The Baker's Wife--complete

by Amy Keeley

  Never taking her eyes off him, she sat in the chair.

  “Do not move from that seat,” he said, letting go and stepping back. “Now tell me, goodwife, what do you think about man’s inherent goodness?”

  She blinked. “Pardon?”

  “The question is simple. Do you think people are inherently good or evil?”

  “This has nothing to do with—”

  “Of course it has nothing to do with it.” He began pacing again. “That’s why I’m asking. Have you never thought about this before?”

  “Never.”

  “Not even when you found out about your husband?”

  “Former husband.”

  “And how many know that? He doesn’t even know that. As far as he knows, you are still his loving wife, eagerly awaiting his return.”

  “I left.”

  “To clear your head. But you were furious with him outside the Felldesh manor and never said anything about leaving. Instead, you gave flowery speeches regarding your fidelity—”

  “To you. Zhiv, what’s—”

  “—And Lord Felldesh. You can’t forget what you said in front of him.”

  This felt more like an attack than a discussion. She got up. “Zhiv.”

  “Don’t!” He backed away from her, as if he were afraid she were about to touch him.

  “All right.” She sat back down. “But you must tell me what’s wrong.”

  He laughed, a broken sound that sounded more like a cry. “I can’t tell you. If I tell you, it’ll start again.”

  More than anything right now, she wanted to ask what “it” might be. Would he be able to answer? She thought quickly. “A story then? Of the time of the Ornic?”

  His laugh this time was softer, but no less wild. And underneath the wildness, incredulity. “A story.”

  “You are a minstrel, after all. And yet, I’ve only heard you play your fiddle and sing. So, tell me a grand one, of an aspiring Ornic.”

  He said nothing for some time. She sat and waited, terrified of what he might do, yet even more terrified he would do nothing. “There was a song,” he said, so quietly that it took a moment to realize what he had said. “There was a song we sang in Corzil Zhomik.” He hugged himself. “No.” His words were quiet, as if he were talking to himself. “Still too close.”

  He said nothing more. Still sitting, Krysilla leaned forward. “What do you usually do when this happens?”

  “Yell, jabber, study if I’m somewhat coherent, but never spells.” He winced.

  “Is this one?”

  His smile twisted. “In a sense.”

  “What about when you’re traveling? I imagine yelling becomes rather inconvenient.”

  “Ah, goodwife,” his smile turned once more, becoming the slow smile she remembered from when she had first met him. “You wouldn’t want to help distract me the way I enjoy being distracted.” Once more, she saw his eyes full of desire, but this time his wildness made it less human. Feeling herself drawn to him, she looked down. “Perhaps I should tell you a story,” she said.

  He didn’t respond. She looked up and saw him watching her, clearly puzzled. “You would try to tell a minstrel a story?”

  “You asked me for one once.” She sat up straighter. “You asked me if I knew the story of the stones in the meadow.”

  He leaned back, the wildness fading. “You think you have a story that would interest me?”

  “I could try.”

  “Go on, then. Try.”

  Breathing in deep, she thought about her sister and her. “Once, there was a princess who didn’t want to learn magic. She lived with her sister, her mother, and father, in a large and spacious castle deep in a far corner of the kingdom.”

  Zhiv sat down on the floor and listened, a half-smile on his face, and his focus fully on her.

  Feeling nervous, she continued. “Her sister thought she was a fool. Because the princess didn’t want to learn magic the way her family wanted her to learn it. The only way to learn was through marriage. And the princess swore she would never marry. But then, tragedy struck. Her father, the king, died.”

  He drew up his knees, wrapping his arms around them loosely, still listening.

  “After he died, the queen refused to eat. She lay on her bed with the shutters closed, turning the room into a dark cave. The princess and her sister would watch from outside her door. Many times her servants would beg the queen to attend to matters of the kingdom. ‘The fields must be planted, your highness,’ they would say. But she refused to listen. The only time she came to life was at night before her daughters went to bed. She would call them into her room and tell them stories of when she was a little girl while she brushed their long hair.”

  “What color was the hair of this princess?” Zhiv asked with a knowing smile.

  “Black, of course.” She thought of his description earlier. “Black as a night with no stars or moon. Black as the wing of a raven. And her sister,” she tried to remember what color Nitty’s hair had once been. It had darkened over the years. “Her sister had hair the color of ripened wheat. The queen loved the younger princess, the one with wheat-colored hair, because she loved the things the queen loved. She didn’t press her with questions about the land, or problems the servants had. They talked only of dresses and youth.”

  “Did the raven-haired princess hate her sister?”

  “Not at all. Because they both noticed the beautiful things around the house disappearing until they had nothing worth owning, and they knew the queen’s words were only that. Words. She lived in a realm of memories. No, the one they grew to hate was the queen herself, even though they also sorrowed with her.” Krysilla straightened her skirt, wondering how close she should keep this to her own life. “Eventually, the princess stopped asking the queen and began to order the servants herself. Her sister made friends among those with coin to spare and danced at their parties, telling the stories to her mother, the queen, but never telling her the dresses were borrowed. And then one day, a Blessed One, seeing the state of things, appeared to the raven-haired princess and told her a secret.” Feeling nervous beyond belief, she said, “The Blessed One told her that her mother was under a curse. And the only way to break it was to marry the first man who asked.”

  “That’s an awful curse,” Zhiv murmured.

  “Yes. The princess wouldn’t have agreed if the years hadn’t been passing by, one after the other. But no suitor asked for her hand. And the princess got older and older. Finally, one day, when she was particularly tired, a prince arrived from a far away kingdom.”

  “And did they export cakes?”

  Krysilla laughed. “No.” This didn’t have to be like her life. It could be whatever she wanted. “Music. Beautiful, wonderful music. And he asked her to marry him and she agreed, and now that the curse was broken, everyone lived happily ever after.”

  “Did they?” He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers. “Music feeds no one.”

  “It feeds the soul.”

  “And what good is that when the stomach is empty? Ah, but this is a tale. And I’m being too critical.”

  “My first one.”

  “I beg pardon.” Mischief sparkled in his eyes. He tilted his head. Now, he was more like the Zhiv she remembered. He leaned back against the wall. “May I try?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked beyond her shoulder, and his smile faded. “The tale is sad, and sadder still for having never occurred. For things that are true can be put to sleep with a song or a kiss, and the spell broken that was placed. But dreams linger in the secret places of our hearts, even when we denounce them, even when we set out to kill them with water, with fire, or in the earth.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “In the days when the sun ruled over the land, and the moon had yet to show, a young boy was born to a minstrel. He was the youngest of three. He was also the most handsome, the most clever, and the most troublesome boy in the whole—” he breathed in quick, wincing, as if in pai
n. Shaking his head, he slowly opened his eyes.

  “Family?” Krysilla offered, and Zhiv gave her an appreciative nod.

  “Yes, family. Thank you.” He relaxed slightly, but she could tell that he was battling something once more. “And every night, his mother sang him a song.” He took a deep shuddering breath. “She didn’t sing it because she loved him, though she did indeed love him very much. She sang it because it was his to learn the songs his father knew.” His eyes darkened in anger. “It was his to take his father’s place, and as he grew, so did the hope of everyone in the...family. And the boy did. He learned the songs of his ancestors, and the songs his family had written, and the songs his family had heard in their travels. He learned them all.” Zhiv hesitated, his eyes closing. His mouth opened as if to speak, then mouthed silent words.

  “And then the monsters attacked,” Krysilla said, trying to find a word that he could use without disturbing him further.

  “Yes. Awful creatures. For a year, we ran from them. For a year, we appealed to the King. We sent messengers that never came back.” He began to rock, his eyes growing wild once more. “And then one night, we couldn’t run anymore, and the—” he squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Monsters,” Krysilla offered softly.

  “They came and killed everyone they could find.”

  “Did the boy escape?”

  “No, he didn’t. He tried. His sister took him by the hand and his brother,” he looked like he was about to cry and yet no tears fell, “his brother carried what he could and they ran but the boy remembered his mother, and he left them. He ran back to find her, but no matter where he looked...and just when the boy gave up and found himself lost, one of the monsters got him.”

  “No,” she whispered in horror.

  “The spell,” Zhiv said, and ran his fingers through his hair.

  The execution spell. “The monster started to eat him,” she said. Zhiv nodded. “But he couldn’t finish, could he? There were too many to eat.”

  Zhiv shook his head. “No. The boy’s sister...his sister came back and his brother saved him and they ran.”

  She began to understand. Remembering how easily the King had placed the spell in her wrist, she said, “But...the monster...the monster had left part of a tooth inside him, didn’t he?”

  Zhiv laughed, louder and longer than she expected. “Yes,” he said, laughter still bubbling under his words. “You could say that. A very sharp tooth that tries to eat the boy and kill him. Every. Night.” Zhiv stared at the floor with a focus that unnerved Krysilla. “But this is a dream. If it weren’t, if it were real, then the boy would already be dead. The shard of a tooth is a dream, or else it would cut the boy to ribbons until there was nothing left.”

  Nothing but ashes. “And what happened to the boy?”

  “He lives two lives. When the sun rolls over the land, he is what his father wished him to be: one of the greatest singers ever to walk the paths of sunlight. But as the moon waxes great, so does the dream. After midnight, the boy struggles against the shard until morning.”

  “There must be a way to take out the shard.”

  “There is no way to remove it.” He slowly lifted his gaze before dropping it again. “There is a song. When the boy was young, his sister sang a song to remind the boy of the times when the sun rolled overhead. It was the song his mother would sing when she put him to bed.”

  “Sing it for me?” she asked.

  A smile grew on his face. “I believe that’s the first time you’ve asked me to sing for you.” He leaned his forehead on his arms. “The great Zhiv Mikailsin does not sing for anyone but on the King’s order.”

  “Oh.” Disappointed, she leaned back in the chair.

  Zhiv sighed, his eyes closing. “Thank you, goodwife. I think I might be able to sleep now.” He stood. “It comes and goes. Some nights are worse than others.”

  “I didn’t think...teeth...could linger. I thought it worked quickly.”

  “It’s like any other ‘tooth.’ Still, I’m surprised myself that it hasn’t fallen out by now.”

  “Was it embedded on purpose?”

  “No. The monster meant to kill.”

  She stared at the floor herself, considering the options, then got up. “I’d like to stay down here with you.”

  She thought he was going to fight her. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll sleep on the floor. You can take the couch.”

  “We’ll take turns for now. You get the couch tonight, as you’ve done more than me the past few days and been through more. I’ll take the couch tomorrow.”

  He shook his head, about to protest. Walking toward him, she put a hand on his shoulder and got all his attention fixed on her. Quickly taking her hand away before she became lost in his eyes, she said, “You do need it more than I.”

  He silently agreed, his nodding head showing just how tired he was as he stood. “Are you sure,” she asked, “that you can’t sing me that song?”

  “The closer the boy gets to that dream, the more real the shard becomes.” Lying down on the couch, he said, “The silences were placed because as long as the dream lives, monsters live, and they recognize their own teeth.” He closed his eyes. “And now my promise to reveal that secret is kept. A little late, but kept.”

  Krysilla wrapped herself in a blanket and slept in the chair. Nothing more happened that night.

  In the morning, Krysilla woke to Ziria and her boys, Rysil, a gangly, dark-haired boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, and Syril, who couldn’t have been more than eight, with short, brown hair, and the smell of porridge Zhiv’s sister had brought in a crock, along with more than enough food to last a week. When Zhiv questioned why Ziria had brought even more food, she had smiled, shrugged her shoulders and looked away. “I forgot a few things.”

  The boys were sent to play upstairs, and soon Krysilla and Zhiv were the only ones at the table while Ziria served them breakfast.

  “Did you ever teach her that song?” she asked Zhiv, handing him a bowl of porridge and a spoon.

  “We found another solution,” he said.

  “Did you?” Ziria raised an eyebrow.

  “One you would have approved of, sis. Trust me.”

  Ziria looked at Krysilla who said, “He speaks truth.”

  “I can teach her the melody,” Zhiv continued, while Ziria handed a bowl to Krysilla as well. “Just in case. And I still have the medallion you gave me.”

  “Which she has no knowledge of, I imagine.”

  “She does now.”

  “And now isn’t last night.”

  Eager to change the subject, Krysilla said, “You said you’d bring news?”

  With a final glare at Zhiv, Ziria sighed. “Last I heard, Daegan would be going through Pyorin’s lands to get here. I haven’t heard a word of them. A good sign. But the Dogs are being seen more in the village, and one of them said to Goodwife Wirilianasin, who has a husband in the service of Lord Pyorin, that she’d better only be doing house magic.”

  “Did it?”

  “He. He said that to her, Zhiv. I imagine, since Daegan hasn’t shown up yet, wherever he might be, he’s moving far too slowly for anyone’s sanity.”

  Zhiv nodded. “And what do I owe you?”

  Krysilla looked up from her porridge at his tone.

  “Oh, we’re family, Zhiv.”

  “And that means we can ask favors of each other that we’ll refuse to countenance from anyone else.”

  “He’s never trusted me,” Ziria said, leaning toward Krysilla with a smile that said Zhiv was right. It wasn’t only kindness moving her.

  “What do you want, sis? You’ve visited twice now, bringing food and information, which I am very grateful for, and you and I both know that you want something in return. So tell me, what wish do require of the great Zhiv Mikailsin.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of Parlay.”

  “He’s dead. Killed by order of the Queen herself. And, unlike Teranasin, the
re’s no resurrecting him.”

  Ziria’s steady gaze shifted from Zhiv to Krysilla and back again. “I need you to take my boys for as long as you can keep them.”

  Zhiv almost choked on his porridge. Krysilla stopped eating altogether and put down her spoon, ready to help if he needed it. After a few hacking coughs, Zhiv managed to croak out, “Why?”

  Ziria stared at him. “I’m sure you know perfectly well why. As does Krysilla.”

  There were several reasons she could think of. First, if the Dogs were looking for any signs of Ornic tendencies in the whole village, it made sense to her for Ziria to send her children away if she could. But only if she felt targeted. With a glance at Zhiv, Krysilla said, “Have you gotten any special interest?”

  Now Ziria had Zhiv’s complete attention. With a dismissive wave, she closed up the crock. “Rumors here and there. Nothing substantial.”

  She was lying.

  “What kind of rumors?” Zhiv asked. “You do realize you and your husband could stay here.”

  “He has nothing to hide,” she raised an eyebrow, “and neither do I. I simply feel the boys need to spend more time around an uncle they rarely see.”

  Zhiv shook his head.

  “They’re older,” Ziria continued. “They mostly clean up after themselves. And if they happen to come back with more knowledge regarding the songs and stories we knew—”

  “You certainly wouldn’t be to blame for it,” Zhiv finished, his smirk this time distant and thoughtful. “It’s a terrible time to learn such things, Ziri. You’d do better sending them to one of your husband’s relatives.”

  Ziria’s jaw set. “You know exactly what they’d do if the Dogs came to them. I’d do better marching them to one of the Dogs myself than let one of my husband’s relatives hem and haw and wonder before finally going through with it. More efficient that way.”

  “The Dogs would want nothing to do with them.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do, actually, know that. Very well. You have nothing to fear from the Dogs as long as your boys don’t try any Ornic spells. Even illegal magic is likely to get a pass.”