Ghosts: An Accidental Turn Novella

by J. M. Frey

  I throw up my hands. “This, Kin. This right here is why I’m mad at you! You pretend to be so stupid; you don’t think, you just react! You just wave Foesmiter at something, and you think it will fix everything! Either one or the other of your swords needs to be unsheathed and that’s it, isn’t it! That will solve all the problems! Never mind Bevel Dom, it’s not like you trust his judgment or advice or his Writer-be-damned friendship!”

  Kintyre does exactly what he always does when I try to confront him, to pin him down, to stake him to the spot and force him to absorb truths: he deflects. “Well, I wasn’t wrong. It was a ghost, and it sounded like it was—”

  I rock back on my heels, mouth hanging open in stunned fury. “Do you even hear yourself?”

  “It’s not our fault that—what did they expect, a hero hearing about a ghost? They should have told us . . . ”

  I stab a finger against Kin’s sternum. “It’s easy to be a hero when you’re born to all the advantages, Kin. Wealth enough for a good horse, and fine gear. Wealth enough to have grown strong on good food, to have training masters to hone your body, and scholars to teach you the paths and secrets of the world. But have you stopped to consider what it means to be a hero? What it means to be the idol of that little boy? Thoma looks up to you. The twins worship you. Even Forsyth looks to you for clues on how to live his life. We must cast our names carefully, Kin. We must think before we act. And we can no longer be unaware of how our actions read. Whom we shun, whom we throw our support behind, this matters.”

  “It was a mistake!” Kin shouts again. “It wasn’t our fault!”

  “It’s entirely our fault!” And I’m sick of it, just sick of it. Kin just can’t be wrong, can he?

  “We weren’t to know—”

  “We could have asked!” I snarl.

  “You never asked either!” Kin bawls back.

  “More the fool, me!” I shout. “Why, why do I never learn? Why do I always, always go along with you? Why do I always follow, unquestioningly, unthinkingly, like a stupid spaniel? And why am I always surprised when you kick?”

  “I don’t kick you!” Kin says, and every line of his body, every blink, every breath is suddenly desperate. His entire demeanor changes, becoming contrite and needy. He fists the shoulders of my short-robe in his hands, scrunches down to meet my eyes, blue to blue. “Bev, no, I don’t hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

  “But you do! Writer, Kin, you do!”

  “I don’t mean to—”

  “That’s not the point! I am tired, Kintyre. Tired!” I roar. The truth that has weighed on me since yesterday comes falling out of my mouth like a cannonball, crushing the air out of my lungs. I gasp for another breath. “I’m sick of the road, and I’m sick of the travel, and I’m sick of fighting, always fighting. If I’m not fighting monsters, then I’m fighting with you. I’m sick of waking up sore and cold. I’m sick of having nothing, and I’m sick of you not . . .” I trail off and stop, biting down hard on the tip of my tongue to keep the words trapped behind my teeth.

  I can’t say it. I can’t say it.

  It would ruin everything.

  He would never agree. He will never say yes. If I say it, he will leave, and it will be all over. And I would rather be tired, and sore, and cold, and be fighting monsters and bickering with my truest friend than be without Kintyre Turn.

  Kin blinks, icy eyes wounded, chin tucked in shame. “Sick of me?” His voice is so small.

  I sigh lustily, a gusting burst of irritation drawn from my very guts. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You said—”

  “I know what I—! Kin, please, you don’t . . . you don’t understand.”

  Kin lets go of my robe. His hands slide upward, palms skimming over leather to cup the thin flesh of my throat. His thumbs circle, just once, along the edge of my jaw, calluses rough against my larynx. I swallow hard. His hands are warm in the chill spring air. My flesh tingles.

  I want to either grab his hands and kiss him, or punch him. I ball my hands into fists and rest them on my belt, refusing to allow myself to do any of those things. I can’t . . . Kintyre has to make the first move. He has to do it first. He has to want it.

  He feel my own eyes growing wide, and I can’t seem to stop them, can’t blink. I don’t dare look away.

  “Kintyre?” I ask, and I can’t seem to get my voice to go louder than a croak. I want. I’m shivering with want, and Kintyre has to say yes, doesn’t he? This is a yes. It has to be a yes. I just might die if this isn’t a yes.

  Kin licks his lips, tongue sliding against the bottom first, corner to corner, and then the top, disappearing again and leaving a shimmer of wetness, and Writer, how desperate I am to chase it back into Kintyre’s mouth with my own. We exhale as one, inhale, and we are so close together that our chests bump as they inflate. The moment stretches, stretches.

  And then it snaps.

  I surge forward and throw myself on Kin’s mouth.

  It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. But I can’t, I absolutely cannot stand it anymore. I can’t not be kissing Kintyre Turn.

  I dig my fingers into the hair behind Kin’s ears and yank him down. He’s such an infuriatingly tall bastard. I mash our mouths together, biting, devouring, taking first one of Kin’s lips and then the other between my own; wet, hot, wonderful. Breath puffs against my cheek, a surprised snort, and Kin grunts. I toss my arms around his neck, hold on, and think dazedly that breathing? Breathing is for suckers.

  “Let me show you. Writer—” I pant against Kin’s mouth, peppering words between kisses. “I—what I—for so long.”

  And then there are hands on my shoulders, and Kin is holding me, massaging, pushing. . . . Pushing?

  Pushing.

  I freeze. Shame splashes down my spine. Ardor turns to ice in my veins.

  “Bevel,” Kintyre whispers. His breath is hot on my ear, and still it turns my limbs to frost and snow and isolation.

  With one word, Kintyre the basilisk turns me to stone.

  “You beautiful, beautiful idiot,” I moan, and my voice crackles over each word like a winter pond crumbling beneath my feet. I hope Kintyre thinks I’m talking about myself.

  I turn away, press my hands against my face and scrub. Because if my cheeks are flushed from chaffing at them, then Kin can’t possibly believe that it’s from the way I’m desperately, desperately swallowing back tears.

  “Bevel,” Kintyre says again, and I both do and don’t want to turn, to see which expression his face has twisted to house. Disgust? Pity? Fear?

  Never love. It will never be love, and hope, and joy, and affection, and if it can never be those, then I don’t want to see it.

  “Look, I didn’t mean it,” I say, softly. I offer it up, just like that—an escape route for Kin. “I’m feeling . . . I’m just tired, you know? I’m muddled. Just . . . go back to the blanket. I’ll . . . I need a walk. I’ll clear my head. Then I’ll meet you back there.”

  “I’ll buy us some ale?” Kin whispers. His voice is tremulous, low, and I don’t allow myself to believe that it’s because Kin is as affected as I am. It didn’t mean a thing to him. It was just weird, something strange, just Bevel Dom having one of his breakdowns. Something to get drunk over and laugh about, and then forget. Like always. “Something to . . . I can get you, I don’t know . . . do you want some honeycomb?”

  “Sure, Kin,” I sigh. If you think I’m some simpering maiden whose good humor can be bought with treats and booze and gewgaws . . . oh, Kin, how are we getting this so wrong? “I’ll be along soon.”

  “As you wish,” Kintyre says. “Just . . . follow me soon?”

  I make no response. I just keep my head down, my hands firmly at my sides until I hear Kintyre’s boots on the grass shuffling away, out of hearing.

  Only then do I raise my face to the moon and wrap my arms around myself. “I’ll follow. I will always follow you. And that’s the real problem, Kintyre Turn. I was made to f
ollow you. And I’m so sick of walking one step behind.”

  Part Four

  I’m gasping for a few moments of quiet time with my pipe. Without Kin. Just to drown this buzzing, itching desire and the horrific shame that flares under my skin, in the base of my spine, lingering on the back of my tongue. To numb all the places and patches where Kin has touched me before, where I want him to touch me again. But my pipe is in my writing box, and that’s on the blanket with the Goodwoman of Pern, and I don’t have the guts to look her in the face right now. Not yet. So instead, I walk the perimeter of the festival.

  It makes me feel better, one eye on the people, one eye on the darkness beyond, like I’m patrolling. It makes me feel like I have a purpose.

  On the far side of the massive bonfire from the Goodwoman’s blanket—and presumably Kin—Lord Gallvig is standing on a small, knocked-together wooden platform, accepting strips of cloth from a line of people. Some of the cloth looks new, some worn, and some even looks like it was torn from wedding finery or funeral shrouds. I lean against the pole of a pastry tent and watch the lord wrap the cloth around and around a long length of pine, until the end is absolutely bulbous. Some children offer up string to tie it all in place, fussing over their knots and bows, tongues poking out and eyes squinting in their concentration.

  When it’s done, the lord walks twelve circles around the fire with the cloth-stick held aloft. Every time he passes the ruins side, the children squeal with delight and shout the name of a month. When a whole year’s worth of laughter has been counted out, a woman who must be the lord’s wife wreathes the head of the torch with a garland of dried flowers and fruits, herbs and winter wheat.

  Together, her cheek resting on his shoulder, fingers intertwined, they touch the ball of fabric to the flames. It catches slowly, sweetly. Deep beneath the layers of cloth there must be pitch. The torch, once lit, doesn’t smolder or flicker out.

  The lord plants the torch into a hole bored into the side of the ruin wall. The scent of sage and clary, rosemary and golden roses, weeping martins and forget-me-nots perfumes the clearing as the fire licks at the wreath. It is the bouquet of mourning and remembrance, of filial love and neighborly admiration, and gratitude.

  I breathe deeply and am filled with shame.

  ✍

  Judging by the fall of the moon, over an hour passes as I wander the stalls and impromptu dances that have erupted wherever someone has thought to plant themselves with an instrument. In that time, I have drunk more than one tankard of ale that was pressed into my hands, and swung about two fair young lasses and a youth just old enough to know what he likes and how to ask for it with the coy tilt of a chin and a look up through his fanning lashes.

  But it is not his company I want tonight.

  There is only one man, one person I want to talk to and touch, to smell and laugh with, and even though my heart is a little more broken tonight than it was when I rose from my bedroll this morning, Kintyre Turn is still the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.

  My miserable, masochistic, foolish life.

  In whatever way Kintyre dictates, I am his.

  So I find the Goodwoman’s knitted throw among the throngs of families picnicking on the grass. Kintyre sits alone on one corner of it, slightly removed, contemplative looking. There is a small basket with a packet wrapped in oilcloth by his knee.

  “Hello,” I say, and drop down beside him on the ground, sprawling as if I don’t have a care in the world. The posture is very carefully put on, and it makes Kin look all the more tense and nervous, sitting upright with his legs folded under him.

  Kin blinks, and then looks as if he’s screwing up his courage. I lick my lips again, a quick flicker, and draw in a breath. I can’t stand it. If Kintyre tries to explain, or deflect, or blame away, I’ll scream. So instead of letting him talk, I pull back the oilcloth on the basket and inhale.

  “Oh, a spinach and cheese roll. My favorite.”

  “I know,” Kin says, deflating. He reaches into the basket and pulls out two of the steaming buns.

  I take mine graciously, prop myself on one elbow, and go about the very important business of not talking about it. I nibble and people-watch, quiet and companionable. Slowly, the tension bleeds out of Kin’s posture. As the buns vanish, the silence becomes comfortable and familiar again, and the storm is over.

  Thank the Writer, it’s over, I think. And Kintyre is still my friend.

  When I have licked all the crumbs off my fingers, I retrieve my pipe, my wallet of sweet herbs, and matches from my box of writing tools on the blanket beside us. Kintyre takes one of the matches from my hand, strikes it against his own belt buckle, and holds it out for me. The gesture is intimate, and I watch as Kin brings the small sliver of wood to his crotch, and then offers it toward my mouth.

  I nearly forget to inhale. Just before the flames can lick the tips of Kin’s fingers, I remember that I’m meant to be lighting my pipe.

  Kin’s breath, when he leans in close to cup the bowl, betrays that he has somehow acquired mead or honeyed ale. When he withdraws, he tugs a dark drinking skin off his belt and takes a swallow. He offers the skin to me, fingers loose around the neck as he brings the rim to my lips. I hold the stem of my pipe to the side to accept the sip without needing my hands.

  It’s silly, but I’m suddenly in a silly mood: giddy with relief, skin starved, both of us wanting to reassure ourselves that we are still the most important person in all of Hain to the other. Even if we aren’t . . . that. When he lowers the skin, Kin turns and leans back-to-back against me, as if we are about to do battle. Close, without being intimate. He pushes a bit, playful, and I shoulder him back and take a deep, soothing draw of sweet herb.

  It tastes and feels like forgiveness. Or at least a desire to return to the way things were three hours ago, over dinner in the Pern. Which is close enough.

  Kin is warm. Kin is always warm. It’s one of the things I like best about him, unless we’re in the hotter climes. Then Kin is clammy and sticky, and clings like an octopus when he’s irritable and uncomfortable, which just makes me irritated in turn. But now, in the cool night breeze, with the fire at our front and Kin mapped against the constellations of my spine—stars of shoulder and muscle, bone and cloth, the dips and swells—I’m comfortable. I’m content. It is not all that I’ve ever wanted, but it is close enough. Close enough. I can live with this.

  I’ll have to.

  I tap a finger over the bowl of my pipe and relish the sweet smoke that sifts up my sinuses. A deep breath in clears the smoke from my head, and brings me a hint of my friend.

  Kin smells of sweat, and the faint hint of butter soap and lavender water. He smells of man. He smells of Foesmiter’s whetstone and polishing oil, petrichor and musk, leather and road-dust, horse and hard work. Kin.

  I turn my face to the flames, resting my cheek on Kin’s broad shoulder. In return, Kin sighs and arches his neck, settling the vulnerable curve of his skull against my cheekbone.

  All around us are families, most sitting on woven throws of every dye color, embroidered with flames and flowers and bursts of glittering metallic thread that could be Urlish Fire-rockets or the cold glitter of the full moon reflecting on the Sunsong Sea, or the distant twinkle of the Sky Lights above Erlenmire. Flasks are passed among the adults, wineskins and steaming glass bottles of what appears to be hot chocolate and tea. Children’s mittened hands reach up to snatch, sliding on the smooth sides, fingers wiggling unseen beneath patterned yarn. Some of the skins are held up to cupid’s bows and sticky mouths, and the adults laugh when the children make horrified faces as the wash of whiskey or tart wine dribbles against their lips and they realize that the adults aren’t drinking anything desirable after all.

  Beside the old ruin, the ghost of Mandikin crouches low, her skirts dissolving into the night-cool grass like dew mist. Her fingers fly as she tells a tale to the rapt audience of toddlers that have piled around her like sleepy puppies. Her eyes shine sil
ver; her smile is wide. She is happy. She must feel my gaze on her, because she raises her head to me and winks, charming the children around her into a crescendo of high, sweet giggles.

  Over the crackle of the bonfire, I can hear some sort of fiddle being brought into tune. There are tin pipes in the muddle, too, and the deep strum of what might be a harp or a large guitar, but the players are on the far side of the flames from us, and I can’t see through. A tinkling chime rings out, and then suddenly everyone’s attention is on the half dozen couples who are mingling between the families and the fire.

  Pairings, I realize. Yeah, they must be.

  Standing stiffly, closest to the flame, is a career military man. The fellow to his left, with a matching bearing, must be his new shield-partner. Next to him, a shy couple very obviously in love blush and flutter at one another, only their pinkie fingers entwined. He has bright red flowers woven into his dark beard, and she has the same woven into braids hanging from her temples.

  Next to her, a woman about the same age as my oldest sister-in-law is grinning slyly up at a tall, slim, nude fae creature, all onyx eyes and ebony skin, and an unashamedly bare phallus.

  The Pair next to them consists of two sweet young girls who keep kissing and giggling, tucking each other’s hair behind their ears, righting ribbons, only to fall back into each other’s orbits, to grab and kiss again as if their lips were iron and magnets. And beside them stand another pair of young lovers, this time both young men. One is talking incessantly, his hands flying, and the other cradles his cheek close to his own collar, indulgent and attentive.

  And lastly, slightly off to one side, is a sturdy couple. They are a man and a woman, clearly farmers, and are surrounded by nearly adult children with two very different hair colors, eager to finally be one family.

  Each pair carries a broom, the birch-twig skirt of it woven with pitch-soaked ribbons, the handles carved smooth and intricate with a hundred little knots and whorls, chains and images, symbols that must speak of love, fidelity, promise, and those little moments and secrets meant only for the Pair. I wish I could get a closer look at the brooms. What stories they must tell.