by Hannah King
The people in front of him were a couple in their thirties, respectably dressed, their faces full of anger as they fired demands and accusations at the apothecary and his wife in Leiden.
The husband of the couple slammed his fist down on the counter, nearly upsetting the measurements that were being prepared for Wes. The man behind the counter offered some words of reason, begging for the couple to calm themselves. Whatever they were complaining about, he certainly saw no cause for alarm, whether or not that was due to the ale he was consuming.
“Pheyatith!” The apothecary's wife seemed to be calling someone from the back. Almost instantly a back door opened and another woman appeared, her head down. She also wore gray, but a wide white apron covered her skirts, and a simple white kerchief covered her shorn head. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, from what he could tell without looking her in the eyes. She bowed to her mistress who pointed to the threesome on the other side of the counter.
Wes felt his heart skip a beat as the woman looked up to view the situation. Her eyes were so familiar, a streak of calm determination flashed in them, but her face was so masked in subservience, he couldn’t be sure. She pushed open a short swinging door that divided the counter space from the customer’s space and approached the young boy.
Cautiously, she unwound the white fabric on the boy’s left arm and bit her lip. Again, so familiar, Wes thought, but he was distracted from his delusions by the cry that the boy let out. Beneath the cloth was a horrible patch of raw skin, edged with pus and dried blood.
Wes sucked in his breath when he realized what it was. The infected space was in the exact position that the usual laborer branding mark should be, and he could barely make out in the midst of the awful festering, a circle divided into four quarters, one fourth of the circle held a letter from the Leiden alphabet and a second quarter held a different letter. The top two quarters were empty.
He vaguely remembered someone talking about these markings, that they illustrated the value of the slave, reflecting the price that was paid by the owner at auction. Those who bought especially expensive slaves were proud of it and the marks served to show how wealthy the laborer’s master was.
The boy’s mark however, whatever price it represented, was nothing to boast about. In its grisly state it was likely causing this couple remorse and disgust. He would have liked to believe they’d come in the spirit of concern but, judging by their attitudes, they seemed more embarrassed and angry than anything.
Wes swallowed hard, his fists clenching tight in the folds of his cloak. The poor boy likely had been branded only a day or so ago, and somewhere along the way the mark had gotten dirty, causing the infection. If it was left alone, he knew a wound like that could turn to sickness and take the boy’s life.
The slave woman took the fabric away from the mark and stuffed it in her apron pocket, then took the boy’s right hand and squeezed it, wiping a tear away with her other hand.
“I can help with some of the pain,” she spoke softly in Cronin. “It’s become infected, but if we clean it, you’ll be all right. Can you come with me?”
The man snapped at her in Leiden, obviously not pleased with her speaking to the boy, especially in what seemed to be his native tongue. She turned to the man, keeping her eyes down, and seemed to relay something to him in Leiden. The man shrugged, nodded and waved her away. The wife added something along the lines of “hurry up,” with a huff and a cross of her arms.
The slave woman escorted the boy behind the counter and through the left door. It shut behind them. The couple, instead of clearing the way for Wes to continue his transaction, began to peruse the shelves, asking questions about various products.
The man was examining a collection of bottles displayed in the reach of customers. He took the cork off of one, smelled it and frowned. He opened the next, smiled, and lifted it to his wife’s nose. She quickly frowned and coughed, and he whined about something. The third bottle also proved to his liking and the wife’s nose agreed. He placed the bottle on the counter for purchasing, but the wife insisted that he wait, suddenly interested in the other bottles, going through the rest of them and sniffing, taking a bit and rubbing it on her forehead and neck, then inhaling.
After what seemed like an eternity she had chosen, and another bottle was set on the counter. The man plunked down four, square, silver pieces and barked for their transaction to be completed. The perfume flasks were wrapped in gauze and tied with silk ribbon, then placed in their purchaser’s hands.
By then the left door was swinging open, and the woman and the boy reappeared. She carried a bottle and a tin. The boy’s crying had ceased. His arm was skillfully wrapped in fresh linen and the pain in his young eyes had lessened. The slave woman went over to the couple and gave them the items she’d selected for the boy, giving them instructions in a hushed voice.
“Hey, you,” the apothecary was pointing at Wes. “Come get your things. Don’t need the likes of you idling about here,” he snapped.
Wes straightened and skirted past the others to get to the counter. He examined each and took a whiff, just to be sure they were what he’d asked for, then headed toward the door.
He looked behind himself before he left as he pocketed the herbs, then sidestepped to avoid the boy and his owners as they bustled out of the shop. The slave woman was staring as they left, her face distant and sad, and for the first time, her eyes met Wes’. They darted down for a moment, and he realized she wasn’t allowed to look anyone in the eye, but with all of that training, Wes’ ragged and foreign appearance caused her eyes to flicker back up to meet his face, just for a moment, out of natural curiosity.
The eyes were almost like his mother’s, warm, hazel colored, but fiercer, more like his mem’s sister, Fina. A wayward brown curl from her cropped hair was escaping the kerchief, and Wes remembered the brown curls that had once been down to her waist, often tied back in thick braids for when she worked. That hair had plagued Fina, he remembered, she’d always complained about how mad it looked during hot and humid weather.
Fina had moved away with her husband when Wes was little, to a farm in a separate district of Cronin. Wes remembered being sad to see her go. She’d always known the best games, and she would sing songs with him, though not very well. Even after marriage, she’d come for visits now and then, and he would never forget the time she’d decided to bring her own son, Byrne, to play with Wes for the day. The three of them had spent the afternoon splashing around in a stream, digging in the clay and catching frogs. Their visits had never been long enough.
Aunt Fina. Cousin Byrne’s mother. It was her, he was sure of it.
“Get on with you,” the shop owner barked again, and Wes backed away, his hands trembling.
It was hard to know if she recognized him after so many years. He hoped he looked a little more like a man by now, but from the way she had forgotten her conduct, the way her lips were slightly parted and her eyes were searching his countenance, he knew his youthful face had sparked a memory in her mind.
She tore her eyes away as the apothecary’s wife began to call her and scold her in Leiden, and Wes slipped out the door, his heart pounding, his forehead breaking out in sweat.
Outside, the sun was coming out and the docks were buzzing with activity. The event on the stage was in full swing by the sound of the rousing music.
Trying to come to his senses, remembering his duty to Camphraz, he picked his way through the crowd, but not without a glance at the party. His heart sank. He’d been so foolish to assume.
On the stage stood twenty people, their hands bound in glimmering silver twine. Their feet were bare, and their heads were shorn, they wore plain brown tunics. They were grouped together, underneath symbols that were hung on the wall. One of the symbols matched the mark he’d seen on the boy, the others were almost identical but with specific distinctions.
A muscular man was standing beside the man Wes had seen earlier, the one wearing the many
gold chains. People were shouting things out in the crowd excitedly, putting their hands up, some of them holding heavy coin purses.
The slaves waiting to be sold were so different from the ones he’d seen all over Leida. They were looking about as if there was still a chance to escape. A cheer went up and the muscular man was sold. He was escorted down the steps to a second group and stood against the wall in a line with the others who had been purchased.
With a shudder, Wes knew that any dignity left in the proud, courageous heads would soon be gone. Their value would be, from then on, determined by their silence, their obedience, and the price burned into their forearm.
Why are we here? He asked himself, angry that the Sustainers had even accepted charity from a city that numbly allowed the same practice King Lardox had hated so much.
Feeling sick to his stomach, he finally escaped the horrible revelry. He wished he would never have to venture to that part of town again, but deep down he knew he would, if only to see if he’d been dreaming; to see if she was really there. If she was, she had to know. He would have to tell her about Byrne.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TALITHA
TATE WAS A very ugly man. His hair (what was left of it) and beard were a dull brown, mottled with streaks of gray. His nose seemed too small for his face, and his eyes were a murky shade of green. He was certainly old. His face seemed hardened by too much thinking, and the skin beneath his eyes was deeply creased from pouring over books late into the night.
The Hull was not as dark and secluded as I had imagined it would be. Instead, beams of pale daylight illuminated the grand space from windows in the ceiling. Lamps were still lit to compensate for the cloudy day.
“Leave us,” Tate said, gesturing to the Ambassador who still held my arm. I hadn’t been happy to have him slowing me down during our walk to the Hull, but as his arm slipped away I felt a surge of panic. My hovering, sad-eyed escort suddenly seemed to me to be far better company than the frightening figure in the corner, but he left me nevertheless, shutting the door quietly behind us.
“I’ll only be a moment,” Tate addressed me, “I’ve some-thing to finish before we begin.” I nodded and he made his way to a small table. Pulling out a low stool, he sat himself down in front of a plate, filled with greens and a sizable portion of red meat. With a large knife he began to cut the beef, and then took a small, two-pronged utensil to poke at the pieces and deliver them to his mouth. He used his fingers to eat the greens, a leaf or two every other bite of meat, then took long gulps of wine from a crystal goblet.
He offered me no chair to wait, and once he’d finished the first course, he directed his utensils to a bowl of potatoes that were hardly any larger than his thumb. When these were finished with gusto, he took a jar of honey, opened a folded linen napkin and began to slather small cakes with a thick layer of the golden spread.
As he seemed to be taking extra time to relish that particular course, I allowed my attention to wander while he chewed. The room was much like a library; lined with shelves, display cases filled with artifacts, and tapestries hanging in optimal places. However, it was not a cheery, fire-crackling sort of library. There was no cozy scent of dust or pipe smoke, no piles of old scrolls or tilting stacks of books with bindings that needed attention. Nothing was crowded or dingy, everything was neat and retained a sort of sheen to it. Every single object seemed to serve an exact purpose and was arranged with perfection.
“Well?” his gravelly voice startled me. He was standing up, pushing his plates aside and turning to face me.
“Yes, sir?” I faltered. He looked down at my hands.
“Hand me the gloves.” He waved at me impatiently. I placed them in one of his hands. He turned them over a minute, inspecting them, then strode over to the dying hearth and tossed them into the receptive coals before I could stop him. Gray’s words flashed through my mind.
“I know I shouldn’t wear them, but, I...” I was going to say I’d like to keep them but it was obviously too late. He shrugged, infuriating me, and it must have shown in my eyes because he glared back at me.
“They’re second rate.”
“I can’t go without them, not just like that!” I protested, feeling my loss and picturing hundreds of sleepless nights and restless daytime hours. I’d lose my mind. I was sure. He waved away my concern with his uncaring hand and reached into his pocket with the other, producing a pair of cranberry red gloves, made of a strong but soft fabric.
“These will serve you better. They won’t block as much of your sense’s light and you’ll find they help you adapt better.” He laughed at me as I gaped. “You didn’t think I’d have you live without any gloves, did you? Of course, you should be able to go without them from time to time, but even the best Lanterns use gloves, whether it be one or two, if only to help focus the mind.”
He placed the smooth pair in my hands.
“I think you’ll find these far more breathable than the others. They may be a tad difficult at first, but they’ll strengthen you anyway and that ought to make my job easier. You may even find you can wear a pair without fingers soon enough.”
I doubted it, but as I pulled the new pair on, I was pleasantly surprised by the effect of the fabric. My mind was less agitated, though I still felt alert and aware.
Tate didn’t waste any more time on the subject of gloves. He turned around and walked toward a tidily potted plant that sat on a shelf. Picking it up he brought it to the table where he’d been eating, pushed his luncheon dishes further back to make space, and then patted the stool, clearly expecting me to sit. Slowly, I walked over and perched on it.
“I’m assuming you have plants where you come from,” he said drily.
I nodded nervously.
“I’d tell you what kind of plant this is, but I don’t remember. Either way, it is a plant, which, as you know, is a type of life form that a Lantern can read and sense. One of the quieter and less complicated life forms of course, but a life form nevertheless. I’ve arranged to have some small animals brought in for us in the following days, but I thought a plant would be a good place to start.”
I frowned. So far it seemed as though all he was doing was giving me an elementary review of what it meant to be a Lantern. I was acquainted with the senses of many plants, and I doubted he could bring me any small critter that I hadn’t tamed before.
“Are these...chives?” I pointed at the plant, recognizing the thin, grass-like leaves.
He scratched his head.
“Maybe? Either way, these, err, chives, are growing out of bounds. They’ll soon exceed the size of their pot, and it will be a dreadful mass of roots as they choke each other out.”
“Why not plant them outside?” I asked.
“Because at this stage they’ll take over the gardens if they’re released from this pot. That’s the last thing we want. They’re a nice enough herb, but one can only use so many in even the most fragrant dish.” After this he fell silent, waiting for my response.
“Well?” he looked at me expectantly.
I shifted.
“Do you know how we might correct our dilemma?”
I stared at the plant, racking my brain for an answer. My father had liked to garden. He had kept a few flowers in the house to cheer my mother, and an herb pot or two for when we roasted meat.
“I suppose you could, put it in a larger pot?” I suggested lamely.
“I prefer this pot,” he snapped. “Such a pleasing design don’t you think?” He rubbed his finger along the beautiful patterns. “I would like this plant to stay in this pot.”
I was slowly becoming aware that this was some sort of test.
“Well, then, I suppose you could stop giving it water for a little while? Rain makes plants shoot up, so if you...stopped watering it…” I knew it was feeble, but I was out of ideas, and out of patience with the crabby man in front of me. As I trailed off on the poor advice I was offering, a surprised smile spread across his face.
“They’ve done a good job,” he said, somewhat to me but more to himself. “I’ve never seen a more genuinely clueless expression,” he raved. “I had it all worked out too, that is, what I’d do if I couldn’t tell if you were being honest with me. I had grand plans to draw my dagger and threaten your life if you couldn’t fix my plant for me, just to see if I could make you slip up, but, I suppose that would have been a little dramatic,” he grinned.
“Slip up?” I repeated uneasily.
“Yes…You see, I’d much rather start with a blank slate of a Lantern than start with one who’s been experimenting. I’d heard that the Cronin’s don’t teach their Lantern children the gift anymore, but I wanted to be sure, especially after Faldir.” He lifted his eyebrows sky-high at the last part.
“Faldir?” I echoed.
He chuckled, “The old Cronins certainly know how to hide history from their children. But never you mind all that. His is a story you would do better without if we’re to move forward.” He waved his hands at my paling expression dismissively. “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours,” he winked.
“But I-”
“Don’t,” he said more firmly. “See, we’re losing track of what we’re here to do. I haven’t changed my mind about these chives. They’re out of control, and you’re going to help me change that. That is, if you’re everything the Wandering Prince says you are.”
Referring to Tratis? I wondered. One good thing about these lessons was that my tutor might fill me in on that mystery from time to time. At the moment, he only had the silly plant on his mind.
“We’ll start by learning the bare bones of binding,” he was saying. “You will want your gloves off for this. Befriend the leaves and we’ll move on from there.”
I was already acquainted with chives, but I didn’t dare argue. Obediently I reached out and stroked the leaves, sensing its life. It was reaching, pushing, trying with all its might to free itself from the constraints of the pot, longing to spread far and wide in a good stretch of earth. Sugar water still pulsed through its veins, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before the fight for nutrition would begin. The roots were crowding, and soon the leaves would turn yellow as the plant choked itself out of any life it had left.
