Chapter 1: Summer Sickness
It was mid-morning, but already hot. Sweat crawled through Sylvie’s hair, under her turquoise engagement beads, and down her dress. She shifted the jug to her other shoulder, water ringing lightly against the clay. She’d be happy to heave it off and help herself to a drink, the first of the day. The taste in her mouth now was sticky and sour. Like onions soaked in vinegar. Sylvie stepped off the main road and tramped through the thistle-matted earth toward her house.
The peppers hanging from the outside walls of her pantry were shriveling nicely. The heat of them would last through winter. And by winter, we’ll have rain again. Then the fat, open-mouthed jars squatting on the flat rooftop of her house would overflow with water. Smiling, Sylvie ducked underneath the doorway.
Her father’s priestly robes hung near a picture of the five seekers on the adobe-bricked wall: a long, proud, beige banner. It should be white, if only she could clean it properly. Sylvie planted the jug on the floor, took a cup from the shelf overhead, and ladled herself a glass of water. The water slid down her throat, warm and plain and tasting mildly of clay. A good flavor.
Grunting came from her father’s room. Sylvie poured him a glass too. Pushing aside the cloth flap, she stepped into her father’s bedroom and plunged into darkness. Thick curtains were drawn over the one small window, blocking off the only source of light and making the room somewhat cooler.
“Good morning, Father,” Sylvie said. “How are you feeling today?”
“Miserable, as usual. The flames of God’s judgment could be no worse than this heat.”
He was grumpy. Sylvie took it as a sign he was recovering.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could make out the form of her father sitting up against the headboard of his bed, shoulders slumped, one hand rubbing wearily against his forehead. His hair was thick and white. A gray beard bristled from a strong jaw. Sylvie never thought he looked old, except when he was sick. He was sick today. She handed him the water and noticed that the skin of his hand was loose, hanging limply off the bone. Her father’s eyes were hard as knots in an oak tree, but there were dark circles underneath.
“Were you able to fall asleep last night?” Sylvie asked.
“Yes, several times. Over twenty, at last count.”
“Another night without rest.” Sylvie shook her head. “My poor father.”
A small blue bottle teetered dangerously on the edge of his wooden clothes chest. Sylvie picked it up. The bottle was still half full. She wasn’t surprised.
“You haven’t taken your medicine yet.”
Her father frowned.
Sylvie put the bottle in his hand. Her father drank down the medicine quickly and gulped the remaining water from his cup.
“You’ve been to the well, I take it.” Her father wiped his mouth. “What news?”
Sylvie plugged the bottle and put it in her pocket. Anxiety crept softly into her stomach, but she pushed it away.
“Matthew’s caravan arrived last night.”
“Yes, I heard,” her father said. “Like thunder, but with more squeaking wheels and bellowing oxen. It woke me up.”
“I think it woke everyone up,” Sylvie said. “But I didn’t mind so much. I was happy to know he made it back safe.”
“He’s your good friend, isn’t he?”
Her father’s face was turned up toward the ceiling, two fingers rubbing an eye. Sylvie could tell he hadn’t meant the remark as an accusation, but it still felt like one. Matthew, her friend. The memory of pain returned, a chestnut burr wedging itself into her throat. She looked down at her hands.
“He was.”
“Any word from the capital?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Vester should have sent me another letter by now.”
Her father was so sure the Great Church of Oriel would send them aid. Sylvie was not but would never admit it to him.
“I can ask Gayle when I get your medicine refilled.”
Her father nodded. “And what of the Ku Rokai? Any news about them?”
Sylvie felt a switch in her stomach. The Ku Rokai--their enemy. There was news. Over the last two years, the Ku Rokai had slowly devoured five of the seven desert towns: butchering men, capturing women in nets, and burning buildings until only black dirt remained. And now they were coming closer.
Sylvie cleared her throat. “Well…”
“Was there news or not?”
“Yes--”
“Then what is it?”
Sylvie sighed. He wouldn’t like it.
“The Ku Rokai are growing restless again. They’ll attack Roxane’s Point soon.”
As expected, her father struggled to his feet.
“Sit back down,” Sylvie said. “Our governor already made plans to help them evacuate.”
“Without me?”
“I’m sure he thought it best.”
“Eamon has no right to treat me like a child. I’m perfectly capable of--”
Her father’s face suddenly creased in pain. He wobbled, as though hit by a wave of vertigo, and sank back onto the bed. Sylvie helped ease him down and put a pillow under his head.
“You’re not capable of,” she said. “You’re not capable of walking two minutes outside in this heat. Warden will take over your role. He’s seen you work, he knows what to do.”
“He’s not prepared,” her father said.
“You have so little faith in your apprentice?”
“Warden needs to stop being an apprentice and start being a leader. He’ll be twenty soon, an adult, but he’s still too gentle. Evacuations are chaos. Someone needs to take a firm hand, and Warden has yet to show he’s capable of raising his voice.”
“His father will go with him,” Sylvie said. “And his brother will bring the Brenton garrison. They’ll support him.”
Her father did not look convinced. “I must speak to Warden.”
“I’ll fetch him after breakfast. I’ll make sure he stops by.”
After that some of the tension eased out of her father and he went back to rubbing his eyes. Sylvie brought him fresh water and went outside to get the porridge she’d made earlier that morning.
Coming from a dim room, the intensity of sunlight crushed her vision into white--but only for a moment, and Sylvie blinked it back. Before her, the sky was a perfect undistilled blue. Beautiful. Powerful. A mouth wide enough to swallow the land; one gulp and they’d be gone. Hot as it was, Sylvie shivered.
Roxane’s Point would fall, as Avensley had, as Brockton had, and all the rest. And then there would only be Brenton, and the Ku Rokai would come for them, too. Sylvie was afraid she was going to die soon, that they were all going to die soon.
After serving breakfast and wiping off the dishes with a rag, Sylvie told her father she was going to get his medicine refilled.
“Don’t forget to bring Warden, so I can discuss the evacuation with him.”
“I won’t,” Sylvie said.
She walked on the road along the edges of the wagon ruts Matthew’s caravan left behind. The stench of oil drifted in from the distillery and the potter’s yard was bumpy with jars. In the crowded center of the trade district, the established stores fought the wind-whipped refugee tents for space.
Matthew will be tired after his trip. Sylvie traced a finger along her engagement beads. It’s good I won’t see him today. It’s for the best.
The peppers hanging from the outside walls of her pantry were shriveling nicely. The heat of them would last through winter. And by winter, we’ll have rain again. Then the fat, open-mouthed jars squatting on the flat rooftop of her house would overflow with water. Smiling, Sylvie ducked underneath the doorway.
Her father’s priestly robes hung near a picture of the five seekers on the adobe-bricked wall: a long, proud, beige banner. It should be white, if only she could clean it properly. Sylvie planted the jug on the floor, took a cup from the shelf overhead, and ladled herself a glass of water. The water slid down her throat, warm and plain and tasting mildly of clay. A good flavor.
Grunting came from her father’s room. Sylvie poured him a glass too. Pushing aside the cloth flap, she stepped into her father’s bedroom and plunged into darkness. Thick curtains were drawn over the one small window, blocking off the only source of light and making the room somewhat cooler.
“Good morning, Father,” Sylvie said. “How are you feeling today?”
“Miserable, as usual. The flames of God’s judgment could be no worse than this heat.”
He was grumpy. Sylvie took it as a sign he was recovering.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could make out the form of her father sitting up against the headboard of his bed, shoulders slumped, one hand rubbing wearily against his forehead. His hair was thick and white. A gray beard bristled from a strong jaw. Sylvie never thought he looked old, except when he was sick. He was sick today. She handed him the water and noticed that the skin of his hand was loose, hanging limply off the bone. Her father’s eyes were hard as knots in an oak tree, but there were dark circles underneath.
“Were you able to fall asleep last night?” Sylvie asked.
“Yes, several times. Over twenty, at last count.”
“Another night without rest.” Sylvie shook her head. “My poor father.”
A small blue bottle teetered dangerously on the edge of his wooden clothes chest. Sylvie picked it up. The bottle was still half full. She wasn’t surprised.
“You haven’t taken your medicine yet.”
Her father frowned.
Sylvie put the bottle in his hand. Her father drank down the medicine quickly and gulped the remaining water from his cup.
“You’ve been to the well, I take it.” Her father wiped his mouth. “What news?”
Sylvie plugged the bottle and put it in her pocket. Anxiety crept softly into her stomach, but she pushed it away.
“Matthew’s caravan arrived last night.”
“Yes, I heard,” her father said. “Like thunder, but with more squeaking wheels and bellowing oxen. It woke me up.”
“I think it woke everyone up,” Sylvie said. “But I didn’t mind so much. I was happy to know he made it back safe.”
“He’s your good friend, isn’t he?”
Her father’s face was turned up toward the ceiling, two fingers rubbing an eye. Sylvie could tell he hadn’t meant the remark as an accusation, but it still felt like one. Matthew, her friend. The memory of pain returned, a chestnut burr wedging itself into her throat. She looked down at her hands.
“He was.”
“Any word from the capital?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Vester should have sent me another letter by now.”
Her father was so sure the Great Church of Oriel would send them aid. Sylvie was not but would never admit it to him.
“I can ask Gayle when I get your medicine refilled.”
Her father nodded. “And what of the Ku Rokai? Any news about them?”
Sylvie felt a switch in her stomach. The Ku Rokai--their enemy. There was news. Over the last two years, the Ku Rokai had slowly devoured five of the seven desert towns: butchering men, capturing women in nets, and burning buildings until only black dirt remained. And now they were coming closer.
Sylvie cleared her throat. “Well…”
“Was there news or not?”
“Yes--”
“Then what is it?”
Sylvie sighed. He wouldn’t like it.
“The Ku Rokai are growing restless again. They’ll attack Roxane’s Point soon.”
As expected, her father struggled to his feet.
“Sit back down,” Sylvie said. “Our governor already made plans to help them evacuate.”
“Without me?”
“I’m sure he thought it best.”
“Eamon has no right to treat me like a child. I’m perfectly capable of--”
Her father’s face suddenly creased in pain. He wobbled, as though hit by a wave of vertigo, and sank back onto the bed. Sylvie helped ease him down and put a pillow under his head.
“You’re not capable of,” she said. “You’re not capable of walking two minutes outside in this heat. Warden will take over your role. He’s seen you work, he knows what to do.”
“He’s not prepared,” her father said.
“You have so little faith in your apprentice?”
“Warden needs to stop being an apprentice and start being a leader. He’ll be twenty soon, an adult, but he’s still too gentle. Evacuations are chaos. Someone needs to take a firm hand, and Warden has yet to show he’s capable of raising his voice.”
“His father will go with him,” Sylvie said. “And his brother will bring the Brenton garrison. They’ll support him.”
Her father did not look convinced. “I must speak to Warden.”
“I’ll fetch him after breakfast. I’ll make sure he stops by.”
After that some of the tension eased out of her father and he went back to rubbing his eyes. Sylvie brought him fresh water and went outside to get the porridge she’d made earlier that morning.
Coming from a dim room, the intensity of sunlight crushed her vision into white--but only for a moment, and Sylvie blinked it back. Before her, the sky was a perfect undistilled blue. Beautiful. Powerful. A mouth wide enough to swallow the land; one gulp and they’d be gone. Hot as it was, Sylvie shivered.
Roxane’s Point would fall, as Avensley had, as Brockton had, and all the rest. And then there would only be Brenton, and the Ku Rokai would come for them, too. Sylvie was afraid she was going to die soon, that they were all going to die soon.
After serving breakfast and wiping off the dishes with a rag, Sylvie told her father she was going to get his medicine refilled.
“Don’t forget to bring Warden, so I can discuss the evacuation with him.”
“I won’t,” Sylvie said.
She walked on the road along the edges of the wagon ruts Matthew’s caravan left behind. The stench of oil drifted in from the distillery and the potter’s yard was bumpy with jars. In the crowded center of the trade district, the established stores fought the wind-whipped refugee tents for space.
Matthew will be tired after his trip. Sylvie traced a finger along her engagement beads. It’s good I won’t see him today. It’s for the best.
* * *
People clumped around the well. Women with jars on their hips and babies slung to their breasts fanned themselves against the heat. They told their husbands’ names to the red-jacketed garrison members who guarded each pump and doled out the water ration for the day.
Sylvie, having gone through the process only a few hours earlier, politely squeezed her way through the crowd. Through the bodies, she caught a glimpse of the well, the pumps as thin as cricket legs, the stones dark and smooth. The well had not been built by humans, but by the Sage. They visited Brenton seventeen years ago. No one really knew why.
The crowd jostled, and Sylvie slid out and climbed onto the steps of Matthew’s store. It stood on stilts, no windows. The door was wide open, but there was no wind to let in. Sylvie anticipated the stuffiness before she stepped inside.
There was a narrow aisle for walking from door to counter, between swollen bags of food and salt, between canvas and cloth, wood and iron. The store burst with practical survival goods. Sylvie felt some regret about this. There used to be a beautiful old mirror that she loved to look into, but Matthew sold it to help pay for the town’s food. Now there was only a large oval stain in the wood. Matthew also sold the chess set. And his astrolabe. And all his books.
The only thing he kept was the Map of the World, printed in blue ink, which covered the whole back wall. Matthew had acquired it when he was twelve and traced a route up, up, up along the coast.
“Here.” He’d jammed his finger into a spot. “Empyrean, the Sage’s old capital. That’s where I’ll start. I’ll follow the old trade routes west across the ocean and bring back knowledge of long-forgotten lands.”
Behind the counter, Matthew’s wife, Gayle, was sweeping.
Gayle was twenty-two, one year older than Sylvie, and far prettier. Her blond hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place. There was something well-arranged about Gayle’s appearance, like a painting or a bouquet. Her skirt was a rich rose-color, and her short-sleeved blouse was crisp and white. Despite the heat and hard times, Gayle kept herself fashionable.
“Good morning,” Sylvie said.
Gayle turned around, and her gold wedding necklace gleamed. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
“I’m here for my father’s medicine.” She put the bottle onto the counter. “He also wanted to know if there was a letter from the capital.”
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing.”
Sylvie nodded. “I didn’t expect one.”
Gayle reached underneath the counter and brought out a jar. There was a star-shaped straw ornament dangling off the rim and a note written in Gayle’s small, pretty handwriting. Gayle stirred twice and measured the dosage into the blue bottle.
“How is your father today? Better or worse?”
“He seemed about the same, but it’s hard to say,” Sylvie said. “He was ready to jump out of bed when I told him about Roxane’s Point. He wants to help with the evacuation.”
“Men.” Gayle shook her head. “They never take care of themselves, do they? What would they do without us?” She plugged the cork into the bottle. “This is two doses. One for the afternoon, one for tomorrow morning. If your father gets worse, come see me quickly. I have to do inventory at the warehouses this afternoon, so I won’t be here.”
“Isn’t inventory Matthew’s job?” Sylvie said.
The words slipped out. She shouldn’t have said his name.
“Yes.” Sweat glistened on Gayle’s skin, but her eyes became cold. “And how do you know that?”
“I didn’t,” Sylvie said. “His father used to do inventory, so I assumed it was the men’s work.”
Gayle tilted her head the slightest bit and touched her gold necklace with one long finger. Do you still see him? Do you still speak to my husband? Gayle said nothing, just studied her pointedly. Sylvie found it hard not to wither under that stare. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but she still felt guilty.
“Matthew isn’t feeling well today,” Gayle said at last. “So I’m taking his place.”
“He’s sick?”
“A small cold.” She smiled tightly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Of course not. He’s your husband, after all, and you take good care of him.” Sylvie put the bottle in her pocket. “Thank you for the medicine. It’s a great comfort to my father.”
“You’re very welcome,” Gayle said. “It’s my pleasure. The priest does so much for this town.”
“So do you and your husband.” Sylvie turned toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Once outside, Sylvie took a breath. The air tasted fresher.
Why couldn’t she keep quiet about Matthew? Why did these little things slip out? She didn’t want to think about him so much, to wonder how he was doing, if he was healthy, if he was happy, if he still thought about sailing across the ocean or if he had given up on his dream for good. Matthew, her old friend.
But he was married now, and their friendship could never be what it was.
Sylvie, having gone through the process only a few hours earlier, politely squeezed her way through the crowd. Through the bodies, she caught a glimpse of the well, the pumps as thin as cricket legs, the stones dark and smooth. The well had not been built by humans, but by the Sage. They visited Brenton seventeen years ago. No one really knew why.
The crowd jostled, and Sylvie slid out and climbed onto the steps of Matthew’s store. It stood on stilts, no windows. The door was wide open, but there was no wind to let in. Sylvie anticipated the stuffiness before she stepped inside.
There was a narrow aisle for walking from door to counter, between swollen bags of food and salt, between canvas and cloth, wood and iron. The store burst with practical survival goods. Sylvie felt some regret about this. There used to be a beautiful old mirror that she loved to look into, but Matthew sold it to help pay for the town’s food. Now there was only a large oval stain in the wood. Matthew also sold the chess set. And his astrolabe. And all his books.
The only thing he kept was the Map of the World, printed in blue ink, which covered the whole back wall. Matthew had acquired it when he was twelve and traced a route up, up, up along the coast.
“Here.” He’d jammed his finger into a spot. “Empyrean, the Sage’s old capital. That’s where I’ll start. I’ll follow the old trade routes west across the ocean and bring back knowledge of long-forgotten lands.”
Behind the counter, Matthew’s wife, Gayle, was sweeping.
Gayle was twenty-two, one year older than Sylvie, and far prettier. Her blond hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place. There was something well-arranged about Gayle’s appearance, like a painting or a bouquet. Her skirt was a rich rose-color, and her short-sleeved blouse was crisp and white. Despite the heat and hard times, Gayle kept herself fashionable.
“Good morning,” Sylvie said.
Gayle turned around, and her gold wedding necklace gleamed. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
“I’m here for my father’s medicine.” She put the bottle onto the counter. “He also wanted to know if there was a letter from the capital.”
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing.”
Sylvie nodded. “I didn’t expect one.”
Gayle reached underneath the counter and brought out a jar. There was a star-shaped straw ornament dangling off the rim and a note written in Gayle’s small, pretty handwriting. Gayle stirred twice and measured the dosage into the blue bottle.
“How is your father today? Better or worse?”
“He seemed about the same, but it’s hard to say,” Sylvie said. “He was ready to jump out of bed when I told him about Roxane’s Point. He wants to help with the evacuation.”
“Men.” Gayle shook her head. “They never take care of themselves, do they? What would they do without us?” She plugged the cork into the bottle. “This is two doses. One for the afternoon, one for tomorrow morning. If your father gets worse, come see me quickly. I have to do inventory at the warehouses this afternoon, so I won’t be here.”
“Isn’t inventory Matthew’s job?” Sylvie said.
The words slipped out. She shouldn’t have said his name.
“Yes.” Sweat glistened on Gayle’s skin, but her eyes became cold. “And how do you know that?”
“I didn’t,” Sylvie said. “His father used to do inventory, so I assumed it was the men’s work.”
Gayle tilted her head the slightest bit and touched her gold necklace with one long finger. Do you still see him? Do you still speak to my husband? Gayle said nothing, just studied her pointedly. Sylvie found it hard not to wither under that stare. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but she still felt guilty.
“Matthew isn’t feeling well today,” Gayle said at last. “So I’m taking his place.”
“He’s sick?”
“A small cold.” She smiled tightly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Of course not. He’s your husband, after all, and you take good care of him.” Sylvie put the bottle in her pocket. “Thank you for the medicine. It’s a great comfort to my father.”
“You’re very welcome,” Gayle said. “It’s my pleasure. The priest does so much for this town.”
“So do you and your husband.” Sylvie turned toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Once outside, Sylvie took a breath. The air tasted fresher.
Why couldn’t she keep quiet about Matthew? Why did these little things slip out? She didn’t want to think about him so much, to wonder how he was doing, if he was healthy, if he was happy, if he still thought about sailing across the ocean or if he had given up on his dream for good. Matthew, her old friend.
But he was married now, and their friendship could never be what it was.
* * *
“Warden’s not here.” Fay smiled, crow’s feet crinkling around her light blue eyes. “But why don’t you stay a while and wait for him to come home? I made a cake last night, and there’s still some left over.”
“Thank you,” Sylvie said. “But I should go back and check on my father. Can you tell Warden he wants to speak to him?”
“I will. Take care of yourself in this heat, Sylvie.”
“You too.”
Fay went back to clipping the dead leaves of her rose bushes. Although she’d been raised a Lady of Alethea, Fay seemed content in her more modest role as the governor’s wife and mother to sons Kendrick and Warden. Sylvie admired that. She’d be a wife soon, too, once she married Warden. She’d try to be good at the job.
Sylvie walked out of the garden. This was where she was supposed to get married. Her hand lingered over the fence, where a single morning glory vine climbed over the whitewashed wood. The last wedding here took place two years ago.
Matthew’s wedding.
It had been April then, a warm, clear night. The field was green and full of music, Fay’s garden was in full bloom. The scent of roses lingered beneath the odor of food and beer and sweat. Lamps burned, their orange glow reflected in the sheen of Gayle’s dress. It was like a dream.
Matthew wore an embroidered shirt and an expensive beaded vest. Both were rumpled. Sylvie was surprised the wedding had even taken place. She was relieved, of course, but her relief kept pressing tighter in her chest, like a scream. The lamps blurred. Their light didn’t penetrate Matthew’s eyes, deep black and dull.
Sylvie told her father she didn’t feel well and excused herself. As she stepped onto the dark road, Matthew caught her sleeve.
“You’re leaving? Without congratulating me?” His voice was sarcastic.
“Congratulations,” Sylvie said. “I hope you’ll find happiness with your new wife. Gayle is beautiful.”
“That’s what everyone says,” Matthew said. “She’s pretty and she’s nice and she’ll be a good wife. I don’t care. I didn’t want to marry to her.”
“But you did.”
“Only after Father threatened to throw me out of the business.”
“Still, it’s the right thing to do.”
“According to who?” he asked. “Your father? My father? This town and human society?”
Sylvie sighed. This was an old argument.
“You’re an adult,” she said. “Adults get married and take on responsibilities. It’s the way things are. You don’t have to question it all the time.”
“But that’s how I am. I’m philosophical. I always question things.” Matthew smiled, a curl around his lips. “I thought you liked that about me.”
“I did,” she said.
“Did?”
“I do, but…” Sylvie let out her breath. Well, now was as good a time as any. “What I mean is, I’ll miss you, Matthew.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t be your friend anymore.” She twisted her fingers together and held them still. “I can’t--I won’t be visiting you. I won’t be talking to you or spending time with you. Our relationship has become too strange. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Sylvie knew that not far off the wedding party was still going on; she heard the sounds of music and laughter. It just didn’t seem real. Not as solid as the dirt beneath her feet. Not as loud as Matthew’s breathing.
“So,” he said. “This is my reward for doing the right thing. I lose my best friend.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who told you to stop talking to me?” He seized her wrist. “Your father?”
She shook her head.
“Your fiancé then?”
“No,” Sylvie said. “I decided. We’re not kids anymore. We can’t pretend that being so close--with you married now and I’m engaged--it’s not normal.”
“Normal. What’s that?” He let go of her. “And why is it always so damn important to you? I’m not normal. Neither are you, though you’d like to think it.”
“It’s hurting too many people. Warden and Gayle and--”
“So what?”
“It hurts me,” she said.
Matthew was quiet.
“I hate having people always talk behind our backs. What they say about us, what they say to my father. It hurts. Doesn’t it hurt you?”
“Why should I give a damn about what small-minded people think? You’re my best friend. If I knew that by getting married I’d lose you, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, but Matthew didn’t seem to hear.
“What do I have left in my life, anyway? Nothing! What do I have to look forward to? Nothing! I’m stuck in this miserable patch of desert for the rest of my life. Waiting to die! That’s what I have to look forward to. That’s the sum of my life’s accomplishments. Stuck here! Waiting to die!”
He let out a ragged, howling breath. Then his chest and shoulders heaved forward as if he were about to start crying. But he didn’t. Instead his face slowly went blank, emotion seeping out like water from a broken pot. It frightened Sylvie more than any of his screaming--this quiet look of despair.
“It’s not the end of the world,” she said. “Being married….”
Matthew cut her off with a shake of his head. Whatever was bothering him, it wasn’t that. Something had happened months before. Something that caused him to explode into tantrums. Something that stole the spark from his eyes. Something--but he wouldn’t tell her what.
“Do you really intend to do it?” he said after a while. “Do you intend to end our friendship?”
Yes. No. She had to. He was married now.
Matthew studied her for a minute. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ll stop visiting me. You’ll stop talking to me.”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think that will be enough? Do you think it will change our feelings for each other? It won’t. All it will do is make us suffer, more than we need to.” He kicked a rock.
“So much for doing the ‘right’ thing. All you get is suffering.”
“Thank you,” Sylvie said. “But I should go back and check on my father. Can you tell Warden he wants to speak to him?”
“I will. Take care of yourself in this heat, Sylvie.”
“You too.”
Fay went back to clipping the dead leaves of her rose bushes. Although she’d been raised a Lady of Alethea, Fay seemed content in her more modest role as the governor’s wife and mother to sons Kendrick and Warden. Sylvie admired that. She’d be a wife soon, too, once she married Warden. She’d try to be good at the job.
Sylvie walked out of the garden. This was where she was supposed to get married. Her hand lingered over the fence, where a single morning glory vine climbed over the whitewashed wood. The last wedding here took place two years ago.
Matthew’s wedding.
It had been April then, a warm, clear night. The field was green and full of music, Fay’s garden was in full bloom. The scent of roses lingered beneath the odor of food and beer and sweat. Lamps burned, their orange glow reflected in the sheen of Gayle’s dress. It was like a dream.
Matthew wore an embroidered shirt and an expensive beaded vest. Both were rumpled. Sylvie was surprised the wedding had even taken place. She was relieved, of course, but her relief kept pressing tighter in her chest, like a scream. The lamps blurred. Their light didn’t penetrate Matthew’s eyes, deep black and dull.
Sylvie told her father she didn’t feel well and excused herself. As she stepped onto the dark road, Matthew caught her sleeve.
“You’re leaving? Without congratulating me?” His voice was sarcastic.
“Congratulations,” Sylvie said. “I hope you’ll find happiness with your new wife. Gayle is beautiful.”
“That’s what everyone says,” Matthew said. “She’s pretty and she’s nice and she’ll be a good wife. I don’t care. I didn’t want to marry to her.”
“But you did.”
“Only after Father threatened to throw me out of the business.”
“Still, it’s the right thing to do.”
“According to who?” he asked. “Your father? My father? This town and human society?”
Sylvie sighed. This was an old argument.
“You’re an adult,” she said. “Adults get married and take on responsibilities. It’s the way things are. You don’t have to question it all the time.”
“But that’s how I am. I’m philosophical. I always question things.” Matthew smiled, a curl around his lips. “I thought you liked that about me.”
“I did,” she said.
“Did?”
“I do, but…” Sylvie let out her breath. Well, now was as good a time as any. “What I mean is, I’ll miss you, Matthew.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t be your friend anymore.” She twisted her fingers together and held them still. “I can’t--I won’t be visiting you. I won’t be talking to you or spending time with you. Our relationship has become too strange. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Sylvie knew that not far off the wedding party was still going on; she heard the sounds of music and laughter. It just didn’t seem real. Not as solid as the dirt beneath her feet. Not as loud as Matthew’s breathing.
“So,” he said. “This is my reward for doing the right thing. I lose my best friend.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who told you to stop talking to me?” He seized her wrist. “Your father?”
She shook her head.
“Your fiancé then?”
“No,” Sylvie said. “I decided. We’re not kids anymore. We can’t pretend that being so close--with you married now and I’m engaged--it’s not normal.”
“Normal. What’s that?” He let go of her. “And why is it always so damn important to you? I’m not normal. Neither are you, though you’d like to think it.”
“It’s hurting too many people. Warden and Gayle and--”
“So what?”
“It hurts me,” she said.
Matthew was quiet.
“I hate having people always talk behind our backs. What they say about us, what they say to my father. It hurts. Doesn’t it hurt you?”
“Why should I give a damn about what small-minded people think? You’re my best friend. If I knew that by getting married I’d lose you, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, but Matthew didn’t seem to hear.
“What do I have left in my life, anyway? Nothing! What do I have to look forward to? Nothing! I’m stuck in this miserable patch of desert for the rest of my life. Waiting to die! That’s what I have to look forward to. That’s the sum of my life’s accomplishments. Stuck here! Waiting to die!”
He let out a ragged, howling breath. Then his chest and shoulders heaved forward as if he were about to start crying. But he didn’t. Instead his face slowly went blank, emotion seeping out like water from a broken pot. It frightened Sylvie more than any of his screaming--this quiet look of despair.
“It’s not the end of the world,” she said. “Being married….”
Matthew cut her off with a shake of his head. Whatever was bothering him, it wasn’t that. Something had happened months before. Something that caused him to explode into tantrums. Something that stole the spark from his eyes. Something--but he wouldn’t tell her what.
“Do you really intend to do it?” he said after a while. “Do you intend to end our friendship?”
Yes. No. She had to. He was married now.
Matthew studied her for a minute. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ll stop visiting me. You’ll stop talking to me.”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think that will be enough? Do you think it will change our feelings for each other? It won’t. All it will do is make us suffer, more than we need to.” He kicked a rock.
“So much for doing the ‘right’ thing. All you get is suffering.”
* * *
Warden came around lunchtime. Her father, despite his illness, gave his instructions for the evacuation of Roxane’s Point while Warden solemnly nodded. Afterwards, Sylvie read to her father from his favorite theology book and did mending until the heat snuck into her eyes. She lay down on her mattress and drifted into a light nap.
The thought of water woke her. Her head pounded and the mattress was moist with sweat. In the dim light, she saw an ant crawl across the dirt floor. She got up, took a small swallow of water, and wiped her face dry with a cloth.
Outside a lazy wind blew wisps of clouds across the sky. In the distance, Hermit’s Hills bore down like monstrous fists, gray and crinkled with rocks. Roxane’s Point waited at the bottom of those hills. By now, the townspeople would have torn the roofs off their houses and stacked the beams in their carts. By now, the noise of the evacuation would be pushing into every ear. But out here it was quiet.
The old wooden table leaned against the back wall accompanied by two crooked chairs and the clay oven. Time to make dinner. In the pantry, there was flour and a pot of beans she’d soaked overnight and dried peppers and onions and the very last of the apricot jam. Sylvie brought them all out and set them on the table.
She made the bread first, with flour and salt and water poured in a little at a time. The water made pools, then tiny wet clumps. It never seemed like enough water to make bread, but she kept pushing the clumps back into the flour, over and over, until the water spread evenly and she had a solid lump of dough. Sylvie crushed the dough against the outsides of the baking pot; it cracked and she carefully patted it flat.
An oil candle went inside the baking pot, and the baking pot went inside the oven. The beans went on top of the oven, directly above the flame. She would add onions and peppers to the beans for flavor, and they could eat the bread with the jam. It would be a satisfactory dinner, so long as she didn’t burn the bread.
Sylvie was chopping the onions when he came up. A fly buzzed around her hair; she tossed her head to shoo it. That’s when she saw him. He was walking with his hands in his pockets, wearing a loose gray shirt that billowed with the wind.
“Hello, Sylvie.”
“Hello, Matthew.”
He smiled, just a curl of his lips, a brief thing. It made Sylvie want to smile too, and her chest rose painfully. He seemed different. His eyes were heavy, and that quick, darting energy had left him. Was it because he was sick? Or had being married made him steadier?
“What are you doing here?” she said after a while. “You know Gayle doesn’t like you visiting me. You should go home.”
“I missed you too.”
He knew her too well.
But she wasn’t going to acknowledge that to him. Sylvie turned back to her onions. Chop, chop, chop. The scent stung her eyes. Matthew took a chair and sat down next to her. He was very pale, pale to the lips, and his black hair was soaked with sweat.
Sylvie split the peppers down the middle and cleaned out the seeds. Matthew’s breathing was strained. He coughed once. It was a short, wet sound that left him gasping afterwards. Sylvie bit her lip.
“Gayle said you were sick,” she said.
“I am.”
She dumped the onions and the peppers into the beans and put the lid on.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“Probably,” Matthew said. “But I have something important I need to tell you.”
“If it’s important, perhaps you should tell my father.” Sylvie wiped her hands on her apron. “I can wake him--”
“No. This is something he wouldn’t understand.” He leaned down on the table as if bracing himself. “I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I still have to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“Soon,” he said, “I’m going to die.”
A gust of wind blew in from the hills. An onion peel tumbled from the table and spun in the dust. When Sylvie finally spoke, her voice sounded distant.
“What makes you say that? The Ku Rokai aren’t even to Roxane’s Point.”
“It’s not them,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
He tilted his head. “You believe me when I say I’m going to die?”
Sylvie pressed her arms together.
“You do,” he said.
“No, I don’t. Any of us could die at any time. That doesn’t mean you will.”
“Sometimes I’m good at guessing things.”
Her throat tightened. “Sometimes.”
“Did you ever wonder why?” Matthew shut his eyes. “I’m a prophet. That’s how I know.”
“You’re not even religious.”
“Not that kind of prophet.”
“There’s no other kind. Except….”
Sylvie sat down.
“This is the hardest thing,” Matthew said. “We’ve known each other for so long, and yet you don’t know who I really am. Because I’ve kept it hidden from you. I guess you could say I’ve been dishonest.” Pause. “I’m a Sage prophet. I’m a Sage. Or… I was.”
“You’re human,” she said. “You were born to human parents. You have a human body. How could you be a Sage?”
“We’re Changelings, Sylvie.”
Her heart stopped. “We?”
“There are five of us.”
“No…”
“The Sage created us to look like children living in the town. Seventeen years ago they took away the original humans and put us in their place--”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Then why’d they come to Brenton? Why would the Sage travel hundreds of miles to build a well for a tiny, insignificant town?”
“Who knows what goes on in their minds? There could be a thousand reasons. Speculation isn’t proof.”
Matthew cracked a smile. “Now you sound like me.” The mirth soon faded. “It’s unbelievable, I know. That’s why I hesitated for so long. I kept thinking of what I could say to make you believe me. But in the end, all I have to offer is my prediction: if I die--”
“You’re not going to die!”
Her voice broke the stillness of the yard. Sylvie looked down at her fingers.
“Why do you keep saying that?” she said. “Do you want to die?”
“You know me better,” Matthew said. “You know what I’ve wanted--to leave here, to sail beyond the sea. To be significant as myself, not as some vessel of prophesy. I’ve thought about escaping…”
He shook his head. “It’s too late now. I’ve made my choice.”
“You could have left,” Sylvie said. “You could have walked out of the desert and kept going. You didn’t have to stay.”
“Who would bring in supplies?” Matthew said. “How would you survive?”
“Maybe we could have left, too,” she said, so softly she could barely hear her own voice.
“There was also the prophecy to consider.”
“The prophecy? I thought it was--”
“My death? No. That was one small part. The prophecy--the whole thing--it’s the reason I’m here. It’s why the Sage made the Changelings. It’s life and death for entire civilizations.”
“I don’t think you should be talking like this.”
“But I have to,” Matthew said. “Soon the remaining Changelings will return to Mediation and the rest of the prophecy will be revealed.”
Sylvie said nothing.
“There were two parts,” he continued. “The first part was making the Changelings. The second part I didn’t know until recently. You have to finish it for me. Tell my aunt in Mediation. I won’t be able to.”
“You will.” She shook her head. “This is--it’s all nonsense, Matthew. And I don’t understand a word of it. But if you really think you had some kind of vision the Sage need to hear, you can tell them--because you’ll live! You’ll survive! And if you keep thinking you won’t… You can’t, you just can’t…”
Matthew put his hand over hers.
Sylvie took a shuddering breath. Maybe she wouldn’t be so upset if it weren’t so easy to imagine--if they weren’t so close to death. Somewhere, a crow cawed. The smell of bread came rising from the oven. The shadow of the house was falling across the table, creeping across their hands, and his hand, on top of hers, was soft and warm.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said.
“You are.”
“If I am, I’ll acknowledge it. Happily.”
She nodded.
“But will you at least listen?” he said. “That’s all I need you to do.”
“I’ll listen,” Sylvie said.
At some point she would have to think about what it meant. At some point, she would probably have to tell her father. But not now, not yet. In this instant, it was all she could do to hold this moment with Matthew in her mind and it was all she wanted to do.
