Other Lives (5 page)

She trembled and inhaled slowly, trying to steady her racing heart. 

“I would kill you or I would lay with you, but I wouldn’t stand in between. You pick a road Miranda, and you follow it,” he said, and then whispering as though it were an afterthought. “We need each other.”

“I don’t want what you can teach me,” she said. But it was a lie and they both knew it. 

10

He waited, the snow drifting in a mad dance. Then he saw her slipping towards him, face tucked under the folds of a black hood. 

“Hello,” she said, shivering.

“You are late,” he motioned towards their horses. 

The weather was deteriorating quickly and he feared they would be found in the morning dead and frozen if they didn’t leave now. He hurried towards his own mount only to discover Miranda was standing in the same spot.

“Come on,” he urged her. 

“I can’t,” she said quickly. 

“Miranda, you have to come.”

“I can’t,” she repeated. 

Dumbfounded he stared at her, the reins hanging from his hand. 

“You should go very far, as far as you can,” she said, with an odd calmness. “Never come back. Do you understand?” 

“Miranda,” he said. “What is this?”

“A wedding gift. But he will not show you such kindness again. If you are wise, head beyond Kire. Some place where magic is long gone.”

He shook his head, a small, mute gesture of denial. 

She slid her arms around him, pressing her lips on to his. Her fingers were digging painfully into his shoulders, but he didn’t protest. He kissed her back instead.

It didn’t last and she was gone, her retreating footsteps quickly erased by the snow. 

***

She walked into her room and knelt before the fire, which was burning low. The snow that flecked her hair and clothes melted and puddled at her feet. She turned her head to stare at the mirror, its naked surface reflecting her. 

He’d been, he
was
, in her room, sitting upon a chair in a darkened corner, looking bored. 

“You removed the cover,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you afraid of it?”

“That is what charms and talismans are for,” he said, standing behind her.  

She rose, looking at their reflections. He’d taken off his jacket and his shirt was half open. She could see a word, a mark, imprinted on his chest.  

“Charms and talismans could fail you one day,” she said.

“Luckily, my wits never fail me. I do not make false movements.” 

His face was smug. Her own was guarded.

“Then I will truly be crowned queen?”

“Yes.”

“And you say this, it can be controlled? No need to fear it?”

“Never again. Touch the glass.”

Miranda hesitated, biting her lip, and extending her hand. Her fingers pressed against the cool smooth surface. The mirror beat, like the pulse of a great beast.

“Feel that?” he asked  

She nodded. His hand grazed her shoulder. 

“Power.”

The mirror reflected her tentative smile. Her eyes were of the oddest shade, the color of molten gold. She was very beautiful, might have easily been the princess in a fairy tale. But she was not. She was something entirely different.  

KING OF SAND AND STORMY SEAS

He stood at the edge of the beach and leaned forward trying to spy beneath the water a kraken or a two-tailed mermaid. Only there were no mermaids today, no terrible krakens or glimmering serpents. Just Lysander, alone, under a light drizzle.

He swung his arm in a mighty arc, ready to throw the sword into the water, ready to say goodbye. And then he couldn’t and instead the sword landed against a rock. It fell with a loud clank while the seagulls watched.

Lysander sat down. Small crabs scuttled by.

“If you don’t want it, you can give it to me,” someone said behind him. “It’s a waste of a good sword.”

He turned. It was a young man — barely a man actually — lean and tanned and smiling.

“I could sell it,” said the young fellow eagerly.

“What would you buy?”

“Pair of shoes,” he replied, wriggling his toes.

“A pair of shoes,” Lysander grumbled. “A pair of shoes for a fine sword.”

“Well, if you don’t want it, I could use it. What are you doing with something like that, anyway?”

“I’m a knight.”

The boy snorted. “You’re no knight. You stole it.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Lysander muttered as he rose and moved towards the rocks, towards his sword.

“You’re keeping it, then?”

He didn’t answer, placing the weapon in its scabbard once more.

“Can I look at it?” asked the boy, edging closer to him.

“Where the hell did you come from?”

“There,” he said pointing towards a smudge that might have been a hut.

“Well, go back there then.”

“This is my beach. You go back home.”

“Your beach?”

“Mine,” said the kid.

Somehow he liked his insolence, the way the words came out. “King of sand and stormy seas, are you?” Lysander muttered.

“Can I look at it?”

“If I let you hold the sword, will you go home?”

The boy nodded. Lysander unsheathed the sword and handed it over to the young man. The blade was blue with fine letters spelling conjures of protection. Once Lysander had taken the sword to a magician. He had told Lysander the writing on the sword predicted that the man who wielded the weapon would become a hero. The magician, it turned out, had been a charlatan.

The kid held the sword with both hands, clearly impressed.

“Now I know you stole it,” the boy said, handing it back. “Who are you?”

“I told you. I’m a knight.”

He began to walk away from the boy. But it was of no use.

“I’m Endric,” said the kid, jumping to his side, his bonny shoulders peaking underneath his worn shirt. “If you’re really a knight how come you’re not wearing your armour?”

“Knights don’t wear armour all the time.”

“I guess. But they always say they do, in the stories. They ride black stallions and the ladies throw roses at them when they walk by so they might wear them as favours. But I’ve never met a knight before. What’s your name?”

“Would you mind leaving now?”

“Why, you’re going to throw the sword away again?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It is if I could get myself some shoes.”

Lysander stopped and stared at the annoying kid with the large, eager eyes. But Lysander would have been eager too if a knight had appeared all of a sudden, turning a dull and grey day into an exciting encounter, perhaps the start of some adventure. Didn’t all boys want to be knights anyway? Lysander thought so.

“So?” pressed the boy.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “My name is Lysander and no, you can’t have the sword.”

The boy shifted his feet and looked down. “If you give me five coppers I’ll take you to an old pirate cave. Authentic, I swear.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? The pirates? Look, you go around people here will show you whale bones and tell you it’s a sea monster. But I’m honest. I swear, it’s a real pirate’s lair. Everyone’s interested in pirates. And it’s cheap, I’d charge double but you’re a knight,” the kid stood in front of him, barring his way. “It’s the least you can do, you know, seeing as you’re cheating me of a good pair of shoes.”

Lysander had to laugh at that. The wind was picking up a bit, flapping his torn cape around him. Lysander knew if he agreed the kid would try to sell him a mermaid next, but somehow he felt like taking a peek at the lair. He pretended he was a pirate when he was a child, wishing for a ship with black sails to take him far from home. In the end Lysander had left, but he was not to become a pirate king or a hero or any of the other things he’d once fancied.

“Very well,” Lysander said.

“It’s close,” Endric replied.

***

The pirate’s lair was in fact a rather small, damp cave. Endric lit a lamp that lay next to the entrance and then took him on a tour of the meagre quarters. Some sleeping mats on the floor, a couple of tin cups and a pile of dirty clothes made the magnificent pirate’s den Endric had boasted about all the way. At the back of the cave was a stone with several drawings on it.

“This used to be where they came after their raids,” explained Endric, tiptoeing around the sleeping mats. “And that, it was their altar to the god of thieves. They used to place gold coins and necklaces in front it. But the gold’s gone now.”

“It looks like a rock,” Lysander said. “Some scuff marks on it.”

“Well, that’s how much you know about pirate altars. Iraerson made those marks, he was a mighty water-wizard and the companion of a great pirate, Sheadril. Iraerson, he was a priest you see, and had a statue made all of gold to his god. Put it on a pedestal, on that very stone. But they took the statue along with the rest.”

“Who?”

Endric shrugged. “Fish folk, thieves, other pirates. It was a long time ago this I’m telling you. Before I was born. There’s no pirates here anymore.”

“No, there’s not,” muttered Lysander, looking closer at the marks. They extended to the wall and in fact seemed to be letters and drawings. Most of them images of fish and fantastical animals; a mermaid swimming next to a dolphin.

“I have a collection of pirate things. Things that I’ve found. Even a knife and a skull. It’s only half a skull, but good as new. The jaw only,” Endric touched his own jaw to illustrate his point. “But it’s in great shape. I can show you, but you’d have to pay double.”

“This is fine,” he moved towards the entrance.

“I thought you like pirate stuff.”

“Not really.”

“Why are you here then? Nobody comes here except for the pirates. I’ll show you another pirate lair, come on.”

“It’s fake,” he glanced outside at the relentless drizzle and the sun hiding behind thick clouds.

“What?” the boy blinked.

“Your pirate lair, it’s fake,” he muttered, tired of it all, the conversation and the bleak sky grinning at him. “It’s a fisherman’s cove. They would keep their boats here, their nets and sometimes they’d salt their fish.”

“How would you know that?”

“I grew up here.”

The boy leaned against the cave’s entrance and wiped his nose with a bony hand. He was thin from watered fish broth and stale bread. Probably half a dozen brothers and sisters as skinny as him hovering around the table. Meagre food, only a pair of shoes for them all and plenty of blows to quiet them down. Lysander used to hate the fish broth more than the blows.

Lysander shook his head, unsettled. He no longer wanted to think of pirates or fish folk.

“Why, you don’t say, the fisherman’s son became a gent?” said the kid in open mockery. “I’ve never hear of a fish-boy being no knight.”

“Mercenary,” he grumbled under his breath.

“What?”

“A mercenary,” he said loudly and stepped out, heading back the way they’d come, hoping to lose the boy.

But he was not an easy one this kid. Sticking to him, matching his pace.

“That’s true?”

“Yes, it is,” said Lysander.

“You’re from here? Were born here?”

“I played in that damn cave myself.”

“A real sword-brother,” said Edric in awe, looking him up and down. “Then you can do tricks and such, and have a horse. My uncle’s got a mule, but no horse. Have you been in a big city?”

“Some.”

“Which ones?”

“Some.”

“Did you work for a great lord of a city?”

“Will you leave me alone?” he bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

It was the kid’s fault. He’d been pestering him, hanging behind him like a shadow. He wasn’t used to it, to people like that. It was too much. The damn smell of fish, the rain and the sand clinging to his clothes.

The boy chewed his lower lip for a moment, then threw his head back defiantly.

“A mercenary doesn’t have a weapon like that. That’s a noble man’s weapon, it’s got an inscription. Mercenaries are not allowed to inscribe them. I know that. You’re a thief and a liar.”

“Then I’d better bash your head against a rock and get rid of you.”

“You’d have to catch me first, and I’m fast,” Endric did not move but his body was tense as a wire. “You’ve got to be fast when you’re a fish-boy. You’d know that.”

Lysander let out his breath slowly. “I know that.”

They looked at each other, the kid flexible as a deer and the older man a mass of iron, a sculpted giant. Finally, he reached between the fold of his cloak, pulling out a small bag.

“Five coppers,” he said, handing him the coins. “Get lost.”

The kid took them, sticking his hands in his pockets and shifting restlessly. He continued to look at him, finally turning around and walking away.

Something itched inside, something he didn’t understand and he wasn’t sure why. But the words were slipping out quickly, too quickly for him to stop.

“You’re right, it’s a nobleman’s sword,” Lysander said. “But I didn’t steal it.”

The boy stopped, and blinking started walking back.

“It was a gift. From the sea if you can believe that,” Lysander muttered. “I used to come here. Pretend there were sirens and monsters in the water. Just at the edge of my vision, just waiting, hiding beneath the waves. I told myself they were real, not just tall tales fishermen tell.”

Lysander let the waves lick his boots and crushed a sea shell as he moved towards the water, the tide pushing brown seaweed in his direction.

“I ran around making up stories about heroes and monsters. I always expected something to happen. I knew I was destined to be a hero. It must have been like that. All the heroes must have felt what I felt, must have known they were destined for greatness. I knew.”

Now the boy was at his side and the wind in his face. The ocean like a mirror, gulls above in a cacophony.

“And one day, I must have been younger than you, there it was. On the beach. A sword. Meant just for me. A magic sword. I knew it. Clear as water, a magic sword. I took off my shirt and wrapped it around the sword and I left. I didn’t doubt my destiny for a minute. I knew it must have always been like this.”