by Susie Mander
It was one of the few occasions where I was expected to eat in the dining hall. Thera and Gelesia were visiting and my mother wanted to keep up appearances. Hero sat beside me in a ridiculous outfit of green velvet with bells on his soft leather shoes and flowers in his hair. He slumped over his food, unwilling to meet anyone’s eye. Harryet sat opposite in a new lemon yellow dress I had given her. Ringlets of blond hair fell around her bare shoulders. She was trying to comfort Hero. “It’s not so bad. So the others laugh…”
“She treats me like a daughter then mocks me for enjoying things unbecoming of a man.”
I wasn’t really listening.
At the far end of our table, Odell, Chase, Berenice and the others were throwing food at one another. Occasionally Thera would shoot them a stern expression from her position at the high table, which they ignored. I was glad when they grew tired of this game and moved on to gossiping quietly amongst themselves. They were like a group of wild monkeys. I was just waiting for them lose interest in their bananas and turn their attention to us.
We had finished dessert—a tasting plate of date mousse, coconut cake and honey snaps—and the three of us were deep in conversation, when a hoot of laughter from Odell made us look up. I tugged absently on the black dress my mother had made me wear. Berenice, who was twelve, got up from her seat and ran towards the door with her burgundy peplos scrunched in one fist, tears streaking down her face. Thinking nothing of it, we returned to our conversation.
Hero was speaking. “Yes but just because her father won’t help, doesn’t mean he’s weak.”
“Then what does it mean?” Harryet said. Hero’s response was cut off. Odell got up from the bench. As he sauntered between the tables, I was vaguely aware of laughter coming from my right. Hero had gone quiet and I could feel him shifting uneasily beside me. Harryet’s eyes locked with mine.
“Well look at the three of you,” Odell said, stopping directly behind her.
“What do you want, Odell?” I said.
“Just a moment of your time. Can’t I woo your lady-in-waiting without interference?” He rested a hand on Harryet’s bare shoulders making her go rigid. She reminded me of a satryx caught in a trap. I could think of nothing to say except, “Get lost.”
“Or what? You’ll unleash your gift on me?” He laughed—so did the others—and, seeing I had no retaliation, ran his hand up Harryet’s neck, taking a piece of her hair and twisting it around his finger. “Why would the gods give us creatures of beauty if they did not intend for us to indulge in them?”
“Odell, you know…it’s not a man’s position…” Hero stammered which only made his brother laugh louder.
“What would you know about being a man?”
Hero turned bright red but said nothing.
“Berenice is going to be furious,” I said, grasping for something, anything, to put Odell in his place.
“What do I care? I have far more powerful women willing to protect me.”
“More powerful than me?”
“You?” he scoffed.
“I’m heir to the throne.”
He laughed. “You’re giftless,” he said and leant down to whisper something in Harryet’s ear. She pushed him off.
“Get away from me.”
“Get off her, Odell,” I said, standing. I was only thirteen. He was two years older than me and he had the ice. But Harryet was my best friend. I had to do something.
I climbed over the table, breaking cups and plates as I went, realising too late that I was far less agile than I had been as a child. I shoved Odell in the chest and he stumbled back into the diners behind him. His expression was comic, his face moving from shock, to rage then embarrassment. He stammered an apology which I didn’t catch. Then we both froze.
The dining room had gone eerily quiet as if someone had switched off the lights. There were the high inflections of questions, the gentle nudging of people pointing and staring. And me standing on the table. Then Odell’s mother was yelling. She was on her feet, her face red and twisted with rage. I was not willing to see what happened next. I jumped down, took Harryet’s hand and yanked her towards the door.
“Leave it to me,” I kept saying as we hurried along the Walk.
“But he’s the son of a district leader. And if he wanted to, there would be nothing—”
“Leave it to me.”
We hurried up the flight of stairs to my rooms. A charged silence had descended on the Royal Apartments so thick we could hear the ocean crashing against the wall to the east. “Yes but—” Harryet started but I spun around and silenced her with a raised finger.
“Find Berenice. Have her sent to me immediately.”
My lady-in-waiting’s eyes were wide and full of tears. She was not used to being spoken to this way. Without uttering a word, she nodded.
I paced the room while I waited. Not long after, Harryet returned with a weepy Berenice trailing behind her.
My cousin’s eyes were overly large, red-rimmed and looked perpetually itchy. Scratch marks covered her forearms where a rash ran right up to her shoulders. It continued in patches up her neck. She sniffed loudly. “Your highness?” she said, barely curtsying.
“Sit,” I said, pointing at two leather kline’s huddled around a low mahogany occasional table inlaid with ivory. Berenice slumped into the chair and began to sob quietly. Harryet hovered by the door. “Listen very carefully,” I said and when my cousin made no response, continued: “I know you like Odell. Everyone knows it.”
“I—”
“Don’t try to deny it. There’s no point. Not if you want my help.”
She sat up and listened.
“The way he behaves in court—it is unacceptable. He shouldn’t treat you like that. Not a daughter of Tibuta. Your mother must weep from above. Someone needs to put him in his place.”
Her voice was a tiny whisper. “You’re right but I love him so so much and he—”
I had to hide my impatience, my contempt. Berenice could have any man she chose. I could not comprehend why she wanted him, of all people. “So claim him. Get him under control. Otherwise I’ll do it myself.”
The poor girl gasped.
“I mean it. I will name him as my daroon just to shut him up.”
“But you…”
“I hate him, yes. But I am also heir to the Tibutan throne. I could make him a part of my trendra and no one could do anything to stop me. Think about it. If I did that, he’d never be yours.”
She peered up at me through wet eyelashes. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“But—”
I spoke very slowly. “You do love him don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said defensively.
“Then it’s simple. You take him as your own and keep him away from Harryet. If he denies you or tries to threaten you with more powerful women, you tell him I’m here and I’m willing. He can be the first in my collection.” I got to my feet and turned to my lady-in-waiting who looked utterly shocked. “Will you show my cousin to the door?”
It was a cruel trick but I was proud. I had never spoken to anyone like that before. Being in control, being heard…it was invigorating. And best of all, it worked.
It was not long after my thirteenth Name Day when I realised I was in love with the immortal. It did not come about slowly, as so many of these things do. Rather, it hit me like a brick over the back of the head. One moment I saw him as nothing more than my trainer, a hoplite and an immortal. The next I saw him as a…an object, I suppose you could say. I noticed him the way one might notice a fine painting hung in an otherwise drab hallway. I wanted to stop beneath it and simply appreciate its beauty. I wanted to hang it in my room.
I struggled with the idea of being in love. In my mind, Drayk and I were like two manna fighters locked in an embrace and circling each other. His voice was a whisper: You love me.
My response was quiet, shocked: No.
You do. Admit it.
; Oh dear, I love Drayk the immortal.
He laughed. I knew it.
There was internal pandemonium like the blasting of a shofar, the drumming of tympanums and the singing of hymns all at once: I love you, Drayk the immortal! I looked around, fearful that he had heard my internal dialogue.
The sun was out and the earth was hard. It was winter again and we were training with spear and shield. Drayk, the real one, looked at me with a puzzled frown. He passed me my spear, which was warm from the sun, and walked the distance to take his place opposite me. His expression told me he had noticed my wandering eyes, my confusion. “Are you all right?” he said and heat flooded my cheeks.
“I’m fine,” I managed to squeak.
His face was creased with doubt.
I fell in love with Drayk’s story first. For many, especially those from the mainland, a man’s story is like an old pair of boots: familiar, moulded to fit. In Tibuta a man rarely tells his story. His was unique and I wanted it all for myself.
I fell in love with his body second and thirdly, though this was more enduring, his mind.
To me, Drayk was a constant mystery, a well from which I could draw the clearest water, the most refined ideas. I longed to drink from him, to bathe in him and, through such cleansing, find a semblance of peace. He was a calm man—in the many years I knew him I never saw him lose his temper—and he was committed to perfection in a way others could barely understand. As you can imagine, when he left me all that was left inside me was soot.
I was fourteen. For a whole year the odd weather had permeated conversation in the palace. For the most part I had been able to hide, if not ignore, my feelings for Drayk by avoiding him outside the arena. If we passed one another along the Walk I kept my head down and pretended not to see him. I avoided the barracks and the mess hall entirely. When we trained, I adopted a serious, competitive expression.
Though my heart ached I knew it was silly to entertain the possibility that he might love me in return. We were friends, too, and I would do nothing to risk that friendship. But worse than that, I knew he saw me as a child. I was fourteen. He was thirty-one. He still called me “little miss” and tussled my hair.
On the day he left me, I walked down to the arena as I had every day for the past seven years, the fog, which was thick on the ground, silently parting. The crisp air smelt like smoke. My spirit was high and I whistled; yes I was fourteen and, though awkwardness was guaranteed, optimism was my companion: I was ripe, surely about to receive my gift.
I neared the arena, my eyes searching for my friend. I opened the gate, expecting to see him crouching by the basket of equipment. There was no sign of him.
“Drayk?” I said and then felt foolish. There was no one there. The sycamore maple at the far end, stripped of its leaves, waved like a mocking hand, but otherwise there was not a movement, not a sound.
I walked around the side of the barracks but there was no sign of him exiting the storeroom. The door was shut. The pin lock was a leering face. My stomach tightened. In all the years Drayk had never missed a training session.
I walked around the side of the building to the barracks entrance. I pushed the door open and was greeted by a wave of hot air and the smell of slowly drying laundry. I stepped in and quickly shut the door, trapping the heat. I peered down the long hall that split the building in two: men on the left, women on the right. The floor was polished timber from a time when wood was cheap and easy to come by. The coffered ceiling was coloured red and gold with blue detail.
“Can I help you, your highness?” a soldier said, appearing in the doorway to the men’s dormitory in nothing but his undergarments. The man’s auburn sideburns were thick and bushy and they grew into his beard and the hair on his belly. I tried not to stare.
“Where is Drayk? We have training.”
“Didn’t he tell you? He is in Veraura, recruiting.”
My relief was muddled with pure anger. It flickered at the base of my gut then burnt through my chest and up into my mouth. I thanked the soldier and walked slowly back to the apartments. He should have told you, said my little self.
He is an important man. He has important things to do.
Still, he could have mentioned it. In fact, he could have invited you.
He sees you as a child. Why would he want you tagging along?
I trudged along the path past a group of groundsmen huddled in their furs with their hands in their pockets. Liam, their overseer, a man with whiskers, carried a bag full of writhing satryx. I averted my eyes, hoping he could not see the open wound in my heart. Dragging my feet, I ascended the stairs and trudged along the hall to my rooms.
Harryet, hearing me, came to find me. “What is it, highness?”
I shook my head, not wanting to talk. Without saying a word she lay on the kline opposite my bed. “Whatever it is, it will be all right.”
I nodded but still my heart ached. I realised I could not live without Drayk, no matter how I tried to deny my feelings for him. Our lives were intricately connected, like tangled twine.
I returned to the arena the following afternoon. Drayk and I trained as usual though I was quiet and he was contemplative. The sound of men’s voices reached us from the barracks—laughter and foolery—and smoke wafted from the chimney.
This was all secondary. Most of my senses were focused on him. I noticed every part of his body: his thick forearms bulging as he removed his leathers; the muscles along his back as he bent over to pick up our spears; and the patches of sweat along his belt. He walked around the arena, his cheeks red from the cold. We had been sparring and we were both hot inside our gear. As he collected our equipment—a sack stuffed with straw that worked as a target, broken spear tips and pieces of leather—I watched the perspiration on his brow.
I self-consciously removed my breastplate then unwrapped my wrist guards and placed all of it in the woven basket. “Where were you yesterday?” I said, trying to make the comment sound offhand.
“In Veraura, recruiting,” he said without looking up. “There have been a few incidents in Minesend—nothing serious, but Petra lost a few soldiers.”
I had worked up to this moment and now that it had arrived I was afraid. I took a deep breath and willed myself to speak. “I missed you.”
“Really?” He looked up as he picked an arrow off the ground.
“I came down to the arena and you weren’t there. I was worried something had happened to you.”
He chuckled. “I was doing your mother’s bidding.”
A silence fell over us.
“Drayk?” I said, picking up the basket and resting it against my hip.
“Mmm?” he said, picking up the spears and shields.
“If you will be reborn when you are forty, I will have only reached my twenty-third Name Day.”
“That’s right.”
I did not want him to see my face, or the hot perspiration trickling down my cheeks, so I walked towards the gate. “If I am only twenty-three then my mother may still be on the throne, assuming a pox hasn’t got her or she hasn’t been murdered by one of her cousins.”
“Don’t joke about such things,” he said, following me through the gate. “Not after the curse that befell your aunts. Why do you mention it? You have years left with me yet.”
I did not answer immediately. I placed the basket inside the open storeroom, where there were shelves upon shelves of weapons—spears with bronze and obsidian spearheads, longbows and arrows, daggers and swords of all lengths—and waited until he had put his things down, too. He stood with his hands on his hips in the dark of the storeroom, looking at me intently, his eyes silver in the half-light. I realised I could fall into those startling grey eyes.
“When I am twenty-three, you will leave. You will disappear, just like that,” I said.
“That is correct. I could be reborn anywhere.”
“And will I see you again?”
“Not unless I come looking for you. I will only remember you
in the second decade of my next life. My memories of you and all the people I have known over the thousand years will come back slowly and by the time I remember you, you will have children of your own, even grandchildren. You will not recognise me.”
“But you would still be you?”
“Essentially, yes. When I am reborn I have my old memories and my old thoughts. My atrama stays intact. Why do you ask?”
“I do not think I can rule without you.” It was a practically a whisper.
“Of course you can,” he said, walking back towards the arena to pick up the rest of our things.
“I mean, I do not want to rule without you,” I said, following. I was thankful he could not see my crimson face.
He paused as he picked up a pile of spears. “I see.”
I spoke to his back. “You are the only person I completely trust, except Harry. I do not want you to leave me.”
“You have years,” he said again, glancing back at me.
“You do not understand. I do not want you to go, ever.”
There was a long silence as he picked up the last of our equipment and carried it across the lawn. I followed him, waiting anxiously for his response, fearing the worst but hoping beyond all hope that my friend would not disappoint me. “It is beyond my control, you know that. The gods have determined my fate.”
“But you could come back if you wanted to.”
“Yes,” he said very slowly, reluctantly.
“Then I want you to. Please, will you promise me you will come and find me? Even if it is only to check on me and make sure my work is satisfactory. Promise me you will not let me fail.”
“You won’t fail without me,” he said and disappeared into the storeroom.
“Please,” I called in after him. I listened to him place the spears and shields against the wall.
“I can hardly deny my princess,” was his muffled reply.
