by DAVID B. COE
But then a shadow falls over her eyes, or a remark slips out that seems to hint at her former life, and the light I see in her is extinguished as swiftly as a candle in a sudden wind. If I pursue these matters with questions, she withdraws, grows silent, even sullen, as if by asking I have committed some breach of trust. At these times it doesn't matter what tone of voice I use, gentle or hard: Licaldi remains reticent. And my frustration grows.
I sense that she is aware of my feelings. And here I mean far more than the obvious. Of course she knows how eager I am to know more about her- my questions, which I've repeated probably dozens of times, can leave little doubt as to that. But I think she knows as well that I've grown attached to her that in many ways she has rescued me from a life that was a good deal emptier than I ever realized. For too long I've lived without companionship, without love. I was starved for it, though I never knew it. Licaldi did, though. I'm just as certain of that as I am of the fact that she has seen horrors beyond my imagining. I'm not so foolish as to think that she chose this village for that reason, or even that she contrived in some way to end up with me. That was the will of the gods, who may well have marked us for one another long ago.
But I do believe that she uses my need against me. Perhaps if I had a husband and a family, I wouldn't be so frightened that I might drive her away with more persistent questioning. Perhaps if I hadn't grown so accustomed to her presence here in the short time we've had together, I would be more eager to find the truth and return the poor girl to her rightful home. I don't know how much of what she does is meant to bend me to her will, and how much merely has that effect inadvertently, but I have seen her haggle with peddlers on my behalf, and I have seen her turn others to her purposes and I recognize some of the devices she has used on them as being the same she has used to good effect with me.
Just a few days ago, for the first time, she played with some of the other village children, and in no time at all she had made herself their leader, though she was neither the oldest nor the biggest. She convinced them to play a game of find the wraith by rules I had never seen before. She didn't bully them, though I believe some of the other children are afraid of her She merely got her way, as she so often does.
I don't mean this to sound as mean-spirited as it probably does. It's late and I'm weary and I should be sleeping. She's a good girl, and I've come to love her very much. But she is someone who makes the world as she wants it, and woe to those who would stand in her way.
Except that isn't right either, for I can't imagine that her world is anything like what she imagined or hoped it would be just a few turns ago.
Dreaming Moon, sixth day of the waxing, 1147
At last, a spar of light in the shadows. Some of the mystery surrounding the poor girl was lifted today, though learning what I have I am more convinced than ever that she has been through a terrible ordeal, one she was fortunate to survive. And I'm equally certain that those she loved were not as fortunate as her
We were in the marketplace, as we often are in the mornings these days af – ter breaking our fast and walking in the garden to see how the crops are coming along and what damage one determined and cunning rabbit had done over the course of the previous night. We've never seen the creature, though he leaves ample evidence of his visits. Licaldi has named him Terki, after the trickster of Mettai lore. I think it a fine name and have resolved not to leave snares for him, though only a turn ago I would have done so without hesitation. Didn't I say that she almost always gets her way?
But I am avoiding that which is so unpleasant to write.
We were in the marketplace, looking at bolts of cloth that were being sold by a Qirsi merchant from the Talm'Orast. She'd been with me long enough, and had become so much a part of my home, that I wanted to make a cover for her bed, which now stands in the corner of my own bedroom. She had chosen a fabric we both liked and the merchant and I had agreed to a price of one gold and two silvers.
It was a good price for such fine material, but I'd known this merchant, a woman named K'Malai, for many years and she often does well by me when it's clear that I want something. She's wise enough to want to stay in the good graces of the village's eldest.
As I was pulling out the coins, she remarked that she hadn't seen Licaldi before and she asked the girl how she'd come to be living in Kirayde. I paused, interested to hear Licaldi's answer.
The girl looked at me, and I knew that she wanted me to help her to make up some story that would answer K'Malai's question without forcing her to delve into the truth. This one time, I refused her simply by doing nothing.
I saw anger flash in her emerald eyes and an instant later she spun away and fled the marketplace.
I called after her once, drawing the stares of others nearby, but Licaldi didn't stop.
"I'm sorry," K'Malai said. "I didn't mean to upset her"
"It's not your fault. She came to us just before the full of the previous moon, and we still don't know where she's from or what drove her from her home."
"You know nothing about her?"
"She's Mettai. Her name is Licaldi. She came to us half starved and wretched from having wandered in the wilderness for who knows how long. I believe that something terrible has happened to her, but I'm only guessing. We know nothing for certain."
The merchant appeared to consider this for some time, her hands on her hips, and her lips pursed. "You say she's Mettai?" she asked at length.
"She says she is. She's too young to show any signs of knowing blade craft." "Still, she looks it."
"If you suspect something, you'd best tell me. Even the hint of a rumor would be better than the nothing we know now."
"It's more than a rumor, though it's far from certain that it has anything to do with the girl. But there's a Mettai town south of here, one I used to stop in when I came up this way." She winced. "I say there is a town; I should say was. It was struck by the pestilence not long ago. As far as I know, no one survived."
"No one?"
She shook her head, a haunted look in her pale yellow eyes. Even for the Qirsi, whose power to heal the sick runs far deeper than any magic of ours, the pestilence is cause for terror "As I say, this might have nothing to do with her"
But I knew better "You said not long ago. Can you be more exact?"
She shrugged, narrowing her eyes. "About a turn, I'd say. Maybe a bit more."
It seemed to me that a turn would be about right. "What was the name of the village?" I asked.
"Sentaya."
I repeated the name and nodded. "Thank you, K'Malai." I gave her the coins and took my cloth.
"I hope this has nothing to do with the girl," she called after me, as I started to walk away.
"So do I," I answered. "But it does. It has everything to do with her"
I took the cloth home, hoping that I'd find Licaldi there. When she wasn't I began to grow concerned. She hadn't strayed far from my side since the day she arrived in Kirayde, and I didn't know if she could find her way back to the house without me. Clever as she is, though, I should have known better. I found her in the garden, sitting among the bean poles, her knees drawn up to her chest, and her long hair hanging over her face.
I sat down near her but I said nothing. I wanted her to start this conversation. For a long time, she remained silent, and I had the sense that she was just as determined that I be the first one to speak. I've heard parents speaking of engaging their children in a contest of wills. This was my first experience with such a thing. Does this mean that I'm a parent now? I feel that I become more of one with each day that passes.
Eventually I decided that this was a contest I didn't necessarily need to win. "Her question frightened you," I said quietly.
Silence.
"Eventually, you're going to have to tell me what happened."
That of all things drew a response.
"Why?" she demanded, tears on her face. "Why do you need to know? Isn't it enough that I'm here? Can't we just pretend that
it's been like this all along?"
"This isn't play, Licaldi. And it hasn't been this way all along. Something happened to you, and if I'm going to take care of you, I need to know what it was."
She sat there a moment longer, and then she started to climb to her feet. I grabbed her arm and, not gently, forced her to remain where she was. I'd never done anything of the sort before, and she gaped at me as if I had slapped her across the face.
"I'm not done speaking with you," I said sternly. "And until I am, you'll stay right where you are."
She looked frightened, though of me, or what she thought I might ask her, I'm still not certain.
"You're from Sentaya, aren't you?"
All the color drained from her cheeks and tears spilled down her face. But she didn't answer me.
"The pestilence came, and everyone got sick but you. Isn't that so?" I took her hand, and though she didn't grip my fingers in return, she didn't pull it back either "Your mother and father died."
A sob escaped her
"Perhaps a brother or a sister, as well?"
"Two sisters," she whispered.
At that moment it seemed that my heart split in two. Part of me grieved for her and all that she had lost, while another rejoiced at hearing her voice, at having her trust me enough to offer even this simple answer. It was a fleeting sensation, for in the next moment she frightened me terribly.
"Please don't make me say more!" she said, throwing herself on me, clinging to me as she sobbed and sobbed.
More! How could there possibly be more? Wasn't this enough? Hadn't the gods heaped enough anguish on this child? Already they had taken too much from her; already they had forced her to endure horrors that would have overwhelmed people twice her age. I tried to tell myself that she referred only to the ordeal of watching them succumb to the disease. Surely she would have shrunk from reliving that. But I believe there really is more, something that remains trapped within her, like some terrible beast fighting to break free.
I didn't push her any further and she volunteered nothing else. We remained in the garden for more than an hour, and she cried for a good deal of that time until at last she fell asleep, her head in my lap, my fingers stroking her hair I let her remain that way another hour before shaking her gently.
When she awoke, her spirits seemed greatly improved, almost as if she had forgotten the events of the morning. I couldn't be certain whether this was genuine, or if she was acting this way for my benefit, but I decided that she had been forced to reveal enough of herself for the day, and I didn't broach the matter again.
That, then, is how matters stand tonight. She is sleeping soundly at present, though it wouldn't surprise me if the day's revelations trigger another spate of dark dreams. I'm prepared, of course, to help her in any way I can, but I have to admit that I have fears of my own. I've yet to learn all there is to know about Licaldi's past. What I've gleaned thus far is dark enough. I dread what I might learn next.
Besh laid the daybook aside and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Glancing out the window of the old hut, he saw that the sun had sunk low in the western sky, its light shading toward gold and shimmering on the waters of the small rill that ran by the village. Another day gone, and he found himself feeling much as Sylpa did: frustrated by how little he had learned, afraid of the revelations still to come.
The fact was that these days he often thought as Sylpa did. Perhaps it was inevitable, delving into her private writings each day, but he had discovered that his mind and hers worked in similar ways. She would have been younger than he when she wrote all this about Lici, but not so much younger that he couldn't find much in common with her.
When he first mentioned to his daughter that he had become consumed with learning the truth about Lici and her disappearance, Elica had asked if he loved the old woman. Of course he didn't. She terrified him.
Oddly, though, he now believed that he had come to love Sylpa. Never mind that she had been dead for more than eleven fours, or that even had she been alive, she would have been fifty years older than he. For the past half turn, he had been reading her journal, glimpsing the workings of her keen mind, sounding the depths of her compassion for the poor girl whom fate had thrust upon her. Aside from Ema, he had never known any woman so intimately. At first he had sworn to himself that he would only read those portions of the journal that touched upon Lici and her past, but in recent days he had spent as much time reading about Sylpa's life as he had trying to learn what he could about the girl.
As Besh anticipated, he had found references to his parents in the journal. He hadn't expected, however, that Sylpa would have unkind things to say about his mother, about her pettiness and her tendency to hold a grudge. Nor had it occurred to him that, upon seeing his mother through this woman's discerning eye, he would agree with most of her criticisms. It struck him as odd that he should place so much faith in the judgments of someone he'd hardly known, and yet it also felt perfectly natural. At times, as he walked through the village, or even as he sat at Elica's supper table, listening to the prattle of his grandchildren, he would have private conversations with Sylpa, sharing his own observations and imagining things she might say.
Up until recently, it was something he had only done with his beloved Ema, and he couldn't help feeling that he had somehow betrayed her. If he had fallen in love with a living woman and allowed her to share his heart with his dead wife, he wouldn't have felt nearly as guilty as he did daydreaming about this other woman, dead so many years. He never mentioned Sylpa to Elica, unless it was in the context of something he had learned about Lici, and then he rarely uttered Sylpa's name. It was as if he were having a secret love affair with a wraith. A part of him knew how ridiculous it was-Elica herself might have found it humorous. But he could never work up the courage to tell her.
The only person who had any idea was Pyav, with whom he shared all that he learned of Lici's childhood. And if the blacksmith had noticed anything unusual in the way Besh spoke of Sylpa, he had the courtesy to keep his observations to himself.
Besh pushed himself out of the chair and stretched his back. Then he returned the journal to the old wooden box in the back room of the house, taking care to place Lici's bag of coins on top of it, so that all was just as he had found it that first day when he and Pyav searched the hut. He wasn't certain why he bothered doing this every day. He was the only
person who ever entered the house, and he was starting to doubt that Lici would come back, though he'd yet to say as much to anyone. Still, he left everything just as it had been, even going so far as to return the chair he'd been sitting in to its original place by the hearth. Only then did he make his way to Pyav's shop.
Besh had gone to speak with the village eldest each day after reading the journal. By now Pyav expected him; he was sitting out front when
Besh arrived.
"You look tired, my friend," the blacksmith said as Besh sat on the bench beside him.
Besh smiled wanly. "It's all the reading. Sylpa's hand isn't the easiest." It almost seemed that she was there at his shoulder, listening. And he added, as if for her benefit, "Though it's a good deal better than mine."
"Anything today?" Pyav asked. He already sounded bored, and not for the first time Besh wondered if the man thought him foolish for going to all of this trouble.
"Actually, yes." He was pleased to see the surprise on Pyav's broad face. "It seems that Lici's village was ravaged by the pestilence. That was how she happened to be wandering alone in the wilderness."
"Her family?"
"All of them died. Her parents and two sisters."
The eldest exhaled through his teeth. "Well, such a thing is bound to lie heavily on anyone, particularly on a child of that age."
"I agree."
"Still," Pyav said, raising his eyebrows. "I'm not certain that it explains all that we know of Lici. Such a thing might leave a person scarred, even bitter. But Lici goes far beyond this. There's a darkness in her
that
I can barely fathom."
"Sylpa thinks there's more to this tale than we've heard thus far,"
Besh said. He regretted the words immediately.
"Sylpa thinks?" Pyav repeated. He laughed, though he seemed uncomfortable. "You do realize that the woman is dead."
"Of course," Besh said, making himself smile. He felt his face coloring, and once more he had the sense that Sylpa was there, waiting to hear how he would handle this. "Forgive me. I've spent so many hours with the daybook that I forget sometimes whether I'm living in Sylpa's time or ours."
Pyav frowned. "I'm concerned for you, Besh. I shouldn't have to remind you that you're not a young man. You're pushing yourself awfully hard, and I'm not certain that it's worth the effort. Even if there is more to Lici's story than this tragedy you read about today, what difference does it make? Do you honestly still believe that Lici left here because of something that happened during Sylpa's lifetime? Do you even still believe that Lici's alive?" He passed a hand over his face, wincing slightly. "I'm sorry to say this to you, Besh. Truly I am. But I think you're wasting your time. At first, when you started reading the daybook, I thought maybe there was some point to it. We know so little about Lici, and I felt that anything we might learn about her would be helpful. So this is my fault as much as it is yours. Probably more. But I think it's time we admitted to ourselves, and to everyone else in the village, that she's gone, that she's not coming back, and that we have no idea why she left." He placed his hand on Besh's shoulder. "I think it's also time we admitted that we're relieved to be rid of her."
