All better now, p.6
Eyes of the Forgotten, page 6
“But these are not visions, mistress.” This felt like a lie, and a part of him felt that this information would be more useful and relevant to one of his own. “None of my dreams have anything to do with the bulls or the Games yet.”
The cold stare rolled into a tundra, blank and dry and freezing with contempt. “And why would Celata know any more than I would. I am your master. A devout one, loyal to the gods.”
“Well—she—she’s a Pesh, like myself,” he blurted out.
“I am part Pesh.”
“She’s a slave, I meant.” He saved himself. Her stare persisted. It dug deep into his eyes, and Adrian struggled to hold her piercing glare.
“What makes you trust her more than me?”
“I don’t trust her more than you.” This also felt like a lie. “I don’t know. But I didn’t think you would want to hear about my dreams. She seems like the person to talk about it. I am not sure.” And he wasn’t. Everything Gwendolyn said made sense, but he felt this inexplicable trust in Celata.
Laying a hand on his new, green tunic, she asked sweetly, “Where were you in your dream, Grillo?”
He gave in. “I was in a swamp…”
Before he could finish, thunder rumbled, and the rain pitter-pattered in gentle droplets. Rodak’s abnormally mild rains continued into that day, and the priests in the temples continued to debate, the locals struggled to make sense of it, and Gwendolyn, at the urge of this foreign storm, interrupted Adrian and ordered him and the rest of her servants to reign in the cattle and to go inside to enjoy Amanda’s cooking. Meanwhile, Adrian eagerly awaited Celata’s return.
SIX
The day slipped away on account of the rain, but Gwendolyn insisted everyone stay for supper. Amanda prepared pigs’ feet and bloodied rice with plums and dates served in a separate bowl. Flat, unleavened bread was passed around as well. She plated the pigs’ feet and rice in a large bowl in the center of the table with a wooden ladle for serving. Gwendolyn sat at the head. At her left sat Adrian, and on her right both Torrance and Shie. The two of them appeared starved, awaiting their employer’s command to begin. Amanda occupied the opposite head of the table, nearest to the door. All that was left was an empty seat between Amanda and Adrian meant for Celata who had not returned with the muntafika yet. Adrian felt his stomach roll into itself, queasy at the idea of Celata sitting nearest to him after his mistress’s reaction just a few hours before.
“So, Grillo,” Torrance said, catching his attention, “are you excited for your first Bull Games?”
“Yes, I am!” Adrian said as a smile spread across his face. “And to be a part of it as well—”
“This is your first time?” Gwendolyn interrupted.
The lips of his grin now covered his teeth. “Yes, my very first,” he said.
“Not even as a spectator?”
“No,” Adrian said as a silence filled the room, begging for more context. “My previous master never allowed me to, nor did he have the means to buy my admission,” he lied quickly.
“No matter,” she said and pivoted. “First, second, one-hundredth—we will make it the best one yet! And I have no doubt that our veteran and our brash newcomer, Shaglem, will provide the perfect dichotomy to a beautiful show for the people, Lord Gideon, and, most importantly of all, the gods.”
A rumble erupted from Torrance and Shie in response. Soon, laughter and gleeful reminiscence of past Bull Games filled the talk at the table. While Gwendolyn and the Valtosians exchanged cheerful memories, Amanda and Adrian remained mostly silent, only chiming in with a question or a standalone comment. Though Adrian had nothing to add, Amanda did but chose to keep silent. She was content preparing meals rather than breathing in the kicked-up dirt of the bull arenas.
Torrance was in the middle of a story about a bull who had escaped its pen before his bells were all removed. He recalled that it ran loose in the city and was so elusive that the servants who were tasked to retrieve him had to keep quiet and relied on the soft jingling he made with each swish of his horns to follow his trail. But before he could detail the rogue’s eventual capture, Celata walked in. Dark blotches dotted her pale tunic, revealing that the rains continued and remained unusually calm. She carried a woven wicker basket with a cloth draped over top of it, keeping the deliverables guarded from the rainfall.
“Celata!” Gwendolyn welcomed her with exaggerated excitement. “Hand it over, lovely, I can’t stand to wait any longer.”
Celata unpackaged the muntafika, removing other herbs and fruits she had acquired in her travels. She handed the delicacy, which was wrapped in pale cloth, to her mistress. Adrian raised an eyebrow at Gwendolyn’s reaction. She pulled the wrapping to her chest and twirled, sending her dark hair in a spiral. She then raised the fish to her face and drew in such a loud and drawn-out sniff, Adrian looked around the table wondering if this was normal. Judging by the others’ uncomfortable smiles, he determined this was highly unusual.
“W—would you like me to start a fire to cook it, mistress?” Amanda asked.
“Absolutely not!” she snapped, escaping her trance, clutching the muntafika to her chest. “It should be eaten as is: freshly plucked and untampered. Thank you, Celata, my dear. Oh, don’t sit down yet! I have one more task for you.”
Her shoulders dropped. She had been traveling all day, but she inched toward the basket and said, “Yes, mistress. What would you like me to fetch?”
“Somehow, I forgot that this is always, always served with fresh lemon. And last I checked, there are none in my stores. What a silly mistake of me.”
“My lady we—” Amanda started to say, but Gwendolyn cut her off.
“Celata, run to the lemon tree and gather a plentiful sum.”
“Yes, mistress.”
After Celata unpacked the rest of her groceries and went to leave, Gwendolyn added, “And bring Grillo with you.” Adrian’s heart dropped into a pit. Not once had his mistress bid him gather fruit. That was not his station on this ranch. It never had been. “You will guide him, and he will carry the load.”
She’s insulting me.
“Yes, mistress.”
Adrian had no other choice. He must obey. Of all the time he had served Gwendolyn, this was the first command she gave where it hurt to hear it.
He retrieved extra cloth to cover his head and shoulders, and before following Celata out the door, he turned back seeking a signal, an apprehension, a look—anything. But Gwendolyn was turned away, and Adrian felt nothing except the disappointment in his heart and the emptiness in his breath as he closed the door.
Celata slowed her pace to keep in line with Adrian’s slumped trudge. Perhaps to have at least some semblance of a cheerful walk, a half mile to the lemon trees, amidst the gray skies and depressing droplets that tingled her head, she gave him a nudge. This playful bump swiftly cut through the emptiness within him. He gave Celata a weak smile and looked up at her. They continued a bit farther on the dirt road, and the ghostly imprint Celata’s nudge made to his shoulder reminded Adrian of Eru and when they would roughhouse together. Although his flashing memory gave his stomach an unsettling feeling, as if a hole had suddenly appeared and let everything leak out, he also felt a longing for a friend—a trusted friend.
Celata, recently, has been my only friend, he thought. Gwendolyn is amazing, but… He tried to think of something to justify this callous behavior she had been giving him just this day, but he felt within that she wasn’t a friend to him.
This very thought shook his feelings and scared him enough to escape his inner dialogue altogether. Quickly pulling at Celata’s hand, like a child reaching for attention, he asked her, “Is there a swamp nearby?”
“A swamp? Where did this come from? Why are you asking me?” She said chuckling.
“Well, you are a Pesh slave like me, and…I’ve been having dreams…you may be able to understand.”
“Dreams about swamps?”
“Yes, but they’re hard to explain. There’s always something burning, and the colors are all off. Everything seems dark but I can see through it all. Do you know what this could mean?”
She brought her hand to her chin, scratching it, and pondered for a moment. “Have you ever been to a swamp before?”
“No. Never.”
“How can you know it is a swamp then?” A hint of frustration leaked from her mocking laugh.
Adrian felt stupid, but his only explanation was, “I just know it is a swamp. And that I’m in it, or that I am stuck in it.” The rain had ceased for only a moment after he said this. “Is there a swamp or a marsh or something near here? Near Rodak?”
Celata raised an eyebrow, and walked away without answering.
He rushed after her. He nearly slipped in the mud, but caught himself. “You can’t just walk away like that. I thought you wanted to know more about me.”
She turned heel. “I can help you if you like. And I would help you more if you would just listen for once. But Grillo,” she said with contempt, “if you want to ask for advice about fairytales, flesh-eating sprites, and cursed rivers, I can direct you to a puppeteer first or maybe an old hag who knows more of those stories than I can tell.”
What? “What are you even talking about? All I asked is if there is a swamp.”
Crossing her arms, she asked, “How am I to believe a slave boy from the underside of Rodak hasn’t heard about the Forbidden Swamp?”
Adrian shook his head.
“Every Pesh and Valtosian in Rodak has heard those old wives’ tales.”
“I haven’t though. What are they? This could help my dreams make more sense.”
She shook her head and motioned him to come along.
Celata stopped for a moment. “Have you mentioned this to our mistress Gwendolyn?”
“No. Not the details of it.”
Her face scrunched together. She asked with genuine curiosity, as if she had expected the opposite answer, “Why not?”
Adrian clenched his jaw, feeling like a scorned child after being told off. “She wouldn’t want to hear it. She asked that I tell her of any visions of the Bull Games. But these do not come to me.”
Celata’s eyes raised with pity and her mouth softened.
Normally, he could smell the fresh fruit before the bend in the road, but the steady rain dampened the citrus aromas that permeated the air. They approached the trees and picked a heavy basket load.
They both turned back. The rains subsided to light taps they could only feel on their cheeks and feet.
“How haven’t you heard of the swamp east of the city?”
“I don’t know.” The way she asked made him feel stupid again. “How did you hear of it?”
“I’ve known the legends since I was a little girl. In Rodak proper, we grew up with these lessons about how to act and where to go and the evil things that would happen if we broke the rules.”
“We must have been taught different lessons.”
She scrunched her face. “Well,” she struggled, asking, “How did they convince you to stay, then? In the city? To stay as a slave?”
He pondered and tried his best to remember as far back as he could. He remembered the campfires at night and the elders telling stories of ancient battles at the beginning of time and of legendary warriors of Pesh blood bending nature and achieving marvelous feats. He remembered fetching water from the Low Well when it didn’t rain, sneaking in between others for position. He remembered, faintly, the adults coming back from their work in the fields happy to see their children, both those who returned and those who stayed in the grassy village who played with the dogs and made mud pies. He remembered the city guards who corralled them and ordered them where to go for the service of Lord Gideon. But throughout his inner search, he could not remember any such stories that Celata here appeared so attached to. He had only heard mythic stories and listened to music and performances about their own life on the land beneath the tall stone.
For lack of a better answer, he said, “They didn’t. That was our life, and we didn’t know anything else. But after living far from the cliff for some time and seeing all that goes on beyond where my sect of Pesh live, I can see why they would tell false tales to you. The riots—” he shuddered at the memory.
Celata shook her head. “They aren’t false. They are real enough to keep us all away from the outskirts beyond the city.” She paused, then asked, “Do you believe in magic?”
“I believe in the gods now,” Adrian replied insecurely, thinking of the Fallen One and of Gwendolyn.
She rolled her eyes. “There is a swamp east of Rodak, and it is rumored a dark power lives there. I’ve heard that its waters run sour with poison, the trees bear no fruit for pleasurable eating, there are dragons who swim the rivers, and, worst of all, a fog lies over that land that tears skin from bone, burning and melting all men who enter deep enough.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Do you seriously believe in all this?”
“Not entirely,” she said, smirking. Her face dropped quickly. “Though, no one this century has ever returned who tested the tales. I’m unsure what’s in there, but whatever is in there is certainly too dangerous.”
Adrian pondered this for a moment. The drizzling rains stopped entirely, and their damp clothing stuck to their skin like dried honey. “Do you think they made it through to the other side?”
“No. If so, word would spread.”
Adrian wasn’t convinced. How do they know about poison fruit and water dragons, then? he thought.
“It is concerning that you have these dreams. I understand they are just dreams, and most times dreams are nonsense, but…” she paused and met his eyes with intensity, “Those who wonder about such things will often go looking, as the stories go. Please don’t go looking for the Forbidden Swamp. Dark magic corrupts and kills, and you have been through enough.”
“Tell me one story of the place.” He crossed his arms. Celata shook her head, but Adrian insisted. He blocked her path, resting the basket of lemons on the road.
Celata walked around him and tugged his tunic back in the direction of their mistress. Adrian walked a few paces behind, afraid that he had angered Celata by questioning. They were nearing Gwendolyn’s front door, about two hundred feet ahead, and Celata stopped. She stood still but turned her head just enough for him to see her nose and the edge of her left eye. “I will tell you a story after our mistress eats. This evening when she…” Celata choked on her words and then in an aggravated tone, she said, “When she has her fill, come to my room, and I will tell you of the Lost Calf.”
Supper resumed much the same as it had been before the two of them had left. Gwendolyn no longer appeared irritated with Adrian after she ate her special meal. Torrance and Shie finished their meals and waited for their employer to complete hers before thanking everyone and leaving for home. Adrian helped Amanda and Celata clean up. Before long, darkness crept into the home, and the servants lit candles and oil lamps before all light was lost. Amanda left for her home soon after.
“I am stuffed as a pig,” Gwendolyn said and smiled. She reclined on her sofa in the lounging room. “Celata, you may rest for the night. You have done the most of anyone today,” Gwendolyn tossed a small leather pouch at her. Celata nearly dropped it, but from what he heard, Adrian assumed the pouch to be filled with bronze pieces.
Sounding surprised, Celata said, “Thank you, my mistress. Thank you!” She took her leave.
“But you,” Gwendolyn said as she pointed at Adrian, “Grillo. You come here.”
Adrian did as he was ordered. Gwendolyn patted the space next to her on the sofa. Once next to her, she held his hand with a strength he had not felt from her before. He could smell the wine on her breath. He had not noticed her drinking at the table. Her teeth reflected a purple hue. Adrian prepared for the worst, afraid that he had somehow severed their connection.
She softened her grip and said, “I’m sorry, my dear Grillo.” That took him by surprise. “I was quite awful to you today. I became jealous of Celata, and I should know better. I felt bitter that you would reveal yourself to her over me, and I dismissed you and I sent you away. I can be impetuous, and I was. Please forgive me, dear.”
Truthfully, Adrian didn’t know what “impetuous” meant, but he was eager to accept her apology if it meant that he could erase her belittling treatment of him before the rains came. His worry went away quickly as he could see the drunken levity dictating her mood.
She asked him to guide her up the steps to her chambers. He obliged as a good servant, keeping hold of her as they conquered each step upwards.
“Hold on,” she said with a hurry. “Wine.” She threw the door open to her chamber, which let in a draft of cold air from the room window.
The quick glimpse of her room reminded him much of the built-in shrine that sat on the other side of the tallest ceiling. More star maps, trinkets, and souvenirs of bulls and axes and others that reminded him of the rituals of Valtosian priests.
“You did not drink at table,” she said, and hiccupped. “One must always drink their fill when muntafika sits the table. It’s tradition.” She slurred her words so heavily.
She pulled him back down the stairs before he could say anything in return.
In a few moments, they returned to their seats at her couches in the living room with a fresh jug and two clay cups.
“One for you.” She poured. “And one for me.” She poured again. “Drink.”
And he did. Between sips, he felt more distant to her than ever before. The drink in her distorted her senses and made her more social and talkative than normal, but nothing of substance or commonality came from it.
“You are so quiet.” She scrunched her nose then pulled the cup back to her lips. “And you need to drink more. It’s tradition.”
He forced some more of the thick red liquid down his throat. He had never had wine of this color or luxuriance. It tasted fruity and yet dry, and it began to singe the back of his throat. He put his cup down, and gave a great breath of relief.
