the deceit of the amaranth

Weeks ago, I had come to the Continent by ship. I had spent most of the jour­ney lying in my cabin’s cot, lis­ten­ing from the womb of the ship to the deep songs of the sea: the thump of the waves, the unmetered lash­ing of rain, the clink­ing and hum­ming of sailors. She looked now as I must have looked, sit­ting on the edge of the bed, her hands planted on either side of her, head bowed. Perhaps she had fallen asleep—but no, her eyes opened and she sud­denly stood up and moved out of my view, to the far end of the room. Quickly and qui­etly, I climbed my side of the house. There was an oak on the other side, on the north side, but that side faced the grand hall, and the risk of being seen was much higher. Gripping the win­dowledge, I brought my eyes just above its level, and peeked through the col­ored glass of the window’s frame.

She stood now at a desk in the moon­s­light, lean­ing over an unlit can­dle. After a long moment, she began to mouth the words. Kha is a river. Kha is a net—And she stopped, raised her head, and glanced about the room. She stepped to the other win­dow, saw noth­ing, and then snuck over towards her door, put her ear to it. She frowned, then looked sus­pi­ciously at the wardrobe. She stepped qui­etly to it, then flung the door open. She shut it gen­tly. As she moved back towards the desk, she shook her head, then stopped, then peeked under the bed. She straight­ened, held her own face as she returned to the desk. She stood like that for a while, sim­ply star­ing at the can­dle, palms on her cheeks. Eventually, she sat in the chair, put her hands flat on the desk, on either side of the candle.

Kha is a river. Kha is a wind,

she mouthed,

The sign is a sail. The sign is a net.

And she drew (earth be still!) Melchior’s sign for Fire on the wax. Nothing hap­pened. Then the wick lit. With just the edge of her mouth, she smiled. That’s when I saw him, in the other win­dow, eyes like mine just over the edge, in the col­ored glass. He saw me then, as well. His eyes went wide with fear, and then hard with fury. They dis­ap­peared, then, as he clam­bered back down the oak. I let myself drop.

He caught me at the corned of the house. He was young, and Airuan with­out doubt: curly-​haired and blue-​eyed, his nose some­how beak-like—but horse-​like now, with the nos­trils flar­ing. “You Tir bas­tard,” he whis­pered furi­ously while he drew his short, dec­o­rated sword (I was wear­ing a Tir’s face, a Tir’s old cloak), “I’ll kill you!” “Wait!” I said, but he didn’t. He took two steps, closed the dis­tance while he pulled the sword back to strike. I stepped in myself, quickly, and grabbed at his wrist. Our hips met. He grabbed my hair, but I held on. “Woah there,” I whis­pered. He was big, a head taller than I, and strong. For a moment, I thought he would actu­ally over­whelm me. He man­aged to turn the tip of the blade into me, but I shifted our weight, we turned, and I was back inside the blade’s reach. “Think of the mess!” I got out. We turned again. I got my leg behind his and pushed. He let go, try­ing to main­tain his bal­ance and con­trol of the sword at the same time. We came apart. I scram­bled back, put my hands up. “How are you going to explain how you found me?” He had to stop and think about that. He seemed to decide that it didn’t mat­ter. He raised the sword again, planned his approach, but then ducked back behind the cor­ner of the house.

“Hello,” said Venice from the now opened window.

“Hello!” I replied while I crossed my legs and leaned with my hand against the house, “Did I wake you? All apologies.”

“Could na sleep,” she shook her head, but with­out tak­ing her eyes off me. Her hair was down, and lovely. “Who’s tha with you? What are you doing?” she asked, lean­ing out the win­dow now, try­ing to see around the house. “The Young Knight and I were, ah, just play­ing a game.” I looked there as well. The boy was grit­ting his teeth from his hid­ing place, eyes closed, shak­ing his head. The sword was still in his hand. We waited. He exhaled, stood up from his crouch, stepped out. He waived.

“‘Hunt the Tir’,” I offered. She looked between us.

“I’ll play,” she said wickedly. The boy had for­got­ten to put away his sword. He remem­bered now; even in the moon­s­light, his face was red. “Well,” said I slowly, com­ing upright, “I think I’ve lost already.”

“I know ye,” she said to the boy, who squared his shoul­ders, “You’re Talsen, yea?” He nod­ded once, meant to smile, I think, but gri­maced instead:

“Talsen ap Talsen, Miss Venice,” he agreed. She didn’t ask how he knew her name. Instead: “Ye placed well in the archery at the Harvest.” He frowned, stam­mered, “I won horsemanship.”

“I know,” she grinned, and rolled her eyes mer­ci­lessly, “I was joking.”

“Ha!” I offered cheer­ily, with­out actu­ally laughing.

“And ye: an actor?” she asked me. I blinked, remem­bered to smile.

“Of sorts.”

“You’re face doesn’t fit,” she explained, her own smile fad­ing. I glanced at Tal, who looked from Venice to me, clearly confused.

“Well. I’ll be going now,” I said, and turned to leave. Tal moved as if he were going to fol­low, but hes­i­tated. “Wait,” she said. He waited. “Do ye want to come up?”

Tal looked to find me in the tall grass, but I was already gone.