“Well, sure.” Pilaryh held out a hand for it. “We normally throw them away.” She gestured to a bin in the corner, brimming with leaves that had been crushed as someone tamped them down to make more room. “You can have as many as you like. Or do you want to keep this leaf, in particular?”
Oh well, they already thought she was crazy.
“I know I do.”
“Which makes you so very clever.” She added aloud, “I’d like to keep this one.”
Pilaryh stepped to the wall and rang a little brass bell. It made a sound, too, like the stars. Why was everything suddenly reminding her of strange things?
“You’re waking up. Now that your body and mind are healing, your natural abilities are resurrecting, searching out the magic to sustain them.”
“How could you possibly know that?” She mentally rolled her eyes at Chuffta.
“I am wise in many things,” he replied in a smug tone. “Heed my words and you shall go far, sorceress.”
“I think maybe your mind needs healing.” The laughter bubbling up inside felt good. Light, fizzy, and cleansing. Soon she’d be clean all over. Maybe there was hope, as Lonen in his infernally stubborn way always insisted.
A young girl, not old enough to have had her first visit from Sgatha, ran up to Pilaryh, nodded at the instructions and held up her palms reverently for the leaf. Black curls in ringlets spiraled down her back, thickly fringed lashes surrounded crystal clear gray eyes that were enormous with wonder as she stared at Chuffta on Oria’s shoulder. Without a word—and without taking her gaze off the derkesthai—she accepted the leaf, bowed and walked back toward the bridge to the palace, moving as carefully as if she carried a precious vessel.
“I would have introduced her to Chuffta,” Oria said as they resumed walking.
Pilaryh cast an oblique glance at the Familiar, who snaked his head around the knot of Oria’s hair to study her. Probably with a mock fierce glare, knowing him. “It wouldn’t … hurt the child?”
“No.” Oria nearly laughed, then thought better of it. And of Lonen’s warnings. “Not if I command him not to.”
“I hear and obey, worthy mistress.” Chuffta managed a dead-on imitation of one of the more obsequious Báran council members.
“Ooh, I like that. Grovel more and maybe you’ll earn your dinner.”
Chuffta tightened his tail around her throat, only for a moment, but a more subtle move than his usual trick of pulling her hair.
They’d descended far enough that she supposed they must be underground. The light had dimmed and the air smelled moister, earthier. The branches that occasionally surfaced in the corridor ceiling and walls could actually be roots. If roots grew as big around as a Destrye warrior’s body. Which, she supposed, they’d have to do, to support those enormous trees.
At a set of wooden doors, banded with gleaming metal, the guards paused and took up stations. Pilaryh knocked on one, and it opened, just enough for Oria to slip through. Pilaryh gestured her in. The heat hit her immediately and she blinked at the relative brightness of the room after the dim corridor. They seemed to be in a sort of antechamber. Shelves lined the walls, divided into cubbies, some with shoes and bundles of clothes. A metal brazier in the middle of the room glowed with hot coals, smelling of herbs that cleared her nose and soothed her mind.
“I like it here!”
Oria put a restraining hand on Chuffta’s taloned foot. “Not yet. Stay with me and let’s learn the rules.”
“I was just going to look,” he muttered, but he stayed put as Pilaryh barred the door behind them. A stooped older woman craned her neck to peer at Oria, then back at Pilaryh, asking something quietly. Pilaryh replied at some length and the keeper shrugged and nodded. How had that explanation gone? Here’s the king’s foreign mistress claiming to be queen. She’s probably insane, but she’s also a sorceress, has a dangerous pet and doesn’t know any better. So just play along.
In any case, play along the woman did. She waved Oria to a corner, pointing a crooked finger at Chuffta, then to a bench there, and he obligingly half-glided to the perch. The woman undid Oria’s cloak, shaking her head when Oria tried to help, fixing her with a menacing glare from one tawny eye, an unusual shade among Destrye. The other eye appeared to be injured—or missing—the white lines of old scars making a starburst around it. She undressed Oria, deftly folding her clothes and setting them in a cubby, along with her furry slippers. Pilaryh had disappeared into some other corner.
The crone demonstrated that Oria should hold her arms out from her sides, so she did, a little self-conscious at being naked in front of the strange woman. But when the attendant brought over a bowl of golden fluid that had been warming on a shelf under the brazier, dipped her hands in it, Oria stopped her. “Please, don’t touch me.”
The woman frowned at her and said something. “No,” Oria replied. “I’ll do it.” She reached for it, but the attendant held the bowl away, studying her with that one startling black eye. She nodded to herself, set the bowl back to warm and shuffled off. Returning, she held up her hands, showing Oria she wore hand covers made of leather. She dipped her leather-covered hand in the oil, and stretched it toward Oria. A test then. Holding her breath, Oria held out an arm, bracing for the impact, but the oil smoothed on thick and warm—with no intrusion from the old woman’s thoughts or emotions.
She released the breath in relief, then nodded and shared a smile with the woman. Then she lost all caring except for how wonderful it felt.
If the fruit juice had felt like it quenched a core-deep thirst, the oil sated an encompassing one. At first it seemed odd to smear oil over skin that already felt unforgivably filthy, but it sank into her pores with a delightful simmer. With hands surprisingly gentle and deft despite her knotted fingers, the old woman massaged the oil into every inch of Oria’s skin, even over her face and between her legs. Instead of feeling intrusive, however, the massage made her feel cared for, loved even.
“Me too?” Chuffta asked, and for a moment she thought he meant being loved, but he held out his wings hopefully. Oria pointed at the bowl, then to her Familiar, making as if to dip her fingers into the oil. The woman snatched it away, however. Before Oria could apologize to Chuffta, the attendant tottered over to him, filled her hands with the oil and began smearing it over his scaly white hide, as if she did it all the time. The woman noted Oria’s surprise, winked at her with the good eye, then pointed her chin at a metal teapot simmering on a low flame inside a screened box.
Oria almost demurred, feeling quite full of healing teas, but the crone called out something in Destrye. A naked Pilaryh appeared, her hair now knotted up too, her robust body gleaming with oil. She hastened to pour a cup for Oria, then herself. “It helps bring up the sweat.” She smiled over the rim, as natural as if they weren’t drinking tea in the nude.
The old woman was working oil into Chuffta’s wing membranes with deft grace, and the derkesthai had his eyes half closed in utter pleasure, his thoughts a murmur of delighted commentary. “Will your pet want some tea, too?” Pilaryh asked, all politeness.
“I don’t think he sweats,” Oria replied gravely.
“Derkesthai glow,” Chuffta noted in such a prim tone that she nearly snorted tea. “But tell Pilaryh thank you for the consideration. And Rachyl that she has a wonderful touch.”
“You caught her name?”
“Mmm.”
“Would you thank the attendant for us?” Oria asked Pilaryh, deciding discretion might be better.
“Rachyl will continue to serve you both. At the end, you can gift her to show your appreciation.”
Oh wonderful. Oria had nothing to give. Perhaps she could have Lonen send something. Finished with Chuffta, Rachyl took Oria’s hand again and held out the other for Chuffta. He didn’t usually go to strangers, but he hopped up onto her wrist, carefully wrapping his talons around the old bones so as not to pierce her skin, raising his tail for balance. She grinned at him, then at Oria, a smile missing se
veral teeth, and said something.
“What did she say?”
Pilaryh shook her head. “Something in her tongue. Arill only knows.”
“She’s not Destrye?”
“Not even a bit, but she’s been here forever. This way for the aswae.”
Pilaryh opened another door and Oria, Rachyl leading her by the hand still, entered yet another room. Both hotter and dimmer, this one seemed to be lit only by bloodred coals gleaming in metal grates positioned around the room. About a dozen women, all naked, lounged around on benches.
All of them stared at Oria.
Pilaryh seemed not to notice, finding an empty tier of three benches attached to the wall. “Start at the top. If you feel too hot, move down to a lower one. But try to resist. Just keep sweating.”
At least lying down, Oria felt less conspicuous. Chuffta arranged himself perilously close to a brazier of coals, belly up and wings spread to their fullest extent, sighing happily. Oria tried to emulate his ease, stretching herself on the topmost bench. She was already sweating profusely, her perspiration mixing with the oil and sliding across her skin. It felt like the hottest afternoon in Bára, without the sun. There, however, they’d never deliberately tried to be hot. Everything had been about cooling—the ices, juices, fruits, shades, and fans.
In this, too, then, the Destrye were opposite. But as the heat penetrated her bones, she felt warm for the first time in what seemed like ages. Rachyl had been tending other women, moving about in the shadows. Oria hadn’t really been watching. She returned to Oria, gesturing her to stand again. Working swiftly, she took what looked like a wooden knife, scraping it over Oria’s skin, then wiping the dull blade and tossing the refuse onto the coals where it hissed, sending up a smoke that smelled of dark spices and a roasted scent she only then identified. Human skin. Oh joy.
“Humans don’t smell so bad once you get used to them,” Chuffta’s snotty comment lost something in the blur of contentment.
Other attendants worked, too, or some women tended each other, some scraping as Rachyl did for her; others rubbing on oil and massaging. Sure enough, once Rachyl finished scraping every crevice on Oria’s body, including behind her ears and the bottoms of her feet, she slathered on more oil and waved for her to lie down again. Rachyl set to work performing the same service for Chuffta, who predictably loved every moment. Oria had long oiled his hide to keep it supple in the desert heat, but it had never occurred to her to scrape it this way. Maybe she could get one of those wooden knives and learn to do that for him.
“Or we could just come here. Every. Day.”
She chuckled at that, but tended to agree. The aswae felt wonderful. After a while, Rachyl returned, this time with a cup of fresh water. Oria sipped it as Rachyl scraped her, no longer minding the smell of old skin burning on the coals. She imagined it as all the filth she’d accumulated and it seemed fitting to burn it. Old pains and sorrows, burnt and turned to smoke.
This time, Rachyl took her empty cup and had Oria sit on a lower bench. She took Oria’s long hair down and, tugging Oria’s head back, poured hot oil through it. The sensation melted through her, leaving utter lassitude behind. This time, when she lay down, her hair once again reknotted, she fell into a deep sleep, free of dreams.
When Rachyl woke her, fewer women occupied the chamber. During the time they’d been in there, women had occasionally left through a second door, and Rachyl, after a final scraping, took her and Chuffta out that door. This room was brighter and almost startlingly cool. Women chatted in louder tones, sliding her glances and conferring as they rubbed themselves and each other down with rough-looking cloths. Rachyl took up a metal flask with a curious attachment and sprayed Oria with a liquid so cool and stinging that her nipples instantly hardened and she squealed—making several of the women laugh.
“It’s always startling the first time,” Pilaryh said, appearing at her elbow, dark nipples tight with a similar response. “It’s like… I don’t know the Common Tongue word, like wine, only different. It closes up the pores again.”
Rachyl cackled, said something in her tongue which, now that Oria paid more attention, was clearly not Destyre, and sprayed her back, following with the cloth that was rough indeed. Then she applied a lighter oil that smelled of the same spices but absorbed into the skin. Oria herself rubbed down Chuffta, skipping the alcohol spray as it probably wasn’t good for him, but using some of the same finishing oil.
Finally, Rachyl sat Oria on a bench with a high back that had divots to rest her neck in. Rachyl unknotted Oria’s hair and combed it out, the wooden teeth gliding easily through the thick oil. Oria cracked open her lids at the murmurs, to discover a ring of Destrye women watching. They spoke amongst each other, Pilaryh with them.
She caught Oria watching. “No one has seen hair like yours, like fire,” she explained. “They want me to ask, if it won’t cause offense. Are all Báran women colored so—or only the sorceresses?”
As her hair had to be nearly black with dirt and oil, she couldn’t imagine how they could even tell. “Our hair tends to be much lighter than yours, but not always my color,” she replied, closing her eyes and resigning herself to the interrogation. “Ask whatever you like. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.”
“Your skin, is everyone so fair?”
“Pretty much, yes.” Rachyl poured some kind of grit into her hair, massaging it into her scalp. It actually felt good, in an odd way. Stimulating and refreshing after the lulling oils.
“Your nipples are pink,” Pilaryh pointed out, and Oria cracked an eye open again.
“Yours are brown,” she replied, resisting the urge to cover her breasts. Pilaryh translated for the ladies, who started giggling, cupping their breasts and showing each other. All of them were more endowed than Oria, much in keeping with their larger frames and robust musculature. They had wider hips and voluptuous thighs. One was heavily pregnant, her breasts large and belly swollen. Oria felt like a wraith compared to them. Wan.
“It’s easy for us to understand now,” Pilaryh said, a wistful sound in her voice, “why King Lonen is so obsessed with you. You are the most beautiful woman any of us have ever seen. Perhaps you are the most beautiful woman in the entire world.”
Oria nearly choked on that, though maybe that was the powder Rachyl seemed to be dusting through her hair, then brushing out into clouds. “Surely not,” she replied. “I’m nothing special. I’m just exotic to you. I would love to have hips and breasts like all of you do.” These women looked built to bear children easily and often. Even if Oria could find a way to get with Lonen’s child, it seemed impossible that her body could swell to carry such a burden.
Rachyl misted some of the spray onto her hair, then gestured for her to sit up again, draping Oria’s hair over her shoulder in a long fall. Impossibly it gleamed brighter than ever, nearly glowing with a healthy sheen. Oria smoothed it, giving Pilaryh a grateful smile. “It worked!”
Pilaryh nodded knowingly. “King Lonen will be most pleased.” She patted her own flat belly. “And soon you will swell with his heirs, perhaps even starting one tonight, lovely as you look.”
If only it were so simple.
~ 8 ~
Lonen couldn’t vouch that spiritual healing did anything real. Nothing like what Baeltya did, removing pain and reenergizing his body. But he did feel as if he’d shed his despair. He still wasn’t certain of the best decision as far as remaining King of the Destrye. But he also didn’t feel that bone-deep weariness just contemplating the choices.
And returning to his rooms, seeing Oria, felt more like a delight to anticipate, rather than fleeing to the comfort of her company to hide himself away.
The guards outside his chamber doors bowed to him. As he strode into the outer chamber, however, he would have doubted that Oria was within if they hadn’t said so. The teeming hordes of ladies, maids, and seamstresses who’d driven him out to begin with had all apparently fled. The rooms had been neatened, too, with ashes car
ried away from the fireplaces, and fresh fires burning, the wood furniture gleaming and furs fluffed.
He supposed they had let it get a bit stale.
“Oria?” he called out, doffing his indoor cloak, tossing aside his wreath of office, and unsheathing his axe to set by the bedroom door. As he entered the room, she rose from her accustomed place by the fire, a lovely flush on her high cheekbones.
“Sorry—I must have dozed off. One day I won’t fall asleep at the least opportunity. I went to the aswae and talk about relaxing. It was so warm and they put oil on you—have you done it?—it’s so purging and—what? What’s wrong?”
He’d been staring. At least he hadn’t let his mouth actually fall open, though his tongue felt unaccountably dry. “Oria,” he breathed. “You look gorgeous. I mean, you’re always beautiful, but—”
She laughed, interrupting the tumble of incoherent praise. Then she stepped out from behind the pair of chairs, held out the skirt of her crimson velvet gown, and twirled. “Isn’t it wonderful? I don’t know how they knew to make it red—maybe from the rags of my robes—but it’s perfect, and I feel almost like myself again.”
She spun again, the full skirts belling out, emphasizing her narrow waist and the elegant fullness of her breasts. The high neckline was trimmed with white fur, framing her delicate jaw, and the long, tight sleeves ended in similar cuffs, with long fringes of fur that trailed over her slim fingers. Her hair hung loose and perfectly straight down her back, nearly to her bottom, not billowing in a cloud as it sometimes had in the dryness of Bára, but in a liquid fall as perfectly shining as a newly forged sword.
“And look!” she was saying. With a bright and saucy smile, she picked up a pair of matching velvet gloves from the table between the chairs, which also held a carafe of wine and two mugs. She drew on the gloves and held them up. “I can touch people without worrying about it.”
She moved to him with something of her old restless energy, that impetuous grace she’d lavished on every movement back in Bára, and framed his face in her hands, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks, smoothing his beard. Her copper eyes, wide and gleaming, full of light, seemed to glow with her pleasure. “I can’t feel, but at least I can touch,” she added, her voice throaty.
The Forests of Dru Page 10
