After his practice with Lars, I approached Abdo about accompanying me on my travels. He was enthusiastic, but cautioned, You’ll need to ask my family’s permission. I’m three years away from my Day of Determination. I nodded, trying to affect worldliness, but he spotted my confusion and added, Adulthood. When you decide how people will address you, and you choose your path into the world.
When I’d met Abdo at midwinter, he’d been traveling the south with his dance troupe, which included an aunt and his grandfather. His grandfather, as the senior family member, was the one I needed to ask. Abdo accompanied the old man to my suite the next morning, and I plied them with tea and cheese pastries and an impromptu oud concert. His grandfather, Tython, ate the pastry with one hand, holding Abdo’s hand with the other.
“I promise to take good care of your grandson,” I said, rising at last, and setting my oud in my seat.
Tython nodded gravely; his gray hair was plaited in clean lines, flush to his scalp. He patted Abdo’s knotted hair and said in slow, careful Goreddi, “I must speak at you with Porphyrian. Excuse me.” He said something in Porphyrian to Abdo, who nodded.
I’ll translate, said the lad, simultaneously signing at me with his eloquent fingers. I must have looked bemused, because Abdo clarified: He doesn’t know I can speak in your head. I think he would be envious; I can’t speak in his.
I understand some Porphyrian, I said. Abdo pulled a skeptical face.
Tython was clearing his throat. “Abdo belongs to the god Chakhon, not once but twice,” he said, through Abdo’s translation. “First, all ityasaari belong to Chakhon.”
Even you foreign fools, said Abdo. My Porphyrian was rusty, but I knew his grandfather hadn’t said that.
“Second, his mother is a priestess of Chakhon. Every fiber of him, body and soul, is owed to the god,” said Tython. “Abdo was born to be the successor of Paulos Pende, our most revered ityasaari priest. However”—here the old man bent his head, as if ashamed—“Abdo chafed against his duties and would not take them seriously. He fought with Pende, scorned his mother, and ran away.”
There’s more to it than that, said Abdo, frowning at his grandfather.
Curious as I was to know Abdo’s side of the story, I was even more curious about the fact that there were ityasaari priests in Porphyry. How different from the Southlands, where we’d had to hide ourselves away.
“I have kept Abdo safe, in hope of the day he takes up the yoke he was born to bear,” said Tython. “If you take him with you, understand what a solemn duty it is.”
Ta-da, said Abdo, mushing his lips into a pout. I’m a grave responsibility. Chakhon is watching. His sarcasm made a thin veneer over his embarrassment.
“Chakhon is … the god of chance?” I hedged, studying Abdo’s expression.
The old man rose from his seat so abruptly that I feared I’d offended him. He reached out to me, however, and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. I glanced at Abdo, who explained dully, He’s pleased you know Chakhon.
It had been fifty-fifty, honestly, but it wouldn’t do to admit that, nor to have said, I’ll take my chances, as had immediately occurred to my troublemaking brain.
Tython stepped back, his creased face serious, and said in halting Goreddi, “Remember. A duty.”
“Abdo is my friend,” I said, giving Tython full courtesy. “I will keep him safe.”
The old man watched my elaborate flourishes with vague amusement. He said something in Porphyrian; Abdo rose and followed him to the door. I padded after, saying “Thank you” and “Goodbye” in Porphyrian.
Abdo’s astonished grimace gave me to understand that my pronunciation needed work. Tython’s face crinkled into a smile, however, as if he found me charmingly absurd.
I closed the door behind them, baffled by all this talk of gods. A twelve-year-old boy was surely a handful, no matter his origins. A twelve-year-old boy who was the property of a god … what did that mean, practically? If he wanted sweets for supper and I said no, would Chakhon hear of it? Was Chakhon the kind of god who smote people? We Goreddis had Saints like that.
A loud knock at the door made me jump. Abdo or Tython must have forgotten something. I pulled the door open.
There stood Prince Lucian Kiggs in his scarlet uniform doublet, a flat leather pouch under his arm. His dark hair curled angelically; my heart stuttered a little. I’d barely spoken to him since midwinter, when we had recognized a mutual attraction and decided, by mutual agreement, to avoid each other. He was Queen Glisselda’s fiancé; I was her friend. That was not the only obstacle between us, but it overshadowed all others.
“Prince. Please, ah, come in,” I said, startled into speaking without thinking.
Of course he wouldn’t. I knew better than to ask, but he’d taken me by surprise.
He glanced up the deserted corridor and then turned his dark eyes back to me. “May I?” he asked, his brows contracted sadly. “Only for a minute.”
I covered my fluster with a curtsy and ushered him into the sitting room, where tea things still languished on the table. This was his first time seeing my rooms; I wished I might have had a moment to tidy up. He surveyed my overflowing bookshelves, my eccentric collection of quigutl figurines, and my spinet piled with music. My oud still occupied the chair before the hearth, like some goose-necked gentleman caller.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Kiggs, smiling. “Do you often have your instruments to tea?”
“Only when I can get cheese pastries,” I said, offering him one. He declined. I moved the oud and took another seat for myself, keeping the messy table respectably between us.
“I come bearing gifts,” said Kiggs, fishing around in the front of his doublet. He pulled out a slender chain from which hung two pendant thniks—a round bronze medallion and a silver sweetheart knot—chiming softly against each other.
“We assumed we would have to arm-wrestle Comonot for these,” said Kiggs, “but he’s under the impression you recently did him a favor.”
“Good,” I said. “I mean, I hope I helped him. It’s always so hard to tell.”
The prince flashed me a rueful smile. “I’ve lived that. We must compare notes someday.” He jingled the thniks, bringing us back to task. “The bronze links to one we’ve given Dame Okra, so the two of you can keep in touch while you’re in Ninys. She intends for you to travel around while she valiantly stays at home in Segosh.”
“Of course she does,” I said. He smiled again. I felt a little guilty for cultivating those smiles; I wasn’t allowed.
“The sweetheart knot”—he held up the intricate silver tangle—“connects with the master box in Selda’s study. She wants to hear from you twice a week, whether you’re having successes or not. She was adamant that if she doesn’t hear from you, she shall fret, and her fretting has international consequences now.”
I held out my hand, smiling at how he’d unconsciously copied her inflections. He laid the thniks in my palm and closed my fingers around them. My breath caught.
He quickly released me, clearing his throat and reaching for the leather pouch under his arm. “Next order of business: documents. You’ve got the Queen’s scrip, should you need funds; a list of pyria ingredients to order on the Crown’s behalf; another of Ninysh baronets and Samsamese earls of particular interest, with letters of introduction. Finding the ityasaari is your priority, but you’ll be staying with local gentry as you travel. You may as well encourage them to commit aid.”
“I’m to guilt everyone into helping us?” I teased.