“I'm not walking back down that bloody stair,” Idisio said, surprising himself. He bit his lip but met his lord's gaze steadily.
“Good,” Scratha said, and looked back at Riss.
“I'll obey, my lord,” Riss said.
Scratha nodded. “There's a truth for you to tell, Riss,” he said. “One you've been avoiding. It's time for Idisio to know.”
Riss opened her mouth, seeming about to protest.
“That's an order. Resolve it before we move on.” He met her glare, steady and grim, until she retreated to studying the table again. “There's always the option of leaving,” he added. “But if you go, there's only one path: back down the Wall. I won't have either of you wandering loose up here.”
He sighed. “Plates are on the food table. Help yourselves. I'll pay when we're done eating.” He stood in a graceful unfolding of long legs and stalked away.
In the long, awkward silence that followed, Idisio felt like scrambling to his feet and diving for the food as a distraction, but he didn't want to be the first to move. Riss seemed similarly frozen in place.
“Oh, hells,” she said at last. “Idisio, look at me.”
Her tone suggested a willingness to wrench his neck permanently upright if he didn't do as ordered. He met her steady stare, doing his best not to flinch or look away.
“What do you know about dasta, Idisio?”
He shook his head. “Not much. I know it's some sort of . . . I mean, I've heard it's used for, uhm, for. . . .” He fumbled to find words that weren't too embarrassing, and failed.
“It's a highly addictive aphrodisiac,” Riss said bluntly. “Southern whorehouses use it to make sure their women are docile. There are boys in the trade, too.”
“I know,” Idisio said. A wave of dizziness and a sense of screaming rage swept over him briefly; then it passed. He blinked and focused on Riss again. She didn't seem to have noticed anything.
“Karic fed me dasta about once a week for over a year,” she said. Her lips tightened. “I never realized until I overheard him talking that night. I'd never heard of dasta before.” She cleared her throat and looked away. “I realized pretty fast I was addicted.”
“I gathered as much,” he said.
Her expression became fierce. “It's an aphrodisiac addiction,” she said, almost snarling. “One of the things you want when the craving hits is sex, because that's always been part of the experience, and you think that can stop the hurt of not having the drug.”
He stared at her, at a loss for words.
“Lord Scratha explained all that, one night when you were asleep early, and asked what I wanted to do. He said I could bed him if I needed to, or you if you'd agree; I didn't want another man to touch me just then. He said he understood and that he'd do what he could to help me without that.” She spoke rapidly now, as if trying to get it over with.
Idisio's jaw loosened. He opened and shut his mouth like a landed fish several times, conflicting thoughts and emotions rushing through him.
“He said you could take me to bed? Oh, gods,” he added instantly, utterly mortified, and covered his face with both hands. “I'm sorry, Riss, I didn't mean to say that. Oh, gods.”
To his surprise, she laughed. Not a joyful laugh; more a weary acknowledgment of a painful truth. “Yes. And I thought about it. But I was so hurt and so angry . . . that just wasn't an option. Just explaining it all to you was more than I could handle. That's why I spent so much time in my cabin, on the ship. I still . . . I still crave. . . .” She stopped, cleared her throat. “But I can handle it now.” Her stare dared him to question that statement.
“Yeah,” Idisio said, numb. She'd thought about going to bed with him? He spoke to cover the awkward silence, and made it worse: “Well, that's all right.”
He dropped his face back into the safe darkness of his palms for a moment, feeling like the world's biggest idiot, then made himself look up and face her.
“I meant. . . .” He fumbled for words, and quickly gave up. “Sorry.”
Her grin had more real humor in it this time. “I understand,” she said, and looked away, giving him a chance to recover. “Looks like Lord Scratha found some other people to talk to.”
Idisio looked across the room. Scratha had settled at a table with three other men, all dressed in desert robes, dark and hawk-faced.
“Giving us time to talk it out,” Idisio said.
“Really,” Riss said, deadpan; he shot her a startled glance and she grinned. She stood. “Let's go get some food.”
Idisio jumped at that suggestion; it gave him something to do with his hands besides twisting them nervously and something to do with his mouth other than gape. They filled their plates and applied themselves to their food in silence. Idisio was chewing over more than the food on his plate, and had nothing to say until he'd sorted it all out. Riss had an almost serene expression on her face, as if she'd said everything that needed saying and felt content to leave it at that.
“Honesty,” he said at last, tentatively. She glanced at him. Idisio poked at a ball of rice until it fell apart, revealing a strange grey paste inside. “It's not easy.”
He fell silent again, not sure how to present his own truth, but knowing he needed to.
“I think that's called quba,” Riss said quietly, pointing at the dismantled rice ball. “It's a paste made from cactus peppers.” She picked one up from her own plate and popped it into her mouth.
“I've been. . . .” Idisio started, and took refuge from speech with a bite of the quba.
A moment later he began coughing, his mouth and throat on fire. Riss reached across the table, lifted his goblet, and pressed it on him. He gulped at it gratefully. The liquid tasted like a strong, warm tea; in other circumstances Idisio would have called it bland. At the moment it tasted wonderful.
“I grew up on the streets,” he said once he had his breath back, and told the rest in a rush, before he could lose his courage. He used as few words as he could and left out the most humiliating parts; still, Riss looked horrified by the time he finished.
“I'm sorry, Idisio,” she said. “I've been thinking you wouldn't understand what I went through.”
“Not the dasta,” he said. “I never had to deal with that. But the . . . what they did . . . yeah. I have some idea.” He took another bite of the rice, more carefully this time, and washed it down with a sip of tea.
“That's why you were so fierce about that sailor's child,” Riss said. “Wanting to save him from life on the streets, if that's where he is.”
Idisio started to nod, and the dizziness came back, a distant humming in his ears and a shrill howl of fury. His vision greyed for a moment, and he had to blink hard and rub his eyes to focus again.
Riss' stare had turned sharp and thoughtful.
“I'm just tired,” Idisio said, offering a tight smile. Judging from the twitch of her mouth, she didn't believe him, but she let it go. They went back to eating in silence.
Their plates were empty by the time Scratha returned to their table. He stood over them, looking down, and said, “I've arranged lodging for the night. If you're done eating, let's go.”
As Idisio stood, aches and stiffness from the long climb made themselves known. He rolled his head in an attempt to loosen the muscles and dropped into a deep leg stretch when his calves started to cramp. He straightened to find them watching him with amusement.
“You looked awfully silly,” Riss said. “I thought you were having some sort of seizure for a moment.”
He shrugged, refusing to apologize, and followed them out of the room. Scratha steered them through a different doorway than the one through which they'd entered; it led to a long hallway with wide, arched openings on one side that let in air and sunlight. Doors were spaced along the solid wall. Scratha stopped at the third door and touched the surface with his fingers.
“Servant quarters,” he said, then pointed to the next door. “My quarters. There's a connecting door if you need me
. I'd advise not wandering around alone. Get some rest. We've a long way to go tomorrow, and you'll need your wits.”
He walked away. Idisio stared after him dumbly, took a half-step to follow, and stopped again. Scratha opened the next door and stepped into the room without looking back. His door shut.
“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Riss said. She opened their door, put a hand in the small of Idisio's back, and propelled him inside. The room smelled of sharp and bitter things Idisio had no name for, but seemed clean.
“Bitewood and pepper,” Riss noted, sniffing, and looked pleased. “There won't be any bugs here.”
Idisio grinned, startled at that bit of domesticity from Riss of all people.
“What?” she said, catching his expression. “Stables need to stay free of bugs too, you know.”
Floor to ceiling, brightly colored silk hangings covered the walls; Idisio guessed the connecting door to Scratha's room lay behind one of the draperies, but didn't bother looking for it. Four wide, thick cushions lay on the floor, each one easily large enough to serve as a mattress for a man Scratha's size.
The other furnishings took up almost all the remaining space in the small room: a low desk with a kneeling pad, a washbasin, and a chamber pot. A wide window covered by a light curtain of woven reeds allowed the vague evening breeze to drift through the room.
Idisio sat on one of the cushions, determined to act casual and relaxed. Riss lifted one cushion on top of another, then pointed at him.
“Lie face down,” she said, moving her hand to indicate the cushions.
“Huh?”
“You're stiff and sore,” she said. “We both are. You first. I'll work you loose.”
“Uh,” he said, his calm act completely shattered.
“Come on, I won't bite. I promise. Lie down.”
Idisio cast an assessing look at Riss' expression and obeyed; at least he would be face down.
Riss's fingers dug into his back with surprising strength.
“Working around horses,” she said as she kneaded and rubbed, finding every sore spot and stiff area, “you learn about keeping them fit and moving easily. No great stretch to move that to people.”
“Great,” Idisio said, the words muffled by fabric, “now I'm a horse.”
Riss made a whinnying sound, and they started laughing.
By the time Riss finished working his back and legs, Idisio was grinning like an idiot. He'd never expected to feel so comfortable around a girl, let alone this one, but Riss kept up a steady stream of banter, encouraging him to join in.
Riss insisted on explaining what she was doing so that he could rub her down next, but when that moment came, Idisio found himself too terrified to lift a hand. She made a disgusted noise, pushed the mats apart, then stretched out, pulling a light blanket over herself without a word. “I'm sorry,” Idisio said lamely.
After a moment, she sat up and looked at him.
“I'm not really mad,” she said. “I guess I should take it as a compliment, that you're afraid to touch me in case you're overcome by lust.”
Idisio gaped, shaken and wordless at her bluntness.
“It's all right,” she said. “Go to sleep.” She leaned over and turned down the lamp. The darkness, pressing in close and hot, silenced any more attempts to apologize; he found his bed mat and lay down without another word.
It took him a long, aching time to fall asleep.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
In the darkness came a hard pressure that took away Alyea's breath; then, abruptly, a growing light and a floating, empty feeling. She saw nothing around her, but felt surrounded by presence—one, many, she had no way of telling. It was just presence, stronger even than the ishrait's had been.
In a moment of clarity Alyea understood that the ishrait had to be a ha'ra'ha herself.
The light shifted and separated, forming pools and lines of not-light. Alyea stared at the abstract patterns for some time, watching them move, join, split, and curve, feeling the open, idiot wonder of a child learning the world for the first time.
At last she realized that the shadows and planes of light hinted at the definition of an actual, physical form. Focusing more sharply, she saw the ha'rethe in front of her for one searing moment, and as the light dropped steeply back into darkness, she screamed.
The floating, dreamy feeling returned, along with a sense of sadness that brought tears streaking down her face.
You do not offer us acceptance, a voice said. So few humans offer us acceptance, despite all we give your kind. What do you bring us, then? What is your gift to us?
Gift? She blinked hazily, trying to remember if the ishrait had said anything about a gift.
You must give something, the voice insisted. It is not sharing until both sides give. What is your offering?
“What do you want?” We have been given many gifts, and none have asked that question. The voice sounded rather startled. It fell silent for a time, as if thinking, then said, Tell us a story that means something to you.
“A story that means something to me?” She paused, remembering a story one of her nurses had told her long ago. “All right. I'll tell you about Krilla.”
Drawing a deep breath, she began reciting, letting the cadence of the words take over her voice.
This is a story of a distant northern village, high in the Scarpane Mountains, the village of Alonir. Although it is in the path of many of the worst winter storms, somehow most of them turn aside and leave the village untouched. Old men and women of Alonir say this is because of Lord Krilla.
Krilla lived with her mother, father, and three sisters, in this village of Alonir. She was the youngest, no more than sixteen, and very slight and homely. Her older sisters were attractive but vain, and their mother desired to find them suitable, wealthy husbands. But the wealthy men lived in the foothills and plains below the Scarpane Mountains, and the family was too poor to travel so far.
The three sisters did not like to go outside. They protested that the harsh winter winds and freezing air would ruin their looks and that they would never find good husbands without their beauty. Krilla's sisters often complained about the weather and about their poverty, but Krilla loved the winter weather, loved to dance with the wind and spin with the snowflakes. She felt more comfortable outdoors in the clean, crisp air than in the stuffy little house filled with constant complaints and sighs.
But a winter came where the wind ran colder and stronger than ever before, and her mother forbade Krilla to go outside for fear of being blown away or frozen to death.
She found the confinement intolerable, and as the days passed she became more and more upset at the quarrels erupting around her. She had always spent so much of her time outdoors that she had not seen how very depressed her sisters were over the weather, and it puzzled her.
“Why do you hate going outside?” she asked. “It's so beautiful out there.”
“It's too cold!” one sister cried.
“It's too windy!” cried another.
“It snows too much!” said the third.
Krilla shook her head, confused that her sisters could so hate the very things she loved.
“Well,” she said bravely, “What if these things stopped?”
Her sisters laughed at her.
“Foolish girl!” they said scornfully. “Only the Lord of Winter could stop the snow and wind from coming to our village. What do any of us have that would persuade him to turn aside from this tiny place?”
“I do not know,” Krilla answered stoutly. “But I am willing to search him out and ask. What harm can it do to ask?”
“Go ahead,” they said. “You won't make it beyond the village borders, the weather is so terrible. We'll be waiting here. You won't go far.”
“I will!” Krilla declared, and catching up her coat and mittens, went out the door while her sisters kept their mother distracted.
The weather was indeed terrible, but Krilla knew how to dance
with the wind. So she slipped through the blasts of freezing air with determination and went on. The snow fell thickly, but she knew how to whirl through the strange and beautiful patterns of the snowfall. At the edge of the village, she paused, but did not look back. Instead she looked at the very highest peak of the Scarpane range, where legend said the Lord of Winter lived.
“I hope the legends are right,” she said to herself. “It will be a very long walk.”
The story of Krilla also ran very long, and Alyea had demanded the entire thing over and over, until she could recite it herself. She had wandered around muttering parts of it to herself; that had inevitably led to the s'iopes finding out that her nurse was telling “forbidden folk tales” and sending her away. It had taken years for Alyea to realize that “sent away” had been a polite euphemism: beaten to death for spreading heresy would have been more truthful.
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