by Holden, Ryan
He wanted to speak to her one more time. Tell her that Kerry was hers. That she should ride her away, flee from Simon. There were other places, places Simon did not go. She could be free, really free, and live the life her father had lived. He hoped she didn't ruin herself for him.
Orion eyed a knot of soldiers, crimson cloaked, long swords at their belts. They spoke among themselves, hardly glancing at the steady flow of people, carts, and horsemen leaving the city, only the one accosting those entering.
The wagon slowly approached the gates. A lumbering ox cart turned in front of them, probably on its way to a nearby farm, Fleet-footed city folk did the same almost constantly, weaving away eastward through the side streets. Simon yelled at them and told Aeneas and Theo to watch so nothing would be pilfered from the wagon.
Orion took a last look to the setting sun on his left before a mildewed house practically leaning against the wall blocked his view. He walked through the gate. He felt squished, trapped under its arches.
In front of him countless houses of stone proceeded, row upon row. Trees there were, here and there, but they seemed to make the stones more stony, as if proclaiming what could be here instead of the dirty houses.
He heard a noise like a crash of lightning. He looked back. Two crimson figures stood walking the doors of the gates inwards. His last view of the Arcadian plain narrowed. He plodded forward, jerked by the wagon. Clang! The doors shut.
He had arrived. He had made it to Avallonë. And it was nothing he had hoped it would be.
Eighteen
Paris followed the steward down a corridor of the palace. He glanced over the carvings on a great panel of cherry wood. A unicorn, a bowl, a great tree: more of the same local flavor. The steward selected a key from his great ring and opened the first door after the cherry paneling. “Your quarters, sir.”
He walked in. It was four times as large as his previous lodgings had been and well furnished. He stood in the shadows, glancing around the room. The steward walked briskly past him and drew the blinds. The light hurt. He turned his gaze to the edge of the room.
It was rectangular, twice as long as it was wide, a sort of sitting room from the door half arranged with chair and half-table and cupboard for boots. The chair faced another chaise longue, the same style as had been in the Princess's antechamber. Behind the chair a screen stood, embroidered with a full tree in green, red apples hanging from it and birds resting in its branches.
The screen marked the beginning of the quarters proper. A canopied bed filled up most of the space except where a large wardrobe stood, again carved with a tree.
The steward stood at the window, watching him meander. “Anything else, sir?”
“No. You may go.”
The man left without a bow. Rude. Paris added to his list of details to take care of once he came into his fortune. Something caught his gaze. He walked to the window and looked out.
He braced himself for another look at their leafy shrine and faded stonework. The vista was not as he expected. The room overlooked a quiet square, the palace bounding the square on each side. There a willow stood, and birch and elm and a small stand of blueberry bush. A pool lay under the willow, almost hidden by its boughs. Elsewhere lichens and ferns caught what sun the palace roof and tree leaves let through save for a wandering path of cut stone.
All this occupied his eyes but a moment. For across the way he saw a figure standing on a sort of porch. Unlike his viewpoint, which barred his voyage while surrendering the sight, the porch at the figure swept in front of hanging tapestries on one end sloping down in a stair to the green. The man was tall, if Paris's sense of proportion told aright, yet something more than bodily height spoke into his tallness.
At this distance, short though it was, Paris could not read his face. He did detect an odd movement and, reflexively, stepped away from his window. Viewing while masking his own he was about to turn away when he saw a door open on the porch. The tall man didn't move as another man approached, coming out of the palace, and made a slight bow.
Paris thought he saw the newcomer's lips move. The man looked familiar, but he had been so long from court. He didn't remember him from court though—ah, it was the steward that had just attended him. The tall man turned to the steward, as if in response, then resumed his pose as the steward left.
A knock came on Paris's open door. He turned to it. “Your effects, sir.” Two lackeys walked in at his nod and deposited his goods, vastly increased since his recent arrival, at the foot of the bed. They left as quickly as they had come.
He glanced back out the window. The tall man was gone. Shrugging he began arranging his garments in the wardrobe. He had a guess of who that man might be: he had seen him before.
He smiled. Everyone know who came first in that household. He added another item, a large one, to his list of things to change.
Orion scratched his calf muscle. He couldn't see the dark bug in the dim light, or even feel its crawl. Just the dirty itch. They had come directly to this dismal basement straight from the gate. Avallonë, the city of dreams, was built of stones and dirt. All its people were criminals or mercenaries. Lesser criminals like the petty thieves who found nothing as they bumped into him and greater ones like the innkeeper who kept the first sort under their thumb. Or mercenaries who could care less so long as they were paid.
The dark looks and knitted brows from the bar were not better company than the tick that now plagued him, he thought. He was glad not to be a part of that, glad for his rest in the dirt beneath.
Who was he fooling? He ran his fingers over his legs, searching for the bug.
Something smashed overhead, a mug of beer from the sound of it, and the noise from upstairs increased. He wondered that they had any mugs left. Then came a thump and a yell. That might be a wooden mug or bowl, a less dramatic but more durable weapon.
He stopped listening to the brawl when his fingers grabbed a tick. He brought it close to his face but still could not see it against his dirty hands. Holding it near his ear he pinched it between his fingernails. Crunch.
The door creaked open and the steps shuddered under rapidly passing feet. “Enjoy your supper?” Theo stepped past him then bent double in a fit of coughing. “Curse this ash heap!”
Orion still held the crushed bug in his fingers. He looked up, eyes blinking at the light let in as the others followed. It was strange for Theo to yell. Usually it was his word choice, and not his volume, that expressed his mood.
Simon grabbed his chin and jerked him to the right and the left. He walked to the red beard next to him. Orion flicked the bug away and rubbed his neck. He gingerly tried moving it: no more sore than usual. Aeneas snickered at him.
Orion went back to scratching his legs. His nails bit into the skin. He knew he was leaving white marks, marks that would soon turn red. He didn't care. The pain was better than the itch.
“Drink this,” Adara whispered. His mouth sought the brim and he gulped the warm water. It tasted better than it did last night. Her hand stroked his hair with long strokes.
“Found a pet?” Simon struck the mug away, hurting Orion's mouth. Adara breathed in sharply. “Why don't you do your job? Half of the goods are wheezing and got the pus in their eyes.”
“What do you expect, keeping them in this flea-ridden place? Give them baths.” She whimpered as hand met flesh. Orion gnashed his teeth and threw his hands forward, wrists scraping on the cuffs at chain end.
“That was never a problem before. You were never a problem before.” He turned to Orion and struck him.
Adara knelt, rocking back and forth, chest heaving. The chain was long enough. He took her elbows and drew her to him. “Adara.” She fell against his shoulder and sobbed. “Shhhh. You have to leave me alone. You can't risk this.” Her crying grew louder.
“Adara.” His tone changed. “Listen to me. I swear to you, by the tombs of our parents, that I will find you. You must leave with Simon. Forget me until I find you.”
She cried a couple more sobs then it steadied into the whimper of a hurt puppy. He held her for a second more, kissed her cheek, then pushed her away.
She walked away. He thought of his mother and her terrible oath. Had she known she couldn't keep hers when she swore it? Had she lied to protect the ones she loved?
Someday Adara would find out. No, Desdemona would. There was no more Adara. And she would curse her brother for using all she held sacred to lie to her face. The emptiness inside him fed on itself. But how could they be more cursed? She was rid of him now.
Simon led them all outside in the cool of the morning. There was a frost on the ground and the wind had a bite to it. They were dunked in a water trough and whipped with burlap. Orion's skin was as red as his fellow captives by the time they were through.
“Desdemona, come here. I'm sorry I hit you last night. I hear you have another name.” Simon began speaking to her.
Don't tell him. Orion shivered. He couldn't hear her words.
The coaxing continued for a few more minutes until he heard Simon speak clearly. “Adara? What a beautiful name.”
Orion wasn't able to look any more. His eyes lit on Theo who was trying to keep from laughing. Aeneas too. What could both of them find amusing?
Simon walked away, Adara in tow. He pulled garments from the wagon and showed them to her. Her face lit up. He gestured at the clothes then at her. Get your hands off of her! Too late, Theo had chained him just a moment ago. Aeneas was still watching the two. He noticed Orion looking at him and winked with an evil look.
Orion watched Adara disappear into the inn. Some minutes later she came out, her face one radiant smile. His chest tightened and he couldn't breathe. Never had she looked more like her mother. The dress flowed in forest green from her shoulder to the ground. She spun in front of Simon then her face clouded. She spoke and he nodded.
She spun in front of Orion. “Look what Simon gave me.” He smiled, for how could he resist? She stopped, looking hard at him. “You don't like it.”
“It's... lovely.” What was it with her? He was a slave at market and she thought of nothing but a dress.
“Oh, I'm sorry. You didn't hear the news. Everything's going to be fine.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “I didn't say it!” She turned to Simon in fear.
“It's fine, it's all fine. It just needs to stay a secret a little bit longer.” Orion looked at Simon. Something was wrong. Simon glanced behind him.
“Is this in jest?” she asked.
“Of course not. We've worked together, now, almost ten years? It's time I did something for you. Come here.”
Orion followed Simon's eyes. He saw a short man in an outfit that borrowed more from his purse than his sense. His jowls shook as he nodded, a strange light in his eyes.
Orion followed the short man's eyes back to his sister. “No!” He jumped forward with all his weight to no purpose but the rattling of his chains. A small but clear click sounded next to Adara.
Her face shone in trusting expectation for one second more. She looked at the silver bracelets and watched as the chain was held for the approaching stranger. Her knees crumpled and she fell weeping. The man handed a purse to Simon. He flinched from the chain Simon held forth and one of his lackeys stepped down from the carriage for it.
“You told me you would be worth my time.” Simon nodded at Orion. “Excellent performance, as always.”
Adara sat in the carriage where the lackey had placed her. Her eyes were open but she barely saw the striped upholstering of the soft seat. The black boots just opposite held her gaze like the mouth of a cave. She heard the clop of trotting hooves and felt the bounce and sway of the carriage distant from her. As if she were far away or buried deep within herself. There she rocked, back and forth, falling into the dark.
A hand moved forward, paused in midair, then returned. It clasped and unclasped its twin above the dark boots. The voice cleared its throat, then coughed, then was silent. She didn't look up.
The carriage stopped with a squeak of the axles. The boots moved away. The striped seats pulled her eyes up and down while the carved walls threw entrancing details at her. Her unsettled mind was pulled this way and that, not able to take any part in for the whole, not able to see the whole for the complexities of the part.
The voice coughed again. “Please, miss, come down.” She looked to the speaker. It was him. She tasted bile.
“Adara, please. The man said your name is Adara. May I call you that?”
“Desdemona.” She suffered herself to be led.
“Whatever pleases you,” the man smiled, then looked pained. Her eyes blinked. “My name is Evandor.” He waited a moment then hurriedly turned around and faced the great house. Taking her arm under his they entered.
He took his hat off and his coat and hung them up. “Anything I can take from you, Desdemona?” She didn't answer for a moment. It felt like walking in a dream. The door behind shut out the draft. The air was still and warmed by the light entering through large windows.
She turned sunward. The center of each window had a picture of red, green, yellow, and blue-colored glass. The first was a red apple, the second she couldn't tell what the colors said until she realized it merely framed the clear outline of a rearing horse. She looked down, eyes tired from the light, and saw a deep carpet that invited her like a lily-covered meadow.
“Desdemona?”
She looked at him and held up her hands. This was no dream. He blushed and hurriedly searched his pockets. “Just a moment.” He tried again. “Ahem.” He pulled his greatcoat off the wall and checked there. “Here we are. Happy to see this?”
She just stared at him. His blush deepened and he grabbed her hand. His breathing became labored. He inserted the shiny key into one of her bracelets and unlocked it. He still held her one hand in his as he removed the silver circlet.
He opened his mouth then hastily dropped her hand and went to the other. The key fell on the entry's tile floor. Stooping hastily he picked it up and unlocked her other wrist and stood there, cuffs and key in hand. “Well then.” He clasped and unclasped his hand, looking at the key. With a jerk he put it and the cuffs in his coat pocket and hung the coat back up.
He led her upstairs and into a room. A maid was fluffing the pillows on a large bed. “That will do.” The maid curtsied to them and left. “This will be your room while you are here.”
She looked around. Next to the bed, a tall mirror stood atop three wooden drawers of different sizes. A sitting room was arranged in the part of the room closer to them. He led her to a couch and they sat.
“You are very beautiful, you know, Desdemona. I have studied some lore and, well, some names suit better than others. May I call you Adara?”
“Desdemona suits me.”
“But do you wish it to? You look well. You are young. What can have hurt you, my girl?” He reached out to touch her cheek.
She recoiled as if stung. He drew his hand back. “I'm sorry. That is, that is a great shame.”
She stood up in affront. “What is my shame? Say it.”
“It would be impolite.”
“You just bought me. No amount of silver can hide the chains. Of course you want to know the quality of your goods. Say it!”
He cringed. “It is a shame that you had to grow up a slave, surrounded,” he dabbed at his forehead, “by men who— who would take from you that which cannot be given back.”
“Yes, it is a shame. But not my shame. How are you any different? Why does a rich man buy a young girl but for that?”
“You mistake me.”
“Really?” Her voice became as cold as a mountain stream. “You need not fear for your purchase. I remain untouched. Simon did not lie.”
His face broke into a conflicting set of emotions, each passing across its field like clouds under a swift wind. Surprise, discomfort, shame, fear, and joy, united only by their magnitude.
She looked at him, not expecting his reaction. Her emo
tions had left her empty: nothing remained except a dull dread of what must soon happen. Who but the privileged few were spared this?
“Adara,” Evandor said at last. “I must call you that because, for all my faults, I do not lie and I cannot name you what I do not believe you to be. Yes, I did buy you. I know no words that I can ever say will ever change that. But I must speak.”
“Leave me.”
He shifted on the couch. “Very well.” He stood up and walked out. At the door he bowed. “Cora is at your service.”
She missed Orion. Simon saw her as a tool: now that she was broken for his use, he sold her to the highest bidder. Theo found her curious, but then he found everything curious. And no more. In all their years together he never stood up for her. Aeneas? He tolerated her. Wasn't that the greatest insult? To be tolerated. Unloved, not worth respecting, not big enough to hate. Just tolerated.
The reflection on the mirror jumped out at her. Though she did not know the look of her own face well, there was something different. No bruising. Her cheek felt smooth to her touch. Her hair looked clean and alive like Kerry's, not like the wagon horses'. Perhaps it was a vanity mirror and this image was as a commissioned painter would show.
She smiled. The hairline scar at her temple was still there. Her fingers brushed it and she sighed. Some stroked their chins; others twirled their hair. For her it was the scar. She had never seen her face without it. This was her.
The forehead in the mirror wrinkled. Her whole life men had not bothered her. Part she felt was due to Simon but most of it she blamed on herself. Who would look twice at her? Until recently. The last two days at the inn she had seen all she'd ever like of desire and hunger. It was work to keep the coarseness out of mind.
