Chapter 11 Sadaré
SADARé
I FEEL almost guilty as I leave my quarters to go in search of Isha.
I puzzle over why as I walk along the arcade joining my tower to the west wing, the faint tinkling of my chain jewelry the only sound against the stark backdrop of the stormy sea and the River of Fire burning on the distant shore through the windows.
Is it because he told me not to wander, even though that rule might have only applied in that previous instance?
Is it because I haven’t made much progress toward escaping?
Or is it because I’m bored and I’m desperate for any company—even his?
The mere thought makes my stomach twist sourly. But why should I feel guilty about that? I need to seduce him, after all, so the more convincing I am, the better. That’s been my plan from the start.
My fingertips float to my mouth as if by their own accord, brushing over my lips.
Remembering the press of Isha’s fingers against my tongue.
The way his touch made me breathless, and not because he was blocking any of my air.
He was so forceful and yet so controlled that part of me wanted to push into him until I choked.
It’s in your nature. And all of us—from mere mortals to the highest of the gods—must adhere to our own natures.
My hand drops in a fist, a groan swelling in my throat. I’m supposed to be seducing him, not the other way around. Not only because I need to escape him, but because… because…
My mind comes up blank. Wasn’t there some other reason, someone…? I have the same sensation as entering a room and then forgetting why I’d come there in the first place.
I’ve stopped walking, so I start forward again, reaching the entrance to the west wing.
Isha. Isha is who I’m looking for.
I ease open one of the double doors a crack, trying not to draw attention to myself.
A swell of music catches me off guard. I can’t tell who’s playing, but more than a few shades have gathered in the salon, watching whoever it is.
Perhaps there are even enough of them for me to escape unnoticed.
I slip quietly inside and duck up the staircase rising along the wall’s curvature, which will take me to the more discreet balcony above that rings the entire room.
There, I’ll be able to quickly take stock of who’s here and what’s happening before I sneak away.
I shouldn’t have worried about being seen—everyone is focused on the music, including several shades watching from above.
They seem hypnotized, not even noticing me as I circle around behind them.
I keep well away from the railing and in the shadow of the wall, until I can see who’s playing.
But even before I do, I know. Because by then, the music, powerful and yet somber, is carrying me along with it like the rest of the crowd.
Drawing my eyes to him.
Isha sits at the harp, his arms moving like shadows, his long, pale fingers plucking aching notes from the strings. His dark-crowned head is bent in deep concentration, the lines of his marble-smooth face both furrowed between his brow and softened around his mouth while his mind is far away.
I listen, transfixed, as the music pulls at me, too, sounding through my body—hollowing me out until it’s all I can hear.
I gasp, clutching at my chest. Tears blur my vision, but not before I notice other shades crying.
All of them are. Because it hurts, and yet we can’t tear ourselves away because of its captivating beauty.
Such beautiful pain. As beautiful as the god wielding it.
I’d guessed Isha was lonely, but I had no idea to what extent until now. Slowly, I sink to the floor, feeling the crushing weight of it.
I’m so enveloped in the music it takes me a moment to notice that a small shade has approached—a boy with curly black hair and dark brown skin.
I remember seeing him before with another woman—one I almost thought I recognized—but I haven’t spotted either of them in a while.
Last I saw the boy, he seemed afraid of me.
He’s alone now, and to my surprise, he folds himself onto crossed legs next to me, giving me a tentative smile.
I smile back at him, ducking my head to whisper under the music, “What’s your name?”
And then I wince, because that’s a thoughtless question here. “Never mind,” I say about the same time he murmurs, “I don’t know. I didn’t know even before I got here.”
I wait for the quiet lull to pass as Isha finishes his song and starts another that’s just as haunting. “How did you get here?”
I’m nearly grateful for something to distract me from the intensity of the music.
The boy’s glance slides away. “Isha brought me. I was alone in that big line, and some bad men were trying to take me. And then Isha came. He hurt them and that was scary, but then took me away from them. Here.”
I’m too stunned to respond. I don’t know what line he means, but Isha, Master of Death—and savior of lost children?
And yet, now that I think about it, I remember Isha telling me that he saved that other woman as well. The one with the scars.
And yet how many others is he ignoring in their plight?
The boy only rocks back and forth, his hands on his knees, as if shaking off the unpleasant memory. And then he adds quietly but more cheerfully, “I like it here.”
“It is nice.” I keep my voice neutral—and as low as can be. “Is he nice to you?” I nod down at Isha below, who is too absorbed—not to mention skilled—to have his eyes open, but we’re hidden such that we’d be difficult to spot even if he were looking.
The boy shrugs. “I mostly try not to bother him. But he could be mean and I wouldn’t care, because he saved me. He’s not mean, though,” he adds quickly—not out of fear, but clarification. “He’s just not very nice. But I really like it when he plays the harp for us.”
“He’s playing for you?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice, even at a whisper. I imagined it was entirely for himself and the audience was merely incidental.
“Not just me,” the boy says as if I were missing the obvious.
“For everyone. We always ask him to, but he only does it once in a while. I think it makes him tired, so it must be really hard. That’s why I want to learn.
” He squares his narrow shoulders and puffs out his skinny chest, the very picture of childlike determination.
I hide my smile. “Just to prove you can do it?”
He nods fervently. “Prove it to Isha. And maybe so I can help him play someday.” He starts with a guilty look, as if he said something wrong instead of touchingly sweet. “Only sometimes, just when he’s tired, if he’ll let me. He’ll still be the best.”
So he not only wants Isha to be proud of his accomplishments, but he wants to help ease a god’s burden. Which means the god of death has somewhat earned such devotion from this boy. Or at least an eagerness to please that I don’t want to examine too closely in case I recognize it in myself.
I recall the woman trying to teach the boy the harp—perhaps at Isha’s direction?
And then I realize: I have missed the obvious, just not in the way the boy thinks.
Along with apparently terrible loneliness, the god of death has a strange kindness in him, despite how he hides it and holds everyone at a distance.
He occasionally saves the most desperate shades from a horrible fate, if erratically.
He plays music for them that reaches beyond entertainment and into the depths of emotion when they have nothing else.
He takes care of those in his charge, even if he turns his back on all the rest. He at least has sympathy, if not empathy.
Which is a lot more than I’d imagined.
“I think it’s why he usually goes to the sad room after playing,” the boy says, leaning toward me as if confessing. “But maybe he won’t this time.”
I blink. “What sad room?”
He looks at me in surprise. “In the east tower. He used to stand in there, not moving at all and looking sad. I mean, not crying or anything, but just really still and…” He visibly struggles for words. “Like he always looks, but worse.”
Isha strikes me as many things, but sad wasn’t high on my list. Certainly disinterested and weary, for the most part, even deeply lonely under his arrogant surety, which his music has demonstrated to a powerful extent.
But sad? That seems too mortal an emotion for so untouchable a god.
But maybe a child’s eyes can detect what mine would fail to notice through a sheen of cynicism.
I must look dubious, because he adds a bit defensively, “Everyone knows about the room. But he doesn’t go there much anymore, so maybe that’s why you haven’t heard about it.”
I haven’t heard many things about this afterlife I’ve only just begun, mostly because I’ve been too occupied with Isha—not only because he demands my attention, but because he’s my primary means of gaining my freedom.
It serves me to focus on him, to serve him if I have to, until I can shove my finger though the ring locked along with the collar around my neck or flee to the Blessed Isles.
But perhaps I should investigate this room if he used to go there often.
Puzzling over any strange hesitation in getting closer to him is useless.
I need to brush aside my misgivings and puzzle out Isha—and this could be a key.
He’s occupied right now, anyway. The possibility that he hasn’t gone there since I arrived might also be significant. It might mean I’ve been affecting him.
And I need to affect him more.
I still feel like I might be forgetting something important, but I brush that intangible itch away, too, so I can concentrate on what’s most important.
My freedom.
I wait for a swell in the song before I reluctantly shift my legs. I like the boy, and Isha’s music is trying to root me to the floor, but I have to escape here, in more ways than one.