Liberating Fight

by Melissa McShane

  “Because the inn is unexpectedly bad?” Edmund said with a smile. “I admit I did not expect such quality from this kitchen.” He finished his pear and tossed the tiny core of seeds aside. “You are certain you are well enough for travel?”

  “I am quite well, Edmund, do not trouble yourself over me.”

  Edmund’s gaze did not waver. “I have never seen you in such a condition. I did not realize Shaping could be so exhausting.”

  “It can be, but I am careful,” Amaya said. “And it takes very little sleep to restore me. I promise I will not collapse like that again.”

  Edmund looked as if he wanted to say more, but he merely shrugged and emptied the rest of the contents of the basket into his saddlebags. “We will eat again on the way. For now, we ride.”

  Amaya dropped her own core at her feet and mounted. “We ride,” she agreed.

  It did not take long for Amaya to regret her agreement. Until leaving Fernándo’s estate, she had never ridden all day, certainly had not ridden astride for any length of time, and the sedate pace Valencia had set had convinced her riding was not such a feat of endurance. Now only five or six hundred rikras of hard riding showed her how wrong she had been. First she Shaped her thighs, then her posterior, then her lower back, and yet no matter what Shape she gave herself, she still felt sore.

  Finally, when Edmund slowed, she said, “I cannot endure this any longer. I will run instead.”

  “Amaya, we cannot slow our pace,” Edmund objected. “We are already traveling more slowly than a full-out gallop so as not to exhaust the horses.”

  “Why do you believe I will slow us?” Amaya scowled. She removed her boots and stuffed them into her other saddlebag, the one containing her clothes. “I can run faster and longer than a horse. Try me, and you will see.”

  Edmund rolled his eyes and took Amaya’s reins. “I suppose we will travel faster if I can change mounts occasionally,” he said. “But if you cannot keep up—”

  “It is you who will have to keep up with me,” Amaya said, and darted away.

  Running was so much better than riding. Amaya re-Shaped her legs to make herself as fleet-footed as a jaguar and ran smoothly along the road until Edmund caught up. Then she ran just fast enough to keep ahead of him and the horses, not wishing to eat dust all the way to Madrid.

  The road unrolled straight as a furrow through sere yellow fields untilled or tended, dotted with low, spreading trees placed at random. Some grew close enough to the road for Amaya to observe as she ran. They seemed in her haste to blossom from the ground in the distance, rising to their full height like flowers blooming as she approached, and then their shadows flicked over her and they were gone as if snatched out of the ground. She enjoyed the illusion, as few trees grew in her mountainous home, and those that did had fatter, darker green leaves than the small dusty green-grey ones of Spanish trees.

  They stopped once for a few minutes to eat and to rest and water the horses, and then moved on. Edmund said nothing about Amaya’s speed or endurance, which told Amaya he had acknowledged the truth of her assertions. She liked that he did not make much of her skills or deprecate his own concerns, which meant he was sensible and not inclined to give condescending praise.

  The sun rose high in the parched blue sky and then began to sink in the west. Amaya ran fast enough that the breeze generated by her passing cooled her, and she felt comfortable enough to run for days. It was an illusion; she did tire, just not as quickly as a non-Shaper or even a horse. But with her muscles warm from exertion and her thick-soled feet thumping the ground, she fell into a haze in which she ran mindlessly, not contemplating anything in particular, just a body in motion whose heart and lungs moved as smoothly as she did.

  They ran through a handful of villages without stopping, resting between settlements on occasion for the horses’ sake. Amaya wondered in passing whether anyone noticed her, and what they thought of the woman who raced with the horses. Surely there must be other Shapers in Spain whose abilities were known, for it did not take an Extraordinary to Shape one’s body for speed and endurance. And yet she could not recall seeing any other Shapers who did so. In England, the Shapers she knew, the ones not Extraordinaries, made their bodies beautiful rather than functional. That was civilization, she supposed, the way England defined it: a society not on the edge of survival could afford to spend its resources on nonessentials.

  Having considered this, she found herself unable to return to her mindless state. She recalled what Valencia had said to her in Fernándo’s library, that she had adapted to Incan society but refused to do the same for European. Her first instinct was to reject anything Valencia had said, on the grounds that he had either wished to convince her to join his cause or to convince her to come to his bed. But his words struck something deep within her, something she could not easily cast aside.

  She was Incan. She was convinced of this. And yet she could never return to that home. So what was the point of clutching at her traditions rather than choosing to embrace something new?

  Considering this sent a shiver of discomfort through her. There was nothing so wrong with English customs, certainly no more than there had been with Inca customs—for she could admit that the Incas were not perfect. It was only that there were so many English customs that chafed at her. Their multitudinous rules of polite behavior. The way gently-born women were hemmed in on all sides that went far beyond the division of sexes the Incas believed in. And, not least, the expectation that she should use her Extraordinary talent according to society’s rules and not her own will.

  And yet she could not help suspecting that her disinclination to embrace an English identity, or a Spanish one, arose from fear. That was unacceptable. A jaguar warrior never let fear master her. She should have the courage to consider what her life would be like as an Englishwoman, or a Spaniard, and make a choice.

  For the first time in her life, her courage failed her.

  “Amaya,” Edmund called out, his voice nearly drowned by the thrumming of horses’ hooves. “Amaya, we should stop for the night.”

  She cast a glance westward. “It is not yet dark. We can continue to run.”

  “Despite our care, the horses will not last much longer,” Edmund said, “and we are nearing another village. I have no idea what other settlements lie along this road. We should not risk riding past full dark and not finding another place to stop.”

  Amaya nodded and slowed her pace. She disliked the necessity, but could see the sense of Edmund’s words.

  Far ahead, a cluster of houses abutted the road, stretching out along both sides of it, and a cart drawn by a donkey ambled along between a number of pedestrians that could almost be called a crowd. This was closer to being a town than the places they had passed earlier. Despite herself, she could not help imagining a hot meal and a comfortable bed. Perhaps she was closer to English society than she believed.

  To either side of the road now grew rows of short, fat bushes heavy with green leaves. They grew in such an orderly fashion Amaya knew they were crops, cultivated deliberately. She wondered what food they produced, and whether any of it would appear on her plate that evening. It was something she might ask the innkeeper.

  As they neared the town, Amaya observed many trees growing between the buildings, their leaves a lusher green than those of the plains. Their evening shadows cast the many stone buildings with their cream and tan façades into a comfortable shade, and an evening breeze brought the scents of cool green leaves and onion and garlic and spicy meat to Amaya’s nose. Rather than relax her, the smells increased her sense of urgency. It would be good to settle into this beautiful place for the evening, but who knew what Valencia might be doing in Aranjuez right now?

  Edmund came to a stop before a two-story stone house from which more of the delicious smells emanated. “Here is as good an inn as any,” he said. “But you might put your boots back on.”

  The way he said it, the amused and resigned tone of his voice, made Amay
a wish to laugh. “I should wash first,” she said.

  “Let us see about stabling the horses.” Edmund dismounted and led the shivering, sweating horses around the side of the house. Amaya had not seen any sign that this was an inn rather than a particularly large house, but she trusted Edmund’s instincts.

  While he negotiated with a stable hand, she drew water for herself and washed her feet, drying them on her trouser legs. It made for a streaky and none-too-clean job, but now the road dust would not fill her boots. She put the boots on and wriggled her toes again. It was a sensation she enjoyed—a peculiarly European sensation, as boots were not a thing the Incas had.

  The house turned out to be, not an inn precisely, but a tavern with rooms to let. The tavern owner gawked at Amaya the whole time Edmund was speaking to him, asking about rooms. She could not tell if he gawked because of her masculine dress or her road-grimed condition, but she glared back at him, daring him to make an issue of it, and in the end he said nothing but, “There’s two rooms at the top of the back stair you can have. Payment in advance.”

  The expression on Edmund’s face told Amaya they were running low on funds, but the journey was almost over. When they had gone outside again and around the back, Edmund told her, “I asked about buying or borrowing new mounts. It seems there are none to be had. We must let the horses rest, and begin our journey again in the morning.”

  “In the early morning,” Amaya said.

  Edmund grimaced. “As early as we can manage. I have never so much wished for Bess’s talent as I do now. I might have Spoken to Madrid last night, and this journey could be for pleasure.”

  “I do not know that I could take pleasure in it even if our message went before us. What do you suppose is happening in Aranjuez?” Amaya pushed open the back door of the inn, revealing a short, dark hallway that smelled not only of garlic and onions but of heated olive oil and the yeasty scent of bread. A staircase on the right, narrow and as dark as the hall, extended upwards out of sight.

  Edmund, laden with their saddlebags, indicated that she should precede him up the stairs. “With luck, nothing much. Mr. Valencia must gather his support, and I do not imagine Don Balthasar had the only soldiers in the city at his estate. So taking Aranjuez will not be as simple as whistling for it. If we are fortunate, our message will arrive in time for an Army detachment to march on the city, and Mr. Valencia will be caught off-guard and surrender.”

  “But he must know what we intend. And he is still an Extraordinary Scorcher.”

  “I know. I choose to be optimistic rather than to fall into despair.”

  The staircase came out on a hallway much more brightly lit than the one below, thanks to a series of windows in the right-hand wall. They were small, no more than head-size, but they were clean and they faced west, letting in the warm orange light of the setting sun. Four doors spaced very closely together faced the windows. “This is more than I expected from this place,” Edmund said. “The first two rooms, he said.”

  Amaya opened the first door and looked inside. The room was comfortably small, though the whitewashed walls made it feel bigger, and held nothing but a bed beneath another window as small as the ones outside. A brightly colored blanket that seemed to have been pieced together from many small scraps of fabric covered the bed. “Yes, unexpected,” she said.

  Edmund handed her her saddlebags. “We should eat, and then sleep, and perhaps we can start before dawn.”

  Amaya did not feel sleepy, but she was an experienced warrior and knew it made sense to catch sleep where and when one could. She stowed the bags beneath the iron frame of the bed and followed Edmund downstairs.

  Chapter 20

  In which Amaya does things not practiced among the Incas

  They ate a delicious meal, rice and chicken and crumbled sausage in a thick sauce, that was of the same unexpectedly good quality as the rest of the tavern. Amaya had not yet gained a taste for the alcoholic beverages served with English suppers and at English social gatherings, but the ale the tavern owner produced was delicious. It tingled the tongue like the chicha she had drunk in Tawantinsuyu.

  Neither Amaya nor Edmund spoke as they ate, and Amaya was reminded once more of the urgency of their journey, though she did not feel urgent at all at the moment. She felt slightly guilty at enjoying the wonderful food and the thought of a night’s rest in a European bed. No Inca warrior…

  She closed her eyes, prompting Edmund to say, “Is anything the matter?”

  “No,” she said. And then, because she trusted Edmund with her life, she added, “I have simply realized I am no longer an Inca warrior. But I do not know what that makes me.”

  Edmund’s lips quirked in a sympathetic smile. “It makes you Amaya,” he said, “and you are whatever you choose to be.”

  Amaya shook her head. “I do not believe I will ever be an English lady like Bess. I cannot imagine returning to Don Fernándo, since he supports Mr. Valencia. And the longer I spend in England as an Extraordinary Shaper, the more wrong I feel in rejecting medical training—and yet I truly do not believe I am suited to that destiny. Everywhere I turn, I see doors shutting.”

  Edmund opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. His face was for once expressionless, and it unnerved Amaya, though she could not explain why.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Edmund’s lips tightened briefly. “I know little of talent, and what it means to those who have it,” he said, “but Bess has always said she cannot dream of not using hers. That it is so integral a part of her, that it gives her such joy, means it is not something idly laid aside. You must feel much the same. I was about to say, suppose you find a purpose that is not Shaping, but I realize that is impossible.”

  Amaya blinked, surprised at his words. “I—it is not impossible, merely unlikely, because it is as you say—I use my talent as easily and as instinctively as breathing. To set it aside simply because I see no use for it in proper English society fills me with horror.”

  “I fear I have no answers for you,” Edmund replied. “But perhaps you should speak with Lady Enderleigh. She, too, has a talent not easily exercised within society, and she may have given the question some consideration.”

  “That is an excellent idea, Edmund.”

  Edmund smiled, dispelling his earlier somberness. “I have a great many excellent ideas. It is one of my best qualities.” He pushed back his chair. “If you are finished, we should repair to our rooms.”

  Amaya stood as well. Across the room, the tavern owner turned away from setting tankards in front of a couple of men, and his gaze met hers. His mouth fell open slightly, giving him the appearance of a drowsing cow. Amaya nodded without smiling, and he reddened and looked away.

  When she and Edmund were in the narrow back hall, Edmund said, with some amusement, “You should not taunt that man.”

  Amaya, who had not realized Edmund had seen that interaction, said, “How, taunt him? I have never even spoken to him!”

  “It is hardly his fault he finds you attractive and knows no other way of expressing his feelings.”

  It was Amaya’s turn to gape. “But I…” she managed, then said, “You are mistaken.”

  They reached the top of the stairs, and Edmund stopped outside Amaya’s door. “I have great experience when it comes to the ways in which women and men interact, and I have seen that look on men’s faces more times than I can count. Do you find it so strange that a man might feel an attraction to you?”

  Amaya remembered Kichka, and felt a pang of regret that the memory was a faded, dull one. She could barely picture his face. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I do not Shape my face and body to the kind of beauty Europeans expect. And I do not have the pretty manners of an Englishwoman. I am strong, and capable, and I have learned this is not something European men wish for in a woman. They prefer to be the strong and capable ones.”

  The amusement fell away from Edmund’s face, leaving him once again somber and unfamiliar. “Not all Eu
ropean men,” he said. “And there are those who find the artifice of Shaped beauty inferior to what Nature gifts a woman with.”

  “Like the tavern owner.” Amaya could not help staring at Edmund, at the line of his jaw, covered with dark stubble, and the smooth curves of his lips. He did not have the strong nose or dark skin of the Sapa Inca, who was Amaya’s standard for male beauty, and yet the way the last light of the sun cast his cheekbones and brows into shadow made her breath catch.

  Edmund nodded once. “Like the tavern owner. Yes.”

  Amaya’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. “But he is not the only one.”

  “No,” Edmund said. “He is not.”

  They both fell silent, their gazes intent upon each other. Amaya’s whole body trembled with the need to act, to do something, even if it was to open the door of her room and escape within. Why she might need to escape from Edmund, she did not know, because in truth what she wanted was to reach out to him, to discover the meaning of what passed between them now. She had never felt this powerful anticipation, not even with Kichka, her every sunqu poised on the brink of an unimaginable future.

  Edmund closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, his face was even tenser than before, his jaw tight, his lips compressed. “Sleep well,” he said.

  Though she could not have said what she had expected, she knew it was not that. She took half a step backward in her surprise. “Edmund—”

  “We must rise early,” he said. He put his hand on the door latch. “Good night.”

  “No,” Amaya said. She put her hand over his where it rested on the door. “That is not what you desire.”

  Edmund turned his head away to look out the window and let out a deep sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. “What I desire is irrelevant,” he said. “I will not compromise your reputation—”

  She understood at that moment what shadow had touched his heart, and impatience seized her, impatience that something so ridiculous as the opinions of others might destroy this fragile understanding they had found. She stepped closer, slid her hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him to her for a kiss.