His eyes flew wide. “Didn’t you say you wouldn’t tattoo a feruli?”
“I may have revised my opinion of you since, though don’t be too optimistic. I still abhor you and every other warlord in this kingdom for the way you treated my father,” Rea confessed. “But I have a special interest in Mesinia. My second wish is to see a glowing cherry blossom tree in bloom.”
It had been her father’s wish, and he’d promised to take her there himself once the disputes between Mesinia and their country ended. Glowing cherries had magical properties, and dyes harvested from them had a beautiful crimson color. Those dyes could be used to make the most powerful tattoo the Suveri were capable of—the ‘Heaven’s Eye’ that granted immortality.
“Never mind. I’ll take my chances with death,” said the general. “That’s half the thrill of going to war.”
“Are you not afraid of death? Or are you hoping to die?”
“I wonder about that myself.”
There, he was being mysterious again. But in the restless tapping of his fingers against his knee, Rea sensed that the conflict was tearing him apart. She’d experienced a war herself, but just seeing the aftereffects of the war in Dalimia had convinced her of how scary it could be. Bodies upon bodies lying in various states of death and injury. Lives and hopes wiped away.
“Have you thought about what would happen if you’re injured and unable to fight again? Imagine you’re wounded and left to die on the battlefield, and no one comes to your aid,” she said. “Won’t you regret not getting the tattoo of victory then?”
General Sebestyén laughed. “If you’re trying to scare me into getting a tattoo, congratulations, it’s working.”
“I shall keep at it, then.” Rea cleared her throat and added dramatically, “What if your entire face is disfigured, and no noble lady can be convinced to marry you? Why, the royal lineage will perish if that happens.”
“I have brothers, you know.”
“None of whom are as capable as you if rumors are to be believed.” It was well-known in the kingdom. The emperor’s younger sons were all wastrels, spoilt sick by their father’s indulgence while the eldest son, the general, had been groomed to take over the throne.
“A man doesn’t need any particular capability to breed.” General Sebestyén went still, like he’d just let something deadly slip. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“That wasn’t a proper thing to say to a woman.”
“It’s the truth, though. Unfortunate as it may be.”
Rea wasn’t naïve. Nor was she a fool. She knew what happened between men and women. She’d experienced that heat, the slide of skin against skin, the panting of an aroused heart herself with another Suveri from her tribe, though she hadn’t gone through with the complete affair. He’d seemed way saner before he’d started mumbling his warped fantasies of what he wanted to do to her in her ear. She’d extricated herself from that situation with great finesse and never saw him again.
“I should leave now. My mind’s scattered tonight. There’s no telling how I may offend you if I stay.”
Rea waved her hand in an airy gesture. “Oh, please, don’t worry about something so trivial. I don’t think I could hate you more than I do, no matter what you said or did.”
“That’s reassuring.” The general leaned back against a creaky wall. “I didn’t bring anything to eat today. Mind playing a game of chess with me?”
“Why not?” She knew chess relaxed him; it shifted his focus from his impending future to the game in front of his eyes.
Stepping out for a moment to retrieve the board and pieces from his animal, he left her alone with her thoughts. In the span of a single moment, solitude trapped her. The house felt so dark with just her in it. Her father’s belongings stared at her accusingly, demanding his whereabouts, demanding his revenge. Memories were tattooed on every surface, paintings of her peaceful days with her father. The days when hope had filled her heart and filled those walls.
“You’re a strong girl,” Baba had said when she was young. “You will become a strong woman.”
She hadn’t become strong. She’d become hopelessly weak. Most of the time, her heart felt as fragile as a matchstick, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Every day was an abyss, threatening to suck her into its gloomy depths.
If not for the prospect of trading insults with the general, she’d likely have drowned in her grief a long time ago.
Outside, the general’s footsteps became inaudible. Rea felt her chest clench in fear. It was silly, she knew. The general was nobody to her. Depending on the whims of fate, he might never return from Mesinia. Or at least not return in a state where he would be able to venture into the valley to see her again.
“It’s really muggy outside,” complained Sebestyén reappearing and laying out the board between them.
Quietly, carefully, Rea released the breath she didn’t know she held.
In the midst of the game, he suddenly asked, “How did your father die?”
It was as if someone knifed her through her heart. Blackness coated her eyes.
“I’ll tell you someday,” Rea replied. “But not tonight.” The wounds were still too fresh.
With a nod, he accepted. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll listen. But don’t suffer alone. No one deserves that.”
He ended up staying way past evening’s last light, and she had to drive him away, because it was time to hunt for food.
After he left, it was quiet, and she was lonely again. She deeply missed the sound of his voice, and the sound of her own voice responding to his. She hadn’t felt so alive in a long time.
Sebestyén
“How was it?” Arnold inquired outside the council chambers.
Councilmen were filing out of the meeting hall along with his father, the emperor, a bobbing sea of gray and white heads with content smiles pasted on their faces. Nothing pleased those power-hungry geezers more than the prospect of having even greater authority. Once he cinched Mesinia, God only knew what his father would set his eyes on next. Maybe the entire world. Or maybe the skies themselves. And he’d be the one stuck doing all the work of planning, of conquering, of laying down his life for those grand ambitions.
“Like being stung by a hundred wasps,” replied Sebestyén placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“That bad?” Arnold said falling into step beside him. He winked at a councilman causing the man to choke. Arnold was incorrigible sometimes.
“I think I still have the rashes,” Sebestyén said. And right then, even those imaginary rashes were itching.
It was late afternoon, which meant the sun was at its harshest and humidity had set in the air. His pants and tunic stuck to his body in an uncomfortable way. The hallowed corridors of the palace, which resembled a maze more than anything else, wound mercilessly in every direction, and Sebestyén didn’t look forward to the long trip he needed to make to his room in the west wing.
“We’ll miss you,” said Arnold. “It’s always chaotic without you around. Nobody to control the rest of us from partying our lives away. And father’s health has been worsening of late.”