Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One Page 8

  Carrying the blanket over his shoulder, Sheft wandered with her to another stall. He studied a jar full of long sticks, each one topped with a miniature claw-like hand. “Look at these creepy things. What could they be for?”

  “Observe.” Mariat selected one, stuck it down her boot, and scratched. “I would think it also works on backs.”

  The stall owner popped up from where he had been napping behind the table. “That’ll be one ducat.”

  “One ducat!” Mariat exclaimed. “I could just use a stick.”

  “Yeh, and have it crack off in yer boot or leave splinters. This here’s solid ash.”

  “My friend here makes carvings far better and sells them for less.”

  The man looked at him, squinting. “He’d have to, wouldn’t he?”

  “Let’s move on.” Sheft pulled Mariat away.

  About halfway down the row, she stopped again and pointed at a green and white striped tent at the far end, set up under a tree. “Look there. Miramakamen the Marvelous.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know. But the sign says ‘marvelous,’ so we must see!”

  The flap was closed, but a large sign outside proclaimed: Miramakamen the Marvelous. Fortunes told. Palms read. Know the future. Only three coppers.

  The tent stood quietly under the sun. No sound came from within. As he watched, one of the fabric walls rippled in a breeze, then all was still again.

  “I don’t want to know my future,” he said.

  “Well, then wait here for me. I’m going in.” With that, she opened the tent flap and disappeared inside. Sheft stood under the tree and waited. Soon he noticed glances shooting his way, and he hoped Mariat would hurry. A farm wife at a nearby booth peered out from between the harnesses and bridles she was selling to stare at him. He moved back into the shadows.

  At last Mariat emerged. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked thoughtful. “Go in, Sheft. It’s—well, you’ve got to try it.”

  The farm wife had gotten her husband, and now both were craning their necks toward him.

  He thought it might be prudent to disappear for a while, so he gave Mariat the blanket, pushed the tent flap aside, and ducked in.

  The warm, canvas-filtered light threw sun-washed green stripes over the grass floor. Ragged blankets strung on a sagging rope served as a wall between two rooms. A short, well-worn path led toward a bench, which faced a rough-hewn table. There, with his back to him, sat an old man with long grey hair. He was wearing an extraordinary dark blue robe embroidered with gold stars and quarter-moons, and he seemed to be rummaging through a pouch on his lap.

  “With the tinkling of the coins,” he said, indicating with one knobby finger a bowl on the table behind him, “Miramakamen commences.”

  Sheft dropped three coppers into the bowl, making sure they tinkled.

  Not turning around, the old man apparently found what he was looking for in the pouch and popped it into his mouth. “Be seated,” he said, leaning back against his chair and cracking his knuckles. “Now then. You will be going on a long journey. In a far-off village you will meet the”—he glanced over his shoulder and Sheft saw that his beard was as long as his hair—“the girl of your dre—” He stopped, and without getting up or taking his eyes off Sheft, hitched his chair completely around. “Oh my,” he said.

  Sheft lowered his head.

  “No, no,” the man said impatiently. “It’s not about what you look like, only who you are. We must talk.” He drew the small pouch from his lap and placed it on the table in front of him. “But first, care for some cheese? Bread? An apple perhaps?” As he spoke he withdrew these objects from the bag that seemed too small to contain them. “No? A mouse? Oh, there you are, Pippit.” He placed a small grey mouse on the table and looked up at Sheft apologetically. “Of course you would not like a mouse. Now, you were saying, S’eft?”

  His smile fell away. “What did you call me?”

  The old man looked at him with eyes that glistened on the surface but reached down to unknowable, brown depths. “I have called you by your name, my son. Surely there is nothing to fear in that.”

  But there was everything to fear. With that name came bad memories, the suspicious looks of his own mother, and the dread of finding that a dark door, best kept locked, now stood ajar.

  The old man gazed at him—with no revulsion, no judgment, and no rejection. The deep eyes saw everything: the root-ridden blood, the isolation of ice, the shame and the fear. Compassion welled up from the bottomless gaze. As it had in the wheat field, time seemed to slow.

  Something was coming, something always longed for, but now—suddenly feared. Sheft flung out his hand to block it.

  But it came anyway, for he wanted it desperately. He lowered his hand, and what felt like gentle warmth shone upon him. It seeped through his skin and settled with deep tenderness into the recesses of his spirikai. It broke open inside him, like a jar of golden oil, and penetrated his entire body.

  It was love—unconditional and extravagant. It came from no human heart, but from a heart that encompassed the world and shared all its pain. It pulled him into itself, caressed him, enfolded him in joy, and in that sweet mingling he was blessedly lost. For several trembling moments it stayed with him; and then, with a sigh, it dissipated into the bright dust motes that floated around him.

  He was back in his own skin, never before realizing he could be out of it, and knowing now how heavy was the burden of constant self-awareness.

  The experience left him soaked in gratitude. Because of mercy or mad generosity, it had been given to him—the foreigner, the hayseed, the one whose very blood was corrupt—the immeasurably great gift of feeling divine love.

  Oh God Rulve, why me? Why should I be loved so much?

  The old man’s deep eyes gazed at him, and to his surprise, he heard a clear answer inside his head. “So you would know how all people are loved, whether they feel it or not.”

  Even as he looked at the old man, and his heart said over and over thank you, thank you, he knew that there would be a price. Not one imposed on him, but one he somehow yearned to pay. The cost would be great, like the love itself, but never its match.

  Miramakamen held the mouse in his hand, gently petting it with the back of one finger. His colorful garment had faded away, and now he was only an old man, wearing a brown, patched robe and sitting inside a dingy tent. “Much will be expected of you, lad,” he said. “Beyond your choosing, you bear a great burden. The great escritors have written about you, for you are a beloved son of Rulve, the s’eft of his precious coin.”

  Like a sudden, demanding wind, the words took his breath away. “What are you saying?”

  “I am telling you who you are.”

  Fear darted through Sheft, followed by an inexplicable bitterness. “I know who I am!” he cried. “I’m a farmer and the son of a farmer, and never will I amount to anything more.”

  Miramakamen rose from his chair and came to sit beside him on the bench. “I’m afraid not, S’eft. None of those things are true, and you must know the truth. You have the power to restore a poisoned land, and redeem many who have been snatched away.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” But he remembered the distant cries, the vision in the common field, and how he had rejected it.

  The old man put his hand on Sheft’s shoulder, and such was the strength of his kindness that he could not pull away. “Do you want to know?”

  “No! I didn’t come here for that.”

  “I’m sorry, son, but this is how the tree of the world continues to grow and unfold. You can accept or reject it, but this burden is yours.”

  “My only burden is the one you see in my face, in my veins! You know exactly what I am, and it’s not this—this redeemer.”

  “As you say, lad, I know exactly who you are.” He reached out and touched, very gently, the place beneath Sheft’s ribs. “And deep in there, you also know.”

  Sheft dashed th
e man’s hand aside. “I know about hate, about being a foreigner. I know about blood so dirty it attracts night-beetles. I know about roots and ice and fear. That’s what I know.”

  “There’s more to you than that.”

  “I can’t be what you said!”

  Untroubled, the old man gazed into his eyes, and for a moment the memory of that incredible love brushed over Sheft. “I hear your words,” Miramakamen said, “but I will keep listening for your heart to speak. I trust you, S’eft, and you must also trust me.”

  The old man stood, and so did Sheft. He felt as if some crisis had passed, but then realized it had merely moved into a future time and place. His face, he discovered, was wet with tears. He didn’t know why they were there, and wiped them away on his sleeve. “Miramakamen, what should I do regarding Mariat?”

  “The young lady I just spoke to?”

  He nodded.

  “You must act with courage, my son, and with compassion. But most of all, you must do what love demands.”

  The old man scooped Sheft’s coins out of the bowl. “I will not take these from you, for you will be asked to pay a far greater price. I am sorry, S’eft, but because you love, you will be wounded.” He placed the three coins in Sheft’s hand, one by one, as he spoke. “By a child, by your brother, and by the dark.”

  Emotions he could not understand raked through him. “I have no brother!”

  Miramakamen turned him around, held open the tent flap, and gently pushed him through.

  Chapter 9. In the Horse Field

  It seemed to Sheft that he came back to a different world. Clouds had gathered while he was in the tent, and the colorful crowd now had become faded and sparse. Many people were packing up their wares and leaving. But Mariat, waiting under the tree and holding the pale yellow blanket, seemed as dear and compelling as ever, though somehow far away. It felt as if he walked a long distance until he could take her into his arms.

  She looked up at him in concern. “You’re as pale as a mushroom! What did Miramakamen say to you in there?”

  Arm in arm, he led her back toward the wagon. What could he tell her? Where to begin? He needed to go off alone, to make some sense out of what he had just experienced, but Mariat was looking at him expectantly. He chose the most truthful answer he could manage. “A journey. He said I was about to go on a journey.”

  “The same was predicted for me! And I am to meet a tall, dark, and handsome stranger.” She smiled teasingly. “Just like you, Sheft, except you’re not dark.” She was silent a moment. “But you said ‘he.’ Miramakamen is an old lady.”

  “An old lady! With a grey beard?”

  “You saw an old man?”

  “I did.”

  Mariat chuckled. “The rascals. Probably a husband and wife team, relieving each other from time to time.” Her arm went around his waist. “Perhaps that’s something we can do one day. Abandon dull farm work! Travel the countryside! Work the market-fairs and make a living off gullible villagers.”

  He drew her closer to him, but his spirikai squirmed with vulnerability and denial, his mind spun with questions, and what was it exactly that love demanded? What he saw after they got settled behind their trestle table, however, put an end to such thoughts.

  A broad-shouldered man stopped a short distance away, and his eyes darted from Mariat to Sheft and then back again. Gwin, his lips pressed tightly together, strode over to them and glared at Mariat. “What are you doing here with him?”

  She coldly returned his look. “Selling honey. Do you want to buy?”

  “Selling honey. Is that what you call it?”

  “That’s what she calls it because that’s what it is,” Sheft grated.

  Gwin cast a burning glance at him, then looked down at the few pots of honey that were left. He pointed to the biggest one. “How much?”

  “One ducat,” Mariat answered. She held out her hand.

  Gwin fished the coin from his pocket and, staring fixedly at her, pressed it into her palm. He held her hand while slowly rubbing the coin with his thumb. “I can pay as much as he does, and more.”

  Sheft seized Gwin by the wrist, and Mariat pulled away. She held the coin in an upraised fist and her eyes flashed. Still staring at her, Gwin twisted from Sheft’s grasp. “Not as sweet as what you sell?”

  Anger made Sheft’s voice low and flat. “Get out of here, Gwin.”

  Gwin lifted a corner of his lip. “Is that how you do business, by ordering customers away? I’ve got more right to be here than you do.” He indicated the toy animals with his chin. “What are these things supposed to be?”

  “They’re toys,” Mariat said. “Sheft made them.”

  Gwin’s eyebrows shot up. “Toys! Something he wants to sell to our children? Something from his hands our children will hold?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mariat exclaimed. “If you want something else here, buy it. Otherwise, move on.”

  Gwin leaned toward her. “What’s the matter with me? You saunter about in full view of everyone here, fawning over this foreigner, making a spectacle of yourself, and you ask what’s the matter with me?” He threw a look of loathing at Sheft. “This freak is an insult to our traditions, cursed by Ele, and you can walk arm in arm with him? Look at him! He’s disfigured, seized by demons, and you hold his hand in public? What’s the matter with you?”

  In a blaze of anger, Sheft lunged across the trestle table and snatched at the man’s shirt. But Gwin jumped out of his reach and stood his ground. Sheft stared at him, feeling the blood drain from his face as his anger gave way to a devastating realization. Gwin had done nothing but expose the same agonizing concerns he himself had tried, and failed, to discuss with Mariat in private.

  “There’s no freak here,” Mariat exclaimed, “unless it’s you, Gwin! My family and I have known Sheft for years, and he is kind and gentle and brave. And as for seizures, perhaps you’re having one now, for indeed I don’t know what’s come over you.”

  “Gwin! Gwin!” a voice piped. It was Oris, Gwin’s little half-brother, who had come up without anyone noticing. “Buy me one of these.” With one hand he pulled on Gwin’s sleeve and with the other he rolled a carved wooden hay-mouse back and forth on the trestle table. “I want this one.”

  “Put that thing down!” Gwin pried the toy out of his hand and banged it on the table. He turned back to Mariat, and his demeanor changed, into something that to Sheft felt far more dangerous.

  “Mariat,” he said, bowing slightly, “please forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in that insulting way. But I lose my head when I see a beautiful young lady choosing the company of a person like this. I have more experience than you, and will one day take my father’s place on the council. And I say to you, if you stay by his side, this foreigner will bring you nothing but grief. There are those in At-Wysher who could give you a life of honor and respect, who could offer you standing in the community, and prosperity. But this one never could. I ask only that you think carefully about what you’re doing.”

  “She needs no advice from you,” Sheft said.

  Gwin picked up the honey he had purchased and turned to him, his face wrinkled with disgust. “She’s young and soft-hearted, and feels only pity for you. If you don’t see it, you’re truly blind.” His look changed to one of warning. “For her sake, and for yours: leave—her—alone.”

  He pulled Oris away from the table, nodded once to Mariat, and walked off. He didn’t seem to notice that his brother, at the last minute, had snatched the toy mouse and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Anger and humiliation trembled deep in his throat as Sheft watched Gwin’s retreating back. The wind picked up, heavy with a coming rain, and Mariat shivered. He pulled her cloak out of the wagon but stopped himself from draping it over her shoulders. Instead, eyes askance, he held it out to her. She took the cloak, and his hand as well.

  “Look at me, Sheft. Such words can’t be erased. But it’s up to us to decide how important they will be
between us. As for my part, I’ve already decided.”

  He turned away from her, for her decision had been made without her knowing the truth. “Gwin was telling you exactly as it is,” he said. But there’s more, so much more, and I can never ask you to share the weight of it.

  “No. It’s not as he said. Gwin spoke about prosperity and pity, but he never touched upon what we feel for each other. He never mentioned love.”

  Love. The word struck him hard. He’d accepted her love and professed his own, and that was the worst kind of selfishness. “Do what love demands,” the old man had said. But what was that? To pour out to Mariat that he thought of her constantly, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her? Or to do the much harder thing: spare her and walk away forever? It was obvious what was best for her, so the fact that he felt torn between these two courses proved he was as despicable as Gwin thought him.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “And it looks like rain. It’s time we went home.” Shoulders bowed, he went off to get Padiky.

  When he arrived at the field, he could not at first find the horse in the midst of so many others, but at last spotted her at the farthest edge. She was not loose, as he had left her, but tethered against the fence. Gwin and Voy sat on the top rail, their coats draped over it. As he approached, they eased off the fence and faced him. Sheft’s stomach tightened at the sight of Gwin’s bulging arms and thick neck.

  The man outweighed him, but might not be as quick on his feet. Etane had engaged Sheft in a few sparring contests over the years and taught him a thing or two, but in a bout with Gwin, there would be inevitable consequences. He thought he had enough ice control to stop these consequences from bleeding, but he could do it only as long as he kept his head—and stayed conscious. Voy joining the fray was another matter.