by Carol A Park
He didn’t seem to care that he was blinding her. Instead, he regarded her silently, long enough that her eyes adjusted, and she could finally see the stranger clearly, though his face was shrouded in the hood of a fur-lined cloak. The ensemble was complete with sturdy boots and the thick fingers of gloves wrapped around the handle of the lantern.
He looked so warm. Annoyance spiked through her fear. Were the slums offering tours to wealthy folk now, so as to assure them that they were in no danger of descending to these depths? “What do you want?” she asked. “Do you intend to stand there blinding me with your lantern all night?”
He looked at his lantern and then back at her. “You don’t speak like a street urchin.”
Why in the abyss did it matter how she spoke? What was wrong with him?
When he still didn’t move, she gathered herself up and made to move away. Maybe if she didn’t run this time…
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She turned. “To another cold wall to die in peace.”
“Come with me.” He began to turn, as though he expected no protest.
She laughed, though it sounded more like a hiccough. “Right.”
He paused. Without turning, he said, “My house is warm, and I will feed you.”
Her body shuddered and her stomach ached at the words.
No. Ivana, no. It was profoundly foolish to follow a strange man with no way of knowing what he really intended. Hadn’t she already made enough foolish decisions for a lifetime?
He walked away.
But what were her other options? To freeze to death on this bitterly cold night? To give herself up to the workhouses and hope to Temoth that she wouldn’t be skimmed by slavers or pimps? Even if the stranger had no better intentions, she would be no worse off. Right?
Against her better judgment, but without other recourse, she hurried to catch up with him.
Chapter Two
The stranger led Ivana to a modest house near the southern wall of the city. The neighborhood was near the sprawling commercial district that encompassed the docks, far enough away from the slums Ivana had made her home in that she noticed a change in the ambient odor in the air—or lack thereof.
She had become used to the stench of rotting garbage. It followed them for a while until she realized that at some point she smelled herself.
A middle-aged woman met them at the door, which alleviated some of Ivana’s fears. His wife? Surely, if his intentions were malicious, he would not have brought her home to his wife.
“I have a guest,” he said without preamble once the door had closed behind them. “Prepare a late dinner for her.” He held up a finger. “But first, draw a bath. She stinks.”
The woman eyed her but curtsied without comment, which dispelled the theory that she was his wife. More likely, a housekeeper. Still. That seemed normal, right?
The strange man disappeared, and the woman did as he asked.
The bath felt heavenly. Ivana hadn’t had such a bath since she had fled home. No, since before they had left Kadmon’s estate. Ten, eleven months?
Had it been that long?
It was difficult to tell if the ache in her gut intensified because of that thought or because her limbs had thawed enough that she could now pay more attention to the emptiness of her stomach.
She might have preferred to eat first and bathe later, especially given that the housekeeper provided her with only a clean, soft robe when she was done drying off, but in either sequence, his orders had satisfied—or were about to satisfy—her most pressing needs.
The housekeeper led her to a dining table that could hold six or eight people. An empty plate and clean cutlery had been set out at one end. It was the promise of a meal to come, which her stomach was eagerly anticipating, and noisily, now that she was warm. The man sat at the opposite end of the table, but he had no place setting; Ivana supposed he had already eaten.
Ivana lowered herself into the seat across from him, and the housekeeper scurried away.
He watched Ivana. Silently. In fact, aside from his terse commands when they had entered, no one had spoken. Not even the presumed housekeeper, who had been more concerned with carrying out her employer’s orders than conversation.
She didn’t dare speak first. So she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and fingered her sister’s rose necklace, which she had fastened around her neck when the housekeeper had made her change out of her filthy clothes.
Finally, the housekeeper brought out several silver-lidded platters and a pitcher of beer.
The smells wafting from the platters were almost too much to bear, but she held herself, waiting for the man’s leave—if only to prove to herself that she could still act like a civilized person.
The housekeeper lifted off the lids, prepared a plate for her, and then stood back. “Dal, by your leave? I’m later than usual,” she said.
The man held one hand up in vague dismissal, and she curtsied again and disappeared back through what Ivana assumed was the kitchen door.
Ivana watched her go with dismay. Now, she and the strange man were alone. No witnesses. No one to hear her if she screamed.
She almost laughed at her own melodramatic thoughts until she reflected that her situation was actually that bad.
There had been no one who cared about her screams for a very long time.
She stared down at her plate, her mouth watering. This wasn’t just a meal. This was a feast, especially for mid-winter. Rare roast beef with braised turnips and sesame oil, sweet barley cakes, and boiled eggs. Was this how this man ate all the time? Was he some middling noble who chose to locate his city home near where he did the most business?
That thought was almost worse than her previous. She had suffered more than enough at the hand of nobles; what irony would it be that her supposed benefactor was yet another?
“Are you not going to eat?” the man asked, breaking the long silence.
She looked up to find him still watching her. “I—by your leave, Dal?” she stammered, unnerved by his scrutiny.
“Obviously.”
She swallowed and inclined her head.
Her manners and the man’s gaze were forgotten the moment the food touched her tongue. In no time the plate was empty again, and she filled and emptied it twice over before she began to feel sated.
The man didn’t speak to her while she was eating, and as she finally slowed, she became conscious again of his gaze.
She flushed and wiped her mouth with the napkin set on the table above her plate. Now I find out what he wants with me, she thought. He didn’t seem the type to pluck a waif off the street out of the kindness of his heart, and if his purpose were carnal—or only carnal—why feed her first?
She hesitated and then lifted her eyes to meet his. For the first time, she studied the stranger more closely. The tone of his skin was the creamy medium beige of native Setanans, so that told her nothing more than that he was likely from Cadmyr, Weylyn, or Arlana. His hair and eyes were dark brown to match. He was of average height for a man and had a medium build—from what she could tell, given his loose-fitting clothing—and, indeed, he seemed middle-aged.
Everything about his physical appearance was unremarkable.
Except his eyes. They were penetrating, as if they could cut right through her every thought. He didn’t look away at her scrutiny, and the continued silence became once again uncomfortable.
Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “You’ve been uncommonly kind,” she said. “Thank you.”
He didn’t respond immediately, in word or gesture. When he did, it was as if she hadn’t spoken. “Why were you on the streets?”
She hadn’t expected that question. Her name, perhaps, or finally an indication of what he wanted from her, but not that. Was he a slaver, perhaps, looking to make easy money by abducting beggars who looked like they could be nursed back to a salable state?
And where did she even begin? “I-I-I don’t—”
“Don’t stutter. It’s irritating.” His eyes swept over her. “You’re from Ferehar.”
She swallowed. An obvious enough observation, given the deep amber-bronze tone of her skin. “Yes, Dal.”
“A long way from home.”
Was he trying to determine if anyone would miss her?
The food in her stomach was heavy. There was no one. None at all. Not anymore. Because of her own foolishness.
She found herself taking a few gulps of air in response to a tightening feeling in her lungs. She looked down at her lap and curled her hands into fists. She had lived with the struggle to meet her most basic needs for too long. Now that they had been met in full, at least temporarily, the reminder of how she had ended up here swept in to fill the void—and she didn’t want to have this stranger prying and prodding her about it. “Let me save you the trouble, Dal,” she said quietly. “My father and mother are dead, and my sister—” Her voice broke, and her hand went reflexively to the rose pendant again. “If you intend me for ill use, there is no one alive who would rise to my defense. Please, may we skip the feigned pleasantries?”
He was silent for long enough that she felt the need to look back up at him if only to see what he was doing.
He was doing nothing. Only watching her, his face impassive and unreadable. “You’re afraid of me,” he said, not quite a question, but almost.
She had been. She still was—a bit. But right now resignation and despair were competing with that fear—and winning. But how could she explain that? “Wouldn’t you be?”
To her surprise, he chuckled. It wasn’t the sort of chuckle one might expect in response to a jest; instead, it was low and soft, as though to himself, and he wore no smile to match his supposed merriment. “What’s your name?”
She furrowed her brow. She didn’t understand his game. “Ivana,” she replied. Not Ana. She would never be Ana again.
“Ivana.” He rolled the name around on his tongue, as if tasting it. “Ivana. You may be assured that you are quite safe from ill-use while here.” He stood up. “Follow.”
Once again, Ivana felt as though she had little choice but to follow the stranger. With a lamp in his hand, he led her down a short hall and to a room that was barely large enough to deserve the moniker—it was more of a large closet.
He ushered her inside. “You will stay here,” he said. “And you will dine with me when I am home. When I am not, my housekeeper will see to your needs.”
Ivana was speechless. He didn’t intend to mistreat her—or so he said—and had opened his home to her with no conditions, for no apparent reason? “I… What do you want from me in return?”
“Nothing,” he said. “But perhaps one day I’ll find a use for you.”
He secured the lamp to a bracket on the wall and turned to leave.
“Dal,” she said.
He waited but didn’t turn around.
“May I know your name?” she asked.
There was a long pause and then, “Elidor.” With that, he disappeared into the darkness of the hall.
Ivana turned around once in the tiny room; there was room to do little else. The only pieces of furniture were a cot, on which someone—she presumed the housekeeper—had laid out a clean dress and a nightgown, and a small stand holding an empty washbasin with a cracked mirror above it. A single step would take her to the cot, and the step she had already taken into the room had brought her in front of the washbasin. The half-shelf above it held a clock, and the shelf under it held a pitcher of clear water, a chunk of soap, and a hand towel.
And then there was the mirror. She took a step back and bumped into the cot. It was the first time she had seen such a clear reflection of herself since leaving Ferehar. She hardly recognized the gaunt face and hollow eyes staring back at her. She looked every bit the part of a beggar, except cleaner—now. The gods only knew what she must have looked like when her face had been filthy and her hair tangled, and how she must have stunk! It was no wonder she hadn’t convinced anyone to hire her.
The rose pendant that hung at the end of her sister’s necklace rested beneath the hollow of her throat. The bright, delicate flower was out of place against the canvas of her leaden countenance.
She was tired. She wanted to lie down and, frankly, never get up again. She sank down on the cot, propped her back against the wall, and crushed her knees to her chest with her arms—as though if she could only compact herself enough, she might squeeze the aching in her chest right out of herself.
It didn’t work. Instead, she stared at the pitcher of water and the light flickering on its glazed surface. She wished the lump in her throat would break and provide some sort of imagined release through tears.
Except that never worked, either. She cried, and nothing ever changed. No amount of tears would bring back everything she had lost. Her sobs could never erase the terrible mistakes she had made that had ruined them all.
The futility was maddening. Something inside her urged her to scream, to lash out, to punch the bed, or even the wall—as though that would somehow release the pain. But that wouldn’t work, either.
Why had she fought for survival for so long, anyway? What had been her goal? To restart a life for herself, empty and alone?
The light danced a different step for a moment—an unfelt movement in the air, perhaps, or a piece of the burned wick falling down. But it caught on something on the floor, under the lower shelf of the washbasin—a glimmer, a reflection on a polished surface, perhaps.
She sat up straight again, reached down to feel under the shelf, and pulled out a small blade, like one a man might use to shave.
She stared down at it and turned it around in her hand. She didn’t want to die. But neither did she want to exist in this wreckage known as her life.
She ran her thumb over the blade lightly, absently, and recoiled as it bit into her skin.
Stupid. What had she expected?
Blood welled up from the cut, and she grabbed the towel to press it against her thumb for a few moments.
She peeled it away, examined the tiny wound, and then nodded in satisfaction. Barely a paper cut. The pain had lasted but a few moments.
There and then gone. So easy, so quick. If only her life could mimic that little cut.
She drew the razor gently across her forearm. Blood beaded up from the cut once again. So…controlled.
It was hardly even a conscious decision that drove her hand to make another cut and then another. The screams inside fell silent. The aching in her chest, instead of threatening to rip her apart from the inside out, seeped from her skin. It was…comforting. While the cuts were stinging, she could forget.
I’m going crazy, she thought.
As if to prove to herself she wasn’t, she wiped off the razor and put it on the lower shelf. She then lay back down on the cot with the towel wedged between the inside of her arm and her body, and finally fell asleep.
Outsider
A year and eight months ago
Interestingly, Old Fereharian does not appear to be related to any of the other languages of the continent. Of course, having no written form, it is difficult to—
“Ana, look at this.”
Ivana cradled her forehead in one hand and shifted to bring herself closer to her book and farther from the disturbance. —it is difficult to compare as one might—
“Ana?”
Ivana blinked. Oh. She tore her eyes away and lifted her head to see what her father was looking at. He had one eye pressed to the end of a wooden tube and was peering through it and down to a thin pane of glass that rested beneath.
She sighed but smiled. His latest project: the microscope. They were relatively new, and only a handful of scholars at the universities around Setana had them yet. Her father had no hope of purchasing one himself on his wages, even had they been easy to obtain.
So he had made one.
When she didn’t get up, he looked up from the device and gestured to her.
She placed a bookmark in the book, set it aside, and went to her father so she could see what had him so excited this time.
“Go on,” he said. “Take a look.”
She obediently looked through the tube, stared for a moment, mystified, and then slid the glass out from under the tube to see what the sample was. It held a segment of a thin leaf. She put it back and looked again. Burning skies. Hundreds of spidery lines surrounded dozens of orderly boxes. His microscope had never shown this much detail before. “We’ve studied leaves before,” she said. “What changed?”
He grinned and slid a thick circle of glass—a lens, he called it, like from a pair of spectacles—out of the body of the microscope. “I finally perfected the glass lenses,” he said. “Isn’t it amazing?”
She had to admit it was. “Have the scholars at the universities seen this?”
“Who knows? And even if they haven’t, they aren’t going to listen to a personal tutor with his crude, homemade microscope.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Oh—” He set aside the notebook he had just picked up, no doubt intending to make a note, and instead picked up his hat and set it on his head. He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Can’t be late for the young lord’s afternoon session,” he said with a wink, then left.
Ivana shook her head. She picked up his notebook and flipped absently through it. A year’s worth of notes and discoveries, the latest of the notebooks he had made over the years. He had dozens of them locked away in a chest in her parents’ bedroom.
His talents were wasted on those brats. By now, he ought to have been at one of the universities researching and mentoring other promising young scholars and disseminating his discoveries for the benefit of all Setana.
He had started on that path, but he had given it up when he’d married her mother and she’d become pregnant with Ivana. Now, he was here, in their home region of Ferehar, tutoring the four children of Lord Kadmon.
He had a family to take care of and tutoring for a noble paid better than being a fledgling scholar.
The front door swung open, and she set the notebook down quickly, afraid it was her father having forgotten something—he was protective of his notebooks—but it was only her younger sister, Izel.
