Before Sebestyén could think of something else to say, Rea spoke again. “You should leave now. It’s late.”
And it was. His stomach was growling. Sebestyén realized he hadn’t eaten in hours, and unless he fed himself soon, fainting was a very real possibility.
“Goodbye, then,” he said swinging onto his horse.
As far as last words went, those were really cliché.
3
THE PORTRAIT OF WINTER
Rea
The first snow of the year fell five days into the ninth lunar month. Winters tended to come fast and hard in Crua Valley blanketing the entire landscape in a veil of white ice.
Since her fight with the general, he hadn’t come by again, so she’d used all her free time knotting together dried twigs and firewood into a makeshift roof to lay over the actual roof of her cottage. It did absolutely nothing to keep the chill out, but at least it kept snow from falling on her head while she slept.
The Suveri had their own method of making clothes from fibers, but that required specialized tools she didn’t possess. Without warm clothes, passing the winter came down to resourcefulness. Late at night, when the entire town was asleep in its chambers, Rea braved the icy cold to scavenge for scraps of clothing in the streets which she would then sew into a quilt stuffed with dried leaves and flowers. Though, both leaves and cloth became scarce and nights became an uncomfortable exercise in endurance.
If Baba had been there, he’d have known what to do. He’d have protected her; he’d have kept her warm. His arms would have sheltered her. For the hundredth time, she resented the general who had taken Baba’s life, who had stolen the last days of her childhood, and forced her to grow into an adult alone with no one to teach her the lessons she needed to learn.
Rea surveyed the contents of her food basket. The depressing state of her supplies filled her heart with fresh melancholy. The contents of her basket dwindled every day, and she was too proud to ask the general to help.
To keep the self-defeating thoughts at bay, Rea picked up a thorn and dipped it in black ink, tracing a pattern on the surface of a wide, flat leaf. Art was an amazing thing. Healing and rejuvenating. Absorbing and cleansing. It made her lose all sense of time and place and enter an alternate world where there was only her, the ink, the designs she needed to draw, and the emotions she needed to give a voice to. She was so engrossed in her work that she paid no mind to the figure encroaching upon her back.
“Rea.” All her muscles tightened as the familiar voice brushed over her skin.
An abrupt turn. Her hand knocked over the bowl of dye. Black ink spilled, streaking thick lines over the earthen floor, seeping into her skirts. Worst part was, she didn’t even notice any of that. How could she, with the general’s gaze lazily assessing her, with her every cell twisting at the roguish smile that made his face unbearably beautiful?
He narrowed his eyes. The world turned weightless. If he was a Suveri, she might’ve mistaken his long gaze for interest. But Alisian men never saw beyond her tattoos. Never saw her as human being who breathed under the layers of myth and magic. So what did he want with her now?
He advanced. His footsteps punched out an erratic rhythm, boots rustling on the dried grass carpet.
“Please stop.” It was an undignified, strangled command.
But he heeded it even so.
Throughout the end of summer, she considered and reconsidered what she would say to him if he ever came back. How she would apologize. How she would beg him to keep taking lessons. How she’d lure him with promises of great power and glory. And it was disgusting to see how far she’d fallen. Her father must be turning in his grave, ashamed, repulsed by her willingness to let an enemy into her heart so easily.
“Let me in, Rea.” His words frayed with longing. “I’m not here for myself. There’s a girl who needs your help.”
“Help?” Such a sharp, shrewish voice. How could it be hers?
Rea wheeled back, nearly twisting her ankle. Cradled in the general’s strong muscular arms was a thin, brown-skinned girl with prominent black tattoos on her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, her breathing unsteady. This girl was definitely too fragile for her age. Rea’s chest felt heavy, like a soaked cotton ball.
“Can you do something for her?” asked Sebestyén.
“Has she eaten?”
“Yes. I made sure she was fed.”
“Where did you find her?”
The general lay the girl on the ground. “At the soldiers’ barracks in the palace. She apparently makes tattoos for some of the soldiers, to help them gain special powers, so they can survive the war and gain promotions for their feats.”
Unforgivable.
Acid burned the lining of Rea’s throat, but she forced herself to tamp down the anger. “That’s why she’s so weak. Making enchanted tattoos requires magic. And magic robs us of our body’s energy. Only older Suveri are allowed to ink tattoos. She’s too young to be in the trade.”
“So, magic has a cost like everything else.” The general scratched his jaw.
“The more powerful the tattoo, the greater its price. If a Suveri makes too many tattoos before they’ve had a chance to replenish their energy, they could die from exhaustion.”
The little girl stirred, mumbling incoherent sounds, squeezing her eyes shut tighter. Rea didn’t let herself hope too much. It would be days before the child recovered fully.
Brushing the thick red welt on her wrists, she fixed her eyes on the general. “These are rope burns.” She raised the girl’s reedy ankles stamped with a thicker, blacker band of puckered flesh. “And these are signs she was chained. Someone held her captive. Forced her to make tattoos until she collapsed. It’s not as uncommon as you may think. Many Suveri are enslaved by your people. Why else do you think this country keeps winning battles against much stronger nations?”
“I suspect it was Marquis Gristes. The soldiers belonged to his family’s army.” The weight of a hand settled on her shoulder. The general hesitated for a moment before he asked, “Was your father—”
“Yes. He was like her.” Rea brushed his arm away. Comfort from a tyrant meant nothing. “You said my people are thieves. But it’s your people who are thieves. You’ve been stealing our magic for centuries and using it to enchant your armies and make them stronger. Isn’t it right for us to steal back from you?”
“You know, that’s not the solution.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know. It’s…difficult to tell.”
Rea sighed. What was she even trying to do? The general wasn’t going to understand. Privilege granted him blindness to suffering, immunity to sorrows. Powerlessness. Slavery. Freedom. To him those were just abstract concepts he could ignore.
“Leave her with me. I’ll look after her.” Rea placed her unfinished quilt over the girl. “I’ll love her like she’s my own.”
To the Suveri, all were family. Fate had bestowed her with a wonderful opportunity to be with someone of her tribe, to pass a less lonely winter.
The general cocked her head. “You hardly know her.”
“Not in her current form. But I may have encountered her in a previous life.”