Текст книги "Of Beast and Beauty "

Автор книги: Stacey Jay

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

SIX

ISRA

“HERE. Use the middle fork,” Bo says, pressing a utensil with a

smooth bone-covered handle into my hand. “The spoon is only for soup.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, cheeks flaming as I run my fingertips over

the heavily glazed duck on my plate, searching for a place to aim my fork.

By the moons, I know which utensil to use. I was simply trying to spare

myself the embarrassment of dirtying yet another napkin.

Whoever planned the menu for my coronation should be cast out of

the royal kitchens in disgrace. They couldn’t have made the meal more

challenging for their queen if they’d tried. I’ve already spilled soup on my

dress, sent half a boiled carrot leaping off my plate when I tried to cut it,

and dirtied four napkins with my sauce-covered fingers. And there is no

doubt that every member of court observed my failure. The banquet hall is

positively buzzing.

Buzz, buzz, buzz— the noise in the great room builds like a swarm of

bees, rattling my nerves, killing my appetite, stinging the skin on my face,

the only skin left completely exposed on this momentous day.

The sleeves of my coronation dress fall to my wrists; my skirt brushes

the floor. My hands were encased in silk gloves until I was forced to remove

them for the feast, and my feet are snug inside new slippers. Even my legs

are bundled into thick cotton stockings. If I trip and my dress rises up,

Needle and I wanted to be sure every inch of tainted flesh was covered.

We were so careful, with my dress, with my hair—slicked into a bun

so tight it’s impossible to tell how wild my curls usually are—but all the

preparations were a waste of time. I’m still taller than every whole citizen

of Yuan. I’m still big-boned and sharp-featured, with hands too large and

lips too wide and eyes too sunken.

The common people saw me for the tainted thing I was the moment I

stepped out on the dais. They gasped. One shocked collective breath,

followed by a silence so thick and terrible I would have turned and fled if I’d

been sure where I was going.

The cheering and clapping started soon after, and Needle insisted the

people were simply surprised by how “lovely” and “exotic” I looked, but it

was too late for her kind lies to make a difference. I know the truth. My

people are horrified by their queen. Yuan has never had a tainted ruler. I

am the first, the contemptible offspring of the king’s mad second wife. Her

insanity almost cost the people their lives, and now her tainted daughter

sullies their throne.

I’m sure they’re all praying I will die before having children of my

own. As long as I’m married, the covenant will be secure. My king will be

able to remarry, and the poor noble girl forced to wed him will take on the

mantle of sacrifice.

Sacrifice. Blood and bones. That’s all I am.

The common people cheered, and the nobles have spent the feast

flattering me, but the truth is that none of them sees me as anything but a

walking dead girl. There have been queens who ruled with wisdom and

power, but none of them were tainted. Or blind. Or locked away and

hidden from the people. I will have to be truly extraordinary to lift myself

above all my failings.

“Should I have the servants bring more sweet wine?” Bo asks, laying

a hand on my wrist and letting it linger there too long.

“No, thank you.” I pull my hand away, scratching between my sticky

fingers to cover my escape.

The more wine Bo drinks, the more familiar he becomes, ensuring

that I can’t help remembering the kiss he stole when he was the first to

know I was queen. In hindsight, that kiss is nothing if not suspicious. For

twenty years, Junjie has been the most powerful man in Yuan aside from

the king. There’s nowhere left for him to rise except to the throne. He’s

already married and too old to wed me himself, but I’m sure he finds his

son an acceptable substitute.

“You are beautiful tonight,” Bo whispers, his wine and rosemary

breath warm on my cheek. “Your eyes are like springtime.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, struggling to keep my expression from going

sour. There’s nothing wrong with Bo’s lies. They’re pretty lies. Kind lies.

There’s nothing wrong with him wanting to be king, either. Someone

will be my king. It might as well be Bo. He is solicitous and flattering. Our

marriage would make his father happy, and the people relieved. It would

fulfill my duty as a daughter of the covenant, and secure the future of the

city. All good reasons to relax and let his hands linger, but for some reason

my body remains tense no matter how much wine I drink.

“May I walk you to your rooms tonight?” Bo asks, his arm snaking

around my shoulders, trapping me in my chair.

Around us, the buzzing grows hushed for a moment before resuming

at a more insistent drone. The nobles are talking about me. They’ve been

talking about me since Needle led me to my chair on the raised platform at

the center of the room. The hall eventually grew too noisy to pick out

individual words, but before it did, I heard more than enough.

Words like “large” and “mad” and “mother.” Words like “sad” and

“strange” and “frightful.”

“Would that be all right?” Bo’s fingers grip my shoulder, making my

pulse speed. I feel like a rabbit trapped beneath a falcon’s claws. Prey.

Something to be consumed.

… get her married …

… glad it’s not my son …

… an embarrassment …

The scraps of drunken conversation are arrows flying through the

roasted-duck-perfumed air, finding their marks in my heart.

I take a deep breath and remember the smell of the newly broken

ground in my healing garden. I remember the feel of the plow handles

beneath my palms, the sound of Gem’s new brace squeaking as he walks,

his gravel-and-grit voice telling stories of his tribe while we work the rocky

dirt by the Desert Gate.

Dry grass is all that’s ever grown there, and I know Junjie doubts

anything else ever will, but a patch of land is a small price to pay for an

absent queen. And why shouldn’t I be absent? It’s becoming increasingly

clear that no one intends to take me seriously. There might as well be a

stuffed toy sitting on the throne, for all the attention my advisors pay me

when I dare to speak up during their interminable meetings. There’s no

point in fighting them. I’d rather leave the running of things to Junjie and

the other cranky old men.

And so I have my field and my Monstrous to help me tend it, and four

guards to watch over me while I work, and Junjie meets with the other

advisors and the nobles and soldiers and farmers and shopkeepers alone,

without a blind girl getting in his way.

I find the garden a more-than-satisfying use of my time. The work is

hard but simple, and Gem has proven himself capable of making the best of

his captivity. He is cordial and pleasant and appreciative of the efforts I

make on his behalf. Best of all, with Gem, I never have to worry about what

I look like.

Heard she’s hiding … sickening … underneath. The whispers grow

louder, harsher.

“Isra?”

Repulsive … never … large. My fork falls to my plate with a dull clink.

Strange … mad … unnat—

I push my chair back, shrugging Bo’s arm from my shoulders as I

stand. If I don’t escape this room, I’m going to explode.

“Isra? Are you—?”

“I need some fresh air.” I hold out my hand, grateful when Needle’s

fingers immediately appear beneath. “I’ll be back in a moment. Have them

bring more sweet wine.”

I squeeze Needle’s hand, and she immediately sets off at a brisk but

reasonable pace, leading me down the platform steps, weaving between

the tables scattered throughout the hall.

Conversations stop as I pass by, and I swear I can feel the nobles’

eyes raking up and down my long body, clawing at my dress, hoping to

catch a glimpse of the scaled skin they’ve heard rumors about, eager for me

to do something wild and uncivilized.

I hold my head higher and press the tip of my tongue to the roof of

my mouth. I won’t cry. I won’t get angry. I won’t give them any reason to

bring up the older stories, the ones about how I abused the women sent to

care for me after my mother’s death, or the way I howled like a Monstrous

from the balcony of my tower in the middle of the night, giving the city

children nightmares.

I can’t remember that time—I was only four years old, by the

moons!—but Needle warned me that the stories live on. My people are

waiting for a reason to believe I’m still that feral creature, that girl as

tainted on the inside as on the outside.

As soon as we’re out of sight of the banquet hall, Needle begins to

sign.

Are you all right?

“I’m ready to leave.”

You can’t leave. Not without—

“I am queen. I can do what I wish,” I snap, pulling my arm away, only

for her to reclaim it a second later. “Leave me!” I demand. “I can find my

way from here.”

But your guards. They’re still at the banquet. They will want to—

“I am perfectly capable of getting back to my rooms without guards,”

I say, voice rising as I pull away a second time. “Why do I need guards,

anyway? Who would dare harm the sacrifice?”

Needle sighs her sad sigh but doesn’t try to retake my arm, and soon

I hear her footsteps hurrying away toward the tower. She knows better

than to argue with me. Arguing is pointless. I am stubborn and selfish, and

once I’ve made up my mind, I will not be swayed.

For a moment, I feel bad for taking my anger out on my only friend,

but soon I’m too distracted by the pain in my toes to think of anything else.

My slippers are too tight. I told Needle they were too tight, but she

insisted they were the same size I’ve worn for a year, and shoved them

onto my feet. Now they pinch so badly, I’m hobbling by the time I near the

royal garden. I stop, bend down, and rip them from my feet with a growl

that turns to a moan of relief as soon as my toes are allowed to spread on

the cool stones.

Ah. So much better. “Stupid things,” I mutter as I toss the slippers

into the flowers lining the path.

“Good choice,” comes a voice from high above, making me draw a

surprised breath. “Who needs shoes in a soft world like this one?”

“Gem?” I ask, though I know it’s him by the pronunciation of the

word “shoes.” His accent is changing, but still, no one else under the dome

sounds like him. “Where are you?”

“In my new room,” he answers. “New rooms. There are two. One for

sitting, one for sleeping.”

“They gave you the apartment overlooking the gardens?” I ask, tilting

my face in the direction of his voice.

I gave the order for Gem to be transferred to the soldiers’ barracks a

few days past. I requested that the apartment with the view of the royal

garden be converted to a cell—Gem mentioned that he’d like to see the

roses again—but there was some grumbling from Junjie about whether

such a prime space could be spared.

I told him to find a way to spare it and left it at that, but I wasn’t sure

he’d take my order seriously. Junjie seems to treat my commands as

suggestions he’ll take into consideration. If he remembers. If he approves. If

it’s convenient.

“They did,” Gem says. “Thank you.”

“You like it, then?” I ask, craving approval in this night filled with

condemnation.

“I do. Very much.”

“I know there are still bars on the windows, but …”

“It doesn’t matter. The view is nice. And I like the books,” he says,

before adding in an almost shy tone, “I’ve been trying to read them. My

mother taught me your letters and the sounds they make. It’s not as

difficult as I thought it would be.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon,” I say, feeling a little envious. “I

wish I could read. Being read to is wonderful, but I always thought the

stories would go faster if I could see the words myself.”

“I’m not very fast.”

“You will be. You’re clever.” He is. More clever than I could have

imagined before we started working in the garden together. The past two

weeks have only confirmed how foolish I was to underestimate Gem. He

has a vast knowledge of plants, speaks our language with the fluency of a

noble, and has more stories memorized than I’ve had read to me in my life.

“Soon you’ll have even more stories to add to your collection,” I say,

trying to smile. “You’ll have to tell me your favorites.”

“Of course,” he says, before adding in a softer voice, “What’s wrong?

You don’t sound like yourself.”

I lean against the retaining wall, and reach out, running my fingers

over the wilting petals of the last of the autumn clematis. “I’ve done foolish

things tonight.”

“What kind of foolish things?”

“I was mean to Needle,” I say, tears stinging my eyes for the millionth

time since my father died. “I shouldn’t have been. She’s always so patient

with me.”

“She’ll forgive you,” he says, the lack of judgment in his tone making

me feel even worse.

“I know,” I mumble, wishing I hadn’t said anything. No matter how

well we’ve been getting along, or how much more human Gem is than I

could have dreamed a Monstrous would be, it was stupid to start

confessing things to him. He’s not my friend; he’s my prisoner.

“What else?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, lingering when I know I should tell him good night

and be on my way. But I’m not in any hurry to return to the tower or

Needle, who I know will be waiting by the door with her sad sigh, ready to

gently remind me of everything I did wrong tonight.

I know I have to apologize and endure the reminders, but I’m not

ready. Not yet.

“I don’t believe you.” Gem’s voice holds a challenge I refuse to take.

“Tell me a story,” I say instead, forcing a smile. Storytelling is what

built the bridge between Gem and me in the first place. I began it as a way

to break the strained silence during our first day in the garden, but Gem

soon took the lead. He is a gifted storyteller and obviously appreciates a

receptive audience. He has never refused me a story. “A happy story,

please.”

“What kind of happy story?”

“One of your people’s legends. One with wind in it.”

He falls quiet, but I don’t repeat myself. I know he’s putting his

thoughts together and that it will be worth the wait. Gem’s stories are

always wonderful, mysterious and magical and eerily familiar, stories my

heart swears I’ve heard before even if my mind can’t remember them.

“Once, long ago, in the early days of my tribe, there was a girl who

loved a star,” he begins, summoning a delicious shiver from deep in my

bones. I pull myself up to sit on the edge of the wall and draw my legs to

my chest beneath my dress, grateful Needle gave me a full skirt rather than

one of the narrow ones that make me teeter when I walk.

“It was a summer star,” Gem continues once I’m comfortable. “And it

appeared in the sky just as the summer grass turned brown. It burned a

fierce orange and red, and spent its nights boasting of all the worlds it had

known and the creatures who had loved it.

“All the girls in the tribe enjoyed gazing at the star, but one girl,

Melita, was captivated at first glance,” he says, the lulling rhythm of his

words easing the last of the tension from my shoulders. “Every evening, she

would creep from her family’s hut and lie down in the grass beneath the

star. They would talk late into the night, telling each other their secret

hopes and dreams, their messages carried between land and sky by the

west wind.

“The girl told the star how she wished to journey beyond her tribe’s

lands and see things no Desert Girl had ever seen before. The star told the

girl how he yearned for someone with arms brave enough to hold him,

strong enough to wrap around him at the close of the day and hold on until

morning.

“Eventually, the two grew so filled with longing that the star’s wish

was granted. The girl opened her arms and called him from the sky, and

with a sigh, he fell, burning a trail through the night as his flame went out,

leaving only his bone-white body behind.”

I drop my chin to my knees and close my eyes, suddenly feeling shy

of this story.

It’s a love story. Gem has never told me a love story. It feels more

intimate than his other tales. Sadder, too. I haven’t imagined the

Monstrous loving the way we love, but I suppose they must. It makes me

wonder if there is someone Gem left behind, a Monstrous girl whose arms

he imagines holding him until morning.…

“The next morning, the girl awoke to find the star weeping in the

grass,” Gem continues. “He had already grown tired of the girl’s arms. He

craved the eyes of every creature of this world and the next and the next.

He mourned the loss of his spark and shine and the glory of burning

brighter than anything else in the night. He cursed the girl, blaming her for

his fall, and left her so he could find his way back to the sky, abandoning

her long before the girl’s belly began to round with the new star he had put

inside her.”

I blush so hard, my cheeks tingle. Heat spreads from my face, down

my neck, to make my skin itch beneath my clothes. The new star he had put

inside her. By the moons. Yuan’s storytellers would never say such a bold

thing. If Needle were here, she’d be scandalized.

The knowledge makes the story a bit more delicious.

“Months passed, and the time came for the baby to be born. It was a

cold night, near the end of winter, and both of the tribe’s midwives came to

the girl’s hut, but the girl could not be saved,” Gem says. “After hours of

suffering, the star baby came from her in a rush of fire, killing his mother as

he shot toward the sky.”

I lift my head, lips parting in silent protest. Surely this can’t be the

end of the story, the poor girl dying in childbirth?

“The west wind saw the tragic birth,” Gem continues, “and wished he

had never carried the girl’s whispers to the star father. He plucked the girl’s

soul from her burning flesh and held her in his arms, offering her a breath

of his own magic to prove how sorry he was for the part he’d played. The

girl used the magic to steal the language of our people from the stars,

ensuring that no other Desert Girl would hear a star’s false promises or fall

in love with one of the fickle creatures ever again.

“But still, the west wind felt his debt had not been paid. And so, from

that day forward, he has continued to share his magic. He still comes to the

Desert People as their funeral fires burn, granting each of us one last wish.

And that is how we were given death magic, and why our deaths are cause

for celebration as well as sadness.”

He falls silent, but the air still hums with the power of the legend.

“That is a happy story?” I ask after an outraged moment.

“It is,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “One of our happiest.”

“You’re mad!” I protest. “That poor girl. And whatever happened to

the star?”

“He became the star of the true north,” Gem says. “And, in honor of

his mother, he has guided the lost home to the tribal lands for hundreds of

years.”

“No. I meant the other star, the one who left the girl alone to die.”

“He returned to the heavens,” Gem says. “He continues to fill the

summer sky with orange and red, and unsuspecting women with babies. He

put a baby in the harvest moon that has refused to be born for hundreds of

years, for fear of hurting its mother, but that’s another legend.”

I’m about to say how unfair it was for the girl to die and the star to

live on unpunished, but I stop myself before the words can leave my

mouth. Of course it’s not fair, but … that’s the way life is. Gem and I know

that as well as anyone.

Gem and I. We have more in common than I ever dreamed we

would. Sometimes, it feels like I have more in common with him than I do

my own people. Sometimes, I wish he wasn’t my prisoner and that we were

more than polite acquaintances. Sometimes, I wish we could be friends.

But we can’t. And my only true friend is alone in the tower, waiting

for me to apologize for acting like a spoiled child.

“I should go. Thank you for the story,” I say, tossing the words over

my shoulder as I unwind my legs and start down the path, trailing my

fingers along the wall to guide me.

“Good night, Isra,” Gem calls, something in the way he says my name

making the hairs on my neck prickle.

I lift my hand and wave good-bye as I make my way into the heart of

the royal garden, careful to give the rose bed a wide berth. Gem may have

guessed that the roses allow me to see, but I’m not prepared for an

audience while availing myself of their magic.

I didn’t plan to stop here tonight, anyway. I haven’t pricked my finger

since the night the Monstrous invaded the city five weeks past. The

unrelieved darkness weighs on me, but not as heavy as the memory of the

hunger I felt pulling at me that night. The roses are tired of being teased

with a drop or two of what they crave; they grow eager for a proper

feeding.

“It isn’t time,” I whisper as I pass them by. It isn’t. Not for years and

years.

I know I’m right, but still, I shiver as I step into the orchard. The air

beneath the dome feels colder than it did a few moments ago, and I wish

I’d brought the shawl Needle tried to press into my hands as we left the

tower.

Autumn is dying, and winter will be here all too soon, a fact I would

be wise to remember the next time I’m tempted to throw my shoes into a

flower bed or linger listening to stories that have nothing to do with my

people or our life beneath the dome.

SEVEN