To my delight, a few people shout, “Sing us the song of Spider. How she saved the desert frontier from invaders.”
Ro’s frown flashes. I’m pretty sure he meant to sing my song as the final part of his performance, meaning I would have to sit through his entire recitation of his play in order to be here when he called at the end. However, he shifts stance quickly, and I can’t help but feel flattered by the way he singles me out with his compelling gaze. His robust voice can fill a theater, and when he sings the story of how Spider became a spider scout, his resonant singing penetrates to my bones.
The general’s valiant daughter will fight for Efea,
She’ll fight for Efea, and win!
How clever he is to turn my impulsive dash in service of my Patron father and Patron master into a story that speaks to Efeans and their desire for the freedom they lost so long ago. He’s an instigator, sowing indignation in fertile soil. He’s made me part of the story, a symbol for people to admire.
When he finishes, the villagers salute me with their cups. I open my arms in the gesture I use on the Fives court, as if I’m throwing my spider threads to the winds. Then I grab a cup of tea off the table and retreat to sit at the very back of the group of girls.
Mis settles down beside me. “You have a reckless look in your eye. Is that buckwheat tea you’re drinking?”
I don’t have time to answer because Ro raises his arms in a poet’s welcome. Flames hiss around him, lamps hung to frame him in light, a poet ordained by the Mother of All to speak only truth lest he be struck down for dishonesty and lose his gift. He begins, his golden voice pouring over us like sunlight, although his words burn. It’s impossible not to get wrapped up in the story as he tells it.
How fortunate was Prince Kliatemnos, who fled Saro to make a new home here!
Was he not worthy, honest, forthright, brave, and true?
His audience hisses their displeasure.
Beloved of the gods, they called him, because he came through that fire,
The fire that was the war of greed that tore apart his home,
And safely washed up on the clean and peaceful shores of rich Efea.
So the story goes. Their priests and poets tell it again and again.
So the Saroese histories tell us, that Efeans welcomed Kliatemnos as savior,
Deposed their own ruling council and Custodian and Protector and priests
In favor of the better, wiser, nobler man—
“All lies!” the villagers shout, and I find my lips forming the angry refrain with them.
A man who soon proclaimed himself King Kliatemnos in the foreign way
And set his wise and noble sister as Serenissima beside him
To guide his warlike hand in the gentler methods of peace and plenty.
Saviors both! For our own good—that’s how they speak—for our own good
Their priests tore down the ancient temples to the Mother
And built their own atop them as if it were a form of cleansing.
They buried us stone by stone and lie by lie and heart by heart.
He’s alight with conviction, blazing with a fierce need to convince every Efean he meets that it is time to act, that Efea will rise. I lean forward, caught up in the emotion.
Across the gap, Kal’s gaze meets mine. Ro’s fiery criticisms don’t disturb or inflame him because he can’t understand Efean, although he must recognize the names Kliatemnos and Serenissima—his Saroese ancestors. In fact, he seems to have something entirely else on his mind. He lifts an eyebrow as a question.
There’s no one here looking over our shoulders, no one who can tell us what to do.
I tip my head to the left, indicating the darkness beyond the well-lit square.
He dips his chin in agreement and glances over his shoulder, seeking a path off the porch.
Mis whispers, “Jes, don’t do anything you can’t take back. Remember, he’s a prince—”
“Not here he isn’t. He’s a mere groom, no higher placed than me.”
I should be a courteous guest and a prudent young woman. It’s what my father would tell me to do.
I should sit right here with everyone else and admire the poet’s stirring and rebellious rendition of the horrific crimes of Queen Serenissima the Third, called “the Benevolent.” It’s what my mother would want me to do.
I should. But there’s no chance that I will.
5
I slide to the edge of the crowd, ease back to sit on my heels, and carefully rise to my feet. Gently I place my sandals on the dirt one careful step at a time as I move backward into the night.
So fast I have no warning, dizziness washes over me. Slowly I breathe through the calming cycle Anise taught me as a fledgling. Slowly the night steadies around me.
A footstep scrapes softly around the back of the guesthouse I’m leaning against.
“Jes?” My name is a sigh on his lips.
My breathing stutters again, all erratic, my pulse leaping like a gazelle.
I have never been so nervous in my life. Every wrong thing that could happen spins through my mind like Rings so off-kilter they crash into each other and shudder to a halt. My deepest fears surface: What if I’m clumsy and make a fool of myself? What if he decides I’m not attractive enough?
His feet scuff the earth. I still can’t see him around the corner but I feel the heat of him an arm’s length from me. He coughs, chuckles awkwardly, and shifts his feet.
“Jes, not that I like to admit this to anyone, even to you, but if we don’t go now, I’m going to lose my nerve.”
My fingers creep around the corner of the house. His hand brushes my knuckles. We both jolt back. I giggle, and I never giggle, not even with my sisters.
To reach the victory tower you have to jump across the gap that scares you most.
I step around the corner and grab hold of his arm.
“I know a place,” I say, so out of breath I can barely speak those four simple words, just as he says at the exact same moment, “The garden by the bathing pool.”
Holding hands, we walk briskly down the lane that leads to the walled garden and pool. I can’t speak, and Kal doesn’t say a word but I feel his breathing like it is my own. His fingers tangle in mine. The linen of the borrowed jacket he’s wearing brushes repeatedly against my bare arm.
Efeans love their lamps. The pair hanging on either side of the garden gate are molded of ceramic with slices cut out before the soft clay was fired. Petals of light bloom over us. The gate isn’t quite closed; it’s been left a handbreadth ajar, as if the garden is inviting us in.
Kal drops his gaze, lashes hiding his eyes. His embarrassment is the most ridiculous thing in the world and yet somehow it makes me see him as a precious shard of heaven that has unexpectedly dropped into my lap.
I’m biting my lower lip. Who knew this would be so hard?
He takes in a breath for resolve and squeezes my hand. “Are you sure, Jes?”