Melianarrheyal

by G. Deyke

  ~*~

  I do not sleep well, that night. I wake again and again, and I turn so often that the blanket twists around me in my sleep, and I bite at my nails to shorten them but I am not sure that I ever finish. Nor do I have much hunger the next morning. There is a constant dull ache in my belly, and my eye will not close. Soon, I promise myself. In three days, I will sleep. In three days, I will eat. For now I can only wait.

  I do not speak to her. I do not look her way. A small part of me wonders if she notices this, but I am not a good enough liar to pretend any longer that I can still bear her presence. My stomach clenches in fear, my eye still stings and reminds me of all the pain she has brought me.

  A smaller part of me, born of long habit, wonders if she will not be caught by House Chinlar's men if she spends too much time outside the inn; but I say nothing.

  After breakfast Mel goes her way and we go ours. Ty takes me down to the port to look for a ship. He talks to me as we walk, perhaps more to guide me than to say anything.

  “I hope my family is here,” he says. “If they are not we must pay for passage, and I have gained little gold for that which I have spent of late.”

  “What of the twenty gold from –” I break off. I don't want to say her name. “– for killing Therrin?”

  “I will give that gold back to her,” he tells me. “I took it as payment for summoning a demon to kill someone, and as I do not plan to do so I cannot keep her coin in good conscience.”

  Even without those twenty, she has paid him one gold every seven days. I should be glad of that, but now that I think of it Ty has paid for two steeds and for a room at the inn (or perhaps for two rooms, because of me) since we met him. I don't know how much they cost, but perhaps he has already spent more than he has gained from us. I don't know how much he had before, either – only that he claimed it was enough.

  “My family sails under the gold banner,” he tells me. “They are Island traders and not Desert traders, so they deal more with nobles than with common folk. Most of what they sell is quite difficult to find anywhere in Thilua.”

  “Why?” The less words I use, the more quickly he will speak again and guide me with his voice.

  “Because,” he explains, his voice oddly careful, “some of the things they sell can destroy talents. The Desert-folk refuse to trade them.”

  I shudder at the thought. My nature sense has always been a part of me; I could think of losing it no more than I could think of losing my hearing, or my sight. But that is already lost.

  “How?” I ask.

  “The Anarians have some odd things,” he says. “There are certain herbs which they will burn for calm, or for strange visions. There is wine, which tastes good enough but which takes away one's control. And these things destroy talents, bit by bit, the more one uses them.

  “Many nobles are very fond of such things, perhaps only because they are rare here. And once one starts it is hard to stop.”

  Ty is a strong conjurer. I know that he must never use these things. He claims to know the taste of wine – perhaps he drank it once, then, and never again. I must hope that his family never uses the things they sell. I don't want to be on a ship with people who have no control over what they see or do.

  “And they sell more harmless things as well – razors, sometimes food – whatever keeps – and various other things. Whatever catches their eyes.

  “With some luck, they will have something for your sight,” he says.

  I wonder what he plans for it, but I cannot ask. We have already arrived. “They are here,” he says. “Stop, now.”

  I wait only a moment before I hear a man's voice above and before us, joyous, shouting: “Ty!”

  Then there is silence, and then I hear footsteps, running, stopping beside us. “Ty!” says the same voice again, a little more quietly and nearer. “It's been so long! What brings you here? Is this boy with you?”

  “Yes,” says Ty. His voice sounds strange, almost pleased, as though he might even be glad to see this stranger. “This is – uff – this is my cousin Rih. It is good to see you again, cousin.

  “And this is Arrek,” he introduces me.

  “Arri,” I correct him quietly.

  “Arri, then, for now. It seems he has some distaste for his true name.”

  I keep my head down and pull up my shoulders. I don't know what to say. For now I keep quiet and listen.

  “Is Ler aboard?” asks Ty.

  “She's in the city somewhere,” says Rih, “making deals, I expect. Why; what do you need?”

  “Two things,” says Ty. “The first is safe passage out of Quiyen, for both of us and one other, in two nights' time. I suppose you can't agree to that without her.”

  “No,” Rih agrees. “You'd best come back later – but I'll tell her when she returns. Why do you need it?”

  Ty explains, briefly. He says nothing of the prophecy, only that we must take Therrin and flee, and a little about why Mel wishes her dead and how we came to know this.

  “What, and you want to save her only because you pity her? I don't believe this.”

  “No,” says Ty. “There is more. There is something special about this child – but I cannot tell you now. If Ler agrees to help us, I'll explain it on the ship.”

  “And here I almost thought there was hope for you.”

  Ty does not respond to this. Instead he goes on: “As to the other, I think you can help me as well as she could. I need a focus.”

  “Ah! Perhaps I can help you. What sort?”

  “I don't know what you have,” Ty says, very patiently, “so I cannot ask for something particular. Nor have I ever done this sort of thing before. Arri here is blind; I hope to restore some semblance of sight to him.”

  “Perhaps there is hope for you after all,” laughs Rih. “All right, how will you do this? You have no healers' talent.”

  “And no healer could help him, I think. The one eye has been blind since birth. The other was stabbed out about four days ago – I doubt it could be repaired now. I thought perhaps I might bind a demon to the empty socket and to his mind, to act in place of his eyes.”

  “Do you think that will work?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Hmm.” There is a pause, and at last Rih says: “I've never heard of something like this being done before, so I don't know if it's possible. But you're still the best conjurer I've seen, Ty. If anyone can do it, you can.”

  “I admit it will be very delicate,” says Ty. “I'm not quite certain how well he'll see, even if it works. Still, anything at all might be better than nothing. But I'll need a focus, or I cannot even attempt it.”

  “I only hope it doesn't kill you,” says Rih soberly. I am suddenly afraid that it will be too much, that Ty will die. I want to look up at him for comfort, but I cannot. I wrap my arms around myself, afraid, and I whistle to Snake.

  The bitter edge is back in Ty's voice. “Still so afraid to lose me? I will not need my back to summon a demon, Rih.”

  “I know,” says his cousin unhappily. “All the same, please be careful. That's all I ask.”

  “It's not always enough. Someone – anything – could surprise me and distract me from the conjury, and I might lose my control. It is impossible to plan for every circumstance.”

  His voice cuts like a knife. I wither under the sound, although I know I am not its target. I wonder what effect it has on Rih. If he gives a response, it is not one I can hear.

  It is a long moment before either of them speaks again.

  I begin to fear that whatever passed between them has made them both unable to move or speak, or that it will come to blows, before Ty speaks again at last. “As for a focus: I need something small, then. If I hope to bind the demon to Arri's left socket, the focus must be small enough to fit there – at best, small enough to float there without touching the raw skin. If it must rest it may be too painful.”

  “Small,” says Rih. His voice is practical now; the emotion is gon
e. “All right. Come aboard; let me show you what we have.”

  “All right.” There is a pause, and I say uncertainly, “I'll stay here.” I don't want to follow them blindly aboard. I have never been on a ship. I don't know what it is like, what I might stumble into or over.

  “I'll be back shortly,” says Ty. I hear Rih leaving, and I can only assume that Ty follows him on silent feet. I sit down to wait.

  For the first time since I lost my sight, I am by myself in the open. There are strange voices all around me. I do not want to listen to their idle chatter, so I listen instead to the sea: the waves roll in and out, in and out, again and again. The fresh smell of sea air is on the wind. I breathe the scent of the sea and I listen to the waves and I wait.

  At last I hear Ty's voice beside me again: “He's sold me a focus – here, you keep it for now. It needs to be familiar with you more than me.”

  I hold out my hand, and he drops something into my palm. It is small and cool, with smooth sides but rough, sharp edges. It feels good in my hand, a little heavy for its small size. I like it at once.

  “What is it?” I ask as I stand.

  “Clear calcite. A rock. They often trade things which may serve as focuses for conjurers.”

  I nod, and follow him.

  “Now, we must buy you some clothing, and a better eyepatch. We shall see if Ler has returned to the ship afterward.”

  “Why?” I ask. “– the clothing, I mean.”

  “If you are to escape the flower, it will be best if you don't look too much like kretchin. You cannot wear the clothes until we have left her, but then they will help you to disguise yourself. You'll have to bind your hair back as well, so it isn't as apparent how short it is.”

  I touch my hair. It reaches nearly to my shoulder, though it would be a little longer when wet or held straight, and it was so raggedly cut that some strands are much shorter than others. If I were staying in Thilua, I'd cut it again soon. It does not do for kretchin to wear their hair too long.

  “As to the eyepatch – you won't be able to leave that socket uncovered, and I doubt you could see through that which you have now.”

  “I am still kretchin,” I say.

  “No longer,” says Ty. “Whithersoever we bring you, you cannot stay in Thilua. You must find some other place for yourself.”

  For a moment the future seems to expand so that all my mind is filled with its uncertainties. I cannot think of it now. I cannot. I decide not to think of it at all until I must.

  “What was that about your back?” I ask instead.

  He is silent for a moment. This too is an uncertainty: without seeing him, I cannot know if he is angry or merely deciding how to answer. I stand, unwilling to walk on without hearing a voice to follow.

  At last he says: “When we were both children, Rih once acted without thinking and nearly killed me. Now he is afraid that my back will give or weaken me, though it healed long ago, and that if I die it will be on his hands. He may regret what he did, but he cannot undo it.”

  “Do you still...” I stop, unsure how to go on. “He, you seemed...” I stop again.

  “I love Rih despite this, and he is my friend as well as my cousin. But no, I have never forgiven him.

  “Now step a little to your left – good – sit there. It will only upset the shopkeeper if you follow me in, but here you're close enough that I can point out your size.”

  I sit, but protest: “Won't he be just as upset?”

  “I needn't say the clothing is for you, only that you're about as big as the person I'm buying it for.”

  At once I feel foolish for asking. “All right,” I say. “I'll wait here.”

  He gives no response, and after a moment I decide he must have gone. I wait. I listen to the sounds of the street and hope I do not attract attention. I am still afraid to be alone in Quiyen, especially without my sight.

  I slide the stone into the pouch which still holds my three copper. It will be safe there until Ty needs it.

  Someone whistles to Snake, quite near me. I have heard the whistle many times here, for wherever there are kretchin they will whistle to Snake; but this time it draws my notice, perhaps because it is so near. I turn my head toward the sound, although I can of course see nothing of the whistler.

  And then I hear the voice: a voice I could never forget, though it is older now and a little deeper – a voice I have been afraid to hear – the voice of my little sister, Kiltha. “Arri!” she cries softly. “Arri, is that really you?”

  I nod almost before I know that I do. My heart is drumming in my chest. I ought not to be here, I remember. I said I would leave Quiyen. I ought not to be here. What will she do? What will my mother do when she learns that I am here? I will be gone in two nights. If only she had not seen me for another two nights! I should have been gone, and they might never have known that I was here.

  All at once her arms are around me, cold and thin and lithe, and I can smell her scent and that of kretchin filth and temple smoke in her hair, and her hands are on my face. “What happened?” she asks. “Are you truly blind, Arri?”

  I nod. I can do no more.

  “Oh, it's been so long!” she says. “We thought we might never see you again, Arri, really! But now you're back – why are you back? I saw you following that man – did he do this to your eye? Why are you following him? I'm so glad you're alive, Arri, but why did you never send word? Aharyin the Bard would have carried news to us, you know that!”

  She sounds so glad to see me. Maybe she is glad, after all. But her storm of questions passes over me unanswered; they are too many at once, and I am overwhelmed by them. I grope for her shoulder, follow the line of her arm to her elbow and then to her hand, and I hold her hand, hold it tightly, try to be sure she is real.

  “Kiltha?” I manage at last.

  “Of course!” She laughs delightedly. “And you are Arri, and you're alive. Silwen was so angry with Mother when she cast you out – he said you would surely die without us to look after you. He will be so glad to learn you're all right. They will all be glad. You must come and see them, Arri! They will be so glad – but that man, who was he? Are you bound to follow him?”

  I don't know how to answer. “He is...” I start to say, and stop. We are no longer bound to follow Mel. The mission is over or it never will be. I don't know how to explain, and I don't think the truth will do. I must lie; I must pretend that we are still with Mel. I can think of no other way. But I will not tell my sister how Mel thralled me with her words and her tricks and all the hateful things she did to twist my mind, to make me follow her, to make me her servant, her living toy, to amuse herself with my pain.

  “We are both hired,” I lie. “He... he is being paid in gold, and I in food, to follow a noblewoman and help her fulfill a mission.”

  Even to say “noblewoman”, even without speaking her name, befouls my mouth. I want to scrub it out and wash it clean. I content myself with spitting, and wiping my chin on the clothing I must bear only until we leave.

  “I must stay with him,” I tell Kiltha. “For the mission. And we shall be gone out of Quiyen in two nights' time.”

  “Maybe you can come visit before you leave? Our home is the same as ever. They will be glad to see you, all of them. Mother is sorry for sending you away, I think, though perhaps it is for the best.”

  “I will ask,” I promise. “Perhaps I can visit tomorrow or the day after. But if... if I am made to stay, I cannot disobey them.” Her.

  I don't like to lie. I don't like it. But I must.

  “And what of your eye?” Her hand traces my left cheekbone, cold and sudden. I jump a little.

  “I...” I stumble over the words. I don't know what to tell her. “It, it was stabbed out.” Before she can ask more and make me speak of Mel, I go on: “What of you? And everyone? What has changed since I left?”

  “Well...” She thinks. “To start with the good – Yuit has been married two seasons and his wife is with child.”
/>
  I don't know what to say, how to respond. I am glad for him, of course, but afraid to think that he is married already, and I have never met the woman who is now my sister. I am afraid to meet her.

  “What's her name?” I ask at last.

  “Kera. She's very nice. She's been helping to care for Mother – and that's something else you ought to know – Mother is very ill. Yuit thinks she will die before long. You must come visit, if you can. I don't know how long you'll still be able.”

  My stomach twists. I have lost so much. I am afraid to meet my mother now, even more than I was, but I must see her if I can. “I will ask,” I promise again. “And what of you, Kiltha?”

  “Ah...” Her voice is suddenly higher, thinner, and I sense that she was hoping I might not ask. “In truth, I oughtn't to be out here. But I needed some fresh air, and I just couldn't stay home any longer... and then I saw you...”

  “What happened?” I ask, afraid, clutching at her hand. “Kiltha, what has happened?”

  She is silent for a long moment. She pulls her hand free of mine and starts playing with my fingers, curling and uncurling them one at a time. I wonder if she even realizes she is doing it. She seems lost in thought, perhaps afraid to speak.

  “A few days ago...” she begins at last, “I was a little late coming home, and... I was alone, there was no one nearby...” Her voice is shaking, and as she goes on I can hear that she is fighting tears. “There was a man – a commoner – he came and,” she breathes, fights to reclaim control over her voice, “he grabbed my shoulders and,” she stops again, “he threw me down and,” stops, “he wanted to hurt me,” stops, evidently in tears now.

  She is younger and smaller than I am, but she was always quicker than I was, at everything, and so she took care of me more than I of her. Now for the first time I put my arms around her, embracing her, trying to comfort her. She quiets in my arms.

  “Silwen came for me,” she goes on at last, her voice thick with tears. “He saved me before the man could do anything, and he hit him and drove him off and took me home. And he gave me his shirt, even. Mine was all ripped.”

  I smile despite myself. It was always Silwen's way to protect me – and Kiltha, too – to watch over us, to care for us, to be sure nothing happened. He was always the one to comfort me and take me home when I was too afraid to do anything but curl up in the street, and to run off anyone who threatened me. When I was caught stealing from a noble, and was to be stoned to death, it was Silwen who crept quietly into his estate and freed me and took me home.

  And then my mother said that I was too careless or too foolish, and that I was endangering us all, and that she could no longer care for me, and I said I would leave, and I left; and then when I had wandered to Qualin that same noble saw me there, and he took me on the back of his steed and cast me into the well to die there. And I lost the charm that Yuit gave me.

  “I ought to go back,” says Kiltha at last. “They'll be worrying, and I don't much like the idea of seeing that man again.”

  “All right,” I say, though I am loath to be left alone again. “I will ask if I may come visit you. Farewell until then.”

  “Farewell, Arri. I'm glad you're alive after all.”

  And then she is gone, and I am alone. A part of me is still afraid, and a part is relieved that now the worst is over, and that it wasn't as bad as I feared. Maybe I was not altogether unwanted after all. But I can't go back anymore. Perhaps I can visit my family; perhaps I can even be glad to see them; but I can never again be one of them, and they can never again take care of me and keep me safe.

  For a time I sit alone. Then at last I hear Ty's voice above me: “I'm back.”

  I stand. “Did you buy everything you wanted to?”

  “Yes. If we can take Ler's ship, I shall stow all this there now. It will be easier than taking it back to the inn, and having to invent a reason for it if the flower should ask.”

  “Who is Ler?” I ask.

  “My mother's sister, and Rih's mother. She – and my uncle Fal, until he died – raised us both. She captains under the gold banner.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Both dead. That girl – who was she?”

  At first I don't know whom he means. Then I remember: “Outside the shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn't know you were watching,” I say.

  “I thought it better not to leave you alone and unwatched, blind as you are. Besides, I did have to point you out to the shopkeeper.”

  “She is my sister,” I tell him. “I, too, have family in Quiyen. I was born here.”

  “Mm.”

  “I promised I would ask if I might visit them,” I say.

  “I don't see why the flower would object, now that she's given up on keeping you,” he says.

  I open my mouth, then close it and bite on my lips. I don't know what to say to that. We arrive back at the ship before I can answer. “Stop,” he says, and I stop.

  “Is Ler here now?” he asks, loudly.

  “I am here,” calls a woman's voice from above us.

  There is a short silence; then I hear footsteps, and then her voice again, quite near. “I hope you can tell me your story more clearly than Rih did.”

  He tells it, giving a little more detail than he did with Rih, perhaps because she asks more questions. Still he says nothing of the prophecy, only that there is something special about the child, and that he can say no more until we are on our way.

  “And whither might we carry you?”

  “That depends on the child, I think,” he says. “For now, we must only escape Quiyen, and quickly, once the time comes. We must stay away from Thilua, for the noblewoman will do all in her power to track us, and to kill us.”

  Ler is quiet for some time. At last she says: “Good. We must cut our stay in Quiyen a little short for you, but we will do it.”

  “Thank you,” says Ty. “How shall I pay you?”

  “We can think of that later,” she says. “I'll not take your money, and you certainly can't work off your debt; but perhaps something will come up.”

  “All right,” says Ty. “Then we shall be here in two nights' time, and then we must leave with all speed.”

  “And we shall,” says Ler; and with that settled we head back toward the inn.

  During our supper Ty asks Mel – almost courteously, for him – if her trip was fruitful. I wish I could close my ears against her response. I don't want to hear her voice. I don't want to know.

  “Yes,” she says. Her voice is cold, her reply short. “And yours? Did you find whatever you needed for that ritual of yours?”

  “Yes. We shall be quite able to do it tomorrow.”

  “What?” Her voice is tired, still cold, but suddenly vicious. “Tomorrow! Why mustn't you wait three days for this, now that you have your supplies?”

  I hadn't noticed that. I wonder now if Ty truly needed the three days or if they were only a way to gain some time before he betrays her. How much has he lied to her? He lies so easily.

  “Clearly this isn't as important as the death of the child,” he mocks.

  “Give me an answer,” she hisses. She isn't trying to flatter him anymore, nor even to be civil. That small part of me which still thinks of her – though I try to shut it out – thinks she must be too wearied by the journey to care anymore. I stop that thought before it goes far.

  “It will not be quite as difficult to focus,” he explains, “and besides, we have little time. Of course I would not think to push back the completion of your mission for something so little as this, but it must be done before we meet Therrin in the marketplace, so that Arri may aid me in the conjury. And I haven't the strength to conjure two such demons on the same day. So you see: tomorrow is the only day we have.”

  So soon. I must live through two more days. I must endure them.