Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Ethram is bent over his books when a hand drags through his hair and down to his neck, pinching at the tense knot that has built up there. He groans, letting his head fall forward.
Ky’s laugh is soft. “You’ve been there too long,” he says. “Surely you’ve nothing left to read at this rate.”
“I’m almost done,” he says, which is a ragged lie, because he has another few days of work, at least. But autumn is here, and he wants to get this work submitted before the Season begins.
He is working on a paper about the festival calendar of Esk, and how the origin of the festivals is likely in the rituals that were once performed by the Crown.
Perhaps once they had been performed by a distant memory of Ky.
If Ky could remember his past, perhaps he could reveal some mysteries—
“You’re done for today,” says Ky, and hauls him from his chair. “We’ll miss the market.”
It is market day, Ethram realises. The morning has slid past, and the clock says it is almost eleven o’clock, which means they’ll have to hurry to catch it. “Rot,” he says. “The good things will be long gone.”
“We don’t need much.” Ky hustles him into his coat. “The garden is giving us enough.”
He’s not wrong, so Ethram keeps his grumbling to a minimum as they duck their heads into the chill breeze. The market is winding down when they get there. The crowds are thinning out in broken ropes of shoppers, and it’s easy to weave amongst them to pick up the things they’re lacking.
He buys a heaping of parsnips, and Etta adds in another handful or two.
“Saves me lugging them home, dear,” she says when Ethram protests. “Besides, that one of yours must take a lot of feeding.”
He doesn’t, because Ethram thinks he only eats for the pleasure of it. But he can’t say that, so he accepts defeat and thanks her instead. The persimmons are gone, but the woman at the stall knows Ethram well by now, and pulls a paper parcel of them out from under the table.
“Always keep a few back,” she says, winking. “As long as you buy some figs as well.”
He does, and also pine mushrooms and celery root. Autumn markets are some of the best, and by the time he finds Ky again, Ky has a parcel of yarn under his arm and a bag of roasted chestnuts.
Ky carries their purchases home, and Ethram splits the hot chestnuts and holds every other one out for Ky to bite from his fingers.
“No birds left,” says Ethram, his fingers stinging from the heat. “I could get some smoked fish in Esk, I suppose.”
Ky makes a noise. It’s hard to parse. “I didn’t think you ate fish.”
“I’m not partial to it, but if there’s nothing else—”
“No,” says Ky. “No fish.”
Ethram glances up at him. There’s a tightness at the edges of his mouth. “Very well,” he says. “No fish.”
While Ky is unpacking in the pantry, Ethram goes back to his books.
He flicks through a volume of ritual observances and finds the bit that had nipped at his memory.
The adherents of the old ways in Elveresk avoided many types of fish, including a good number of the species found in the Lune River, because of the worship of their river god.
When he’d lived at the Gardens, he’d never once been served any sort of fish.
But his book isn’t just about Esk. It’s about observances that span the entire central isles. The implications of a far-reaching river god are fascinating. If Ky is not a local god of the springs, then what is he?
Has history split different aspects of the same myth? Or crushed together different deities into one? Or perhaps a dilution of the original myth over time, changing as it moved through the settlements of Elveresk—
“I believe I said,” says Ky, low against Ethram’s ear, “that you were done for today.”
“I had a thought,” Ethram says peevishly.
“I’ve a solution for that,” says Ky. This time when he hauls Ethram up, he carries him straight to the bedroom.
A week later, Ethram wakes to rain battering the windows and the bed empty beside him. Autumn always brings the most ornery weather, and it doesn’t help to be waking alone. When he shuffles through to the kitchen, Ky is at the table, watching the rain patter against the garden.
“Still heading into the university today?” he asks when Ethram finally sits down. He passes him a cup of tea.
“Unfortunately. It should clear up before long.” Trying to avoid a rainy day in Esk is like trying to avoid midges by a summer stream. “It’ll be a long day. I’ll try to not take forever.”
“I’ll walk with you to the edge of the woods,” he says. He’s moved from watching the rain to watching Ethram, and in the grey light, his eyes seem more silver than grey. “Dress warmly. It’s cold.”
It is, and so Ethram wears the vest Ky knitted him under his luminary robes, and wraps Ky’s latest gift—a handsome scarf—around his neck. Over it all, he wears a hooded cloak. It’s a newer purchase, but worth the price with how dry it keeps him.
Ky has no such thing, but he never minds the rain. They walk together, and Ky takes his hand once they turn into Polling Woods. He runs his thumb against Ethram’s hand the entire way. Soothing, warm.
“You’re upset,” says Ethram, when they’re halfway through the woods. “Why?”
Ky’s hand twitches against his. He sighs. “Not at you, my heart.”
“I didn’t think it was at me,” he says, smiling a little. “What happened?”
“Nothing has happened,” he says. “It’s only a mood. You know about moods.”
“Well, I suppose I do.”
They walk in silence the rest of the way, boots clipping the muddy path. The rain digs up the grass and moss around them. Before they turn the last twist of the woodland path, Ky stops.
“I’ll leave you here. The tram will be along soon.”
Ethram doesn’t ask how he knows. He’s eerily good at predicting them. “Get out of your wet things when you get back,” he says.
There is rain slipping down Ky’s face, darkening his hair. He looks very grave with his lashes wet and his mouth held tight. Like some statue about to be growing moss, perhaps.
“Take care,” says Ky, and he takes Ethram’s face in two wet palms, in a grip that covers the curve of his head entirely, and tips his face up to kiss.
It’s a hard, deep kiss. Ethram’s hood falls back, and then the rain is hitting his cheeks, cold and brisk. He barely notices, not when Ky catches his lower lip in a soft nip and then runs his tongue along the smarting spot in apology.
The rain falls, and they kiss.
And then the distant rattle of the tram trundles up the hill, and Ethram pulls back, alarmed.
Ky laughs. “Better run, dear heart,” he says.
Ethram does, and Ky’s laughter follows him until the rain drowns it out.