cloister into the sun
that flooded the central courtyard. He wore a simple garment, loose
fitting and faded, of coarse brown cloth. His face was bland and
impassive, the mouth wide and nose large, the brow sloping, his hair
pulled back tightly so that it followed the shape of the skull, stark
and dull as his features and his tunic. But the color of his hair
was not dull at all. Rich, vivid brown, it had a sharp and bitter
hue like the blocks of pure chocolate in the baker's shop. But over
this was laid a net of other colors, paler, warmer browns, even deep
blond and, on top of it all, was a bright shimmer as the light shown
and reflected from his ringlets that spilled down where the hair was
tied high on the back of his head. As he moved forward, the sheen
surged and rippled, exactly as it would on the surface of the water.
The shape of the hair itself contributed to this richness. The part
stretched tight was in close waves, almost like the zig-zag of tiny
lightning bolts and the different sheens and colors slide up and down
the lines and angles of the strands to form the shifting web. Only
the hair on top of the head was left long, the rest being shaved
close, level with the top of his ears. But it had been several days
since this was last done and the hair was starting to grow back so
that, with the direct brightness of the midday sun, they could just
make out tiny curls starting to form in the shaved area, which
explained the sharp waves on the top of his head, formed when the
curls were stretched out to fit into the binding.
Shalana clutched KazaKu's arm fiercely
and her lips shaped the words "It's him." And, although
she was irritated by Shalana outburst and would have shaken her off
if she dared to move, KazaKu knew she was right. The combination of
sadness and curls was a dead giveaway. When he drew near the well in
the center of the courtyard, he paused, standing for a long moment
with his face raised to the sky. His eyes were blank and, even
without the healing gift, KazaKu could sense the weight of his
despair. Then, he drew from a pocket hidden somewhere among his
baggy clothes, a stick of charcoal whittled down to a fine pencil
point. Kneeling down, he began to draw on the flagstones, the tied
back part of his hair falling forward over his shoulder, a mass of
tight curls as rich and vibrant as the hair on his head, the blend of
colors reflecting and moving back and forth along the sides of the
nearly cylindrical ringlets. His hand flew over the stone, smooth
and sure. Gracefully, it described arcs and curves, made tight,
almost imperceptible movements of fine detail.
For nearly an hour, the two girls sat
and watched, unable to move for fear of discovery, even though the
sun was now beating down on them. Sweat gathered on the backs of
their necks and dripped down inside their clothes. The dull gray
tiles became burning hot, even through the cloth of their skirts, but
there was nothing they could do. KazaKu bit her lip against the
pain, to keep from crying out or shrinking away but, at least, her
gift made her strong in physical adversity. A quick sidelong glance
revealed that Shalana had tears streaming down her face. She would
most likely have some painful blisters later, unless she found
someone with the healing gift to treat them.
At last, he seemed satisfied with his
work and stood up, his hands black with charcoal smudges, then took a
step back to look his work over. Despite the danger, KazaKu gasped
in amazement. He had drawn a ship running under full sail, every
line and rope sketched with precision. In the bow stood a lady with
a thin face and frightened eyes. Her hands were clasped over her
heart and her cloak and hair streamed away, impossibly long, in the
wind that drove the ship. Nearby, the waves broke on the jagged
rocks of an island littered with bones while harpies with savage
faces and twisted, gleaming talons wheeled above. Everything was
drawn so sharply and crisply that, even from her high vantage point,
she could discern the exquisite beauty of it and she could only guess
at the richness visible at close quarters.
After surveying the picture for a
moment, he walked over to the well and drew up a bucket of water.
She assumed he needed a cool drink for the sun must have been nearly
as brutal for him in the courtyard as it had been for them up on the
roof. Instead, to her utter horror, he dumped the water on his
exquisite drawing. It trickled over the stone and pooled in its
hollows, clouded and dirty with the remains of the charcoal. Then he
took his foot and scuffed it over the stone to rub out any bits of
the drawing that might remain.
"That was the Prince. I can't
believe we saw the Prince," Shalana whispered as they climbed
back over the roof and down to the balcony, the pain of her burns
temporarily forgotten in her excitement.
"I don't believe it."
KazaKu spoke slowly, her voice dull.
"Oh, I know. He was so plain and
boring. I feel bad for him. I guess all the stories we heard were
true."
"That's not what I meant."
KazaKu's tone came out much fiercer than she had meant it to. "Not
boring at all. Plain, even sad, is too gentle a word for what he
is."
Shalana was taken aback. "What
is he then?"
"Tragic. Achingly tragic.
Didn't you see how he created that beautiful picture without even
trying, then destroyed it like it meant nothing to him?"
Her companion shrugged. "I was
expecting a gallant, handsome prince. What a disappointment. Well,
don't worry, I'll never ask you to do that again."
"Good, then I won't have to waste
time dragging you along with me tomorrow."
"What in Mala's name do you mean,
Kaz?"
Until she spoke the words, she hadn't
known what she meant herself. But now she felt a strange longing
swell up inside her like the pull of a current or the tension of a
taut bow string. "I must see him again," she declared, her
eyes far away.
"If you say so. But why,
if you don't mind my asking?”
"I have to know," KazaKu
paused, searching for the words to properly express what she felt,
"to know why he is the way he is. Maybe, I don't know, maybe
there's something I can do. "
"Do? You?" Shalana snorted,
waving her blistered hand dismissively
"You have the battle
gift, not the healing gift. What could you do? And, even if you
did, you couldn't even get close to him. If anyone ever
caught a glimpse of you, they'd have you executed."
"So be it." KazaKu turned
on her with blazing eyes, her hand raised to strike. But her
training reasserted itself in the nick of time and she managed to
catch herself in the midst of the blow. One of the things that had
been rigorously drilled into her ever since brought to the sanctum as
a young child, after she had broken her elder brother's arm in anger
when he took her portion of sweets from her, was that those with the
battle gift were prone to violent rages over the smallest slight and
that it would be treated as the most severe crime if she failed to
restrain herself. With good reason. Her gift made any act she
performed in a state of heightened emotion much stronger and more
powerful. If her blow had landed, it probably would have broken
Shalana's nose. Shalana stepped back and her face went white. She
knew the danger she had narrowly escaped.
The next day, shortly before noon,
KazaKu was again using the support post to scale from the balcony to
the roof, leaping across the space between buildings, and crouching
down behind the mass of pale green leaves. The sequence of events
remained largely unchanged. Around noon he emerged out into the
courtyard and paced about slowly with a distant expression. Then, he
knelt down and began drawing again. This time, the picture was
smaller and simpler: a clawed hand crushing the skull of some
rat-like animal. He finished it in half the time or less which he
had taken to make the picture the day before, then sat down on the
edge of the well and gazed at it morosely as he gnawed on an apple
and a slice of cheese, finishing the food and flinging the core and
rind into a rose thicket before wiping out his drawing again.
The pattern varied little from day to
day. Some days he did no drawing and, instead, spent the entire time
chewing absently at some pie or sausage or other dainty he had
brought. Other times he would build strange sculptures out of
pebbles or sticks and bits of moss. After fussing with them for
hours to get every detail meticulously exact, he would kick them over
or crush them under his boot. Some days he would not come and then
she felt an aching emptiness, as if there was nothing inside her.
She would wait for an hour or more in the blistering noon heat,
hoping, hoping. Once, he stayed away for three days together and she
almost despaired but forced herself back, enduring the blank
loneliness as best she could. Yes, his absence made her feel alone
even though he knew nothing of her existence. Fortunately, by the
start of the next week, he had returned. She heard later that he had
been ill. Sometimes it rained and then she did not bother to make
the journey. With her gift, she could have scaled the wet pillar and
run across the water slicked roof with relative ease, but she knew it
would be futile. He would not come out in the rain. He could not
draw on the damp paving stones. And, on those days, she thought with
a sick dread of winter, when all the courtyard would be buried under
snow and ice for months at a time. It was too much to dream that he
would regularly brave the frigid air to scratch pictures in the white
drifts or that she, clinging with numb hands to the frozen roof would
not eventually slip and break her neck.
Then, after she had been spying on
him--she could not in honesty call it anything else--for a month or
so, he came into the courtyard with another young man. This one was
every inch the dashing courtier, probably what Shalana had been
hoping for. His clothes were smartly cut in shining silk of deep
vivid blue, stiff with gleaming golden embroidery and his hair, slick
with oil, was laid upon his shoulders. He glanced around the, to
him, painfully stark courtyard with a look of nervous confusion.
Prince Beatrus settled down easily on the dusty ground and gestured
casually opposite him. The other was incredulous and stared at him
blankly.
"Sit." The word cut through
the calm air, dry and harsh like bitter, grainy powder. KazaKu
started sharply. She had never heard his voice before and never
realized it until now. Her sudden movement jarred the tree and all
the leaves quivered.
"What was that?" The young
noble glanced sharply in her direction and KazaKu felt her heart come
into her mouth.
sily covered the distance so she could
hear it clearly. "Stop starting at shadows, Felix, and sit
down."
"But, Beatrus, I paid a fortune
for this doublet," Felix protested in a strained voice. His
concern over his clothes seemed to distract him from the motion in
the tree and KazaKu breathed a deep sight of relief as he turned away
from her to glare at his companion.
"Then you shouldn't have worn it
out here." Again Beatrus pointed firmly. The other made a face
but grudgingly lowered himself to the ground. Several dice were
produced as well as a bag of colored chips and they spent the better
part of an hour casting them on the stone between them, pulling chips
from the bag, and arranging them into piles, seemingly without
pattern. Score was kept on another nearby flagstone, not with the
artist's pencil, but with a plain chip of stone that could only
scratch thin white lines. The pace of the game was too fast and she
was too far away for KazaKu to follow how it was played, and the
curses and insults they flung at each other did nothing to enlighten
her. Beatrus played casually, carelessly, with the same detached
confidence with which he wielded the pencil. From the agitation of
Felix, he appeared to be victorious much of the time as well.
As the days and weeks passed, climbing
to the roof to spy on the monastery became a normal part of life.
She woke each morning wondering what, if anything, she would see that
day and was impatient, distracted, and fidgety until she had made her
pilgrimage. She became increasingly efficient at her tasks, seeking
every little trick to make her performance faster so no one would pay
heed to her absences and memorized the movements of the other
residents of the sanctum as they went about their tasks to ensure her
the best shot at getting up to the balcony without being disturbed.
When she returned, her mood dependent on what had happened. If he
had made a particularly beautiful picture, she would be quiet and
subdued, filled with awe at his almost divine gift and touched by
melancholy over its waste. If his friends had turned out for dueling
or to play the dice and chip game, which she had learned was called
Alchemy, she would be elated, especially if he won, which he usually
did, and she would spend the rest of the day feeling pleased with
herself as if she had won too. Or, on those days when he didn't come
at all, she would return to the sanctum feeling lonely and miserable,
sometimes struggling to hold back tears.
She had come to know all of his
friends by name. In addition to Felix, there was Simon, a royal
cousin and next in line for the throne at the moment, Heinrich, a
thin, pale youth who appeared to think himself, and perhaps be,
highly intelligent, Harbonius, who, based on his thick accent, must
come from the southern provinces, and Ellisu, another artist.
Sometimes, he would come to the courtyard alone and join Beatrice in
making drawings or sculptures. Sometimes they would work on separate
pieces side-by-side and, at others, they would work collaboratively
on the same project. But, in either case, Beatrice always deferred
to Ellisu and considered his work far superior to his own. There
were other companions as well, but these four were the most highly
favored, the most frequently in attendance on the Prince. All the
companions were staying at a local inn, which, while the finest in
town, was considered far too rustic by several of them, though Felix
was undeniably the most vocal about it.
So deeply has she become engrossed in
these pursuits that she lost all track of time, never noticing that
several months had passed, until the other boarders at the sanctum
began to become excited about the upcoming festival to mark the start
of the harvest season. KazaKu was excited as well for, with most of
the household gone, her task would be that much easier. But, then,
on the evening of the second day of the festival, Shalana approached
her.
“I didn't see you out at the fair
today,” she said, sounding almost concerned. “Nor the day
before.”
“I had some...things I had to do,”
KazaKu replied uncomfortably. She had never been one for subtlety
and telling a lie, even a a generic half-lie, stuck in her throat.
“Well, you should get out and have
some fun. Come with me tomorrow. You can wear my second best hat.”
Shalana was the closest thing KazaKu
had for a friend. Most girls would not only have not invited her,
but would have attempted to evade the request if she had approached
them. And so she did not immediately dismiss Shalana, but she did
have some standards. “No hat,” she said stiffly.
Shalana rolled her eyes. “You have
to wear something nice,” she protested. “It will be
embarrassing otherwise.” Of course, the term friend could be
interpreted loosely.
“Well, never mind then,” snapped
KazaKu, trying desperately to control her temper, something she found
at least as difficult as lying. If she lashed out at her, Shalana
might decide to pry into her motives—it was the kind of thing she
would do—and KazaKu just wanted her to go away.
“What can possibly have you so busy?
You've never been one to do extra work, no matter what.”
“Who said I was working?” As soon
as the words were out of her KazaKu realized how stupid they had
been. But it was already too late.
Shalana's eyes stood out from her head
as realization struck her. “You can't still be going to watch the
prince,” she cried. “You can't be that stupid, Kaz. Please tell
me you're not.”
“Who said it was any business of
yours?” Her now roused temper would not allow any other response,
even though she knew such a statement could not help but lay her
secret bare. “And don't call me Kaz,” she finished savagely.
"Still you go every day?"
Shalana cried in exasperation. "You're really pushing your
luck, Kaz. How long can you keep this up before someone spots you?"
"As long as possible," she
replied grimly. Truly, she never thought anymore about the danger,
only about the strange empty ache she felt inside her that gnawed at
her always and could only be soothed by watching Prince Beatrus.
"But...but...why?" Shalana
twisted her hands agitatedly. KazaKu could not really imagine why it
bothered her so much, unless she was afraid that, if KazaKu herself
was caught, it would somehow leak out that Shalana had been the one
to initially suggest the venture. "What is it that keeps
pulling you back there?"
"He is the most beautiful thing I
have ever seen. I..."
"Are you in love with him?"
Shalana's voice rose almost to a shriek.
KazaKu gestured sharply for her to be
quiet. "This is treason, not gossip," she hissed.
"Don't evade my question,"
her companion insisted, this time in a dramatic whisper.
KazaKu made a face and shook her head.
"Love? I don't know. I never imagined love would feel like
this."
"What do you know? What does it
feel like?"
"I would die for him. No
hesitation. I would shield him with my body. When we go to the
cathedral on Sundays, I think of him. You know the old paintings
that are so age worn and high on the wall that you can't see the
faces of the figures? I imagine that the young God, Mala's son, has
his face. If I had the money, I would pay its weight in gold for a
lock of his hair. I would treasure it in a box like the old saints'
bones in the reliquaries."
"And you say this is not love?"
"Is it normal to see the beloved
as a God?"
"No." Shalana looked
slightly unsure of herself. "But what else can it be?"
"What does it matter?"
KazaKu threw up her hands dismissively. "I feel what I feel. I
care not if you call it love or something else."
"But you must know," Shalana
dropped her voice to an even deeper whisper, "that your love can
never be satisfied."
"I never imagined it could be
otherwise."
Shalana looked relieved and smiled at
her sympathetically. "I was afraid for a moment that you had
forgotten that women with the battle gift cannot marry."
KazaKu gave a wordless cry, like an
injured bird of prey, and lunged at Shalana. The other stepped back,
clumsy in her fear, and tripped over the weaving bench, which
probably saved her life for, as she sprawled on the floor, KazaKu's
blow passed harmlessly above her. Cheated of her first target of
vengeance, KazaKu seized the partially finished cloth and tore it to
pieces. She kicked the loom and the wood splintered, then grabbed
one of the supports and snapped it between her hands, white energy
pulsed at her finger tips as the loom was reduced to splintered and
charred boards. "Why did you say that?" she howled,
flinging some of the fragments at Shalana. But, as she was still
cowering on the floor, they passed over her and lodged in the plaster
of the wall behind. "There are a thousand reasons why I could
not be a suitable bride for him. I am poor and a commoner. I have
no dowry. My mother was a milk maid. He does not know me or even
know of my existence and, even if he did, he would probably prefer to
marry a foreign girl who would bring a peace treaty with her. I
could go on and on. Out of all the reasons, you had to pick that
one.”
"I...I don't understand,"
Shalana whimpered. When she raised her face from the floor, it was
streaked with grimy tears. “Please don't hurt me. I don't know
what I did, I swear. I promise not to tell anyone. If you just let
me be, I'll take all the blame, say I broke the loom myself.”
“You make me sick,” KazaKu said
contemptuously. “Like you could really make them believe you did
that to the loom.”
“Then I'll tell them you were
provoked, that I struck you. They wouldn't blame you then.”
“Best of luck with that,” KazaKu
replied curtly as she turned on her heel and left. Her hair was wild
and tangled over her face. She was drenched with sweat so her
clothes stuck to her, and she reeked of fresh blood, as she always
did when she lost control of herself. The smell seemed to ooze from
her very pores, advertising her blood thirst to anyone with the
misfortune to be near, making her unfit to be a bride. She was
already on the balcony as she thought this and, in a fresh bout of
rage, narrowly reigned herself back from destroying the whole thing.
She did not know for certain how angry
the elders would be. She had lost control but directed her rage at
an inanimate object, instead of a person. Though that had been
largely an accident they didn't need to know that. In truth, there
was very little they, or anyone else for that matter, could do about
someone with the battle gift, unless they wanted to kill them or
break their spirit, which amounted to the same thing. All they could
do was make her feel bad, bury her in guilt, as they had done all her
life. She wrapped her arms and legs around the pillar and swung
herself up onto the roof. But not this time. She would not let her
overly tender conscience force her to accept this treatment.
She had never gone to the cloister at
night before. She did not know why she did so now but the heady
smell of blood was driving her into rashness. She crouched down on
the tiles, still faintly warm from the day, and peered down into the
darkness but could see almost nothing below her, just the faint white
of the paving stones against the rough black of the surrounding
bushes and shrubs. The black shaft of the well stood in the very
center like an empty eye socket into the dark recess of a skull.
Nothing moved. There was no sign of life and she felt her heart
wince, then gritted her teeth in self contempt. Did she really
expect he would be out roaming the grounds at night?
But she was in no mood to accept
defeat. Springing from the roof, she landed in the tree. Her
fingers hooked deep into the rough bark as she lowered herself to the
ground. The earth was cool and damp under her feet. Curling her
toes, she felt them grip grass, moss, and loose soil, a rare
experience indeed among the harsh stones of the city outside. She
knelt down and ran her hand along one of the paving stones. The
surface was even with only a faint roughness from the stone's grain.
Her fingers quivered with wonder to touch the surface on which he had
made such magic with the black lead.
"Who's there? Why are you in the
garden at night?" The voice spoke from directly behind her.
KazaKu's heart came into her mouth but, at the same time, she felt
her muscles tense. The gift was surging in her again and she was
ready to fight to defend herself in need be. "Answer. Now."
The command was so compelling that she responded without thinking.
Scrambling to her feet, she whirled around and found herself face to
face with Prince Beatrus.
"My Lord," she stammered.
She could not think. They were close enough to touch, close enough
that she could see the whites and pupils of his eyes, even in the
dark. A curl of his hair fell down behind his ear and along his
neck. "Forgive me," she breathed.
"Why are you here?"
"I came to...to..." What
could she say? “I came to see you.”
“How did you know I would be here?”
“I didn't. It was just a guess.”
Which was true enough after a fashion.
“And what do you want with me?”
“I...” Again, she faltered. In
truth, she had no idea. Shalana's recent claims sent a thousand
different questions and strange feelings swirling through her. “I
admire your skills.” His face remained uncomprehending. “The
pictures...”
“Do you draw?”
“No, I am not an artist. I am a
fighter. But that does not stop me from appreciating the gifts of
others.” She flinched internally even as she spoke. Everything
had been laid bare. He knew her now and she dreaded the shock and
disgust that so often accompanied the revelation of her identity.
But Beatrus's expression—or lack thereof—did not change. The
muscles of his face barely moved at all.
“I am restless tonight,” he said.
“But all my companions have long sense retired to the inn. Would
you spar with me instead?”
This was so unlike anything that
KazaKu had expected that, at first, she simply stared at him, her
brain racing to remain focused on what he had just said. Finally, as
his steady gaze remained fixed on her, she realized he was truly in
earnest. “I would be honored,” she forced, finding her voice
with difficulty.
"Then let us begin." He
snapped off a pair of narrow branches and handed one to her. They
faced each other, crossing their pretend swords in some form of
courtly ritual that he understood and she did not. She pushed
lightly against his sword, testing the waters. He pushed back and
she could feel the strength in his arms. She pushed harder and, as
she did so, she caught a faint whiff of blood, tasted a slight
metallic tang in the back of her mouth. Terror raced through her,
causing her to break out in a cold sweat. If her battle furry
completely overcame her, she might do something utterly insane...like
kill the prince before she even realized what she was
doing...assuming she was anywhere near good enough to be a threat to
him at all, she reminded herself wryly.
Then he swung at her for the first
time and all thoughts were devoured into the immediacy of combat.
She sidestepped and flung out her “sword” to defend her leg.
Although the branch was light and flimsy, her aim was true. The two
pieces of wood connected solidly, sending his spinning back away from
her. Crouching low, she slashed at his stomach, but the suppleness
of the slender branch foiled her and the stroke went wide, throwing
her off balance. He pivoted back and came at her again with
surprising speed. Despite the dull slowness he normally displayed,
he could move with raw intensity when he wished to. KazaKu was
unable to dodge fast enough and the side of his makeshift blade
caught her across the upper arm. Despite the slight protection of
her heavy wool tunic, the blow left a white stripe of pain that
burned into her skin and unleashed the full fury of her battle
frenzy. Throwing caution of the winds, she flung herself into the
attack. She swung her branch with all her might but it had neither
the weight nor the stiffness of an actual blade or club and so it
flew with wild speed, whistling through the air. It slashed across
Beatrus's cheek and, because of its speed and pliantness, it cut like
the thong of a whip. KazaKu did not realize at first what she had
done and, as he came at her again, she believed nothing was amiss.
Only when he sidestepped did she see the line of blood across his
face, looking black in the dim light.
Because the battle gift was on her she
neither feared or respected his earthly power but she felt like a
blasphemer, daring to strike the creator of the beautiful pictures.
Her battle energy drained from her as if she had been doused with icy
water. "Forgive me," she whispered. He looked at her
sharply, a confused expression on his bland features. Then,
following her eyes, he touched his hand to his cheek and stared
impassively at the blood drops on his finger tips. KazaKu gritted
her teeth in anticipation of his disapproval but, instead, he
shrugged and turned the "hilt" of his branch towards her.
She had no idea what that meant. A surrender? An honorable draw?
But it certainly did not seem to represent anger or triumph over her.
"What is your name?" he
asked, wiping his cheek on the back of his hand and leaving a smear
of blood.
"I am KazaKu," she said,
raising her head. He was taller than her but they were close enough
in height to look each other in the face. She was standing eye to
eye with the Prince himself.
"I never heard it but then, I
imagine, you have probably never heard mine either."
"Is this some kind of joke?
Everyone in the land knows about Prince Beatrus and his sorrow."
The mention of sorrow seemed to
irritate him. "They will go on about that," he said
shortly, "until the sky falls. My 'sorrow,' as they call it, is
the greatest legend, not only in this land, but among all of our
allies. One would think I was in training to be a martyr. And I did
not speak of the name the church gave me at my royal anointing. I am
Karak."
KazaKu felt her hands clench in a
weird blend of triumph and fear. She had not known he had another
name. All the rulers were known by names in the high speech which
they were given as part of their confirmation rites. Although,
logically, they must have birth names in the common tongue, like
everyone else, since these were never spoken of, it was easy to
forget the fact. "You trust me?" she asked incredulously.
It would damage his royal prestige to have his common name known and
spoken among the people.
"Who would you tell? I may not
know who you are but I do know what you are. I can be sure you don't
share many secrets."
She threw back her head, tossing her
hair out of her face with a snarl. Just like Shalana, he had
referred to the grim reality of her gift. But, immediately, she went
cold and the storm and fire was crushed out of her. It wasn't that
he told her he wasn't impressed by her rage. He just looked at her
and she knew. And, at that, KazaKu felt something she had never felt
before. Most of the world was half in terror of her gift and, to
compensate for this, felt the need to always prove themselves
superior, to make her feel guilty or to point out how abnormal she
was. Karak was not afraid and so he had no need to make her feel
small. For the first time in her life she had found someone with
whom she could be a true equal. Her mind had to laugh hysterically
at the thought that she, a peasant girl, could be equal to the
prince. And yet, his calm acceptance seemed much more equal than the
combination of cringing and sneering she so frequently received,
especially from the other girls.
"Come back tomorrow." His
steady, flat voice cut through her thoughts.
"Should I sneak back in tomorrow
evening?" she asked nervously, not sure if she could manage it.
"No, come when the others do. I
am not usually here at night. Be here after the ninth hour. I will
tell the door warden to let you in.” It seemed strange that the
monks would allow a woman inside the monastery gates but, perhaps,
one did not say no to a depressed Prince no matter how unreasonable
his wishes, just as she was not going to object to his plan for her
to waltz through the gates of the monastery and socialize with the
realm's highest nobles, even though the idea sounded like utter
madness. The next morning she was up with the sun, to complete her
tasks in record time so she could have the day free for her crazed
appointment. This was already a habit of hers, born of the months of
watching him from the roof. But now it was far more important that
nothing interfere. If she did not complete her work and was delayed
or prevented from going she would not just be failing herself, she
would let him down as well and that was unforgivable.
Although the sanctuary and the
cloister shared a back alley, the journey between them was not short
as their entrances were on opposite sides of the buildings so she had
to go all the way around. All during the walk between the two, she
felt her face burning, especially as she approached the entrance to
the monastery. Women were not allowed inside. What would people
think when they saw her approach the forbidden entrance? Of course
it wasn't impossible that she had been sent on a mission from the
sanctuary or even was just trying to sell provisions but, as she knew
the truth, some part of her felt they must as well. Her hand shook
as she knocked on the door and she felt sick inside. The monk who
opened the door was shrouded in his dark robe so she could not see
his face, thankfully as this hid any likely disapproving look. He
spoke no word to her but only pointed past him into the the dark
corridor beyond and stood to the side so she could pass him, though
she had to squeeze to do so in the narrow doorway. Whether he was
under a vow of silence, thought it dangerous to speak to a woman, or
was perturbed by having to accommodate the whims of an eccentric
ruler, she neither knew nor cared.
He showed no inclination to guide her
so she made her way down the dark passageway as best she could on her
own. Ahead, she could see light streaming from under a door and hear
voices. No one challenged her and she felt un-inclined to knock so
she put her hand on the door and it yielded to her. Beyond was a
wood paneled room with a great fireplace and Beatrus—Karak, her
heart gave a jump when she remembered the secret he had shared with
her—was sitting on a heavy rug spread before the hearth along with
Felix and Harbonius. They were deeply engrossed in the game of
Alchemy and did not hear her enter over the crackle of the fire and
their own frenzied exclamations as the dice were passed around. She
stood frozen in the doorway, watching, until Felix began practically
yodeling, apparently signaling his victory, and leaped to his feet.
Turning around, he abruptly came face to face with KazaKu who had
taken a tentative step into the room.
“Why is there a peasant girl in the
monastery?” he cried in affronted surprise. Of course, there was
only one reason why a peasant girl would be in a monastery and she
felt her hands already clenching into fists to punch him in the face
as soon as he said it.
“We're starting a new game,” said
Karak in his deadpan voice. “Make a space for Kaz.”
“You know her? Why is she here?”
Felix shrieked. Harbonius said nothing but simply scowled at her.
“Are you questioning me?” Karak
gestured impatiently. Felix hesitated uncomfortably. “Now sit
down.” KazaKu approached tentatively, not looking at Feliz, and
went to sit next to Karek who moved closer to Harbonius to make room
and she could tell Harbonius was none too pleased about this. Felix
followed, muttering to himself.
“I do not know this game,” she
said, hanging her head in embarrassment. Although she had grasped
some of the fundamentals from watching them, there were several major
gaps in her knowledge and she would never be able to fake it. She
felt her face burn. How could she have even a faint hope of being
accepted when their first impression of her was of ignorance? And,
sure enough, she heard Harbonius make what sounded like an indignant
snort.
“Tell her,” said Karak and the
color rose in Harbonius's face as he tried to fight down his anger
but Felix actually took to the task with enthusiasm. His love of the
game, and his desire to show off his own cleverness, took precedence
over the strangeness of the situation. He immediately began rattling
off a list of rules at a rapid pace, in no coherent order.
“On your turn you always get seven
moves. You can either pick from the pouch or roll the dice, any
combination, but it must add to seven. Once you have your elements,
you can combine them to make magical substances and effects and you
roll the dice to activate them. You can also act on other people's
combinations, to neutralize them or make them explode. I do so enjoy
using sulfur and lye. Whatever you place in the discard can be
shared by others and you must discard anything you don't use unless
you give up all other actions to save it.” He paused briefly to
catch his breath and was off again on a completely different aspect
of the game. Almost anyone would have been hopelessly lost almost at
once. Fortunately, KazaKu had a keen mind which, combined with her
strong motivation and the scraps of knowledge she had already picked
up on her own, allowed her to quickly reach the point where she could
at least limp along with the others. Harbonius was clearly irritated
at the delay and even more so whenever she had to pause to think
during the course of the game or had to ask what some of the
different elemental combinations were and, while Karak never showed
frustration with her or told her to hurry, he never reprimanded
Harbonius either and so she felt an even greater need to hurry, lest
he also was displeased, or at least displeased about having to deal
with his companion's displeasure. Although she soon reached the
point where she could keep up without embarrassment, she was only
passingly skilled. Raised in a society where only practical
knowledge was of value, her mind rebelled against the esoteric
theories of the game, even as it rejoiced in this new form of
cleverness and though, in time, this type of thought might come
easier to her, how could she ever hope to equal those who had devoted
their whole lives to it?
Besides, she had yet another
challenge, one none of the others shared, the distraction of Karak's
presence. As she sat beside him, close enough to touch but not
daring to, she could not help but think of what Shalana had said.
The tightness in her chest, the wild energy racing through her, was
this love? She did not think so. She had no desire to kiss him, to
lie down with him, the way other girls described feeling about men
they were in love with. She did want to touch him, to twine her
fingers in those honey and mahogany ringlets, but in she same way she
would have wanted to run her hands over a rich piece of fabric in the
market or stroke the velvety fur of a sable pelt. He paused in the
midst of his turn and glanced over his shoulder towards her. The
big, brown eyes seemed to swallow her up and she felt again, more
keenly than ever before, the overwhelming need to know what was
hidden behind them, what made him sorrow, what made him joy, what was
in his mind as he shaped the exquisite pictures and then wiped them
away. She wanted him to bare his soul to her and do it because he
trusted her, because he needed her. She wanted to be closer to him
and more valuable than any other living being.
And now it came upon her that she did
want to kiss him, maybe even lie down with him, but not because she
felt any call of flesh to flesh but, rather, so that they would share
a secret that would bind him to her emotionally. If she did not do
it, she could only assume some other would and the thought of someone
else being that close to him, especially when she would have no part
in that closeness made her feel a strange twinging pain inside her.
This was jealousy she recognized, but much keener and more desperate
than she had ever known before. But need she love to have such
jealousy? She would be perfectly content never to touch him were
there no threat of another taking her place.
By the time the gathering broke up,
when the sun was already well on it's way to setting, KazaKu was a
hopeless mess of emotions and staggered home as one drugged. Despite
her confusion and anxiety, she was awash in joy, as if light were
welling from inside her, wanting to throw her hands to the sky and
sing. But she held herself in with difficulty for her delight was
private, a holy, sacred thing. It was as she had told Shalana. He
was her Divine Lord and what she had done a form of prayer and
revelation and, in her heart, she carried the most precious treasure
of all, his invitation to return the following day. And, even as
that thought made her giddy, she felt a rush of panic and shame, for
she knew that meant another day of Alchemy, of failing to measure up
before the others. But she would do it. The price was more than
worth the reward. Exerting full effort to keep from humming to
herself, something completely out of character for her, she flew
through her evening tasks and, even made a surreptitious start on her
work for the next day, before collapsing into bed, then finding
herself completely unable to sleep for some time, due to the
delighted, nervous energy surging through her.
© Amanda RR Hamlin 2025
