‘It might prove…challenging to locate’ she’d said to him yesterday.
But he was a great deal more familiar with the route to her dilapidated house in the grasslands than she could imagine. Sebestyén craned his neck searching for her busy hands.
The skies were clear and blue, the hill dotted with multi-colored blooms. Pleasant sunshine and chirping sparrows painted a picture of the perfect spring day.
On such a fine noon, however, she wasn’t out scavenging for food.
Instead, he found her sleeping in a dirty corner of her shack, curled up like a baby, hands buried inside her ragged tunic and toes red and swollen with insect bites. She had no bed, no pillow, no quilts, nothing to cover her frail, tired body.
During his career as a general, Sebestyén had lived in many temporary camps, caves, and cramped tents, but they’d all been a great deal more comfortable than this house.
Mud was leveled on the floor. Over it, she’d spread a carpet of dried grass. Hollowed-out skulls of cows and goats, planted in the far corner, had substituted as holders for her thorns, inks, and dyes. A makeshift rug of animal skin was stationed right beside her work area.
Wind whistled through the tiny holes on the thatched roof sounding like notes played on an oboe.
Carelessly, Sebestyén strode into the house knocking down a string of bells she’d hung at the entrance.
Rea awoke with a start. Her frightened eyes darted around the perimeter of the room in panic scanning for trouble. When her gaze finally landed on him, her dark, stormy eyes became a tempest.
Sebestyén cleared his throat. “You slept well?”
“Does it matter? I’m awake now.” She rubbed her red, tired eyes.
Judging by her crabbiness, she’d probably not had much sleep last night, which was no wonder given the state of the place she lived in. The chill in the night wind was harsh around those parts, even in the spring. Her thin cotton dress couldn’t possibly act as a barrier against it. Next time, he’d remember to bring her a blanket.
“I forgot to ask your name yesterday,” Sebestyén said watching her cracked lips open and close. The dungeon had been too dim, but now he saw the effects of starvation on her. Her cheeks were sunken into the hollows of her cheekbones, and her clothes hung baggily on her shrinking frame.
“My name’s Rea. Ree-Yah,” she pronounced, a foreign lilt to her voice. She spoke good Gerunian, so he almost forgot she wasn’t a native. “Though I doubt you’ll remember it. You may call me anything you wish.”
“I’ll call you Rea.” Despite what she believed, he couldn’t forget her name so easily. It was already imprinted in his mind for a long time.
She shrugged. “As you can see, I have nothing to serve you, so if you don’t mind, we will begin your lessons right away so you can be on your way back before night falls.”
She really didn’t want him there, and she didn’t hide her displeasure. Sebestyén supposed he should be glad for her frankness. He faced enough deceit and flattery within the walls of the palace every day, with all the young ladies tripping over themselves in the quest to become an archduchess. Sometimes, he felt like a title rather than a man.
He nodded. “As you wish.”
On tiny, bruised feet, Rea scurried to her implements selecting a few and laying them on dried leaves. The thick thorns came first, the thinnest ones last.
“The fundamentals are simple,” she stated pointing to the objects she laid out. “First, you cut the skin open using the thorns in the pattern you wish to create, then fill the wound with colored pigment. The most popular pigment is the black one—soot mixed with animal fat. However, to create real art, one must experiment with all sorts of colors.”
Sebestyén couldn’t help but wince. “It sounds more like torture than art.”
“All art comes from pain. You must have the resolve to overcome suffering if you desire to become an artist.”
He desired no such thing. In fact, the only reason he was there in her company, feigning an interest in tattooing, was so that she wouldn’t be alone. He may have rescued her from General Basa’s dungeon, but what she really needed rescuing from was her own loneliness—just as he needed to be rescued from his own loneliness. Many years ago, he, too, had lost his mother, and in the succeeding years, he’d completely closed himself off from the world. He had no friends. No worthy relationships. No way to occupy his time except wandering through the treacherous corridors of the palace and plotting to overthrow rulers of the neighboring realms.
War was all he had. He wanted peace. Spending time learning something interesting from a fascinating woman wasn’t such a bad way to spend his days while he waited to be called to the next battle.
“That’s a beautiful tattoo. Did you ink it yourself?” he asked intrigued by the tattoo of a circled star on Rea’s wrist. It was a small symbol surrounded by more elaborate and colorful tattoos but there was something special about the star that drew his attention.
“No. It was my late father’s gift to me,” said Rea wiping her moist eyes with the dirty sleeve of her dress. Sebestyén stilled, afraid he’d forced her to remember a fragment of the past better left forgotten. But then she smiled, a grin so brilliant and dazzling, it penetrated straight through his chest and left him breathless. “Of all the tattoos I have, this one means the most to me.”
“What magic can it do?” he ventured.
Rea shook her head, her raven curls bouncing with the movement. “Not all the tattoos created by the Suveri are enchanted. Some are symbols for us to remember our loved ones. The star within the circle…signifies eternal love. It means, ‘I pluck the eternal miracle from the skies and give it to you’.”
She was animated, passionate then. He hadn’t seen that side of her before. Then again, he hardly knew anything about her.
“How sentimental,” Sebestyén scoffed. “It’s odd you’d believe in something like eternal love considering who you’ve lost.” There was a very visible tightening of Rea’s jaw. Her bony fingers snapped into tight fists at her side.
“Love isn’t nonsense, general,” she said quietly.
“We’ll have to differ on that one.”
In his experience, love wasn’t something that even existed in his world. His parents treated him as an heir, an object to be installed upon the throne. Nothing more. Nothing less. In the palace, marriages weren’t romantic or dreamy. They were cold political alliances, forged by greedy fathers and scheming ministers, to further their own interests. His own would be decided in a matter of weeks, or perhaps months. He wasn’t looking forward to the day.
“We have deviated. Let’s return to the lesson.” Quickly, Rea wiped off any trace of emotion on her face and returned to a monotonous lecture about the various types of magical tattoos. “…and then there are ones that grant the ability to cross between the worlds of the living and the dead. In your language, I believe it would be called ‘immortality’.”
“Now that sounds rather intriguing. I should get one of those.”
“I warn you. It’ll be painful.”
“More painful than being pierced by arrows in my legs and belly?” he challenged.