Luminous book one, p.38
Luminous: Book One, page 38
“As fat as his heart, so don’t you go belittling him,” Jerald scolded with an affectionate chuckle, and Meya dipped a hasty little bow in apology. Turning back to the portrait, she marveled at the mastery and the speed with which it was drawn.
“You draw so well. How come?”
“I was a church boy.” Jerald shrugged, grinning. “Must have copied a hundred books in my decade of service.”
“Ah,” Meya nodded. A question popped unbidden into her head, then straight out of her mouth. “Say, who was fatter, Sir Klythe or young Lord Coris?”
“Did mine ears deceive me, or did I hear the words fat and Coris in the same sentence?”
A familiar voice chimed in from the left. Meya jolted and whipped around. There he was, present-day Coris Hadrian, twig-thin and so pale he blended into the afternoon sunlight.
The sight of his twinkling silvery eyes sent Meya blushing. She turned sharply away.
“Yes, you did,” she called back, muttering to herself in annoyance, “nosy donghead.”
“Perfect, I’d say. Sir Klythe spent more time in Hadrian than Crosset. You’d do better to ask the Lord Hadrian,” suggested Jerald. Meya turned to him, then the staring Coris.
“You’d like to discuss Klythe?” asked Coris. Meya blinked, frozen at the realization.
Of course! Coris could help. He was a prodigy, was he not?
Meya eyed the parade of wagons and carriages surrounded by men around her, then returned to Coris.
“How fast can she go?” She nodded at his horse, which was pure black save for a dab of white on its forehead. Coris smirked.
“Jetta? Fast enough to leave you untangling your hair ’til sundown,” he boasted. “Why?”
“We need some privacy.”
Meya rose cautiously to her feet, hands clinging to the carriage. Coris and Jerald obligingly halted their horses. Taking Coris’s proffered hand, Meya slotted her foot firmly into the stirrup he’d vacated then crossed over.
As Coris ushered Meya sideways onto her back, Jetta neighed and huffed, kicking her hooves, sending the young lady gasping and clinging to her rider—it was her first time on horseback.
Coris secured Meya with an arm around her waist, then leaned down and smoothed the mare’s mane with his free hand, whispering reassurances to both his ladies.
Just as Meya loosened her grip on his tunic and lowered her defenses, Coris straightened, slapped his legs against the mare’s sides, and Jetta shot forth like a carcass from a trebuchet.
“WHOOOOO-HOOOOO!”
“EEEEEEEEEEEK!”
Coris whooped in glee as Meya shrieked out her lungs and threw her whole weight against him.
“THIS IS FOR CALLING ME FAT!” he hollered in her ear as the wind lambasted them.
“I HOPE FREDA GIVES YOUR MIDDLE BROTHER BLISTERS!” Meya screeched back in kind. Coris slowed Jetta down to a trot. They were riding far ahead, out of earshot of the entourage.
Coris winced at the gruesome blessing. He leaned down, whispering,
“Ouch. I thought you like kissing him? Ow!”
Meya rubbed her smarting knuckles, which had just made solid contact with his shoulder. A swathe of black streaked by the corner of her eye, calling her attention, and so she ignored her pervert husband’s fake whimpers.
They approached the summit of the uphill road. Familiar shrubbery on both sides of the sloping path gave way to a sea of quaint trees with flat canopies like overturned plates, which ended at the feet of midnight-black stone walls adorned with black banners, encircled by a steaming moat.
Beyond the town, a vast expanse of bald, blue-gray dunes sprawled towards the shadow of a mountain range which had its many sharp heads lost in lakes of gray-bellied clouds. Those must be the fabled Sands of Caesonai and the Blue Mountains.
Coris halted Jetta at the crest of the hill, as Meya strained in her saddle to see past the horse’s head.
“That’s Manor Jaise?” she eked out.
“Hm-hmm,” Coris confirmed, a smile laced into his voice. He didn’t seem at all alarmed. Meya stared unblinking at the eerie black banners, the faint shroud of white smoke, growing ever more restless with every breath.
“Did their lord die? Have they been sacked? Why are the walls all black? What’s with that smoke coming from the moat? ’Tis been set ablaze, ’tis has!”
Coris rocked with stifled laughter, then leaned down and nuzzled his nose into her cheek. Meya gasped and jolted, her whole face flushing. Despite herself, she was privately flattered.
“Everything’s fine, Meya,” chuckled Coris. He jostled the reins, stirring Jetta to resume her trot. “Jaise means black in Ancient West. It’s their color. As for the fumes, Jaise’s famous for their hot springs. And last I heard, Lady Winterwen is very much alive.”
Meya blinked at the sound of that exotic name, and also the fact that a Lady, not Lord, held power in this town.
“Winterwen?”
Coris’s arms tightened ever slightly around her.
“It means winter’s joy.”
“Why, that’s one name to kill for.”
“So is yours.”
Meya bit her lip and dipped her head. Fear lurked in his tender voice. She was unsure how to act around him. After all the hurtful things she’d said, all the things that had transpired, she just didn’t know where to start.
She glanced about her, desperate for distraction. They were soon approaching the forest of flat trees, and Meya only now realized it wasn’t a forest but rather an orchard. The trees stood in neat rows, flanked by fuming irrigation trenches.
Among the rows of trees were scattered dozens of their planters. They stood on tiptoes, reaching into the tangled branches, plucking bright orange, oddly-shaped blobs and squiggles that had blossomed straight from the bark, dropping handfuls of them into wicker baskets propped on their waists.
The farmers themselves were just as curious, draped in black cloaks head to waist, their faces covered in glossy black masks with holes for the nostrils and a grille over the mouth. Their sleeves, their trousers and their boots were also black.
Some of them had decorated their veils with colorful beads and embroidery, their masks with artistic dabs of bright paint, but some left their black unsullied.
“What are they picking? What are these trees?” Meya asked out of the corner of her mouth.
“Gum trees,” Coris whispered back. “They grow only in Jaise, and it’s said they keep the Sands from creeping further. Jaise gum is exported across the country. It has countless uses.”
“And why are they all dressed like that? Do we have to dress like that, too?” Meya lowered her voice even further. The mere sight of the eerie, eyeless masked men and women sapped the air of heat, and she shivered in her cloak.
“As with all towns, visitors are encouraged to sample their traditions.” Coris clasped her hand in his, holding the reins between them, as he prattled on airily,
“The creed of Jaise is that the world’s ills are caused by the judgment of outside appearance. Having two eyes, humans cannot help but be beguiled by physical beauty.”
“So, by cloaking their bodies in a shapeless veil, shrouding their faces behind a mask, Jaisians rid themselves of vanity or shame towards their own bodies, and judge others from their words and actions. Marriages are based on mutual attraction of the heart. A most honest and equal town, in their words.”
“But, when they lie together, they’ll have to take off their masks and veils, anyway, wouldn’t they?” Meya pointed out.
“Ideally, by then they would have already been in love. And, as they had never seen another face outside their own, they couldn’t grasp the concept of beauty.”
“But shouldn’t the comparison begin the moment they see a second face? First their wives, then their babes.”
“Exactly. Some wise men also believe perception of beauty is weaved into our very nature. It couldn’t be subdued unless one were blind from birth,” Coris agreed. He continued, his voice now lifeless,
“Still, a perfect town for Greeneyes to blend in. Your mind is made, I take it?”
Meya froze as she grasped his hint. She turned to find him downcast, slumped in his saddle, hands on his thighs, fingers loosely curled around the reins. Her chest tightened, pained to see him so blue as it always was. She reached for his hand, warmed it in hers.
“I’m sorry. About this morning, and last night,” she mumbled. Coris remained silent. “I dinnae mean what I said. I dinnae mean to leave…you.”
She confessed, a whisper on the cool breeze. Coris didn’t respond with words, yet his chest tensed against her back, and his pulse thrummed.
She surfaced to his wavering silvery eyes. Then, he was leaning down, and her eyes were falling close. As the mare trotted on, as countless strangers looked on, she laid back and held him to her heart, pressing her lips up to his as hard as he was pressing down. Mingled, salty tears trickled into the mix. Finally, she drew apart to breathe.
“I’m fine now, I’m back,” she murmured, shivering hands tucking strands of dark hair behind his ear.
“I’ve done nothing for you,” Coris breathed, his voice trembling with guilt. Meya shook her head, rubbing her forehead against his.
“Dun say that. You know you have.”
For a moment, they held each other, then gradually their good senses returned. Coris straightened, pulling Meya upright with him. He glanced nervously at both sides of the road, and Meya felt her cheeks burn as well.
“You made peace so quickly,” said Coris, his voice overly hearty. Meya nodded vigorously, both agreeing not to discuss what they’d just done. “I was asking Zier about having Frenix talk to you. You know, as a fellow Greeneye.”
“You mean to tell Frenix?” Meya gawked. Coris cocked his head.
“And Heloise. We must let all Greeneyes know eventually, mustn’t we? It’s simply a matter of time.”
Heloise.
Oh, Freda.
Meya churned her lips as she dithered. Now she must tell him about Lady Agnes, but where should she start? How did one even start telling one’s husband his long-lost first love was alive? And why would one even want to?
’Tis no time for jealousy, Meya. You’re a big dragon lass. Trust in Coris. He’s with you now.
Meya chanted in her heart as she leaned her head against his meatless chest, soothing her frayed nerves with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek, picturing and choosing the words with which she would tell him, and his reactions to them.
Coris nudged her arm with his.
“So, what happened? How come you accepted it so simply?”
“Just had a talk with Lady Arinel, is all,” Meya stalled for time.
“What talk?” Coris wasn’t easily placated.
Meya surrendered with a disgruntled huff. Deciding she should just wing it, come what may, she turned to face his impatience.
“You really wanna know?”
Coris raised his eyebrows, wary, then dipped a few cautious nods. Shaking her head, Meya drew a deep breath, prayed for the best, resigned for the worst, then unleashed the beast—
“Agnesia Graye’s alive and hiding in our entourage. Klythe’s lost at sea on the way to Everglen, and we must find him.”
Silence fell, interspersed by the sound of Jetta’s hooves and snippets of harvest songs from the gum farmers. Meya held her breath, forcing her eyes to maintain the bond even as they watered.
Coris sat petrified save for his blinking eyes, which then rolled up in their sockets as he toppled backwards in his saddle like a sack of potatoes.
“CORIS!”
Sharper When Broken
Coris awakened to himself sprawled across Meya’s lap, a vial of salt hovering at his nose, and three women keeping an unblinking vigil from the opposite bench. His roving eyes settled upon Agnes, and he sat up. Meya took it as her cue to slither out the door, but he rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Do stay, Meya.”
She gawked at him. The look in his eyes was as much a plea as a command, so she settled back in her corner, sulking in private, sneaking glances as Coris struck up nervous conversation with Lady Agnes.
Despite her fears, they were businesslike throughout. Agnes confirmed and apologized for her father’s sabotage of Hadrian, then plunged into the pressing matter of finding Persephia. That was where she handed the baton to Meya. Much to her bashfulness, Meya laid out her theory on the identity, whereabouts, and recent movements of the lost Graye twin.
She held her breath and clenched her hands. Coris twiddled the salt vial in his long, pale fingers, nodded to himself then surfaced with a smile.
“That was some remarkable observation and deduction, Meya. I share your conclusion.” Meya melted and brightened at his compliment. Coris straightened and pocketed the vial, glancing at each of the four women.
“Let’s discuss tonight. I’ll gather those we can trust, devise a way to keep our suspect occupied elsewhere. We must decide what we can no longer say in her presence, learn what she knows, and what she means to do with it. Tomorrow once we enter town, I have an audience with Lady Jaise. We’ll be separated, with you spending the day in her close company. We have only tonight to practice, and my brother’s life at stake.”
He declared sharply, his eyes sweeping the throng. Though pale, Arinel pursed her lips and nodded, mustering courage to protect her beloved. Agnes wrung her trembling hands, conflicted over antagonizing her own sister, while Meya shivered in fear.
“Can’t I go with you?” she bargained, knowing all too well she was the least experienced with espionage, and if Persephia was three-quarts as smart as Coris, she’d be drowned. Also, she hated being excluded, having had seventeen years of that, being underage, a girl, a peasant, a Greeneye and all.
Coris blinked, then gave her a reassuring smile.
“You’d better go have a tour of the town. It’s a valuable experience.” He laid a placating hand over hers, but his eyes betrayed a glimpse of worry. Meya narrowed her eyes.
“More valuable than what you’re gunna discuss with Lady Jaise?” Coris grimaced as Meya loomed over him. “What’s the matter, Coris? Why can’t I join you?”
“Because you’re not the real Arinel, Meya,” Agnes replied, fixing Meya with her single working eye, a note of dread and awe in her voice,
“Jaisians grow up not seeing other people’s faces. So, they’ve come to recognize people by their voices. No matter how hard we try, lies leak out through our face, carriage and voice. And Jaisians are good at detecting them. Especially Lady Winterwen. One word from you, and she’d know.”
Meya shuddered, mired in dilemma. She wanted to be in that meeting, but there was no telling what would ensue should her cover ever be blown, again.
“But what if the lady invites Meya for dinner, milady?” Gretella pointed out. “It’d be rude to not have the wife of a guest join her table, especially since she’s a woman-ruler herself.”
Coris frowned at the floorboards, then blew a soft sigh.
“We might have to switch back to the real Arinel for the time being, but let’s leave the worrying for when that happens,” he added hastily at the horrified reactions of real and fake-Arinel, squeezing Meya’s sweaty hand.
Meya met his eyes, studied his careworn expression. Though it galled her to have to stand down while others get to do all the important work, again, it might be best not to push her luck with Lady Jaise.
Sighing, she slithered her hand from under his and clasped it over his instead. Clinging to the windowsill, she poked her head outside.
Now that they were near, Meya noticed the towering black wall wasn’t painted, but tiled with polished mosaics, from the lightest shade of gray to the deepest of black, arranged into mesmerizing patterns.
A line of stone crow-heads jutted out along the wall’s skirt, steaming water pouring from their beaks into the churning moat below amid a billowing curtain of vapor. The faint smell of rotten eggs hung in the air. Gum trees blanketed both sides of the road.
“What’re you discussing with Lady Jaise, anyway?” Meya turned back to Coris with a frown. “Why are we stopping here? Dun seem to be much to refill here in terms of provisions, apart from gum and water.”
Coris stared at his hand, fondling Meya’s fingers.
“There’s something wrong with the soil,” he sighed. “Almost all nutrients have gone. Crops are withering all the way from Amplevale to Noxx. I’ll negotiate with Winterwen to sell us water from Jaise’s springs to enrich the soil, buy us more time to figure out the cause. The springs came all the way from Fyr’s Lake, so they’re chock full of nutrients.”
“From the rotting, melting bodies of hundreds of thousands of drowned sinners festering in that black bog? Yea, I’m not eating those crops.” Pulling a face, Meya shook her head. Coris burst out a laugh as he mussed her hair.
“There goes the blasphemous dragon lady.”
Giggling, Meya swatted his hand off. Agnes, Arinel and Gretella met eyes, smiling, and allowed the couple a moment of levity.
“I did notice trees and plants growing feeble along the way, but crops are doing fine here,” Arinel commented.
“I’ve noticed, too. And I’ve seen this before,” Meya agreed, a foreboding shadow over her downcast eyes. As Coris blinked at her, she lifted his hand off her head and plopped it on her lap, playing with his fingers.
“Right before the Famine, crops and grass were growing yellow and feeble. Cattle and sheep and goat ran dry. And chicken and ducks stopped laying. Fruits and flowers dropped like rain. We mulched and mulched the fields, but we couldn’t save the harvest.”
Coris gaped, unblinking. Gretella shivered as she turned fearfully to him.
“Will Hadrian pull through this, milord?”
Her voice betrayed deep-seated fear. Though she hadn’t witnessed the Crosset Famine, she’d probably survived some other famine, or worse, famines, in her youth. Coris started out of his trance and met her gaze.
“Bailiff Mansfuld’s doing all he can, but I doubt we can save this harvest.” He shook his head with a sigh, “but we still have the storehouse grain. And we caught wind of this early on. Father could order a food ration, switch to hardy crops with deep roots.”
