Isle of Wysteria: The Reluctant Queen (29 page)

Athel kicked her feet. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Does that comfort you?”

“What?”

“Does that make it easier? I mean, is it easier to deal with death when you do choose to think about it?”

Athel thought long and hard on his question. “I suppose it does. Quite a lot, in fact.”

Alder nodded slowly. “Be grateful for that. It is a rare gift.”

Athel reached over and rubbed her hand across his back. “What is bothering you, Aldi?”

Alder opened his mouth and then closed it again. Athel rubbed his back encouragingly.

“It’s just that, back when I was a house-husband with Madame Bursage, she always taught us never to complain. She taught us that no matter how bad things appeared, it was really just a vagary of perception. She taught us that there existed many people out there who suffered more than we did, people who would look at our situation with envy.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her.”

“But in all the places we've visited, I've never found them. There doesn’t appear to be anyone in the whole world as cursed as Wysterian men. We have such a short lifespan. I’m barely a newlywed and I'll be lucky if I live another seven years. We seem to be the only people in the whole world with no magic at all. Even the children of other islands can use at least some magic.”

Alder struggled. So much of his training involved hiding his feelings, it was often hard for him to express them. Athel took his hand and held it reassuringly.

“I-I’m sorry for complaining, but, if magic is a gift from the gods, a sign that they love us, then why do the gods despise Wysterian men so much?”

Alder looked up, eyes swimming. “What did I do to make them hate me so much?”

Athel took Alder in her arms and held him tightly. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t think of anything that would make it right. All she could do was hold him, and show him that she cared.

Athel pulled his head into her shoulder, and for the first time since she had known him, she felt him cry. The sensation of his body trembling nearly broke her heart. She could not help but think back to what Privet had said to her back on Kwi. She had railed against him, dismissed his pain, invalidated his feelings. She resolved within herself not to make the same mistake again.

Athel stood up and straightened her Navy uniform. “Well then, I think it’s time that we change our relationship.”

Alder’s face went white and his eyes fluttered with panic. “Does that mean you plan to put me away?”

Athel laughed. “No, I don’t mean I’m going to divorce you, silly...”

“Oh, thank the heavens,” Alder said, placing his face in his hands.

Athel slapped him on the back. “No, I mean we need to change our relationship to be like the ones they have on other islands. More like equals. From now on, you and I will do your chores together. The cooking, the cleaning, everything.”

Alder looked up at her, terrified. “No, my Lady, that would be completely...”

“Tut-tut,” Athel said, using her mother’s voice and holding up her hand gracefully. “You cannot refuse an order from your Matron.”

Alder sat and thought for a moment. “But, if we are equals, then you can’t really order me around.”

“That’s the spirit,” Athel encouraged. “But, for the record, I said
more like
equals. Let’s not take this too far.”

“Even so, I...”

Athel silenced him with a kiss on the lips, and she led him over to the sink by the hand.

“Okay,” Athel said, show me what to do first.”

Alder had a look on his face as if he were standing at the edge of a great cliff. “I...I don’t think I can do this.”

“Oh, come on,” Athel insisted. “It will be fun. Here, I'll start, how do I clean this thingy?” Athel lifted up a frying pan out of the soapy water.”

“I...I...” Alder struggled. Athel placed her arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“It’s okay,” she reassured, hugging him tightly.

Alder nodded weakly. “I find this scrub brush very useful for getting the egg residue off the sides of the frying pan,” Alder explained, handing it to her.

Athel chuckled. “I use this in the shower to scrub my back.”

“No, that is a loofah, my Lady.”

Athel shrugged, a sure indication that she had no intention of remembering the difference, and began happily sloshing and scrubbing. Alder watched her out of the corner of his eye as he slowly picked up a saucer and began scrubbing it with a wash cloth. For the next hour, they quietly stood side-by-side and did the dishes together as a couple. Alder taught her how to rinse and dry, and Athel tried to follow his instructions as best she could.

“Welcome to Blue Skies, if you need anything, I’m Privet.”

The husband blinked. “Who are you if we don’t need anything?”

Privet paused. “Wha?”

“You said that if we need anything you are Privet. So, who are you when we don’t need anything?”

“Yeah I know, that’s just something that we waiters say.”

“Who is he now, Moma?” the child asked inquisitively.

The guests just sat there, looking at him with their big eyes.

Privet sighed. “Sometimes, even I don’t know.”

“Hey new guy, table three needs their drinks,” Tobu said as she scuttled by, carrying five trays with her insect-like legs.

“Yeah, I know, just be patient, I don’t have eight limbs like you guys do.”

“Clearly,” Tobu snorted derisively.

“I’m sorry, but we'd really feel more comfortable with a Falmarisian waiter. You understand, of course,” the husband said.

“Not at all. I mean, I’m not a real person back home, so why should I be treated like one elsewhere?”

“Moma, I’m scared,” the daughter said, grabbing her mother’s sleeve.

“Try to hold your breath, sweetie, you don’t want to catch a disease,” the mother comforted.

“Disease?”

“Hey Privet, why don’t you take your dinner break over here with me,” came a friendly voice from the corner.

Privet slumped his shoulders and shoved the notepad into his apron as he walked away from the table.

The restaurant was magnificent. Great crystal chandeliers refracted beams of sunlight that came in through the honeycomb-shaped windows above. Privet walked around a silver fountain and almost forgot to take off his boots before entering the V.I.P. Section. The sensation of soft, velvety carpet on his thick, calloused feet was a little strange to him.

At the hexagonal table before him sat the restaurant’s owner, Gary Driscoll. Smartly dressed in a fine, tailored suit, it wasn’t just his confident smile that made him likable, it was the mischievous glimmer in his eye, as if he had just successfully bluffed at Jatlet and was about to take the whole pot for himself.

On his left, sat his two younger wives, their beautiful bodies and vapid eyes both energetically displayed for all to see. On his right, sat his older two wives. They had the confidence to present themselves in a classy way, but still watched the younger two suspiciously from the corner of their eyes.

“Come, sit down my friend,” Gary offered, motioning for his wives to scoot around to make room.

“I’m fired, aren’t I?” Privet grumbled as he plopped down in his seat.

“Now, why would you say that?” Gary asked, placing his arm around his youngest wife.

“Because I almost punched that family from Falmar.”

“Some customers need to be punched,” Gary said as he nibbled on his wife’s neck.

“Yes, they do,” Privet agreed, as he looked out the window. The restaurant floated high above the city of Tuiner, giving an impressive view of the marble towers below. Privet watched listlessly as a carriage drifted by, pulled by a winged stallion.

The oldest wife offered Privet a tray of fresh-water oysters. Privet took one and slurped it down, realizing with some embarrassment that he’d never bothered to learn her name.

“Do you know why I hired you?” Gary asked as he picked up a shell.

“Because having a Wysterian waiter draws out the crowds to see the freak?”

Gary laughed, “No, that novelty wore off weeks ago. No, I hired you because you remind me of someone. A young man who twenty years ago came to this place with only five taries in his pocket, and only a single wife.

Privet looked up and cocked his eyebrow, “You?”

“Yes, indeed my friend,” Gary said, slapping his bejeweled hand on the table. “Ignore these racists. They hate you because they don’t think they need you. But, do a job well enough and they'll come to you all the same.”

Gary sat back and took a sip of wine. “This world is filled people who need things done. If you do it well enough, it won’t matter where you're from.”

Privet looked around at the opulent setting. “Like this place?”

“Exactly, my friend. Do you think they come here because they like my people? No, they would spit on me if they met me in the street. They come here because this is the finest restaurant in the city. I do it better than anyone else, and that is all that matters.”

Gary raised a glass to toast himself and drank it down. “Think about it, in twenty years you could have all the money and wives you want. You could be completely free, beholden to no one. With that kind of freedom, you can live wherever you want, however you want. Doesn’t that sound nice, my friend?”

“It would if I had that long,” Privet said, eating another oyster.

“Do not be impatient,” Gary warned, “there are no shortcuts to hard work. Only shortcuts to pain.”

Privet snickered. “It’s not that...ugh...never mind.”

“Come, tell me. Perhaps I can help,” Gary urged.

Privet took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“It’s just that...their island...my island...it’s being attacked, and I’m not there. I told myself I didn’t care, but it’s keeping me up at night. It’s all I can think about.”

“No,” Gary stated.

“No?”

“No. You are not the type that gets attached to a place. I knew this about you the first time I met you. You are worried about someone.”

Privet snorted. “I’m not worried about...”

“A woman,” the oldest wife intuited.

“No!” Privet denied, putting his hands up.

The other three wives leaned back in unison and said,” Ahhhhhh.”

“Exactly,” said Gary.

“You guys have got the wrong idea,” Privet insisted, “It’s not like that at all.”

“You protest too much” Gary observed.

Privet dropped his hands down and looked at them. “It’s just that, she’s putting herself in a lot of danger, and she’s going to get hurt.”

“You're worried about her?”

“Yes, of course; she could be killed!”

Gary leaned in close and tapped his finger against his chest. “You worry because you care.”

Privet leaned back defensively. For several moments, he kept his mouth closed and refused to say anything.

“Fine,” Privet said. “I care, so what?”

Gary’s wives giggled. Gary leaned back and put his arm around them.

“So, go to her then, my friend.”

For a moment, Privet’s face filled with energy, but then it faded, and he turned his gaze away.

“I can’t.”

All was quiet inside the pirate vessel Antagionne as it sailed towards its target, save for the occasional drunken moan from one of the sleeping crew. Silently, the door to the small room opened, and Anak walked in, his taloned feet making the faintest scratching noise as he walked up to the ship’s dilapidated command podium. Placing his hand over his throat, Anak massaged the skin underneath his feathers, until finally he coughed up into his hand a small black crystal. Placing it into a recess, the podium was warped from within as a corruption spread through it. The metal and materials slowly changed color, swirling patterns as when a drop of dye is placed in water, until all was black and formed perfectly into a miniature prism stream.

Anak placed his hands on the array and it hissed to life. The crystals released light into the air, creating an image before him.

The image resolved itself into that of a person with tropical plumage and a striped beak. “This is a secure channel,” he said sternly.

“Marc,” Anak greeted. “It’s me.”

“Tell them to be careful,” Deutzia shimmered as the improvised array of pulleys and ropes lowered her down in her oversized pot to the tall prairie grass below.

“I will, Deutz, calm down,” Athel assured her as she took up some slack and tied it to a belaying pin. Deutzia had been complaining almost non-stop since the fleet came to this little uninhabited island just outside Islai Delsura’s no-fly zone. Leaving her alone was a bit of a risk, but taking her along would have been even riskier.

“And tell them not to touch me, my bark is really sensitive right now, and these people are filthy.” Deutzia twinkled.

“You got it, Deutz,” Athel grumbled, her patience long since worn thin.

“What is this tree of yours going on about?” Setsuna asked as she sat in the anchor like a swing, allowing the men do all of the heavy lifting for her.

Athel grinned and ran her fingers through Deutzia’s leaves. “Oh, you know, normal tree stuff,” she explained. “They talk about worms bumping into their roots, birds pooping on their branches, ungrateful honeybees, stuff like that.”