Enchanted Forests (49 page)

weary to really lay into him, as she usually did—she and Martin

liking good arguments. They argued about everything, the King,

the Parliament, the Marrazzano generals, battles fought four hun-

dred years before, treaties signed and broken. Uncle Martin was

a good Royalist: He believed in me Trassaharin King, whom,

Martina reminded him, had escaped years ago to another country

where he lived in peace and plenty; he believed in me Parlia-

ment, and in the cause. Aunt Martina believed that they were all

of them, Trassahar and Marrazzano kings, generals, and minis-

ters alike, scavengers feeding off the body of the farmers and the

shopkeepers and the artisans, who had once populated Trient and

me surrounding countryside without civil war, marrying each to

the other with more attention to economic considerations than to

blood ties-

So Mama, half Marrazzano, had married into a good solid

Trassahar craftsman's family- No one had thought twice about it,

because her own family were craftsmen, tile makers, and she had

a good dowry, a fine hand for painting pottery, and liked well

enough the man who became her husband. So she had in her turn

fostered in her cousin's daughter, Stepha.

So Uncle Martin. Royalist that he was, patted Stepha on the

head when she brought him up his dinner of potatoes and onions,

and told her that she'd had an offer of marriage.

Stepha dropped the plate. She began weeping, but whether

320 Kate Elliott

over the shattered plate or the marriage offer Jontano couldn't

tell. No one scolded her. Aunt Martina scooped up the precious

food and Uncle Martin ate it from a tin cup.

"Who would offer for me?" Stepha asked through her sobs.

"My old friend Zjilo Berio."

"He's only got one arm," objected Aunt Martina.

"Which he lost fighting," said Uncle Martin. "His wife died

last winter, and he's got the two little ones now."

'They had the three children," said Mama, having come up-

stairs to see what the commotion was about.

"They had three, it's true, but he lost me boy to a sniper's bul-

let one mondi ago."

"Ah," said Mama. Jontano saw her wipe a speck from her eye.

He wasn't sure if it was a tear or not.

"How old is he?" asked Aunt Martina.

"About thirty."

Aunt Martina considered this. 'That's not too bad.'*

'That's ancient!" protested Stepha.

Uncle Martin stared her down, and she wiped her nose and

clasped her hands obediently in front of her blouse. But she

wrung them, twisting her fingers about each other, and Jontano

couldn't tell whether she liked or was terrified of the idea of

marrying a man as old as thirty. Jontano didn't know what he

thought of it. He'd known Stepha so long that he couldn't imag-

ine her being old enough to marry, even though she was almost

two years older than he was.

When Uncle Martin spoke again, he measured his words care-

fully. "Zjilo is a good man. We fought together. He never raised

a hand to his wife, though she came from an aristocratic family

and spoke down to him once the war came and they couldn't

have the luxuries they had before."

"He's rich still!" Aunt Martina leaped on this point. "I thought

the family lost their warehouse. I thought they had nothing."

"Or you'd have pursued him yourself?" Martin grinned at her.

'The family kept something by, or must have. He's taking the

children out of Trient. He can't bear it any more for their sake

now that he lost the boy. He's afraid of losing the little girls, too.

They've a small estate in Kigori."

'There's no way in or out of Trient," said Mama suddenly.

Jontano felt more than saw the pain on her face, in her body. His

eldest brother had died that way, trying to get out of the city to

fetch the herbs—the apothecary having long since run out of

THE MEMORY OF PEACE        321

such supplies—that kept Baby Lucia's heart going. So the two

had, in a way, died together.

Martin snorted. "How do you think this tobacco got here?

There are ways, if you've enough money, or important enough

news, and are willing to run the gauntlet and take the risk. It

would be a good life for you, Stepha, but if you agree to it, you

must understand that you might not live through the crossing.

Zjito's agreed to take Judit, too, now that she's alone, and raise

her as his own."

Stepha glanced over at Jontano, but he only shrugged. He tried

to imagine what it would be like without her, but could not.

"Why does he want me?" Stepha asked sullenly. 'To use me

as a servant and a whore?"

Uncle Martin slapped her. This time, though, she didn't begin

to cry. Jontano saw something different in the way she stood, as

if she had already made a decision but was refusing to give it

away easily. "As a favor to me, my girl, and don't you talk back

to me again. He needs a wife. A young girl like you will be

strong enough to do the work and bear him more children.

You're a pretty girl, too, when you're not making faces and act-

ing wild. If we don't get you out of Trient, you'll either get shot

or end up in the marketplace with the rest of the goods that are

bought and sold."

Stepha flinched.

"Martin!" scolded Aunt Martina, but Martin looked at her

gravely. Whatever Martina saw in Martin's gaze caused her to

nod her head once, shortly, and gesture at him to go on. Jontano

watched in confused silence.

"When Zjilo began talking of leaving, of getting a new wife,

I reminded him that you'll be sixteen next month and that you're

a good girl and better off out of Trient. He doesn't care that

you've got Marrazzano blood. If you agree and are a dutiful wife

to him, you'll have a good life, with servants, land, a good

kitchen and decent clothes always for yourself and your chil-

dren."

Abruptly Mama spoke. "Can he get us out, too. Martin? All of

us?" Her voice held a passion Jontano hadn't heard in it for

years. Ancient memories resurfaced, clawing out of him, grow-

ing, consuming, memories of happiness, of Mama and Papa plan-

ning the garden, sketching new patterns for plates and vases for

the family business, and in her voice as well he thought he heard

a whispering note of hope, that somewhere peace might be

322 Kate Elliott

found, a place where happiness could, grain by grain, bride by

brick, be built again.

As if the Mairazzano guns had opened up again, Martin's next

words shattered that fragile thread linking Mama, linking Jontano

himself, to her dream.

"Do you have a thousand florins?"

She gasped. It was an enormous sum.

"Relatives to go to? We've got nothing but what we have here,

Constance. Zjilo stayed this long because of his wife's family,

and because of the risk to the children. But they'll die quickly

enough in this hellhole, so why wait? I wish him luck. I wish we

hadn't lost everything and everyone, but what's the use? We

can't leave."

"We mustn't leave," said Aunt Martina. Her voice, forever

scarred by the men who had raped her and then tried and failed

to kill her by cutting her throat, sounded hoarser than ever. "That

would give Trient to the Marrazzanos. Why else have we suf-

fered? What have our beloved ones died for? I will stand here

until the day I die rather than run away and give it to those bas-

tard Marrazzanos."

Stepha stared at Martina. Mama walked to the window and

looked out over the city. Her face was pale and the line of her

jaw tight with an emotion Jontano could not understand, know-

ing only that he loved her desperately for her strength—the

strength that had allowed her, of all of his family, to survive

when the rest had perished. All three of her brothers, her sister,

her husband and children, her parents, all gone, leaving her with

in-laws and one last child. Uncle Martin got a funny look on his

face, and he took Martina's hand in his own and kissed it, as a

lord gives respect to a lady.

Martina made a noise in her throat, then pulled her hand free

from his. "Huh," she said caustically. "All that fraternizing with

former officers is giving you airs above your station, Martin. I

hear old Widow Angelit is looking for a new husband."

"Ha! She's buried four already. I'd rather not know my own

fate, thank you."

"I'll go," Stepha blurted out.

That simple statement brought its own, new silence to the

room. It was so quiet that Jontano heard the distant yell of hawk-

ers in the Wildmo marketplace, where a morning of quiet had

brought brave and fatalistic souls alike to set out their wares, to

shop, in the ruins of the fine old market stalls.

So it was done.

THE MEMORY OF PEACE

323

Zjilo Berio came to the house the next Sunday. He was a quiet

man with tired eyes, but he wore a golden pocket-watch and his

clothes were neat, pressed, and made of the finest cloth—old

clothes, from before the blockade, well cared for and smelling

slightly of the cedar chest, where they had perhaps been stored

against better days. His daughters were even quieter. They stared

at Stepha with great dark eyes. After the brief ceremony, Judit

showed them her doll, and with this treasure, while the adults

toasted the new bride with precious wine and ate from a table

laid with as great a feast as Mama and Aunt Martina could man-

age, the three girls played together in whispers in the comer of

the parlor.

The food was eaten, the wine drunk, and as dusk settled in

over Trient, it was time for them to go.

Jontano hugged Stepha, but he could think of nothing to say.

"Take care of my treasures," she said. Then she was gone with

her new husband and children.

Jontano gave the marbles to Roman, and the rest of the things

from old Aldo's shop he gave to Mama, thinking that she might

find some use for them, keeping only the six cards for himself.

At night, the bed seemed enormous with only himself and lit-

tle Roman, Aunt Martina's youngest child. For the next ten

nights he barely slept, wondering, each time he heard cannon

blast, each time he heard shots ring out, if Stepha and her new

family had won free to Trassahar-held countryside, or if that had

been the barrage that had killed them.

"You must accept that we may never hear," said Uncle Martin.

"That is the way of things now."

"Why must it be the way?"

Uncle Martin smiled crookedly. "My poor boy. We had a de-

cent life when I was young."

That night Jontano ran his hands over the painted card that

showed the forest. Strangely, the trees looked slightly different

and it took him a moment to identify what had changed: The

leafy buds were no longer tight and pale green. They had begun

to unfurl.

If only he could walk the paths that led out of Trient toward

the west, and freedom. He recalled once walking with his Papa,

years and years ago, when he had been just a tittle child, up in

the woods to the west of the old temple, so that Papa could paint.

Jontano traced the painted forest with his fingers, and he felt

himself walking there, on quiet paths among the trees. The vio-

lets were fading, but now new flowers bloomed in patches of

324 Kate Elliott

bright sun, flowers his father had names for, names he had

known once but now forgotten.

The path wound up into the hills and he followed it, feeling

strangely that it was this path that fugitives followed, fleeing the

city. He came to an open escarpment and looked out over the

valley of Trient. There, across the bowl, lay the rock outcropping

where he had stood before, a gray smudge against the distant

trees.

Water fell, racing away down the hill. He was alone, except

for the animals. There were no bodies, no furtive travelers, no

one skulking but a lone fox that darted from cover, then vanished

into a thick stand of shrub.

He walked for hours. He saw no one, found no one, heard

nothing but animal noises and the flood of wind through the

leaves. The silent weight of me sun scattered its light down

through budding foliage. It was so peaceful.

"Jono? Jono!"

His mother's voice jolted him out of the forest.

He felt her hands on his arms, shaking him, and he dropped

the card and tried to sit up, only she was holding him down and

Aunt Martina and Uncle Martin looked on, their faces worn tight

with anxiety.

"What is it?" he asked, coming to his senses. "Do you have

news of Stepha?"

Mama began to cry. Oh, Lord, they had received terrible news.

Pain stabbed in his chest.

"Can you walk?" Aunt Martina demanded.

"Lord, boy, you scared us."

Jontano felt dizzy. What had frightened them? What had hap-

pened?"

"Can you stand up?" repeated Aunt Martina.

"Of course." He threw his legs over the side and stood up, and

only then did he realize that it was full morning outside. He

didn't recall being asleep. Indeed, he felt very tired, as tired as