by J M D Reid
She understood Dualayn’s drive. He’d spent a lifetime researching how to heal his wife from her somnambulant stupor. Not even Chames could remember a time when his mother was vital and vibrant. Every time Avena had witnessed Dualayn stare at the wizened form of Bravine, Avena found a new passion to assist him.
Would I have loved Chames as fiercely? she wondered, the emptiness swelling in her. She hadn’t thought of him in some time, his face grown hazy over the years. Would he have loved me?
“I’ll attend to the rooms, Father,” she said.
“Good, good, child,” Dualayn said as he covered the Recorder in the thick, woolen blanket to protect the artifact. For the hundredth time, awe struck her.
How did the ancients grow two crystals together, let alone one?
So much was lost when the Black shattered Elohm’s perfect people.
Avena shook off her amazement at the artifact as she swept to the front of the public house. It had no name, only a battered sign formed of three splintered planks bound together with fraying ropes. On it was scrawled a picture of a foaming mug. The smell of sour beer and dirt wafted from it. She opened the door to find a common room crowded with men, beards thick, clothing worn and dirty from a day’s labor. They fixed her with a studious gaze as they set down clay tankards. Many wore bands of green cloth tied about arms or as scarfs about necks. The three barmaids, plump girls in flowing skirts and pale blue or yellow blouses threaded through the throng, hair wrapped with green ribbons.
“Well, a traveler,” an old woman said. Wrinkled lips parted to reveal her front two teeth missing, gums puckered at the empty sockets. “Welcome, welcome. You be stayin’ the night, lass?”
Avena nodded. “My companions are stabling our wagon. We need a quiet room for a wounded friend. Clean and dry.”
“All ol’ Hajitha’s rooms be clean and fresh, don’t you fret your pretty head. Why, you remind me of my daughter. Up ‘n before she married that miller’s son and started acting like all the Colours shine from her backside.”
Avena smiled politely as the old woman dragged her along, complaining endlessly about her daughter. Soon, Ōbhin and the stable boy had Carstin stowed and Dualayn had placed the Recorder in his room. Avena found herself sitting at a splintered table with Ōbhin and Dualayn. Bowls of buckwheat noodles cooked with onions and strips of chicken all swimming in a broth of soy set before them. The salty aroma filled the air and rumbled Avena’s stomach. She found herself gripping her green-lacquered chopsticks in eager fingers, the thick enamel chipped off in places.
As she ate, she heard mutterings around them. She frowned at the intense look on the faces of the men as they leaned low over their tankards. The air rippled with sullen anger that made her squirm. Ōbhin’s eyes flicked around the room as he stiffly used his chopsticks despite his heavy gloves.
Does he ever remove them? she wondered.
“Is it a festival?” asked Ōbhin.
“Festival?” she asked. “The Feast of New Birth has passed and the Feast of St. Jettay isn’t for nearly a week.”
“The armbands,” he said. “Are they in offering to your Colour of Forgiveness?”
“We don’t make offerings to the Colours. They’re just different hues of Elohm. But, no, they’re supporters of the Green Briflon.”
Ōbhin gave her a blank look.
“Every Lothonian knows the three Briflon brothers. Many are loyal even now.”
“You see,” Dualayn said, speaking in that voice of authority he adopted when lecturing, “before the Exustin dynasty came to power, the Briflons ruled. When King Kashen died, his three sons each claimed to be the eldest.”
“It should be easy to know which one was the oldest,” Ōbhin said, stirring his noodles around with his chopsticks.
“They were triplets,” said Avena. Pain filled her when she thought about the Tri-Color War. Those who shared the same womb shouldn’t harm each other. Evane . . .
“Yes, yes, and though Kashith Briflon was acknowledged the eldest,” continued Dualayn, “his brothers were not content. The civil war tore Lothon asunder. Each brother adopted a different one of Lothon’s three colors: blue, green, and white.”
“Ah, and the Greens lost,” Ōbhin observed. “Hence, the show of support and the anger in the room.”
“Yes, the Blues won, but Gerey Briflon died in the final battle. His close ally, Anglit Exustin, took command, negotiated peace, and founded the current dynasty.” Dualayn looked around. “I imagine the new grain tax I heard talked about before we left Kash passed through Parliament with King Anglon’s support.”
“They say it’s to pay for improvements,” a sullen barmaid with her hair entwined with long, green ribbons said. She refilled Ōbhin’s tankard and topped off Avena’s.
The local beer wasn’t as bad as the smell promised. Avena wasn’t much for alcohol, but the last few days had stressed her. She took a foamy sip.
“‘Course, only the Blues will benefit. The king remembers which villages supported his faction.” The plump barmaid gave a violent toss of her head and flounced off.
“I see,” Ōbhin said, voice neutral.
Knowing the source of the mutters relaxed Avena. She’d grown up north of Kash where being White had defined many. Is that why Mother used whitewash?
That disturbing thought, and its accompanying rush of memories, had her reaching for her mug and taking a deeper sip. She let the rich brew wash through her body. Before she knew it, her tankard lay empty.
“Thirsty?” noted Dualayn, a tinge of shock to his voice.
Cheeks warmed, she nodded and grabbed her chopsticks.
After eating, Dualayn pushed back from the table first, pleading fatigue and his desire to sleep in a bed, “no matter how many companions might be sharing it,” he said in a jovial manner.
Avena winced, not desiring to wash her hair with saffron oil and apple vinegar again to kill bedbugs. The sour smell had lingered in her hair for weeks. Perhaps that was why she found herself lingering over her tankard, never emptied thanks to the barmaid. She had a warm smile on her lips as she watched Ōbhin drink his beer, earthen mug clenched in sable-clad fingers.
The warmth spreading out of her belly fueled questions brimming in her mind. A man of violence, heart smothered in Black indifference, and yet defied his companions for a friend, faced the tattooed man without flinching, cared in the days that let bright colors shine through his soul despite the miasma choking it.
What were you like before you broke? she wondered, unable to stop looking at his dashing features. Were you as empty as me?
*
Ōbhin felt Avena’s eyes on him more than the warm gaze of the pleasantly plump barmaid. Avena scrutinized him between sips of her beer, making him shift. His shoulders rolled, and he adjusted how he sat upon the rickety chair.
The silence between them, despite the raucousness of the bar, weighed at him. He took a final gulp of the sour swill, missing the syrupy bruash, then said, “It surprises me that you like ale.”
She froze as she brought the tankard to her lips. She blushed, highlighting the girlish delicateness of her cheekbones. She moistened pink lips, her glossy eyes flicking from his downward.
“You seem like a woman who follows your Elohm’s Colours.” He took a sip. “Isn’t Temperance one of them?”
“The Blue,” she said and straightened her back. “Well, I was raised by the Daughters of Compassion, so they gave me a thorough education.”
He frowned at her.
“Cloistered women dedicated to Elohm. They raised me after . . .” Pain flickered across her honest face. “When I was old enough, they arranged for me to work as a maid for Dualayn.”
“Who’s not your father,” Ōbhin noted, curiosity brimming in him.
“I was promised to wed his son,” she answered.
“Was?”
Darkness flickered across her expression. “He passed away.” Her rich brown eyes grew distant, muting the flecks of gold dotting he
r irises. “He taught me to appreciate strawberry currant.”
“Got you drunk, did he?” Ōbhin asked, the heat of the beer radiating through his body. Her blush deepened while a fond smile spread across her lips. Ōbhin chuckled.
It felt nice.
Avena leaned back in her chair, expression transforming to that of a young girl, eyes starry with excitement. He remembered seeing similar eyes peering through a mask, dark and lovely. Remembering that day brought a wide smile to his lips.
“We were promised, so I don’t think we were being too improper.” Her smile grew. “We were sixteen, and he was so gallant.”
His memories rose to Foonauri’s mask. How his naked hands had trembled as he’d peeled it back for the first time and gazed upon her face. He’d witnessed Foonauri’s delicate features, cheeks blushed dark with maidenly passion, lips wet and plump and eager to be claimed.
The first of many delights he’d seized from her that magical night. He thought he’d found his eternity in her embrace. Reliving it didn’t hurt for once.
*
Avena smiled. Warmth, wholly unconnected to the beer, suffused her as it rippled out of her nethers. It filled that emptiness lurking. It was a delight to remember how that day started. Warm and shining, winter’s grip had finally released the world to spring’s shining brilliance.
She studied Ōbhin. Young, like Chames, handsome and strong. He had the shadow in his eyes, the past pain that made her want to soothe him. The scar on his cheek flexed as he smiled. Dangerous. A dashing man who fought. Who acted. He’d stood up for his friend. As lost as he was in the darkness, he’d shown mercy to him.
She missed Chames. He’d had a zest. Life had bled out of him and filled her. The smile on Ōbhin’s face shone with remembered happiness. It transformed him in this one moment. It made her want to share her own memories with him.
“I begged Chames to take me from the house,” she said, aching to speak of that joy. “The sun had emerged from winter’s gray, warmth finally discovering Kash. He filched food from the kitchen, out from beneath Kaylin’s nose. Back then, the cook had a temper for those who trespassed on her domain. Lunch in hand, we strolled towards this secluded part of Lake Ophavin.”
The words poured out of her, the dam of emotions holding back her memories broken. A gush of warmth spilled through her as Ōbhin’s darkness retreated. She saw in his eyes that he understood that heady delight of youth, that bubbly cocoon of love found in the company of that special person.
“We found a cozy spot, secluded by a little willow tree and reeds of the lake. A blue-throated heron waded in the rushes. Chames spread his coat out as a blanket. I didn’t even hesitate to sip the strawberry currant.” The heat intensified while her smile grew. She could see the spring day, the sky blue save for a gray smear on the horizon.
Birds sang in celebration. Small frogs ribbitted in counter harmony. The sun had warmed her face as the strawberry liquor melted on her tongue.
“I felt so alive,” she said, her brown eyes grown starry. “You know?”
He answered with a nod, his own smile bursting with life.
“I don’t even remember how it happened. He was just closer and closer. Maybe I drifted to him. We kissed and . . .” Fiery memories rose, ones she felt in the cold hours of her bed. This was too personal to share, how her love had melted her and Chames together. There had been pain, but the sacrifice was worth what followed. Glorious rapture. A union with him. She’d never been happier. “We were promised,” she repeated. “Practically a mix of our Colours.”
“You Lothonians put too much shame on passion,” he said. “Don’t be ashamed. It is beautiful when two hearts unite. When they sing to the same Tone.” He looked at his black gloves. “We were even promised, as you put it.”
“So you have loved someone,” Avena said. “Good.”
“From when I was a boy. She inspired me.” His expression darkened into that loss she knew far too well.
“Did she . . . ?” Avena found her voice choking off.
“She still lives,” he said, his voice flat. His almond-shaped eyes grew distant. “My father is a nobleman, but low-ranked. A merchant whose hands stank of rotten leather, as they say. Nobles one step up from peasants.”
Avena nodded. Evane had always loved hearing of tragic romances of princesses who loved a knight or soldier or squire but couldn’t marry him for the sake of Lothon. Avena reached her hand across the table to grip Ōbhin’s. She felt the worn yet supple texture of the mink leather.
She squeezed.
“I left our valley for the capital,” he said after a few heartbeats. A raw vein cracked the tenor of his words. “I thought to win prestige and rank in the palace guard. She promised to wait for me. I learned the challenges of fighting with and against resonance blades. Within a year, I was a . . . a . . .” He frowned and muttered a Tethyrian word, musical and flowing. “A lieutenant, yes? Junior officer?”
She nodded, enthralled by his account. The beer and her own memories made her feel buoyant, drifting with his story.
“She . . . Lady Foonauri of Lautsinee came to court the way young women would.” He shifted. “She came for me.”
Avena smiled in delight as a brilliance showed in his dark eyes and dusky features, banishing the last traces of his shadow.
*
The memory of Foonauri appearing at court in her sapphire-blue and deep-purple lehenga choli, a two-piece dress, soared in his mind. He remembered the fringe of silver tassel dangling across her bare belly. The last few years melted away. He felt young again. That boy dreaming of becoming the palace captain for her. She’d worn a white mask, her naqaab, painted with red accents over her eyes and mauve spirals on the cheeks. The white meant a promise, the red stating that she was in love, and the mauve that she hoped to pledge herself to her lover and save her virtue only for him.
He had wept tears of joy inside as he’d stood at his post in his uniform, a tunic-like jacket called a sherwani falling down to his knees. Her eyes had fallen on him, dark and passionate. A fleeting glance and a shift of her posture were all he’d needed to know that she’d seen him. Ached for him.
“With her there, I worked harder. All the men flocked about her, yearning for her beauty, but only I had seen her naked face.” He could remember the night he’d removed her mask and witnessed her dusky features. As beautiful as the evening sun setting over Mount Qaari’s flank. “We met in secret. How I worshiped her. In my arms, we created such harmony. The Tone of Creation before Niszeh’s Disharmony shattered everything into separate pieces.”
Avena had an almost wicked smile on her lips, her cheeks rosy. He blinked at the passion in her eyes. She nodded, eager for the story, not caring about the farmers drifting out to find their beds. Her tongue flicked over pink lips. Talking of the past had ignited fire in his loins, sensations suffocated by the last years of murky existence. She looked so vibrant, colors shining, not muted.
Dulled.
“She must have found you so gallant,” Avena said, her voice a touch breathy.
“She did. Or I thought she did . . .” The pain of what followed, the betrayal, throbbed across his heart.
Avena frowned. “What happened?”
He swallowed and grabbed his tankard. He brought it halfway to his lips before realizing he’d emptied it. He refilled his cup from the pitcher and took a long, deep drink of the sour beer, the warmth a balm against past injustices. The entire time, Avena watched with gold-flecked eyes, a tremble to her lower lip.
“You don’t have to speak,” she said.
“I loved the wrong woman,” he said, the truth burning. The darkness rose, a thick tide.
“I’m sorry. There was another . . . ?” She swallowed, her cheeks paling. “I mean, was she unworthy?”
“Worse. I killed a man over her,” he said, voice scraping. He felt the knife in his hand. He glanced at the sable glove, surprised it wasn’t stained with Taim’s life. “A good man.”
�
�Is that why you’re here?” she asked, eyes shining. She took husband again. “You’re a criminal in Tethyr?”
“Qoth, and, no.” He gripped her hand. “It was her betrothed I killed. He was . . .” He racked his mind for the Lothonian word. “Prince. I thought he was forcing her to marry him, but she’d found a way to achieve what she wanted. My path was too slow. But he wasn’t a . . . handsome man. She took from me the pleasures she couldn’t get from him, though she did let him into her bed, too.”
Tears swam in Avena’s eyes. He focused on them. Who does she grieve for? Surely not me.
“He and I dueled,” he finished, unable to speak about that time in the mines with Taim, their conversation on Foonauri’s actions. “I won.”
Shame burned through him, devouring the last of his fond memories. He hadn’t won fairly. It was cowardly what he’d done. Back then, Ōbhin couldn’t admit to himself the truth of Foonauri. He’d clung to his idealized version of her, the girl he’d placed on a pedestal in his youth. She’d been his world, his drive. She couldn’t have betrayed him. Taim had to be wrong. Lying.
“Afterward, she came with me from Qoth, but I couldn’t give her what she needed. In Guirreu, she found it with another.”
Maybe, he thought to himself as Avena wiped away tears, if I hadn’t been so lost after killing Taim, I could have given her what she needed. I broke that day, didn’t I? My soul cracked, and Niszeh resonated through the gaps.
He poured himself more beer.
*
The pain in his eyes swelled that hole in Avena’s heart. She felt a kinship with him. Their naked guilt swirled around them. She seized her tankard, craving the soothing heat. She hated the empty feeling, tried anything not to experience it. The beer did nothing.
