Solace Shattered (15 page)

“I’m working, not staring.”

“Ah.” She took a deep breath. She’d been foolish and vile. He was working. She’d never think on it again and not look at him, whatever his request. She would enjoy the day simply as she should. Perhaps meditate. She turned her eyes to the sky – but the color! Could she ever look into the sky again without her memory seeing his eyes, without the terrible disquiet in her chest? Instead, she fell to watching the fishermen cast and recast their lines with patient gracefulness until a silvery fish snapped at the bait. Then there were the gulls picking at sticks, seaweed, and the refuse of the sea. They were a study in incongruity. On land, they were silly, waddling comics dressed in the most somber gray, black, and white uniforms. When they took to the air, what different beings they were—artful creatures gliding on the wind with easy precision.

He laid the drawing board flat on his thighs. “Do you want to see?”

She hesitated. Would it be forbidden, like looking in a mirror? Or would it be encouraged, like looking at an icon? One thing was certain. It would wound him it she didn’t look. She resolved to look on it like any other picture and have no thought of vanity.

She touched the paper. It was of fine quality, like the papers the monks made on the other side of the Solacian valley. He hadn’t drawn her in the notebook. “Your drawing is elegant, fluid.”

“You don’t like it.”

“How can you think that?”

“People seldom like their pictures. They look in the mirror and only see their good or bad features and not the complete image a drawing forces them to see.”

“That may be, though I’m not in the habit of looking in mirrors.” The woman in the picture looked wistful, not at all serene like the icons of the shacras. She flushed to remember what her thoughts had been while sitting before him. “This isn’t Hera Solace.”

“I’m not an iconographer.” Gruffly, he sat the board aside and packed his crayon in the tin.

“Captain, I’m not a fit subject for an icon. The picture is of Ari.”

“Ari and hera aren’t the same?”

“Certainly, I’m hera as you are captain. But in Shacra Paulus, I am Hera Solace. It’s a formal, honorary name, but a name of no one in particular. It’s as if we’re all one and the same woman to them because we wear a gray dress. Here, only to Musette am I Arvana...and in this picture I’m Ari.”

He looked perplexed.

“It would be as if because of your black coat, the Acadians thought they already knew everything to know about you. They’d never see the Myronan who drew this picture—forgive me for using your childname.”

“I’m not averse to hearing it, but I’m more accustomed to Nan.”

Perhaps it would be wrong to tell him, but it was so lonely always being Hera Solace. “I’m Ari. My family...inside my head, I’m Ari...if you wish.”

He carefully sandwiched the picture between two clean pages in his notebook and began to pack the satchel. Though he said nothing, she knew he was happy. His neck and cheeks were rosy. She felt unaccountably restless and remembered her desire to walk in the surf. The guards started gathering their tackle. If she didn’t act quickly, she too would be bound for a return to usual duties.

She removed her shoes. Though the day wasn’t hot, the powdery white sand was. She gathered the hem of her habit and delicately walked to the fine, compact sand on the water’s edge. A tingling cold wave frothed over her feet, then retreated. She laughed. Another swept in. How delightful. She dug her toes in and the next wave buried her entire foot in the sand. Bits of shells danced in the retreating water. She looked back to shore. With crossed arms, the captain was watching. Her delight washed from her like an outgoing wave. After she’d posed for an hour so he could practice drawing, couldn’t he oblige her with five minutes? She turned to the sea. Dear Maker, she shouldn’t care if he didn’t see the small things that mattered to her. Wave after wave crashed.

“Your dress is getting wet.” His voice came from just over her shoulder.

He had undoubtedly come to urge her to leave. She yanked up her sash. The bottom was soaked. As she wrung it, he came aside. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, vest or neckerchief. His boots off, he waded past her. “Where are you going?”

“Swimming.”

“But it’s cold.”

“No colder than the rivers I usually swim in.”

When waist-deep, he dove and disappeared.

She held her breath along with him. She couldn’t swim, and it seemed like an impossibly long time to be underwater.

Finally, he surfaced. Though he’d swum a long way out, he stood and the water was only to his ribs. He dove again and this time, came up closer to shore and began to wade in. His hair clinging to the sides of his face, Arvana couldn’t help but recall the vision of him fighting the draeden that she’d seen in the Blue Eye. But this time, instead of a fierce grimace, he wore a broad smile. His wet white shirt hung open at the neck and clung to his chest and arms. In perfect peace and joy, she had lain against that chest once. Those strong arms had held her so securely once. Watching him now, her cheek, shoulders, waist, and the bend of her knees ached with the remembered strength of his body.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I...you swim so wonderfully. What’s it like?”

“Swimming?” His squinting eyes gleamed with good-humor. “Brisk.” He motioned her to follow him. They sat on the jetty. He gave her his neckerchief, a lovely black-and-green-checkered silk. “Clean your feet or the grit in your shoes will be intolerable.”

After the folly of refusing to sit on his cloak at Ramblewood, she knew better than to affront his generosity. Her feet clean and dry and her shoes on, she shook the sand from the neckerchief and returned it.

He began to dust the sand from the bottoms of his feet. “You don’t swim? Everyone should learn to swim.”

“We had no lakes or rivers near where I grew up. We had a shallow pond and a stream...” What was wrong with his feet? The skin was thick and discolored. No wonder he sometimes walked as if in pain. Suddenly he shifted his back to her and drew on his socks. Dear Maker, he’d seen her staring and without realizing, she’d covered her mouth with her hand.

He pulled on a boot. “You see my souvenir from Sandela.”

Sandela. Draeden. Her chest ached for him. Chane had inked onto his arm a draeden tattoo to remember his ancestors’ heroics. The captain bore the scars of real heroism. He remembered the draeden with every step. Why, why couldn’t he use the Blue Eye?

His other boot on, the captain stood, jerked into his vest, and slung his satchel over his shoulder. “We should go.”

No, the day couldn’t end like this. She wanted to tell him he was grand and handsome but how would those words sound coming from her? “This afternoon...thank you for the scroll...I was pleased to see your drawings...pleased with the picture. And I’ve never been in the sea before...Nan.” Saying his name was painful and exquisitely wonderful all at once. She was so aware of how her voice, of its breathiness on the final
n
, how tenuous and foolish it must have sounded. Had he noticed? Had it meant anything to him? She hazarded a glanced.

He was looking at her. The stern crease in his brow had eased. On catching her glance, he looked, almost shyly, back to the water. “I’d rather not go to Summercrest. I’ll lose a week of work in the archive.”

For a moment, she went blind and deaf to the world as she turned his looks and words in her head. He would lose a week of seeing her. She wanted to tell him she, too, would rather he not go to Summercrest. When she regained her sense, he was waiting on her to walk with him back to the Citadel. “When do you return?” she asked.

The huge, gangling, brindled dog nudged its wet nose to Degarius when he entered Sarapost House. “Get your animal off of me,” he shouted to Fassal.

“Come on, Caspar.” Fassal tapped his thigh.

Nevertheless, the dog kept nuzzling Degarius. “I can’t believe you named him after your old horse.”

“He’s as big as a horse, or shall nearly be like a pony once grown.” Fassal pulled Caspar away by the collar and then pushed on the dog’s hindquarters in an attempt to make him sit. “Fine. Stand. Just stay away from Degarius. He despises dogs and nearly everything else.”

“Yes,” Degarius addressed the dog, “I despise you.”

“What happened?” Fassal nodded to his ramshackle appearance.

“I went for a swim.” He plucked at his shirt. It was mostly dry.

“I thought you were going to draw.”

“I did.” He laid his satchel on the table, took off his boots, stretched out on the couch, and closed his eyes.

“No, you’re not napping. It’s unlike you to sleep during the day. We have dinner at the Citadel. You can’t go in that blouse.”

“You’re right.” Degarius opened one eye. The dog was hovering. “I’m not going.”

“Brother, what excuse am I to give?”

“I’ll see everyone for a week at Summercrest and want an evening to myself.”

“I’ll say you’re ill. You
are
in an ill humor.”

“I’m not. I’m in an excellent humor, but I’ll be in a terrible one if you insist on my going.”

Caspar drooped his head onto Degarius’s leg.

“Ingrate,” Fassal said.

Degarius rested his arm across his forehead. He heard Fassal unbuckling his bag, sliding out its contents, flipping through the pages, and then silence. From behind closed eyelids, he saw what had driven him into the sobering cold of the sea—she was standing in the surf, her dress blowing around her body, revealing the curve of her waist and her long legs. But now, in his mind, he wouldn’t be the captain and she wouldn’t be a hera. She had called him by his childname. He was Nan and she was Ari. He came behind her, reached out, and put his hand to her hip. Beneath the fabric of her dress, her body was soft, round, everything his wasn’t. She turned to him. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her closer, closer, so close that there was no distance between them.

This once, he wouldn’t stop it. This once, he couldn’t stop it.

“Ah, brother,” said Fassal, “perhaps I’m somewhat less insulted that you didn’t wish to draw me today. How charming. Might this explain the clean shirts for reading dusty books?”

“What?”

“That is what I expected you to say,” Fassal remarked under his breath. “Your
what
has a truth all its own.”

Summercrest, Acadia

“Y
our form again,” Degarius boomed. The lad, of perhaps fourteen, jerked his ash practice sword to the vertical ready position, counted to three, and began the sequence,
owl flight
, which was part of the eleventh level forms. Though Degarius had mastered the sweeping yet controlled moves twenty-five years ago, he still routinely practiced the form. To escape the house this morning, he’d offered lessons to two brothers who were also Summercrest guests. They were out on the road, past the line of trees that edged the front lawn. “Loosen your knees. Open your stance. Good. Give me your staff.” To the second, older boy he said, “Your turn to spar with me.”

The older brother pulled the hay-stuffed apron over his head and belted it in place. Tall and slight, the boy proved quick and agile at avoiding Degarius’s blows, but dealt few strikes in return.

“Come after me,” Degarius said, “or you’ll never score a point.”

The boy launched, swinging and jabbing more effectively until the sound of approaching horsemen drew his attention. Degarius landed a gentle
thud
against the boy’s chest protector.

A gentleman rider and two redcoats stopped. The civilian-clothed man said, “You’ll be ready for the tournament in a few years, boys.”

“Yes, sir!” they cried in unison and bowed.

“Who’s your teacher? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Captain Degarius, sir,” the boys chirped.

“The Sarapostan champion? I’ve heard you killed a remarkable creature.”

Degarius put on his glasses. “It seemed so to me.”

The man’s teeth flashed brilliant against his black beard. “I’m glad you’re a guest at Summercrest. You’ll tell me the story tonight at dinner. I’m Lerouge.”

Lerouge. Degarius looked straight to the hilt of the prince’s sword. It was Assaea! A mixture of hope and relief swirled through him. If the prince didn’t know what the sword was, he might be worked upon. And Ari was safe. No one knew her treason.

The prince must have noted his look. Lerouge touched the scabbard and said, “I know it was yours and what it secured for your prince. My father conveyed the story.” He dismounted and offered his hand. “It has been ages since I’ve sparred. Shall we give these boys a demonstration?”

The prince gave his horse’s reins to one redcoat and his coat to the other. After circling his shoulders to loosen his muscles, he took the wooden practice staff from the awestruck pupil.

Degarius removed his glasses.

“Are you afraid I’m wild, or that I’ll make an unfair hit to your face?”

“No, it’s my custom,” Degarius answered.

“I give you my word your spectacles will come to no harm.”

With the danger of shattered glass in his eyes a worry from the first moment he began training as a youth, Degarius had learned other tricks to compensate for visual acuity. By keeping unfocused on particulars, he saw motion across the whole visual field. “I don’t doubt your skill or honor.” He entrusted the glasses to one of the boys. “But accidents are accidents.”