Beautys Justice – By Alexa Santi #5
She ought to have known that Isfrid would tell the god about her conversations with Mother. Even if Isfrid had not, their conversations were in the open kitchen for anyone to overhear and report. “I did not expect you to be curious about me.”
“About the mortal who challenged a god’s authority in his own throne room? Of course I was curious.” He lay a few slices of the fruit on the trencher for her, and carved a few more for himself. “ Do you enjoy reading?”
“Very much. But there has not been much opportunity here.” She still read her father’s book each night, sometimes reading aloud as Mother did her needlework, but hearing pleas at the god’s side filled most of her time, with the rest spent helping Mother administer the domestic workings of the palace.
At the conclusion of the meal, Ulfjadir stood, forcing her to rise as well. He held his hand out to her, palm-down. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Come.”
Firchara placed her palm on the back of his wrist like a fine lady would with her noble escort. Even through the fabric of his cuff, she could feel the warmth of his body, and she shivered a little.
The crowd parted before them as he led her through and out into the corridor.
“Where are we going?”
“To a place you will wish to see.”
She bit her lip to stop herself from saying something petulant about her weariness and allowed him to lead her through the maze of corridors, first this way, then that.
His steps were sure, and she tried not to cling to his arm as they delved further in, the stone walls growing dank and chilly as they progressed far beyond any exploring she had done in her meager spare time.
At last, there was a door at the end of a corridor, lit by a single lantern. As they neared it, his steps slowed until she was a little ahead of him, and she turned to look at him quizzically.
“Open it.”
She stepped forward to place her hand on the latch. The door was unremarkable from the outside, rough and wooden like so many in the palace, but it hummed with energy under her touch.
She took a deep breath and pushed it open, only to be immediately dazzled by light pouring from inside the room.
It came from dozens of tall windows in the walls that illuminated the whole space, which she could already sense was enormous.
It had a familiar scent, and she held her breath as her vision cleared.
It was a library. Larger than the Mochain family’s library, larger even than Lord Ohrean’s library that she had only been able to use a few times before their exile.
She had never dreamed there were so many books in all the world, much less that they would be gathered in front of her wondering eyes.
She turned to him, telling herself that the light and the room were what held her dazzled, not the way he was looking at her.
“Your mother seems to hope you will bring something new to read to her in the evenings. You have read your book of poetry aloud to her many times.”
Firchara felt her face grow hot. “I could only carry the one book with me into our exile.”
“And now you may borrow as many as you want, as often as you want.”
He snapped his fingers, and flames began to dance in the fireplace she had not noticed. It was inside a small nook, surrounded by well-upholstered chairs and a peculiar low-footed piece of furniture that was long enough for two or more people to sit side-by-side.
She could picture herself in that nook, cozy by the fire even in deepest winter, nestled into one of the chairs with her book as the sunlight waned.
And when she would look up, she would see Ulfjadir in his own chair across from hers, occupied with his own book until he felt her eyes on him. He would catch her staring, and one of his rare smiles would cross his face as he extended his hand to her…
Firchara shook herself abruptly. It was merely a fantasy. She could only stay until her mother’s judgment was rendered, and then they would return home in triumph, untouchable even by Lord Ohrean’s power.
Back to her ordinary life. The one where her magic must be concealed for her own safety instead of being used without fear.
Feeling his eyes on her, she glanced at him, her face turning hot again as she realized he had been watching her the entire time. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” He gestured to one of the several staircases that spiraled up the walls, ending in various doors. “You may take that staircase back to your room.”
She wheeled to gaze out the window. Sure enough, she recognized the view as the one from her room. The waterfall winked at her in the evening sun like an old friend.
“I… thank you.”
The words were inadequate, but they were all she had.
They continued to stand together, and her awareness of his nearness blossomed. They were together for hours every day, but always with a crowd of petitioners or armsmen or palace residents around them observing their every interaction.
Now they were alone, and Firchara longed to touch him. Even knowing she must return to Mother, with her shrewd eyes and unspoken questions, she could no longer resist the urge.
Daring greatly, she lay her hand on his, stood on tiptoe, and brushed her lips against his cheek, rough with a day’s growth of stubble. His hand tensed under hers and she quickly pulled away, gathering her skirts to flee up the staircase and back to her room.
Once she was through the door at the top, she leaned against it for a long moment to collect herself. To steady her breathing and dim the new visions in her head that his thoughtfulness had brought to life.
She must not lose her head. Mother depended on her.
To Firchara’s relief, Mother seemed content with her embroidery for the next little while, supervising the kitchens from her chair with Isfrid’s eager assistance as Mother added leaves and flowers to what would form the bodice of the new kirtle, already cut to size.
The pattern grew quickly under Mother’s skilled fingers, and Firchara paused to admire it one evening after supper.
“I shall embroider the sleeves next,” Mother said complacently, “and the skirts after we sew it together with the bodice.”
“I don’t know if I will receive a rest day to help,” Firchara said, absently running her finger along the smooth silk. “The god seems tireless.”
Mother cast a glance up at her even as her needle flashed in and out of the silk. “The immortal ones often forget the limits of mortality. If you are tired, ask him for a rest day.”
“No,” Firchara said, realizing she was shaking her head for extra emphasis. “No, I don’t want to…”
She didn’t want to pass even one day without seeing him.
Sinking to her knees beside the chair, she looked up at Mother, who regarded her with compassionate eyes as she set her embroidery aside.
“Is it so obvious?”
“Only to me,” Mother said. “But I knew before you did.”
Firchara sighed. “Nothing can come of it. A mortal can only ever be a god’s plaything.”
“There are those born gods, and those made gods,” Mother said. “Ulfjadir was a mortal himself, centuries ago. The gods asked him to judge their dispute, and they rewarded him with immortality.”
“I have wondered… what it must be like for him. To know you will live when others around you have only a finite span of time.”
Mother took Firchara’s hands in hers. “Immortality is not a reward for all. It is for the young, my daughter. I am of an age where I look forward to seeing your father again, and my parents, and the Lady Nasozi, and all my other friends and family who have preceded me to the shadow lands.”
“Don’t talk like that, Mother!” Firchara squeezed her mother’s hands, appalled, and Mother laughed.
“There’s no need to fear. My time is still years away. But it will come eventually, sooner than either of us think.”
Firchara bowed her head, knowing her mother spoke the truth but wanting to deny it.
Mother sighed. “I fear I protected you too much, Firchara, kept you too close to home. It was necessary to protect your gift from those who might use it—and you—ill, but I regret it now.”
“I don’t regret it at all. I wanted to stay with you.”
“We all must leave our home sometime. I was reluctant to leave my homeland to follow Lady Nasozi and her wild northern husband, but she promised it was where my destiny lay. And it was.”
Mother reached out and tilted Firchara’s chin up to look into her eyes. “Your destiny is here, daughter. For good or ill, destiny brought us here. Make the most of it.”
It was nearly the end of the day in the Great Hall, and Firchara had begun to think of her supper when the man stepped forward and caught her attention. Grief and fear and desperation swirled around him like a fog—Firchara could see it, even though her magic rarely extended to seeing auras.
“My lord,” the man began. “I have come to you for justice.”
“As have all here. Continue.”
“I… it was a long and perilous journey.”
“That is by design. Why are you here?”
Another man elbowed his way past the armsmen, clearly eager to drag the first man away, but daunted by the reality of the god’s Great Hall and the dark gaze Ulfjadir turned on him. “My lord, this man murdered my sister, his wife. He must pay for his crime.”
“I did not murder her! She suffered an accident and perished. It was no one’s fault.”
Firchara’s magic tingled, but she kept her face impassive as the god turned to her.
“Does he lie?”
Firchara hesitated. The answer her magic gave was clear, but still she hesitated.
“Yes,” she said reluctantly.
The man fell to his knees, weeping, even as the armsmen grasped his arms to try and lift him to his feet. The man behind him stood triumphant, and Firchara knew he would kill him as soon as they returned to the mortal lands.
“Wait!” she cried.
Firchara rose from her chair and turned to face Ulfjadir. His face was as impassive as ever, but her understanding of the subtleties of his expressions allowed her to see he was puzzled, not angry. “He lies, but he has a reason.”
“Do you not know what the reason is?”