Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  He’s dead in their eyes. That’s probably what this is all about, she fumed, her eyes narrowing. When she looked up to see if her sister was watching her and found that she wasn’t, Liebella bent down and pressed a pale hand against the baby clothes, and she saw the mortals’ intent. She also saw the story behind their “grief.”

  The young man had brought shame to his family by marrying the wrong sort of girl, at least in their eyes. He’d been cut off completely, left to fend for himself despite his youth, his lack of experience in any trade, and his bride’s pregnancy. He was simply dead in his parents’ eyes, and that was that.

  The girl and her child will die, Liebella thought. They’ll have no money, no means to afford anyone qualified to help them. She stood up, pale and rigid in bitter anger. The boy’s parents might as well have sent them to the gallows.

  But it was also a costly price that came with love, she reminded herself even if her heart broke at events that had yet to unfold. Mortal hearts were complicated, love itself doing nothing to help by its very nature. Some paid dearly, and some were rewarded, each case often nothing more than cruel, arbitrary events. The injustice of it all rankled, but she could do nothing about it, for Fortune and men’s free will were forces that could never be challenged by the gods. Their tightly interwoven, complementary and yet diverging, connection was too deeply complex even for immortals to fully understand.

  “His father told me about a most unfortunate connection he had,” Kummerene said, her back still turned to Liebella as she gazed out at the calm night scene beyond her shrine. “Perhaps I should send him on an errand to see how much he’s managed to shed some of his preferences.” She glanced over her shoulder to look inquiringly at her sister. “What do you think? A test of love? I know that you of all immortals would appreciate that.”

  Liebella shrugged. “Whatever fits your purpose, like I said,” she replied. “If you wish him to be prepared for an eternity as your partner in misery, you might as well make sure that he is.”

  Her older sister rolled her eyes at the none-too-subtle jab. “I do believe I’ve just the right adventure for him,” Kummerene said, turning her gaze back to the sleeping land below. She’d somehow lost track of time and couldn’t quite remember how many days were now left before her original plan of claiming Roald, but she felt unnaturally buoyed by her future prospects that, should Roald fail the test and require additional time for his full conversion, she wouldn’t mind one bit.

  Well, that is, as long as he didn’t require a month. For the time being, Kummerene had quite a bit of grieving to listen to and absorb, for mortals appeared to be excessively fond of lamenting their fate. She might have quite a few things to say about her destiny, but at least she’d always been—and always would be—well looked after by humanity.

  Liebella, in the meantime, scowled at the baby clothes she’d just “read” and hissed, “Idiot mortals.”

  * * *

  Roald couldn’t find Wilmar’s booth the following day, and he wondered if the vendor had decided to pack up and move off to a more accepting town to ply his wares. A new booth was set up where his used to be, and an energetic old woman bustled to and fro, her table swarming with customers who all demanded her attention.

  “Where did they go?” Roald asked the old elm, and the tree sighed, shaking its branches ever so lightly so that a small shower of leaves floated down to coat the grass below.

  “I can’t tell you, I’m afraid,” it replied sadly. “I know very little of what happens to mortals beyond the limits of my roots and my branches. Perhaps it’s better for you to move on to more promising things—remember your mistress’s charge.”

  Roald silently bristled at the word “mistress.” While he’d nothing against women, the very thought—or, rather, fact—of his being retrained for someone else’s benefit gnawed away at him, giving rise to bitter resentment and, therefore, a more determined resolve not to surrender, even if it meant dying as a result.

  He opened his mouth with a ready retort about being his own man but caught himself in time, lest the goddess somehow were to hear him. A sensible voice in his mind chided him, calling him illogical and silly, but Roald knew that a very dangerous game was being played. He could certainly ill-afford to risk an immortal’s wrath, but as to how he could get himself out of this predicament, he didn’t quite know. There were still too many unknown factors—or at least suspicions that yet required some confirmation.

  I’ll know what to do when I get there, he thought, though his confidence wavered a little at that.

  Roald watched the new merchant go about her business for another moment, forcing himself to the present and scolding himself for losing his focus, though briefly. After the old elm gave him another nudge, urging him to carry on with his task, Roald nodded and walked on, disappointed. He was hoping to observe the outcast lovers some more and somehow figure out a way to connect with them as he’d wanted the previous day. A simple gesture of empathy and solidarity would have sufficed, even if it only happened once and he were never to see them again. That one connection meant far more to Roald in his isolation than a reprieve from his predicament through a happy reunion with his friends and family.

  Somewhere in the eastern end of the market, he spotted another couple who seemed—or, rather, felt—out of place. It was a young man and a young lady, who, of course, should be an acceptable match compared to Hamlin and Wilmar’s union, but Roald again noted how people seemed to ignore the couple in spite of their occasional greeting to those whom they perhaps knew.

  People simply walked past them or glanced at them icily before turning away without so much as a nod or a word of acknowledgement.

  “Who are those two?” he asked the pine tree against which a small booth stood, where the couple decided to stop and inspect the flowers being offered there.

  Roald watched the couple scour the table critically for what they needed, picking up and showing an occasional flower to each other and speaking in a language both musical and unknown to him. They were both dark-skinned, with large, dark eyes that sparkled with intelligence and good humor, their hair straight and combed back. The young man had his hair cut short, his wife opting to let her luxurious tresses tumble freely down her back while draping her head with a gossamer veil of blue, its borders embroidered with pretty gold patterns that Roald couldn’t quite make out. Even their clothes were unusual for that part of the world—loose and comfortable, richly embroidered and colorful. The young vendor, for her part, waited patiently, smiling and nodding her encouragement.

  “Not everyone shuns them,” Roald said with a touch of triumph and pleasure in his voice. “The girl vendor doesn’t. And neither do that woman in the red shawl and the couple with soiled clothes.”

  He stepped aside when a small group of women walked past, chatting amongst themselves and refusing to accommodate other passersby, who were forced to step around them or move out of the way, waiting and frowning, till they’d gone.

  “I’ve never seen her till today. Perhaps she’s new and unused to the ways of the market. Mortals care nothing for her if she doesn’t have a name to boast of like the long-established vendors here. That’s what they say. There’s nothing more for you here, young man. Go on and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely,” the towering pine tree said.

  “What are the names of the other two?” Roald asked.

  “Kavi and Uma just late of the eastern end of the world—husband and wife, strangers yet to each other and to fellow mortals.”

  “Newlyweds, you mean.”

  The tree merely let drop a few pine cones, and Roald took that for an assent. He couldn’t help but suppress an amused smile.

  Knowing full well how dreadful he looked, Roald nevertheless plucked up enough courage to edge closer to the pair as they continued to inspect the young vendor’s blooms. They seemed to have their minds bent on globe thistles in a mind-boggling array of colors, most of which were strange variations of basic flo
wer colors. There were many as well that were tipped with gold, which gave the flowers a rich, majestic luster that entranced Roald, and he couldn’t help but gape.

  By the gods, I’ve never seen flowers this marvelous before, he thought, eyes widening in spite of himself. How in the name of the heavens did she—how’s this even possible?

  “You’ve done a marvelous job with these flowers,” Kavi remarked, holding up a small bundle of brilliant orange-and-blue-striped ones, turning them over as he gazed at them critically. “Wonderful colors here.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the vendor stammered awkwardly, her hands twisting and tugging at her apron. She looked as though she’d just turned fourteen or fifteen, but no older. She was clearly very new to this and had not yet established a method of enticing customers into purchasing her offerings. “My parents showed me the best way to raise them, and I try hard.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if people offered these unusual flowers to the gods,” Uma said with a bright smile. Both she and Kavi spoke the region’s native tongue with no trouble, their speech enhanced by a foreign accent that laced itself in the words. Roald found their communication to be quite hypnotic, and it was all he could do to divide his attention between the flower vendor’s remarkable offerings and her customers’ uniqueness.

  And so Roald was treated to a moment of skilled haggling (if one were to call it that), in which the young vendor was invariably apprised of her flawed method of charging her customers—that is, of her selling her merchandise at too low of a price given their superior quality. She was immediately given an impromptu lesson on commerce, which the couple concluded with the willing exchange of their money—a larger amount than what was first required—for a bunch of unusually colored globe thistles in vibrant pink, yellow, and violet.

  The girl gratefully accepted the terms and bundled up her customers’ purchase while Roald turned and walked away, deep in thought. Was this new experience something that was nothing more than coincidence? Was this a random moment tossed into his lap by Fortune herself? There was something about his accidental discovery of Kavi, Uma, and the young flower vendor with those uniquely—and at times, bizarrely—colored blooms that told Roald the goddess had absolutely no hand in. He couldn’t put a finger into what it was that made him believe so, but deep down, he knew it to be true.

  Was this the handiwork of another immortal, one who’d somehow known about the goddess’s plan of transforming Roald into her immortal consort? He pondered this for a good long time, but something about that brief experience gave him no indication that another divine hand was at work.

  “They were still outcasts in some ways,” he muttered as he wandered aimlessly through the market, observing people here and there and seeing nothing else worth noting. “Man and woman together, yet shunned by everyone else. The girl with the unusual flowers also ignored by most—too strange, most likely, just like Kavi and Uma. Too strange to be readily accepted—at least not by many.”

  It was a repetitive lesson Roald now learned in that market for two days in a row. It was very likely that the lesson wouldn’t change much, if at all, if he were to return the next day or the next. In fact, he was quite sure that if he were to venture farther out and explore another city, he was bound to see the same behavior again and again. Human nature might be complicated, but it was also universal and rather predictable, and Roald’s spirits sank at the notion.

  Come on, come on. There’s clearly just as much nobility in human nature as there are darker turns, he chided himself. It’s impossible to lose yourself in one or the other. It isn’t realistic. It isn’t fair either way.

  When he saw a baker being overwhelmed by customers at one corner of the market, Roald decided not to let chance feed him this time. He simply ambled up to the table and casually inspected the baker’s offerings. When a heavy-set and harried woman with two squalling children pushed her way past other customers and demanded the baker’s attention, Roald took advantage of the irate shuffling among the little crowd to nudge a loaf of bread off the table and catch it while being pushed aside and squashed between three people.

  You’ll make an accomplished thief yet, he thought, grimacing at the sting against his conscience as he hurried through the busy swarm of people in the market, his prize held firmly under his arm.

  He reached the main road at length, passing several people on horseback, on foot, or in small carriages, all of whom were going in the direction of the market and its town. A quick glance back showed no one in pursuit of a stolen loaf of bread, and Roald wondered how long his luck would hold, let alone how long before he’d be able to break his connection with the goddess once and for all. He could always run off, but what good was that, when he was fleeing an immortal?

  No, he needed to be in her company; he needed to face her in order to break this connection—or, perhaps, contract—that had never been his choice to begin with.

  He took the usual path back to the glade, but before he neared the woodland that protected it, he was startled to find a horse standing in the middle of the dirt path that had branched out from the main road. Beside the horse stood the goddess, watching him with a slight frown.

  “And where have you been?” Kummerene asked as he neared her.

  “Doing exactly what you told me to do,” Roald said without hesitation and with a slight edge of irritation in his voice that he failed to suppress and immediately regretted.

  Kummerene’s face contorted in a derisive grimace. “That town, you mean? That town with its reeking market and filthy, wailing brats?”

  “Even a market can teach you much about humanity.”

  “Does it, really?” she replied, her contempt giving way to condescending amusement. But dear heavens, mortals were really limited in their intellectual scope, weren’t they? Did that miserable von Thiessen just mortgage an unimaginative booby for her consort? “Well, no matter,” she murmured, shaking her head and squelching her rapidly spiraling annoyance. “He’ll prove to me well enough whether or not he’s worth all the trouble.”

  And if Roald failed her? Von Thiessen would pay dearly for it. Kummerene began to suspect that no amount of time spent in reshaping Roald would make a difference in the boy if he were, indeed, this stupid.

  She beckoned Roald to come closer. “I’ve a quest for you.”

  “A quest?” Roald echoed, blinking. He watched her step away from the horse and wave at the gorgeous animal dismissively.

  “Something to help us achieve our purpose. Take this horse. He’s properly bridled for you, and he brings you a couple of sets of suits and some food.”

  Roald walked up to the horse, marveling at it. It was a robust, healthy creature, a white god on four legs, who easily submitted himself to Roald’s gentle stroking and murmured reassurances without hesitation. “He’s beautiful,” Roald said, smiling.

  “Good. I’m glad you approve. He’s to take you to a palace in the west, where a curious little puzzle awaits you.”

  Roald looked at Kummerene. “A puzzle? You want me to solve a puzzle?”

  “A mystery,” she corrected. “Which shouldn’t be too difficult for you to solve, as I see that you’re a very intelligent fellow. And don’t worry—failing to solve the mystery doesn’t result in death, the way other idiot kings frame their riddles.” She paused, smiling grimly. “Don’t you agree that it’s a remarkably stupid thing to encourage noble souls into solving puzzles by threatening failure with death? Who’d want to try?”

  “The ambitious, the equally stupid, and perhaps the virtuous,” Roald said, feigning an air of naïveté, which, to his relief, drew a quick, humorless laugh from the goddess.

  “As you say,” Kummerene replied. “Warlock will guide your way. He knows where to go. In the meantime, find yourself a proper river where you can bathe and make yourself look fit to stand before a king. The journey to the palace will take you a mere day if you start off now.”

  “But what about the quest?” Roald asked. “How wou
ld I—are you—”

  “You’ll know what to do, when to do it, and how,” she said. “Let your wit and your instincts guide you. Succeed or fail, you’ll find me at the end of your adventure. Now go. We’ve lost enough time as it is.”

  A surge of mild panic coursed through Roald, and along with it a thousand questions that clogged his throat in their mad rush to be asked. It was all too late, though, for the goddess merely appraised him one more time before nodding and vanishing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Without the benefit of sun and moon to guide him, Alarick had long lost track of time. Using the table settings for a guide proved to be a fruitless effort, for there were times when he was “guided” by the cottage to eat from the same setting as before, twice or thrice in a row, well after that particular setting lost its enchantment and turned into battered tin. The beds lasted a bit longer, however, though Alarick did notice a definite progression of weathering whenever he was obliged to lie on the same bed for two nights together. The cloth smelled old, and the pillow and mattress felt thin, the bed frame digging into his back and keeping him awake for a little longer as he struggled to find a comfortable position.

  The door and windows remained barred against escape, and while he kept his temper and tamped down any threats of panic—something which was getting more and more common lately—he couldn’t help but notice dozens of little things happening around him that seemed to communicate something dark. Perhaps they all had something to do with Alarick’s suspicions regarding the cottage’s sly manipulations of his dreams as its way of changing him, frightening him away from what was his nature and firmly entrenching him into a certain behavior that was quite far from what was normal to him.

  But maybe I’m going mad, he thought, swallowing, as he fought to maintain a calm front as he tried to seek refuge in the warmth of the water in the tin tub in which he’d immersed himself for his bath. It was the easiest reason to use as far as he was concerned, though the very real element of magic tended to muddy the issue too much for him, for when did enchantment end and madness begin?