He was not because, as we walked up a set of the keep steps with the basket, he and Thatcher were coming down the same steps. They both stopped short and looked down at us. “Gods, how many flowers did you buy?” my husband asked, tersely.
I glowered up at him.
Helena had now noticed the two men and glanced up the steps.
Thatcher stared down at her in her sleeveless rose pink summer dress, her dark hair flowing around her shoulders and her cheeks flushed from the rising heat of the day and the walk. He was frozen for a moment and then jogged down to us and lifted the basket from our hands. “Where to?” he asked, eyes only for her.
“It’s cinnabar rock, not all flowers,” I said to my husband. “I told you the other night we were visiting the dyer, for the mural. She has to grind it down for vermilion.”
He was still standing on the step where he had stopped, hands on hips. “Well, I did not know so much cinnabar was needed.” Alric’s eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth pulled to one side. He appeared to be irritated.
Thatcher stood holding the basket, patiently looking only to his betrothed for an answer and she seemed at a loss, her eyes darting between me and my husband.
“No, you would not know. You are not an artist.” I was upset. He was angry and I did not know why. And he had spoiled what joy we had taken in choosing our flowers.
Helena turned to face Thatcher, his position on the step close to her and their faces were a hand’s width apart. “Oh, I— Can you please carry it to the second level dormitory for the flowers and then help me take the cinnabar rock to the throne room? Edie and I can carry it if you were leaving—”
“There is nothing I would rather do, lady,” he replied, his eyes roaming her face.
She softened, only somewhat, only enough that I or Mischa would see. “Thank you.”
I looked back up at Alric. “Fear not. No more of your coin was spent.” And I swept past him up the steps, angry with both his inexplicable vexation and myself for letting him get to me. I had practiced being measured and open-minded for weeks. With one interaction, he had undone all of my attempts at civility. My tone was not as snappish as I had wanted it to be, but I had let him know his dislike for our spending coin on flowers was offensive to me. What did he care?
I stormed into the keep, leaving Helena and Thatcher to handle the cinnabar and flowers. I did not understand this man. The effort I had made, the words I had said, the patience and gratitude I had tried to exhibit, none of it meant anything to him.
46. Drakes
I stalked into our bedroom, slamming the door behind me with all the grace and maturity of a girl of twelve and I seethed. I was angry with myself as well. From a young age, I had been prone to rage, constantly butting heads with the teachings of Rodwin, jealous of my brothers’ freedoms and frustrated with my parents’ detached disappointment in me. I had softened for Thrush, but after winters of no child, his own disappointment in me was oppressive and I had had to bite my tongue after the first time I lashed out and he spoke to our priest. I had been boxed then. And any hint of rebellion in me, as well as my moon’s bleeds, resulted in a day in the box. Then it had been two days, then three. When I ran away, I had to find work in Eccleston. Cleaning rooms in the university was humbling and I again, had to prune the wildness of my anger so as to stay employed. This restraint made me learn how to be approachable, to be a solution not a difficulty and my genial attitude had allowed me to speak to the right people and be placed in the scriptorium. My ability to keep peace and create a sense of community led to my being head scribe. The flames inside me had been banked. All my new husband had to do was say ‘gods’ in that perplexed tone with those brows drawn together and winters of conscious moderation disappeared.
Muttering curses under my breath, I put my head in my hands, elbows on the desk. I could not be married to this man. I was a fool to ever think we could have gotten along as reluctant companions, perhaps even become friends.
I had time to waste before the next meal and I picked up Gareth Pope’s journal.
Keturah says she is now certain I have a strong general earth magic, that mineral, rock, sand, dust, soil, dirt, ore and gem all respond to my blood. This is rare. Some days I am relieved from army duty entirely so as to visit the farmlands with her and her priests, observing them both heal withered crops as well as negotiate taxation issues. That is what holds me back from priesthood. I care little for the law or for bureaucracy. The idea of a life in paper is, frankly, beneath me. I have always been a decent and kind boy and I am now a decent and kind young man, but while I appreciate the literacy provided by my mother, I do not see it as a way of life. I do not keep this account because I like to write. I keep it because I have secrets I can tell no one, or at least not all of them. So they are here, all of them in one place.
I looked up from the journal and out through the window, the sounds of a now busy city on the breeze. This was the first time I had found myself annoyed by Gareth. My working life had been one of paper and administration, highlighted by work helping illuminate with Helena and Maureen. Why was that not a life in which to take pride? I reminded myself that he seemed a man of only twenty or so winters when he had written this. Again I wondered if he still lived. Peregrine could be no more than thirty-five. He had yet to be mentioned in this journal, nor had Queen Modwenna, which made me think the brothers very far apart in age. Gareth had mentioned that Hinnom was near thirty. The king must be between sixty and seventy winters despite a younger appearance. Perhaps his sea magic was so powerful it kept him from aging as quickly. I did not know the full ins and outs of magic yet. I thought of the fact that he had never married. Was that why Hinnom’s father had decided to marry again in his old age, a second time trying for an heir that would marry? Most royalty married younger so as to have more chance of heirs. It was unusual that Hinnom had never married and that Peregrine was past thirty with no bride. I continued to read.
I spend my mornings with Keturah and my days with the army and my nights with him. I have finally seen the breadth of his sea magic. On a rest day, he told me to take one of the sloops from the naval dock and sail it out just past the farthest stone drake, that he would swim out to me. I loved those drake rocks. I had liked the bedtime tale of the ancient earth Tintarians commanding the rocks to transform into stone drakes made up of shard and boulders, stomping in the ocean like it was a wading pool. I know now how they were commanded, those old Tintarian earth worshippers bleeding out a cupped left hand’s worth of blood. For, having access to Keturah’s collection of works about earth magic, I believe I have uncovered what could make the drake rocks assemble themselves. I found it in a book of worship and poetry to the goddess:
Something’s coming of rock, roar and might
Something’s coming and with it, the stone sight
Only the left hand of blood will summon the stone drakes
Only the left hand of blood makes them form and quake
Something’s coming to split, to cleave, to surge
Something’s coming and slabs and crags will merge
Only the left hand of loss will bring forth the wonder
Only the left hand of loss to sacrifice and to sunder
Something comes of rock, roar and might
Something comes from first the left and then the right
