Текст книги "Of Beast and Beauty "

Автор книги: Stacey Jay

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FIVE

ISRA

“YOU were missed at the harvest feast last night.” Junjie hovers so

close to my side, I can smell the oil he uses to shape his mustache.

Needle tells me his lip hair is as long as my hand from palm to

fingertip and as big around as my thumb. I take her word as truth. The

thought of asking permission to touch Junjie’s face makes me fidget with

nerves. Of all my advisors, my chief is by far the most intimidating.

“I wasn’t feeling well.” I bring two fingers to my forehead, faking the

ghost of a headache I never had.

“Then you should have called for the healers,” he says. “Your health

is too important to the city to take any chances, Isra. You know that.”

“I know,” I mumble, wishing I had arranged to meet the Monstrous

and his guards in the field, instead of coming with the soldiers to fetch the

beast.

It has been only three weeks since I became queen, and already I

grow tired of my newfound “freedom.” Each time I dare set foot outside my

tower, fretful, bossy old men shadow my every move. Junjie and the other

advisors would obviously prefer that, until I’m married, I pass my days

alone in my bedroom surrounded by mountains of pillows. I’m treated like

a foolish child with bones made of glass, and I hate it.

I long for my walks alone in the garden, for the velvet night sounds

and the gentle light of the moons. I long for the time when my ugliness was

a secret guarded by the father who loved me. Now no one loves me, and

my secret is a scandal that has set the entire city talking.

“I will have a healer appointed to the tower,” Junjie says. “A woman,

so that she may sleep there with you and—”

“Sleep there? In the tower?” I ask, horrified by the thought of a

stranger invading my last safe place. “But where would we put her? Needle

and I already share my bedroom.”

“She can sleep in your dressing room. There’s enough space beside

the bath for a small cot, and she can keep her clean uniforms underneath.”

“Please, Junjie,” I beg. “I don’t need a healer sleeping in my dressing

room. I’m not an invalid. It was only a headache.”

“The kingdom would sleep better knowing a healer is minutes from

your side.”

“The kingdom is safe. I’ll call for someone next time I have the

smallest ache or pain. I promise,” I say, wishing Needle would hurry and get

back with word from the Monstrous’s cell and save me from Junjie. The

guards went to fetch the creature from the prisoners’ floor of the infirmary

nearly twenty minutes ago.

What’s taking so long?

“Very well, but the people need assurance that you are in good

health and fit to rule. It’s time you dined with the nobles at court, at least

during special celebrations,” Junjie says, disapproval clear in his voice. I may

be queen, but in his eyes I’m still the naughty little girl who threw paint on

the king’s best fur when she was four years old. “You owe it to the city to

honor its traditions.”

“I know. I just couldn’t. Not last night,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

When I was younger, I used to beg to be allowed to accompany Baba

to the harvest banquet, but he always said no. It seemed wrong to go last

night without his permission, without him. I’m not ready to face the court

alone, and I don’t see why I should have to.

We’re all in mourning, the entire city grieving the loss of their king.

Needle tells me Yuan is painted with loss: tables covered in red cloth,

mirrors draped in white, and men with black scarves tied around their

arms, and I myself wearing green and only green until the first day of

spring, as is tradition for a child in mourning.

“I understand,” Junjie says in a gentler tone, reminding me that there

is a heart beneath his gruff exterior. “But remember, you are not alone. I

am here to support your rule. I served your father well for twenty years; I

will serve you just as faithfully.”

Though not as long. He doesn’t say the words, but I hear them

lurking in the silence after he speaks. My mother went to the roses thirteen

years ago. The offerings are usually made no more than thirty years apart.

In ten years—or seventeen, if I’m lucky and the city’s magic holds strong—it

will be my turn. If Baba had lived and remarried, things would have been

different, but he’s dead and they aren’t. The fact hangs around my neck like

a stone, making it harder to pull myself from the pit of my grief.

The healing garden is the only bright spot in my darkness. When the

Monstrous boy’s father first told Junjie his son would be helpful in our

gardens, I admit I was less than impressed. Our gardens do very well on

their own, thank you very much. What captured my attention was his

insistence that his son knew how to grow and mix the healing pouches the

Monstrous use to ward off further mutation in their young. I did my best to

conceal my curiosity from Junjie, but I’m sure he guesses why I fought for a

plot of land and the chance to help the Monstrous create a new garden.

For years I’ve been certain there was no hope for me, but what if

there is a way to reverse my mutation? Or at least be certain the peeling of

my flesh will never spread? For years, I’ve had nightmares about waking up

to find my face and neck as scaled as the rest of my body. Now I have hope

that those nightmares might someday be a thing of the past. I could barely

sleep last night, I was so eager to begin.

And now the beast is ruining the morning by being difficult. That

must be what’s keeping the guards. Unless …

Unless the monster attacked them. Unless they are even now doing

battle with it. If that’s the case, I’ll have the creature’s claws cut out.

I should have given the order yesterday when he dared to put his

claws to my throat, but I was afraid Junjie would find the guards asleep at

their posts and guess at the stupid, impulsive thing I’d done. If he finds out I

was alone with the Monstrous, I—

“In the name of that service,” Junjie continues, startling me from my

thoughts, “I’ve scheduled your coronation for the week after next.”

My lips part. “Week after next? But I—”

“The plans are under way,” he says, interrupting me. Again. It seems

Baba was the only member of court who thought a blind girl deserved the

right to finish her sentences. “Out of respect for the violent nature of the

king’s death, the celebration will be subdued—simply a short procession

and the ceremonial presentation of the crown and scepter. Afterward,

you’ll be taken onto the dais to be cheered by the common people, and

we’ll conclude with a banquet in the afternoon, during which the members

of court will be able to present themselves to you personally.”

I bite my lip and nod my agreement. I want to beg him to postpone

for another month or more, but I know it would do no good. Once Junjie

has set something in motion, there is no stopping him. He is inexorable. It’s

one of the qualities my father valued most in his chief advisor.

I, however, have yet to acquire Baba’s appreciation for Junjie’s

single-mindedness. Persuading my advisor to allow me to work in the new

garden with the Monstrous—even accompanied by four armed

guards—took every bit of stubbornness I possess and then some. If getting

my way as ruler is always going to be so difficult, I’ll have to choose my

battles carefully, or spend the rest of my life in a state of perpetual

exhaustion.

“Good girl,” Junjie says, his condescension leaving a sour taste in my

mouth. I’m blind, not simple. Seventeen, not seven. “I’ll send word to the

court dressmaker.”

“There’s no need. Needle will make my dress.” I’m prepared to fight

for Needle’s right to ply her namesake—she’d be devastated to miss the

chance to design my coronation gown—but am saved from the battle by

swift footsteps running down the path leading from the infirmary.

I recognize the rhythm of the run as Needle’s even before one small,

cool hand takes my wrist and the other begins to move beneath my palm,

communicating in our secret language.

The boy is hurt, Needle signs, her fingers trembling.

“What boy?”

The Monstrous boy, she signs, proving that everyone—no matter

how immense or terrifying—is a child in her eyes until proven otherwise.

Needle is only twenty-eight, but you’d think she was sixty from the way she

talks. The guards are forcing him to walk, but his legs are too weak. He’s

very pale. He’ll faint if they don’t take him back to bed.

“Yes, I would like something to drink,” I say in a controlled voice, not

wanting to arouse Junjie’s curiosity. He’s too eager for an excuse to forbid

me from taking the monster out of his cage. “Would you care for some

lemonade, Junjie?”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Junjie says, making my stomach

clench. I’d expected him to be too busy to spare time for my imaginary

refreshment. “But I have many things to attend to. I’ll make my apologies

and hope to share a drink with you this evening in the banquet hall.”

His none-too-subtle hint that I should not take dinner in my tower

again tonight doesn’t escape me, but I’m too grateful to learn he won’t be

tailing me inside to be bothered by it. With a nod and a softly murmured

“Good day,” I loop my arm through Needle’s and allow her to guide me

slowly up the walk.

As soon as we are through the door—stepping into shadows that

cool my flushed skin—she takes me by the hand and sets a much swifter

pace. I follow her up stairs and stairs and more stairs, nearly as many as

there are in my tower, until we reach the top floor, where the Monstrous

has been kept separate from the other ill and ailing.

As we hurry down the hall, I expect to hear sounds of a

struggle—growls and snarls—but there is only one harsh voice, shouting,

“Move, beast! On your feet!” and a muffled thud followed by a moan so

piteous, I understand immediately why Needle called the monster a boy.

He sounds like a wounded child.

For the first time I wonder what the creature must be feeling. What

must it be like to be abandoned by his family, to be held captive and

pressed into slavery to people he loathes? To be alone and hurt with no

one who cares enough to insist he stay in bed long enough to heal?

This is my fault. I told the guards to drag the Monstrous from his bed

if they had to. A wave of self-loathing rushes inside me, making my stomach

lurch and my voice break when I order the guards to, “Stop! Leave the

monster be!”

I draw a deep breath, trying to compose myself, knowing the soldiers

must be staring. “One of you, go fetch the healers. The rest, give the beast

some room.” I squeeze Needle’s arm as one pair of boots tromps down the

hall, the guard thankfully obeying my order without question. I can’t always

trust the soldiers to do as I say, especially if Junjie is close by. I may be the

queen, but Junjie is their true leader. “Take me closer,” I tell Needle.

I don’t need to add but not too close. Needle is nothing if not

protective of me. She nearly had a fit yesterday when I ordered her to help

me meet with the monster in private.

“Where does it hurt?” I ask the Monstrous as Needle settles me on

the stones near where he has fallen. “Is it your legs?” The Monstrous

doesn’t say a word, not a word, for a long, strained moment. “I only want

to help you.…”

I hesitate, realizing I have no idea what the Monstrous calls himself.

He has language, he must have a name, but in the three weeks since he was

captured no one has bothered to ask it. “What is your name?”

“Gem,” he says, forcing the word out with obvious difficulty.

“Isra,” I offer before I think better of it. A prisoner shouldn’t call the

queen by her first name, but for some reason that seems like a silly rule at

the moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still unwell.”

The Monstrous makes a sound—a sigh or a laugh, I can’t tell which.

Either way, the message is received. “Sorry” is a feeble word, and hardly

sufficient when a person is brought to his knees by pain.

“I don’t want you to suffer any more than you have already,” I say,

hoping he can tell that I mean it. “We’ll postpone our work until you’ve

fully recovered.”

“What if I’m never recovered?” he asks, so softly that I know only

Needle and I can hear him. “What if I never walk again?”

“You will walk.”

“You can’t know.”

“No, I can’t,” I say. “But I’ll do everything in my power to make

certain you do.”

He sighs again, a defeated sound. An alone sound.

“I wasn’t always blind,” I say, strangely compelled to convince him I

understand his fears. “There was a fire in my bedroom when I was four

years old. My nightgown caught fire and my father threw me to the ground

to put out the flames. I hit my head, and the world went dark. It has stayed

that way ever since.”

“But you still see,” he says beneath his breath, as if he knows my

moment of sightedness in the garden is a secret. “By the roses.”

“Only sometimes,” I whisper. “And only since I was ten.”

My tenth birthday, to be exact, the last day I was knowingly allowed

out of the tower. Before then, Baba and I went to the royal garden every

year on my birthday, but that was the first year that he let me explore on

my own, let me feel my way around the edge of the ancient flower bed to

the place where the vines spill over one side.

I pricked my finger by accident, and the sunlit world rushed up to

meet me. The roses showed me the city from high above, all the flowers

and the green, green springtime grass, and every tall, white building

gleaming in the morning light. It was beautiful, breathtaking to a girl who

had nearly forgotten the world of color and light.

I would have stayed there forever, grateful tears streaming down my

face, if my father hadn’t pulled me away.

As soon as he realized I was bleeding, Baba carried me back to the

tower, but the damage was already done. I knew the roses had more magic

than anyone else realized. I knew they could be my eyes. I told Baba, but he

forbade me to speak of such mad things and refused to take me to the

garden again. Months passed, but I didn’t forget that shining moment. It

took a year, but I found a way out, risking death climbing over the edge of

my balcony, rather than returning to the hopeless darkness.

The loss of hope is the worst kind of loss. I don’t want to be the cause

of that in someone, even if that someone is a monster.

“I will help you recover,” I say, with an intensity that surprises me. “I

swear it.”

“Thank you. Isra.” My name is uncomfortable in his mouth,

strange-sounding in that accent of his, but there’s something nice about it

all the same. Something nice about being Isra instead of “my lady.”

Before I can assure him there’s no need to thank me, the healers

arrive. Needle pulls me to my feet, guiding me down the hall after Gem and

the healers, fingers busy beneath my palm as she describes the scene. Two

male healers carry Gem back to his room, but it is a woman who runs her

hands lightly over his legs, examining the Monstrous with a gentleness that

Needle approves of.

“How is he?” I ask when the healer is finished.

“There’s no bleeding on the inside, my lady,” she says. “But the

muscles are still healing.”

“But they will heal. He’ll be able to walk again?” I ask, anxious for her

answer.

“I don’t see any reason why not,” the healer says. “He’ll need a brace

on the left leg and crutches for a time, but the muscles should mend. If I’d

been notified he was to work today, I would have had the aids prepared.”

Her tone is nothing but deferential, but I feel chastised all the same.

“I’ll consult with you before we try again,” I say. “How much time do

you think he needs? A week? Two?”

“He should begin exercising as soon as the leg is braced,” she says.

“We don’t have anything in his size ready-made, but the brace makers work

quickly. I can have him fitted this afternoon and able to work tomorrow, my

lady.”

Brace makers. Surely Yuan doesn’t have need of more than one brace

maker to service the thousand-odd souls under the dome? But then, maybe

people turn ankles and break wrists more often than I assume. There’s so

much I don’t know about my city, my people.

“What do you think, Gem?” I ask. “Will you be up for trying again

tomorrow?”

“Does it matter, my lady?” he asks, mimicking the healer’s

subservient tone perfectly.

I get the strong feeling that he’s mocking me, and I scowl, but clench

my jaw against the harsh words on the tip of my tongue. He’s hurting, and

despite the fact that I didn’t intend for him to suffer, that hurt is my fault.

“Yes. It matters,” I say. “Do you think you’ll be ready?”

“Anything to escape these white walls for a few hours,” he says, but

there’s still something … off in his voice.

“We can wait. I’m eager to begin, but I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“That’s kind of you, my lady, but I’m also eager to begin.” There’s a

sneer beneath the words this time, I’m sure of it. The only thing I’m not

sure of is whether he’s wrong to think me contemptible. Yesterday, there

was no doubt in my mind which one of us was the monster, but now …

I’m the one who neglected to ask his name. I’m the one who insisted

he be pulled from his bed without consulting the healers to make sure he

was fit to work. I’m the one who has treated him like an animal when I

know that he has language and at least a certain degree of intelligence.

The thoughts make me feel sour inside. They make me wish I could

have a moment alone with Gem to speak frankly. I want him to know that I

understand what it’s like to be a prisoner. That I know what it’s like to walk

a road I didn’t choose to a destination I fear, and that I will do my best to

make his life in Yuan tolerable.

But the guards and the healers would never knowingly leave me

alone with a Monstrous, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am Gem’s jailer

and his enemy. Why should he feel anything for me but contempt? He

shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t care one way or another.

“Tomorrow, then,” I say, taking Needle’s arm and allowing her to

lead me from the room. I have enough misery to bear. There’s no need to

take the hatred of a beast to heart.

But as I walk away, I can’t help remembering Gem’s cry in the hall,

how desperate and human he sounded, and how much something inside

me wanted to protect him from the soldiers.

From Yuan. From … me.

GEM

THE healer gives me more bitter water to drink, and the agony in my

legs fades to a distant ache. My eyes grow heavy, but I fight the muddying

of my thoughts. I don’t want to sleep.

I want to lie here and stare at the white wall until my mind is as soft

as windswept sand. Then I will bury all my hate deep beneath it, so deep

that not even an outline can be spied from the surface. The queen may be

blind, but she saw through me. I have to try harder.

She was kind today, open in a way she hasn’t been before. She even

confirmed my suspicion that the roses’ magic gave her the power to see for

that moment in the garden. I should have welcomed her confidence. I

should have shared a story of my own. I should have done something to

begin the long journey to earning her trust.

Instead I mocked her. I mocked her because the worry in her eyes

hurt more than my legs. Because her promises to help made me hate her

more than I did before.

It’s too late for kindness. No amount of kindness can change who she

is or what her people have done to mine. Her moment of compassion only

proved she’s worse than I first assumed. To be cold and incapable of pity is

one thing; to have compassion and use it only when it’s convenient is

nothing less than evil.

I hate her so much my body aches with it, but I hate myself more. I

hate that I felt even a moment of pity for that little girl with her nightgown

on fire, or for the queen whose guards roll their eyes before obeying her

commands. No warrior of my tribe would ever treat his chief with such a

lack of respect, but the soldiers clearly feel no need to conceal their disdain

from the blind queen or her silent attendant.

Or from the monster whimpering on the floor.

They should be more careful. Everything I see and hear is my

weapon. Everything. From their disdain, to the way the silent woman’s

fingers move with words, to the flash of guilt in the queen’s eyes.

“Isra’s eyes,” I correct myself aloud. “Isra.”

I practice saying her name again and again, until it sounds the way it

did when she said it, until I sound like a Smooth Skin, until I fall asleep with

her name on my lips and dream of sand.

Thick, warm sand, rising up my thighs, trapping my chest, spilling into

my nose and mouth. Burying me alive.