Song of the Abyss Page 7

  They did not speak of it. The king leaned down, kissed the top of her head. “Welcome home, Lady,” he said, and walked back into the grove, leaving her standing there alone.

  Eight

  EIGHT YEARS AGO, a stranger had tried to steal a map from the royal geographers’ booth. Chance had placed Reyna directly in his path, leaving her with her ribs cracked, her fingers in splints, her face bruised and battered. It had hurt to eat, let alone descend the staircase within the Tower of Winds. When she had finally emerged from the castle, it had been at Lord Elias’s urging.

  “I won’t go,” she told him, near tears. “My face . . .” She had not wanted to leave the safety of her chamber. Her eye was no longer black, but the cut on her chin had grown worse. Red and itchy, oozing foulness, even with the doctor’s endless potions and creams.

  Lord Elias had knelt before her—gingerly, as he had his own hurts—so that he could look her in the eye. He was ten years older than she was. And he laughed a lot, at least until recently. Sometimes in her heart she pretended he was her brother. He said, “I think I know someone who can help, but he’s a busy man. Or so he tells me. We must go to him.”

  She was not going anywhere. “People will stare.”

  “Wouldn’t you? If you were them?” he said. “They stare because it is not right that a young girl was hurt as you were. You make them think of their daughters and their sisters, and if they look angry or shocked, it is because they are angry for you.”

  “Not everyone is good.” A lesson she had learned curled up in the dirt, trying to protect her head as the kicks rained down upon her.

  “Enough people are.” Lord Elias’s voice was gentle but firm. “Reyna, do you trust me?”

  Of course she did. Where would she be without Lord Elias? Without Mercedes? Not everyone was good. But they were. And that was how she found herself in the parish of St. Soledad, outside the barber-surgeon’s shop. A guitarist slouched by the door, strumming a soulful tune—which came to an abrupt halt when he caught a glimpse of Reyna’s face. He started up again, hastily, but it was too late. The silver double-shell Lord Elias had fished out to give him was deliberately returned to the pouch at his belt. He scowled at the musician, wrapped a protective arm around Reyna’s shoulders, and hustled her through the doorway. Humiliated, Reyna peeked over her shoulder. The musician looked dejected at his loss of income.

  They entered a single chamber with low beams blackened with age, and Reyna promptly forgot all about the musician. She stared around in wonder. Shiny metal instruments had been arranged on a table in neat rows: shears, scalpels, three saws. Why would anyone need more than one? A staircase led to the upper floors. Bookcases lined the wall, filled with very few books and quite a number of small skeletons. She guessed they had once been rats, lizards, and owls—and what looked to be a cat, propped by itself in a corner. A man crouched before the shelves, searching for something. He looked over at their entrance and rose.

  “What’s happened here, Mori?” Lord Elias turned in a slow circle, a baffled expression on his face. “It’s so clean.”

  “Too clean,” Mori agreed with a grimace. He was not as young as Lord Elias. There was a sprinkling of gray in his dark hair. A white apron protected his shirt and trousers, but the neat condition of his clothing did not extend to his person. His hair was a wild mop, and the bristles on his face were more scruff than beard. Reyna did not understand. Was he not a barber as well as a surgeon?

  “My niece has come to live with me. She’s . . . particular about such things.” Mori smiled at Reyna and bowed. “I am Master Mori. And you must be Lady Reyna, geographer in training.”

  The description delighted her. She startled herself—and Lord Elias, she suspected—by smiling tentatively at the barber. “I’m just Reyna.”

  “A pleasure.” Master Mori eyed her chin, then said, “Lord Elias told me about your injury. How it’s slow to heal. Will you sit here?” He offered a chair beside the table and all the shiny, sharp instruments. Seeing her hesitation, he added with a smile, “None of these is for you. You have my word.”

  Lord Elias was still looking around the chamber, bemused. “What is that smell? Is it”—he sniffed the air delicately—“lavender?”

  “Chamomile, if you must know.” Mori frowned at him. “It’s supposed to calm a patient’s nerves. Or so I’m told.”

  “If you say so,” Lord Elias said.

  Reyna perched on the edge of the chair and held herself still as Master Mori bent to inspect her chin. He seemed like a nice man, and he smelled pleasantly of pipe smoke and chamomile. But he was too close. Close enough for her to see the individual hairs sprouting from his face. Close enough to hear his breath, slow and steady. When he reached for her chin, she cringed. Immediately Master Mori straightened and stepped away.

  “I’m sorry,” Reyna whispered, mortified. Lord Elias stood a little way behind Master Mori, watching quietly.

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for.” Master Mori’s smile assured her he meant what he said. “How old are you, Reyna?”

  “Nine, sir.”

  “My niece just turned ten,” Master Mori informed her. “She doesn’t know a soul in town, and I wonder if I might introduce her to you?”

  Reyna did not know any girls her age. At least not well. There were only boys in the geographers’ school. Intrigued despite herself, she nodded.

  “Good.” Mori hollered up at the ceiling with its blackened beams. “Blaise! Come down here!”

  There was a loud thump from above, followed by the sound of feet clattering down the stairs. A girl appeared in the doorway, wearing a white apron over her dress. Unlike Reyna’s straight, waist-length braid, Blaise’s hair was cut short: big, black, loopy curls circled her head like a halo. A red bow kept the hair off a cheerful round-cheeked face.

  “You’ve been sampling the tarts again,” Master Mori said to her. “Before supper.”

  “How can you know?” The girl came to stand before her uncle.

  Master Mori, using a clean rag from the table, wiped what looked to be a lemon smudge from the corner of her mouth. “A hunch,” he said with some dryness, adding over her laugh, “This is Lord Elias and Lady Reyna, from the Tower of Winds. My sister’s eldest, Blaise.”

  Blaise and Lord Elias greeted each other; the latter looked charmed by the barber-surgeon’s niece. And then Blaise turned to her.

  “Lady Reyna.” Her gaze did not stray to Reyna’s chin once.

  Even so, Reyna was tempted to cover it up with her hand. “I’m just Reyna,” she said, and, remembering Master Mori’s words, added, “You’re new to town?”

  “Two weeks only,” Blaise confirmed. “I’m from Montserrat. My maman thinks Uncle Mori is turning into a curmudgeon, though he’s only thirty, and so she sent me here to provide ‘a necessary female presence.’” She spoke as though repeating another’s words.

  Master Mori sighed.

  Lord Elias, smiling, said, “You’ve done a fine job of it. I hardly recognize the place.”

  “It was like a cave before,” Blaise said. “Filthy.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Lord Elias said. “Speaking of which, what happened to the fire leech?” On a shelf, a glass cage lay on its side, empty.

  Master Mori cast a dark look at his niece, who wore a guilty expression. “An accident” was all he said. He turned to Reyna, his face softening. “My sister is a midwife. But we’ve both been trained as healers. Blaise used to help her. I wonder if she might have a look at your injury?”

  Reyna did not know what Master Mori’s niece could do that the royal doctors could not, but she agreed. Blaise came to stand before her. The smile had gone from her face, replaced by a look of complete seriousness.

  Master Mori addressed his niece. “The wound is a month old but has not yet closed. You’ve seen similar?”

  “Yes, sir.” Blaise asked Reyna, “May I touch you?” At Reyna’s slight indrawn breath, she added, “I won’t hurt you. Not ever. I
swear it.”

  And Reyna believed her. She nodded. Blaise’s fingers were gentle as she tipped Reyna’s chin toward the light pouring in through the window. The guitarist had softened his tune to something even slower and more tragic, perhaps in response to his lost silver.

  Blaise said, “Does it itch?”

  “Very much,” Reyna said.

  “Does the wound start to close, then open again when you scratch it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. You live in the castle, so you must have a fancy doctor. What did he give you?”

  Blank, Reyna turned to Lord Elias, who answered, “Some sort of tonic-water compress. I don’t know the name of it. It smells like dead roses.” He shrugged at the reproachful glance Reyna sent his way. “It’s true.”

  “Rosemead,” Blaise and Master Mori said at the same time. They smiled at each other.

  Master Mori explained, “Rosemead usually works well, but some people don’t take to it. It can itch terribly, or cause a rash, and does more harm than good.”

  “It’s been a month, Mori,” Lord Elias said with a rare snap in his voice. “She’s been in misery. How could he not have realized it was the rosemead?”

  “We don’t always get what we pay for, friend,” Master Mori said. “We’ll take care of it this instant. What do you suggest, Niece?”

  Blaise thought it over. “Aloe for the itching, and then an aloe-mint compress?”

  “Good girl. Come help mix it, and you can see to Reyna.”

  Master Mori and Blaise went to rummage about another shelf, this one lined with stone jars, and soon after, Blaise returned to apply the compress and bandaging. Lord Elias leaned against the table and rubbed absently at his leg. He had nearly lost it, not too long ago. Master Mori fetched another chair from across the chamber, plunked it down beside him, and ordered, “Sit.” Lord Elias sat.

  Blaise said, “The aloe will help with any scarring. A few months from now and you’ll barely see a thing.” She met Reyna’s eyes and said softly, “I’m very sorry you were hurt.”

  Something in Blaise’s expression told her that, however new to Cortes she was, she had heard of Reyna’s attack. The public beating of a royal navigator’s granddaughter was no common occurrence. She hated that people knew what had happened to her. She loathed the pity she saw in their eyes. Her fists clenched in her lap. She drew back, creating an invisible wall around herself, and said, formally, “I owe you a favor.”

  “Oh!” Blaise’s eyes widened. “Do you? I accept!”

  Startled, Reyna said, “What? Now?” In her experience, favors were something tucked away for use when you truly needed them. They were not something squandered on a whim. In the Tower of Winds, favors were serious business.

  “Why not?” Blaise said. “I could use a friend here. You look like you would be a good one. Will you show me the city? I have a whole list of places I want to see, but Uncle Mori is very busy.”

  Reyna was vaguely aware of the two men listening to their exchange. She said, to be certain, “You want me to be your friend, as a favor?”

  “Yes, I . . .” Blaise’s smile faded. “Is it too big of one?”

  “It’s not one at all,” Reyna assured her, and felt the wall crack open. “I’ll be your friend anyway. Keep this favor. You should save it for when you really need it.”

  “Oh.” Blaise’s smile returned. She stepped back from Reyna, eyed her handiwork. “All done. A few months only and you’ll be as good as new. I promise.”

  * * *

  Reyna returned to her chamber after speaking with the king, her mind so preoccupied with Levi and the letter she must write that she did not hear the feminine voices coming from within until she opened the door. By then it was too late for escape.

  Her chamber wasn’t large to begin with. It held the usual furniture: a bed and table, pillows heaped about a window seat. A small sitting area for visitors. No desk, but in its place a chart table, scarred and scratched. The rugs were the same midnight blue as her bedspread, and the stone walls were painted to mimic the night sky with its myriad of twinkling stars.

  Now the chamber was made even smaller by six women and one monkey. Mercedes, Lady Elias, occupied one of the chairs, surrounded by colorful bolts of fabric. The royal seamstress hovered by her side. Galena, mistress of the royal household, oversaw the two serving girls pouring steaming water into a tub. By the chart table, Blaise sharpened her shears with a leather strop. And Jorge, Galena’s pet monkey, sat by Blaise’s elbow, peeling a banana. Reyna took all of this in, then glanced quickly over her shoulder.

  “Don’t try to run,” Mercedes warned her.

  Reyna laughed. “What is happening here? Those aren’t for me, are they?” She indicated the bolts of fabric: cotton and linen and impractical silk. “I have plenty of dresses.”

  “You have plenty of old dresses,” Mercedes corrected. Hers was a pale green that flared out beneath her breasts to accommodate her six months of pregnancy. The king’s cousin was beautiful, with long black hair and clear green eyes that missed nothing. “And far too many trousers.”

  Reyna went to her side, examined a bolt of crimson silk. It would not last five minutes on a ship. “I’m not wearing that. Trousers are practical.”

  “They have their place,” Mercedes said. “We’re perfectly capable of doing what men can do. It does not mean we have to look like them.” She held up a hand when Reyna would have spoken. “Before you say anything more, I must tell you my physician says I am in a delicate stage and must not be distressed in any way.”

  That silenced Reyna. Momentarily. “You’re shameless,” she said.

  Mercedes’s lips curved. “I think this red silk is just what you need. What is your opinion, Madame Julián?” She sought the seamstress’s advice, and the two women put their heads together.

  Wary, Reyna eyed Blaise and her newly sharpened shears. “What do you plan on cutting with that?”

  “At least four . . . no, six inches from your hair.” Blaise had spent the last eight years living with her uncle. Her skills were numerous, from setting broken arms to grooming sailors—as well as old friends who were away at sea for months at a time. “The ends are split and nearly white, Reyna. I can’t bear to look at it.”

  Reyna flipped her braid over her shoulder and examined the ends. Now that Blaise mentioned it, the tips were looking a little broomlike.

  “Let me see your hands, child.” Mistress Galena took Reyna’s hands into her own plump ones, turning them over and clucking. “It’s as I suspected. Your hair first, and then every stitch off and into the tub.”

  “I don’t need dresses,” Reyna groused, even as she flopped onto the chair in front of Blaise. “I don’t need soft skin. Lord Braga has me cleaning the storage vaults until I turn eighty. No, thank you, Jorgie,” she added when the monkey shoved his banana in front of her nose.

  “Storage?” Mercedes looked up from examining a square of black lace. “Make sure you wear your trousers for that, won’t you?”

  Reyna sighed. Blaise laughed behind her, and Jorge, his banana consumed in no time at all, hopped onto the window seat and pitched the yellow skin out the open window.

  * * *

  It was late in the evening when Reyna forced herself to sit at her chart table and pen her letter to Levi. A candle burned bright next to a vial of ink and a stack of fresh parchment. She would only need one sheet. The polite note she had turned over in her mind would take up a quarter page, no more. She dipped her quill in the vial and wrote, then chewed her lip, staring at the parchment in an agony of doubt and indecision.

  “You’ve sighed a hundred times in the last five minutes,” Blaise commented. “How difficult is it to write a letter?” She had stayed for supper and afterward made herself at home on Reyna’s bed with her own sketchbook and charcoal. A love of drawing was something they shared, though Blaise’s subjects were of a different sort entirely.

  “It’s harder than I thought,” Reyna admitted.

/>   Blaise slid off the bed and came to stand beside Reyna. She looked at the parchment. There was one word written:

  Captain.

  Blaise met Reyna’s gaze. A full five seconds of silence passed before they burst into laughter.

  When they finally caught their breath, Blaise said, “Prince Levi isn’t very old, is he?”

  “No. Nineteen—twenty, maybe.” She had told Blaise about her time in Lunes, leaving out a few details. Levi’s tears she had kept to herself; the same with the bottle of kudzu. It would have felt like a horrible betrayal of privacy to share these things with others. Even Blaise.

  “What does he look like?” her friend said.

  “Why?”

  Blaise pressed. “Is he handsome? Hideous?”

  “He’s . . . tallish,” Reyna said vaguely, waving a hand in the air to indicate height. “Not hideous. He has black hair. He looks like a Lunesian.”

  Blaise was studying Reyna in a way that made her realize she was drumming her fingers along the table. She forced them still.

  Without saying a word, Blaise retrieved the charcoal from Reyna’s bed. She dropped it onto the table and ordered, “Draw him.”

  Reyna protested, “I hardly remember what he looks like . . .” Blaise folded her arms. “Fine. Tyrant.” She took up the charcoal and sketched quickly.

  “Oh,” Blaise said when Reyna had finished. “Look at his ash mark. Poor boy.” She swept up the parchment for a closer look. “This is very sad and romantic.”

  “It is not romantic,” Reyna said.

  She had drawn Levi aboard the Simona, watching as she crossed the plank over open sea and finned lion. He wore light chain mail. A breeze had left his hair windswept, and his expression managed to convey both anxiety and a jaw-clenching aggravation. His hand was outstretched, toward her.

  “You’re right,” Blaise said. “He’s not hideous. And you’re going to have to do better than this,” she said of Reyna’s letter. “Here, I’ll write it for you.”