Sterling (28 page)

W
e walked
beneath the
yeucalipt
trees for leagues.

“I would have expected small towns and farms outside such a city,” Erich remarked, frowning. “And perhaps a place to rent horses.”

“The farms lie to the east and south,” I said. “There is little north of Vorisipor but the
yeucalipts
.”

“A
yeucalipt
barren.”

His phrase described our surroundings well. The only pleasant thing about the trees, aside from their protective haven, was their odor: minty and fresh. We saw no more butterflies, and the ones we had seen began to feel like a dream.

“What will we do for food?” Erich asked.

“We still have some dates and nuts.” I patted the sacks I had tucked into my waist cincher. “The more pressing issue is water.”

“If nothing lies between here and Muscan, we’re in trouble.”

“People must travel the route occasionally. There must be way stations, or inns, or houses,” I said.

We found no such reprieve by the time darkness fell. We slept thirsty on beds of
yeucalipt
leaves. I rationed our food carefully, allowing only a handful each.

“We should go back towards the shore,” I suggested the following morning. “We can look for fresh water running down to the sea.”

“I don’t like it,” Erich argued. “It’s too exposed. They’ll be searching for us throughout this area by now. There may be ships patrolling the coast, and there are certainly Imperial warships heading north to Shankar as we speak.”

The blood drained from my face as I recalled Lord Jaxith saying,
If we win Shankar, we will crush it to dust.

Erich read my despairing expression. “Costas will prevail.”

“Then we must be there to warn him of Imperial treachery.”

We fell silent as we contemplated our poor odds. We were a very long way from Shankar.

“We have to drink,” I announced after another hour’s walk. “We must go down to the shore to search for steams connecting to the sea.”

A dark look marred Erich’s face, but he followed, and by afternoon my plan yielded success: a stream, brackish near the sea, so we walked inland until the water became fresh enough to drink.

“I don’t see any fish,” Erich said, peering into the water.

“We wouldn’t know if they were safe to eat, anyway,” I replied, thinking of
a poisonous fish that had infamously been served to the first Governor of Vorisipor to assassinate him. The easterners knew every poison—every venom from reptile or insect, every toxic barb or plant.

“What are we to eat when our nuts run out?”

“We’ll look for palm trees and koko-gourds.”

* * *

A
nother night passed
, and we ate the last of our nuts and dates. Erich had grown too lean in Vorisipor, which only cut his face into even finer lines. He looked dangerous.

“Good morning,” I said.

“It is not a good morning,” he snarled. “We’re starving to death.”

It hadn’t gotten as bad as that. Yet. “We’ll look for palms today. We’ll find one.”

“We won’t. There aren’t any.” Erich crouched beside me where I sat adjusting my boot laces. “I dreamt of a crème flavored with amaretta and sweetened with Lysandrene sugar. Served with strawberries. So sweet I could taste it. All I want is to get home and eat.”

As we walked I searched the coastline, looking for any sign of skinny trunks and full frond heads.
Amassis, Holy Father
, I said in my head,
we must find food before Erich gets much worse. Please show me where to find food.

Erich plucked a
yeucalipt
nut and tossed it into his mouth. He lasted only half a breath before he spit it out. “It burns,” he coughed, sputtering and gulping. “Amatos, it burns.”

I rolled my eyes. “The
yeucalipt
oil is astringent. That’s why nothing grows around here.”

“I’m starving,” Erich said again, though he kept up his steady march.

My hopes for koko-gourds were all but dashed by the time we took refuge in a grove for another night. We had not seen any plant except for
yeucalipts
along the coast. We came upon little streams, so we had water, but the streams were nearly as barren as the land.

“Lie down and rest, Erich,” I said. “We’ll find something in the morning.”

He laughed, a dry croak that sent chills up my spine. “Little Sterling. So hopeful. So sweet. How could you, of all people, not know how bad the world can be?”

“I know how bad it can be.”

He groaned and put both hands over his eyes. “I think I want to die,” he whispered.

I scooted to his side, shuffling leaves. “You can’t leave me. I need you.”

He uncovered his eyes. “Do you? It never seems like it. You would be better off without me.”

“How can you say that? You rescued me from the Governor! You saved my life on the cliffs. You wouldn’t be in this mess at all if not for me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Desperation hit me all at once. I began to cry, big, wracking sobs with the uncontrolled quality of one of my panic attacks.

“Sterling, don’t cry. Let me hold you.” I crawled into his arms, forgetting again that I was an ugly, smelly mess of rags. “Shhh. Shhh.” He calmed me by touch and tone.

We lay tangled up in each other. His eyes had fallen closed. Dark circles hollowed the sockets. Softly, so as to not wake him, I smoothed a lock from his forehead. That chunk of hair always fell into his eyes. A hundred times I’d wanted to move it for him. He did not wake or notice as I let my hand linger for a bare moment on his cheek.

* * *

E
ven though I
woke in Erich’s arms, I did not feel the characteristic hope of a morning, only the grimness of our situation.

Erich slept on. He looked so worn, but we had to move and keep hoping for luck, godly intervention, or serendipity.

I sighed. “Erich! Wake up. We have to keep going.”

Near midday my toes stopped on the edge of a broad expanse swept clean even of
yeucalipt
leaves. Trees had been cut down and cleared, and stones had been laid at the verge to prevent regrowth.

“A road.” Wonder tinged Erich’s voice. “A real road.”

“Which way shall we go?” The road ran west to east by my best calculation. We’d been walking north.

Erich let out a breath. “There must be a destination at the end of it if we head west. Else why would it exist?”

“West, then.” As we set off, I imagined a seaside fishing village with a town market and charitable souls willing to feed two starving refugees. But as we crested a rise, the shore looked as barren as the landscape behind us. No village, no fishermen, no market. The road bent and headed north along the seaside.

I wanted to scream or cry. I kept one eye on the distant horizon, ever mindful of a sea patrol that might be searching the coast for us. I saw nothing, not even Imperial warships heading north to Shankar. The world appeared as empty as we were.

Though the
yeucalipts
had abated, the land remained curiously devoid of life. Scruffy yellow grass grew in patches, but mostly our road was surrounded by dust.

We walked for hours into the fading light before I saw it, blurry in the dusk.

“Do you see that?” I whispered. “A light! There’s something ahead!” I took off running.

Erich’s footsteps pounded behind me. We ran for almost a full league before we saw what the light illuminated.

I drew up short in surprise. I had been imagining a posting inn, a cottage, or a village, but instead there were three brightly-colored carts lit by a large campfire. Several brown faces lifted to stare at Erich and me.

“
T
hey’re Esani
,” I whispered. The nomadic performers were a familiar sight to anyone from Shankar. They traveled in wheeled carts and performed for money: acrobatics, dancing, music, theatre. Each troupe had its own specialty. Shankar was usually their only stop in Lethemia, a place where they earned more money in one show than they could make in a whole tour of western Vhimsantyr. Part of the Eastern Empire, but separate from it, the Esani people did not mingle with Imperials.

“Who goes there?” One of the Esani men, dressed in clingy knit breeches and a vest, stepped forward, speaking the Imperial tongue. He was compact but strong, like an acrobat, though he swayed on his feet. As I studied the glassed-over eyes and languid postures of the others, I thought they might all be drunk.

I hesitated. The Esani were notoriously insular, but we were desperate. We had to have their help.

Swallowing my doubts, I unwound the ragged linen from my face and offered a wide smile, disfigurement and whatever scarring the Governor had left on my cheek be damned.

“Hello.” My bright tone belied our situation. “We are travelers fallen on hard luck. We have walked on this road for days without food. If you please, take pity on us. We are so hungry.” I did not even blush as I begged. Our need was too dire.

The Esani man came closer. “Come into the light so we may see you.”

I gestured at Erich to follow me, and together we stepped into the campfire’s light.

A woman lifted her gaze to Erich. She smiled at him and seductively slid one leg over the other.

“You may share our fire for the night,” the man who had greeted us said. “We can feed you, provided you give us something as well.”

My stomach dropped. “We are very poor,” I began.

Several of the Esani laughed at my words, to my bewilderment.

“We do not ask for money or material things,” the man said. “We want a story. You stay a night with us, you eat our food, you share our fire. We welcome you if you share a story, yes?”

“A story?”

“You tell us a tale of your people. I hear in your voice, you are no Imperial. We are Esani. We know accents. We do them on the stage. You are westerners. We want western stories.”

“Oh! Yes. Yes. We know western stories. We’ll tell you stories.”

The man and the others nodded in approval. The woman who had eyed Erich departed into one of the carts and returned with a tray laden with four glasses, two bottles, and several little cakes. My mouth watered.

She poured small amounts of clear liquid from the first bottle into the glasses and offered one to Erich. He hadn’t understood what I’d said to the Esani, but he took the drink graciously, nodding like a courtier. The woman blushed and made a delicate curtsy. She did not serve me as she did Erich. I felt the slight.

I reached for the water and took a huge gulp. Fire coursed down my throat, exploding like an Imperial cannon. I coughed weakly.
What in the name of Amassis had they served us?

The Esanis laughed. Even Erich smiled.

“It’s akavit,” he whispered. “Eastern akavit. Eighty proof at least.” He took a small sip.

“The other is water.” Our greeter pointed to the second bottle. “Now, tell us your names and where you are from. I am Diali Radhech, and this is my trapeze troupe. Nadea,” he indicated the petite woman who sat at his side, “Vasil, Danev, Georgi,” he pointed at three wiry men in turn. “And Luca.” He waved at the girl admiring Erich.

“My name is ah—Starla,” I said, thinking of the masquerade long ago where I’d first met Erich. I was a terrible liar. Doubt clouded their faces already. “And this is my—friend—Cavan.” Erich lifted his head at his father’s name. “Cavan,” I said again, making an obvious gesture of introduction so Erich would understand I’d given him a new name. “He doesn’t speak Vhimsantese.”

“Pity,” said the woman, Luca. “I very much wanted to hear his story.”

“Eat, drink,” urged Diali. “You said you were hungry. Eat first, then a story.”

I handed one of the cakes to Erich. He ate it in two bites and took another, which disappeared almost as quickly. I nibbled at mine. I did not wish to make myself sick by eating too quickly; I had to tell them a story. The romance of Lady Starla Ricknagel and Chrysanthos Galatien was my favorite Lethemian tale, but I didn’t think I should tell it given what I had called myself.

I had a perfect story already made, as good as any fairy tale if only I edited the ending. I finished my cake, which tasted of apples and cinnamon, and poured both Erich and myself full glasses of water.

“Once there was a princess,” I began, “the second daughter of a new monarch who’d fought a civil war to win his kingdom. The king had to broker his second daughter in marriage to support his rule. Under normal circumstances, this would have posed no problem. But the king’s second daughter was no beautiful princess. She was ugly, infamously ugly.”

Luca, the flirtatious woman, said to the man next to her in a loud stage whisper, “Ugly with a big red mark on her face and a nasty scar above it, I’d warrant.”

I nearly lost the thread of my story, my face was so hot, but I forced myself to continue. “The marriage was arranged between the ugly princess and the son of a great house. They had never met, but their union would stabilize the country after its recent war. The ugly princess dressed herself up finely for the ball where she would meet her prince, hoping that her betrothed wouldn’t be too disappointed with her face.

“But at the ball, her betrothed went missing. He did not dance with her for the formal dance—” This comment caused a stir amongst the Esani “—so she had to dance with her father instead. Despite her shame at this rejection, after the dance she sought the young man. She found him making love to another woman.” My voice wavered.

The Esani hissed. Had I won them to the side of the ugly princess? I smiled and continued.

“She ran back to the ballroom, even though the other guests were talking about her, saying that a girl so ugly could not hope to attract her husband, not even when the country’s welfare depended upon it.”

I paused, planning a nice, neat, happy ending to the tale. An utter lie, of course, but it comforted me. “The girl’s father, the king, saw his daughter’s distress. He loved her dearly, despite her ugliness, and so he went in search of the errant betrothed lord. The king found the man with his paramour in the library. The king sent the courtesan away, sat the young man down, and gave him a long lecture on country and duty. The young man was shamed by the king’s honor. He followed the king back to the ballroom, did his duty, and danced with the ugly princess. They were married a fortnight later and the country went on to a happy and prosperous future.” I nodded my head.
If only it could have been so easy.

“But did they have a good marriage?” Luca asked. Her gaze raked over my mark.

“They had a happy marriage,” I affirmed. “They learned to love each other.”

Luca looked doubtful. “But was the man ever tempted? Beautiful people wish to be with other beautiful people.”

I grabbed another cake from the tray, stuffing it into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to answer.

Erich remained oblivious to the undercurrents my story had awoken. He’d sat bemused through the entire story, gulping his water, sipping at the potent akavit, and gorging on applecakes.

“And you, young man? Will you tell us a story?” Diali spoke to Erich in perfect Lethemian, barely even touched with an accent.

I nearly jumped from my skin. Erich swung around so fast his neck cracked. “A story?” Of course he had no idea about the bargain I’d made to pay for our respite.

“They asked us to tell them stories in exchange for their hospitality.” I stared at Diali Radhech. How had he come by perfect Lethemian?

“You want me to tell a story?” Erich asked Diali. “But I do not speak Vhimsantese.”

“I will translate what you say,” Diali said. “Just speak slowly.”

“Very well,” Erich said. “A story.” He paused for a moment. “I’ll tell you the story of a young lord.”

Diali murmured the translation softly, in perfect cadence, clearly adept at the task.

Erich continued, “He was the first son of a great house, and he had no brothers, only younger sisters whom he rarely saw. He lived a life separate from others because he had a terrible secret. He had no friends, though his mother saw to it that he had the best education in courtly manners; his father saw to it that he trained in martial arts, diplomacy, history, and management so that one day he could lead his house.”

Diali related these words to his troupe, adding, “Though these parents with such concern for the proper upbringing of their son did not teach him the languages of the countries neighboring theirs. Perhaps they thought the Eastern Empire inconsequential.”

The Esani rustled and giggled.

Luca said in Vhimsantese, “He is the beautiful lord from the first story, no?”

“What does this young man look like?” Diali asked Erich in Lethemian.

“Oh, normal,” Erich said, breaking apart yet another apple cake. “He appeared entirely normal on the outside. Fit and healthy, some even said handsome. No one could see the truth of his secret written upon his skin. It wasn’t until someone touched him that anything went wrong.”

Diali translated rapidly.

“I do not believe it,” Luca said, though Erich could not understand her. “This must be the beautiful lord from the other story, of course. But why should anyone touching him cause a problem?”

Diali repeated this last question in Lethemian for Erich’s benefit.

Erich rubbed the stubble on his chin. “As a boy, he showed signs of magical talent—this was in Lethemia, in the west, of course. As the first-born son of one of the great houses, the boy was the heir. Heirs rarely develop magic, and if they do, they give it up and do not practice the art, for it is illegal for any mage to rule one of Lethemia’s Ten Houses. Too much power.”

I sucked in a breath, finally understanding the significance of the strange sensations I’d felt from Erich’s skin. But—

“For most people, when magic is renounced, the talent slips away entirely. To make use of magic requires training. Not so for this boy. His magic was constantly slipping beyond his control, spilling out of him like burning soup from a tureen. His parents were horrified, for they knew he would be unable to inherit if it became known that he had not renounced the craft. They employed tutors and specialists to study his case. They hired a mage to create spellwork that would contain the magic and cause it to wither. The mage’s enchantment went wrong. It left the young lord maimed in an unexpected way. Anytime he touched anyone, it caused great pain. The stunted magic lived beneath his skin like a curse. If he embraced his sisters, they ran away from him, screaming. If he tried to kiss his mother’s hand, she had to snap it from his grip before his lips touched it.”

“What about gloves? Couldn’t the young lord cover his hands so as to not cause others pain?” Luca asked, and Diali translated.

“He did,” Erich replied. “But even the thickest leather gloves only muted the effect. In the end, his parents settled upon a plan of isolation—the less the boy interacted with others, the less likely it was that anyone would discover his secret.

“He hated being isolated; he hated missing out on the life his sisters enjoyed in the wider world. Whenever he touched another person, even through the gloves, his stunted magic surged into them, causing a burning pain that shocked and horrified. When he was thirteen years of age, he convinced his parents that he had subdued the magic, so they agreed to let him into the world on the condition that he be very careful and not reveal the secret. They feared if anyone found out, their only son would not be allowed to serve as their heir. So he was freed to live a normal life, but he could never touch anyone. In truth, the magic still raged beneath his skin.”

I covered my mouth with both hands. I wanted to sob, but I pressed the heavy sorrow back. Everyone listened, rapt, to Diali’s translation.

“By the time he had reached fifteen years of age, our young man had become cold and arrogant, but secretly, he longed for warmth and human contact. He was lonely, though he would never admit it. He
performed
for the entire world. He fell in with a group of rakehells and tried to fit in with them, driving fast carriages, drinking liquor, gambling, and flirting with inappropriate women. Eventually he found himself in an unexpected situation after a lost bet, alone with a courtesan, a woman he could pay to keep his secret.”

The audience stared at Erich, transfixed.

“He wanted to touch the woman badly, so he forced a promise from her that whatever happened, she’d tell no one. As soon as he laid his bare hand upon her, the magic poured out in an uncontrollable surge, as though it had been pent up all those years. After their flesh joined, it became even stronger, and when the woman answered his touch with her own, she was caught, paralyzed. Her breathing stopped. She died within minutes, for the youth had no skills to undo what his touch had caused. He could not control it.”

My tears overflowed.

“He soon learned the only way for him to achieve any sort of intimacy with a woman was by touching only with toys or props, never flesh to flesh. He stared down a long dark tunnel of existence with no human contact. Sometimes he did not want to go on.

“None of his mistresses—and there were many, for there was nothing this young man wanted more than physical pleasure—truly wished to be with him. He paid for the arrangements, and he soon became known as a man with deviant tastes and perverse proclivities. He sought out women reputed to enjoy darker love games, but even they left him as quickly as possible. They thought him strange and unsatisfying; they found his rules too difficult to follow.

“Then his mother arranged a marriage for him.”

“To the ugly princess!” cried Luca. “The king’s daughter! I knew this was the story of the beautiful lord!”

Erich did not understand what she’d said.

Diali intervened. “I find it amazing that you tell us this story if you had not understood the one your companion Starla told.”