by Claire Merle
“I would like to know more about the Carucan cleansing,” I say. I have been wishing to ask since our first lesson, and now we have crossed the line of awkward, the moment seems ripe.
Everything I've perceived in Deadran's memories before the winter hibernation, suggests the Prince performed the cleansing as a form of escapism, like my mother. Through the old tutor, I have heard the Prince’s tormented hours spent praying with a priest of Rhag, before losing his past. Nights frantically scribbling words on parchment. Letters, a confession, or an account. As I cannot read Carucan, I cannot say what exactly.
“I am no priest,” Deadran replies, “but I will answer any questions as best as I can.”
“I did not wish the biased answers of a priest.”
The Prince snorts. I glance across, and get distracted for a moment by his lopsided smile. Frowning, I turn back to Deadran.
“How is wiping out a person's painful memories supposed to bring them closer to the Gods?”
“Why do you think it is only painful memories?”
An image of Ma a few minutes after Kel was born flashes in my mind. The midwife had wrapped Kel in warm deerskin and allowed Pa and me back into the bedroom. Ma's face was spotted red, her hair wet with sweat. An exhausted smile lit her eyes as they met my father's.
The midwife gave Kel to Pa, and he tilted the tiny bundle to Ma. My mother's expression transformed. She pushed herself up to see better, panic twisting her face.
“That's why people do it, isn't it?” I say. “People take the mist berries before the long-sleep because they want to forget the pain of their past.”
Deadran rubs his short gray beard, and takes a moment to formulate his answer. “From my understanding, it is not the most painful moments that are taken by the Gods, but the most potent. The memories where awareness of being alive is greatest.”
His words settle slowly through me. If what he says is true, it means Ma did not forget Kel and me because we were the most painful part of her life, but because we were the part that made her feel most alive.
My chest swells. I don't want to cry, but I suddenly want Ma so badly I can't breathe. Tears glaze my vision. Since I left my parents in Blackfoot Forest, I have barely allowed myself to think of them. But this unexpected information slips around my defences. A tear rolls down my cheek. Deadran cannot see and the Prince is positioned behind me, so I let it run to my chin and drop away, leaving the air to dry the salty trail.
“The cleansing,” Deadran continues, “is a way of making space in a person's soul for the light of the Gods. The temporary loss of their most vivid memories is the sacrifice.”
By Deadran's interpretation, the Prince has lived in a state of heightened sentience most of his life—good or bad, or maybe both. I glance around to see how Jakut is absorbing this information. His eyes are closed and his face is still, concentrated.
I wonder if I took the mist berries before the long-sleep what pieces of my past would be buried beneath the veil. My life on the run in the Sea of Trees was punctured with intensity, but the last six years in Blackfoot Forest have been more like watching an old man dying. Before Tug and Brin turned up, time seemed to be winding down to a standstill.
“What happens if an Uru Ana takes the mist berries?” I ask.
“Traditionally,” Deadran says, “the Uru Ana see memory as a gift, a way of understanding and uniting people. So it would not be relevant for them to remove the one thing they believe brings them towards harmony and balance. At least this is my understanding.”
“Is this why the Carucans call us shadow weavers? They think we cannot make space for the light of their Gods because even if we could not access our own memories, we could just see the memories of those around us. We cannot make the ultimate sacrifice.”
“It is possible this is part of how you got the name. But mostly, it is because a lord who had great influence over King Rex, the Prince's grandfather, instilled deep fear in the Carucans concerning the Uru Ana's ability. He said those slaves who escaped Etea and came across the border to Caruca, had poisoned the minds of their slave masters, and wrapped their hearts in shadows. This is why the slave masters set them free.”
For a moment we are all silent.
“Do you have any more questions on this, Mirra?”
“No.”
“Prince Jakut?” Deadran asks. The Prince opens his eyes and also says no.
Deadran continues teaching us the geography of the four remaining kingdoms: Etea, Tmà, Caruca and Rudeash.
I sit back and observe the Prince when he is not paying attention. Perhaps there is some grace in what he has done. Perhaps it is not cowardice or escapism that made him turn to the cleansing ritual, but a desire for higher guidance, a demonstration of sacrifice. The Gods didn't just take his memories. They took his whole identity.
At one moment, as I contemplate the riddle of the Prince and his choice, his eyes turn to me. He gives a small smile. I tentatively mirror it, until I register something in the distance. Tug is watching. He manages to capture both the essence of molten lava and shiny volcanic glass in his obsidian-hard stare. He does not want the Prince and me to make any kind of alliance. But for now, it can only work in my favour for the Prince to believe we are on friendly terms. It will give me an advantage Tug does not possess, and might irritate him as well.
My smile deepens.
Seventeen
On the sixth day of my separation from Kel, I am woken by the sound of hooves. I do not sit up, but roll over in the long grass and spy the King's soldiers in their gray uniforms, riding on the distant road. Tug catches my eye. The others do not stir.
I lie still until I am sure the soldiers have passed. Then I rise quietly, stretch my legs and amble away from the men. I do not intend to run off. I only wish to be on my own for a short time, in a sunny field, with the illusion of freedom. But Tug follows, swishing through the grass behind me.
“How does the grass grow so quickly here?” I ask.
“It is like this further south. The land comes back to life more swiftly after the winter. Here.” I turn and see he has my bow and arrow. I look at him sceptically. Clearly he does not fear I will shoot him. His self-assurance on the matter makes me want to take him by surprise. Just imagine the look on his face!
But once again, he is accurate in his assessment. I had a hard enough time shooting his wolf dog. I kill beasts of the forest only for survival. Shooting a man in cold blood, when I am not under attack, goes against my nature.
“Let's hunt,” he says. “I am tired of eating grain.”
For a moment my gaze wanders to the pack on his back. Are my knives in there? I miss them. Still, manipulating my bow and arrow again is better than nothing. I remove my cloak and drop it on the ground to collect later. Once my quiver is strapped to my back, I try pulling an arrow in its bow. I am happy to discover all the riding and Deadran's remedies have strengthened my arm.
“See if you can keep up,” Tug says. And with that he is leaping through the grass towards woodland. I run after him. It feels wonderful to be moving my stiff legs after so many days in a saddle, to have the sun on my face, to smell the warm grass, hear the birds chirping, and think of nothing. For all his size, Tug is fast. I can barely keep up.
We enter the woodland and a welcome hush fills the air. Buds sprout from slim trees. Blue and purple flowers poke up through layers of brown mushy leaves. Tug signals me to halt. I stop twenty feet from him and listen, catching the rustle of small animals foraging—a red squirrel, and birds. There are hundreds and hundreds of tiny birds with blue-tipped wings and yellow bellies. Then I sense the mind of a larger creature.
We creep forward silently. Soft white speckles appear through spindly branches. A fawn. Its tawny ears twitch as it wobbles on delicate legs. Tug raises his bow and arrow. Pa taught me never to strip the world of such young beauty.
I lower the toes of my boot across a large twig. As it snaps, Tug fires his arrow. The bow pings and the fawn scram
bles away. I'm surprised he missed such a clear shot, even with my interference, until I see the rabbit lying in the undergrowth, sprawled on its side, twitching.
Tug strides through the mulch and picks it up. His wrists flick. The creature's neck cracks as it breaks. A swift, clean death. Tug holds out the rabbit for me to carry.
“Do you not like deer?” he asks.
I grab the rabbit's ears and offer up a silent thank you to the spirit world for this gift of life. “It was too young.”
Tug's lips close in what almost resembles approval. If it were a week ago, I would have been shocked, but I have seen him changing over the last few days. Since he made his deal with the Prince, he reminds me of a sleeping volcano rumbling to life, or the earth shifting in imperceptible increments beneath one's feet.
“Let me see what kind of shot you are,” he says. He takes out his knife and carves a slash in a tree fifteen feet away. If I didn't know better, I would think he was mocking me. The target is ridiculously easy. Maybe he thinks my injury is still too much of a handicap to my aim.
I hand him the rabbit and raise my bow and arrow, flexing and testing my healed arm. I am about to shoot straight for the cross center when I sense another mind in the woodlands. The Prince has followed us. The stealth of his pursuit and the fact he now keeps his distance, means he is spying on us. I tilt my bow pulling my elbow a little too high and adjust my aim. The arrow skims through the air, misses the tree and lands in bushes.
Tug nods. “Your technique needs work,” he says, retrieving the arrow, “but your instinct is good.”
Instinct? I scrutinize his tattooed face. Does he know the Prince is watching?
“Try again.” He walks back to me and as I draw to fire, moves in to adjust my arms. My chest rises and falls erratically. He is up to something.
“He does not trust you,” Tug breathes quietly, “And you cannot trust him.” Yes, he knows the Prince is watching. “His whole escort was murdered, yet he, the assassination target, miraculously escapes. Be wary of him, Mirra. If you fail his test or do not help him in the way he expects, he might drop this act of kindness. Our lives are in your hands.”
He releases his grip on my arm. This time, when I fire, my arrow nips the tree, bark splinters, and a few shavings flutter into the air.
“Better!” he says loudly. “Again!” I pull a new arrow from my quiver, placing it lopsidedly in the bow. Tug leans in to make the necessary adjustments.
“Your life need not be in my hands,” I murmur. “You could change that now. You could let me go.”
He taps my right elbow, indicating I should lower it a little as I take aim. “Then how would you get into the Lyndonian fort?”
“That is not your concern. You could return my knives and I'd steal my horse while you're all sleeping and you could leave me a head start.” I release the tension on the bow. My arrow shafts through the air, royally missing its target.
Tug rubs his growing stubble. “You have some talent for a girl,” he says in a voice loud enough to carry to the Prince. “But you could not survive out here on your own.” His double innuendo is not the height of subtlety and I grow nervous the Prince will understand.
“I knew with time you'd start to care about me,” I say dryly. His mock concern doesn't fool me. He doesn't care whether I can rescue Kel by myself, or not. He is the reason Kel is a captive in the hands of strangers in the first place. “You're not doing this for the gold,” I hiss, drawing myself up to Tug's beast face. “You have lived a hundred lives, but you only feel alive when you're in danger. Waiting to die is not living! Why do you wish to go to Lyndonia?”
Something waits for him there. It is the only explanation for the change that has slowly come over him.
Tug's hands whip out and he clenches both my wrists. My eyes water in pain.
“You have seen how I can obscure things from your sight,” he growls. “Perhaps the Prince can also fool you. How thoroughly have you bothered to search the remnants of his memories?”
The leaves behind us rustle. A boot squelches in the undergrowth. Tug drops my wrists and a blank look slides over his face.
“Your Royal Highness,” he says. “Excuse me, Ule,” he corrects. “We thought rabbit would make a nice change for supper.”
“I will look forward to it,” he says.
I stand staring at the ground. The Prince is the first to break the awkward silence. “It will be dark in a few minutes,” he says lightly. “We had better return to camp.” Tug makes an irreverent bow and the three of us begin the walk back.
I am annoyed with Beast-face. He spoils my small respite from the fear and worry of what is coming. He stirs up questions I have pushed aside. What happened to all those written notes Prince Jakut made before the long-sleep? Why didn't he inform Deadran of the identity of his assassin before the ritual cleansing? What had he done that left him so tormented?
The truth is, my lessons with the Prince have been a welcome distraction. I have enjoyed learning about things my parents could not teach me. But Tug is right to sharpen my focus, to remind me of what I have pushed into the background. In two days we will be at the fort of Lyndonia, and both the Prince's test and my search for Kel will begin. I need all my wits about me.
The Prince and I are not in this together. He is courteous and feeds me, but when he doesn't get what he wants, and he cannot for I must escape, the mask may fall, revealing he is as dangerous as Tug. While I am pretending to be his friend, I had best not forget it.
Eighteen
As the sky lightens, we ride into a village of thatched log cottages. Prince Jakut leads us to a dilapidated boarding house beside a pig farm. The stench of the creatures lingers unpleasantly in all the rooms. We are less than a night's ride from Lyndonia, and no one has told me why suddenly we risk stopping in a public place.
The Prince warms his hands by the blazing fire while we wait for breakfast in the small dining room. I would do the same, but I do not wish to stand so close. Throughout the night, in the intervals between our hard galloping, I avoided trotting by his side, brooding instead over how neglectful I have been in my search of his shrouded memories. The brokenness of his mind disturbs me and quickly drives me out.
“You are sure of this?” the Prince asks Deadran as the old tutor sits down by the fire.
“That will be for Mirra to answer.”
I blow on my frozen hands. “Answer what?” I say, impatient for a warm breakfast to banish the chill of my body.
“Whether the innkeeper's wife is Delladean,” the Prince says. He walks across the room, passing the small windows and dusty, velvety curtains and takes a seat beside me. He pulls his chair close. Once again, I am conscious of how filthy I am. My dark hair is one huge tangled knot. My shirt clings to my back with sweat, despite the cold, and my face must be as grubby as my hands.
“Delladea is an isolated fort near the northern border,” he continues, gaze flickering to the door in case the woman in question returns with our meal. “The mountain pass can only be crossed during two weeks in the summer, so few come and leave, yet it is not far from where I was healed. We will say you grew up there.”
Brin, who sits with Tug at the next table along, fiddles with the purple glass medallion beneath his furs. Tug dodges my gaze. I wonder what I've missed in the Prince's plans for me.
“If the woman is Delladean—” Jakut says.
“She's Delladean,” Tug interrupts.
“Then this afternoon,” the Prince continues, ignoring Tug, “after you have rested, you will stay here, learning as much as you can. I have business to attend to. Tug and I will go together. Brin and Deadran will stay with you. Then we will take a late evening meal here, ride through the night and announce ourselves at the Lyndonian fort tomorrow at dawn.”
The innkeeper's wife enters with a great platter of crispy bacon, mushrooms stuffed with melted cheese, and a steaming vegetable broth. I use the entrance to move away from the Prince.
Tug's eye
s track the multi-colored bead bracelet slipping out from under the cuff of the woman's shirt. She sets the tray of food on the table, hands trembling. She has not looked at Tug or Brin once.
I have grown so used to their savage tattooed faces, I barely notice them anymore. The Prince might hope to pass me off as a Delladean serving boy, but how will he explain the company of two mercenary bounty hunters? As the woman moves to leave she nods and mutters, “Sirs, Miss.”
“My father,” I say, addressing her, “thinks he can tell the birth town of any person by the clothes he or she wears.”
“Which one is your father, Miss?” the woman asks, wiping oily hands on her apron. I point at Tug. His eyes narrow.
“Oh.” A little of her nervousness vanishes. “He barely looks old enough.”
“It's the tattoos. They hide his wrinkles.” Tug's gaze locks down on me. “My father,” I continue “says the bracelet with the colored beads shows you are not from these parts.”
The woman ruffles up her sleeve and her fingers hover over her bracelet. “It's Delladean,” she reveals. “I've not returned these fifteen years. Too much to keep me busy here.” She tilts her head in a respectful nod and returns to the kitchen.
Jakut watches me curiously.
“What was that?” Tug asks.
“You were making her nervous. She needed some assurance a human exists beneath your beast face.”
Brin snorts.
The Prince reaches forward to serve himself. “How did you know about the bracelet?” he asks.
“Tug was staring at it,” I say. The Prince frowns. Perhaps he thinks I understand Tug too well.
We eat in silence and I am suddenly struck by something. Though I'm dressed as a boy, and my hair is a long tangle like Brin's and I am in the company of men, the Delladean woman did not hesitate in calling me Miss, even before I spoke and my voice gave me away. When Tug and Brin first saw me in Blackfoot Forest, when they took my skinny rags and bones to the Pit, people assumed I was a boy. I have fattened up in the last week. I may have to stop eating so much.
