River Secrets (21 page)
Razo had nothing to say to that.
“No one has ever observed that about me before, or never told me. It means you’re noticing me. It means you care.”
“Well, of course I care, any dolt could see—”
“Do you really?” She placed both hands on his chest and looked up.
It was about the best invitation he’d ever had to kiss a girl, and he was not about to let the moment escape. But this was no teasing girl who patted his bum just to see him squirm. This was someone who made his heart clatter against his ribs. He did not feel quite as cavalier as he would have liked. His mouth was dry, his lips were dry, his head felt light, and he suddenly had the crazy notion that Dasha’s hands were holding him down from the sky. He thought he had better say something quick, and the first words that touched his tongue were, “My heart’s really pounding.”
“I know,” she said. “I can feel it.”
“Oh,” he said.
Quit stalling,
he told himself.
So he bowed his head and closed his eyes, and somehow his lips found hers. He kissed her once, then let her lips go, but it was about the sweetest thing he had ever tasted, better than fig-and-egg cake, so he went back. A longer kiss. He peeked. Her eyes were still closed. He kissed her again and felt her mouth smile under his.
“You were stalling,” she whispered.
“I was not.”
“You were, too. You were scared.”
“I’m not the least bit scared, my lady, see?” He swept an arm under her knees and picked her up, kissing her again as he did. “Not scared a whit.”
Razo took one step off the pier and plunged them both into the autumn water. He bobbed back up like a duck after a feeding, lay on his back, and let her float him, the water under his body as strong as a net, massaging his back with thin, rippling currents.
His shoulder rubbed against a small boat, and he grabbed the side and clambered in, pulling Dasha in after him. He reasoned that as it was not being used, no one could mind if he borrowed it for a little row. The exercise warmed his muscles. Dasha looked extremely pleasing just then, as wet as an otter, but then the water rolled off her unnaturally fast, down her legs and onto the boat’s floor, leaving her clothes wrinkled and dry.
She drew something out of the linen pouch she carried at her side.
“A sling!” he said.
“Two slings, even.” She held the oars while he examined each, admired the weaving, the coarse green material.
“These are more durable in this humid climate, and I’ve heard that hemp slings might even be more accurate than wool ones. Though I don’t know how it would be possible to improve your aim.”
He bound the slings around his waist and took up the oars again, eager to be doing something besides staring at Dasha with an undoubtedly gushy expression. She let her fingers drag in the water, and he wondered what the river’s dreamy voice was telling her.
“Will you be going home now?” she asked.
“If that’s where my captain orders me.” He could not say those words and look at her at the same time.
“Do you miss it?”
“Bayern? Sure I do. And the Forest, and my ma and sister, too, though…I don’t know, whenever I go to my ma’s house, I feel like a stinky little boy again caught stealing a lick of honey.” He laughed, wishing he had not used the word
stinky.
“I mean, nothing changes there.”
She was quiet for a time, her fingers tracing ripples on the river. “My father’s tenure as ambassador to Bayern will be short. He desires to return to Ingridan and the assembly.”
“Hmm, I wonder who’ll replace him.”
They met eyes, smiling, both daring the other one to speak the idea. Razo gave in first.
“You’ve thought of bidding for the position yourself?”
Dasha batted her eyelashes in mock diffidence. “I would need a personal guard, of course.”
“It’d be best if your guard was a fellow who knows Bayern pretty well.”
“We could spend summer and autumn in Bayern, winter and spring in Tira.”
“Home in time for the tangerine blossoms,” said Razo. “Home?”
He had meant Tira. He smiled again. She sat facing him, her hand on his knee, her eyes holding his gaze. He felt no need to look away.
“Razo, don’t worry that you are not of a noble family.”
“I wasn’t. Unless you were.”
“It might be a concern for my father, but he may assume, as I did, that you were chosen for the ambassador’s party because of your status in Bayern.” She paused. “Will it be a problem in your country? Would a marr … uh, you know, a close relationship between such persons as, say, you and me, would it be forbidden?”
Razo had to smile at Dasha, suddenly turned shy.
“I don’t think so. At least, our king, Geric, he married my friend Isi, who was just an animal worker like me.”
Dasha grinned in delight. “Your king married a commoner?”
“Well, I guess Isi was in fact a princess of Kildenree, but when I knew her she wasn’t a princess at all, not until after… Well, it’s a good, long story.”
“Keep rowing, Lord Razo,” said Dasha. “I’m eager to hear about the princess who wasn’t a princess and how she met Razo of the Forest.”
So he began the tale, how he’d left the Forest to work as a sheep keeper in the city, and in his second year there, he met the new goose girl, a quiet girl who always hid her hair.
Razo dug the oars deeper and drew them back. The pull felt good, and he thought he could keep rowing forever, perhaps even to the ocean. The water was smooth under them, Dasha was listening with that forgotten smile her lips always kept at the ready. She edged closer so she could place both her hands on his knees, her face open to him. Razo’s heart stirred. He wanted to touch her again, but she wanted him to keep talking.
And that was all right for now. Telling his story felt like the next closest thing to giving her a kiss.
Thanks to the community at slinging.org for looking over the slinging passages and steering me clear of mistakes; all the sheroes at sheroescentral.com for helping me think through the title; Holly Black and Tiffany Trent for inspired input; Victoria Wells Arms, of course, who is a radiant example of editorial greatness and makes me look better than I actually do (though my husband argues here that I look pretty good); speaking of my husband, Dean, who takes such good care of his crazy writer wife, while being the greatest papa this world over; speaking of again, my own marvelous papa, Wally Bryner, who taught me how to cast a lure and shoot a bow and feel confident; the tremendous Jeff Bryner, who inspired some of the best bits of Razo; Amy Lu Jameson, for suggesting that a Razo book would be welcome; and the coolest kid in the world, Max, who took great naps.
A note about River Secrets from
SHANNON HALE
Ah, Razo. Never have I had such a character as Razo. Some characters give you a landslide of trouble trying to figure out, some sprout from the ground fully clothed and ready to play. Razo was the latter. He appeared out of nowhere in
The Goose Girl
. From the beginning his voice was so distinct to me, I could almost hear him speaking. There was a scene in
Goose Girl
where Razo had some dialogue, but in a later rewrite I had to take him out of the scene, so I attributed the dialogue to someone else. Ever since, that scene has bothered me because Razo’s voice is so unique to my ears—clearly that’s Razo speaking those lines, but he’s not in the room!
Razo isn’t even mentioned in my original outline for
Enna Burning
. About halfway through the first draft he showed up unexpectedly, insisting himself into the story until he became a central character.
Enna
was a really difficult book for me to write, but the Razo bits were fun. I knew what Razo would say and do, I understood his relationship with Enna and Finn from the beginning, so his parts just flowed. He was like an old, comfortable friend who helped me get through the telling of that story.
After
Enna,
I didn’t think I’d write another Bayern book at all, and yet here it is. And who is the main character? Razo, of course, that wily, sneaky kid. He got his own book out of me, the rascal. By far the greatest joy in writing
River Secrets
was spending that time with Razo, seeing the world from his point of view, hearing the things he’d say, laughing at him and with him.
And he’s done it again. At this writing I’m working on a fourth Bayern book. The main character is Rin, Razo’s little sister, and in an early draft I mourned that Razo just didn’t fit into the plot. He’d make a brief appearance near the beginning but would be left behind. And guess what? You got it—he’s weaseled his way into a bigger role yet again. Bless him.
I love all the characters in Bayern, good and bad, but if I had to pick just one to hang out with one day, it would have to be Razo. And maybe he’d teach me how to sling. And then I could take him to an all-you-can-eat buffet. And we’d chat. And laugh. Maybe I should give him a ring. I sure love that boy.
During the process of writing
River Secrets
, I wanted to be closer to Dasha, to make sure I understood her. I chose a scene—the end of Chapter 18 and beginning of 19—and wrote it from Dasha’s point of view. This was a writing exercise only, never meant to be part of the finished book. It’s a rough scene, never edited, but I thought you might enjoy it anyway.
Dasha’s Chapter
Dasha was fingering a peculiar silver brooch when she spotted that sneak, Tumas. Just the sight of him made her hands feel dirty. She left the shop, vaguely aware of the merchant shouting lower prices at her back, and ran after him.
The streets outside the market hushed; the day stilled. In the solitude, she was aware of the thickness of the air. She parted her lips and breathed in, tasting water on her tongue. Everything was so heavy. The clouds were crowded, their presence pushed down on her. The hairs on her arms tingled, suggesting that the sky was full of lightning unspent.
She glared up. “I am not playing this game.”
Clouds jostled each other, eager to unload their weight. She felt that familiar pull on her skin. All she would have to do is feel it, close her eyes and feel the clouds release, the rain break apart, the world sigh in relief, and she knew it would happen. The desire tugged on the corner of her mouth like a hopeful smile, but her belly felt black and heavy. Again, the image of her grandfather pulsed behind her eyes—the defeat on his face, his skin wet, his body leaning into the river. It was a sight so familiar in memory, it was like the smell of home. A home where she did not want to stay.
“I won’t do it,” she whispered.
She ripped her attention away from air and sky and realized that Tumas was no longer in sight. She kept wandering, hoping to find him. Ever since the day she saw him climbing a tree to peer in Enna’s window, she had kept watch on him. Why had he been spying on Enna? Did he guess that she was the fire-witch?
Dasha harbored a mad, hopeful fancy that once she knew what Tumas was up to, she could go to Enna and tell her, that Enna would be grateful to Dasha for looking out for her, that they would become friends, and Enna would understand about the water and the desire and offer a cure. … Dasha smiled sheepishly. It was a lovely fantasy, but it crackled and fell away under scrutiny. Enna would, naturally, be suspicious. No friendship was likely to spring up between them. Relations between Bayern and Tira felt like holding a glass pane above her head, balanced on her fingertips, her arms tiring. But perhaps she could talk to that boy Razo. …
Then, suddenly, there he was, standing over something dark. The day dimmed as though taking a long blink. He was gaping down at a body. A burned body. He pushed it to the bank and sent it into the river, mumbling something to himself. Curious to hear, Dasha stepped closer.
Razo looked up, and the expression on his face pierced her—shock, pain, fear. Didn’t he recognize her?
“Razo,” she said, so that he might hear her voice and remember that she was a friend. But his eyes were crazed.
“It was you,” he said, stepping away.
He was backing up, toward the river. She should have reached out to stop him, but for an instant his movement made sense to her; she herself felt drawn toward water—it seemed only natural. It was not until his body tumbled over the edge that she realized it had been a mistake.
The wall beneath her was sheer, no hand- or footholds, and the current was pulling him hard toward the sea. She ran alongside.
“Swim that way!” She pointed to the other bank, where tiled steps led out of the water. “You can climb up there! Swim away from me!”
Razo was thrashing madly, churning water, his neck bent back, his head up and pleading for air. A wave struck his face, and he disappeared, leaving a trail of bubbles.
“No, no, no,” Dasha breathed, running, watching for him to come back.
He can’t swim. The thought slapped the hesitation out of her, and her fear of the threat water promised her lifted as the very real threat of his immediate death weighed down.
From so far away, her link to the river was weak, connected only by the invisible water that hung in the air. She needed direct contact to communicate this need to the river, so she ran off the edge, a final thrust from her feet pitching her into a dive.
The impact shoved away her sense of her bodily self. She floated underwater, dazzled by the touch of so much water. Its song filled her ears and its sense spoke of tiled banks and garbage wood, the skeleton of a dog in its depths, spots where warmth gathered and other plunges of raw cold, down where darkness sparked with drops of sunlight and up where the surface undulated under strokes of air—the river’s touch exhaling a thousand images. Dasha pled with it to speak to her of a boy inside the river, air leaving his lips, body falling down.
Then she found him. Her eyes closed, and she could see the image of him in her mind, carried to her by the water. She was too far to touch him, but the water touched all.
Moving water was like dreaming. When she was only half asleep and pierced with slivers of dreams, she could change the story they told, move herself into a different story, a nicer one, a dream story where she wanted to stay. Water was like a dream—not something she could hold, not easily changed like clay in her hands. She had to will it, want it, see it before it would obey her. And even then, it was a slippery thing to hold.
Dasha kicked and rose upward, all the while keeping with her the picture of Razo as he sank down, his eyes open. She held that thought fiercely and imagined him now head up, body rising. Her face broke through to cold air. He was near the surface now, too. She forced herself to feel the water roiling beneath him, lifting him, snaking beneath his body, carrying him across the current. Moments after she felt it, she was relieved to see it happen, the water complying with her vision. Dasha swam behind him, watching the ripples of water spray around his body. She did not ask the water to carry her. Just the thought of how much she had already done filled her with a dark panic that threatened to weigh her like a stone. She had to work with the water to save Razo, but she would make as little contact with it as possible. Already she was feeling a strange, lovely tingling in her fingertips and toes, almost as though the tips of her were in danger of being lost, the river taking her into itself, forgetting where Dasha ended and water began. It was a gorgeous sensation, and one that frightened her, shooting an unearthly cold through the insides of her bones.
Ahead of her, Razo reached the bank and pulled himself out. Dasha was a few laps behind.
She fluttered her legs one last time underwater, feeling as light as a butterfly, as sleek as a snake. She kicked herself out of the water and onto the bank, and the sense of her body returned, as heavy as the world.
Razo said something to her, but she did not hear it. Though in the hard air now, her head still felt underwater, sound softened through a river. Her feet to ankles hung in the water, and against her skin she heard the river muttering in its swift, cold voice, passing on images of all that touched its banks, all that passed over its surface or lay in its depths, ruffled by the pull of the current like leaves are in a wind. How easy it would be just to fall back in, how lovely not to have to struggle anymore on dry land.
Her awareness of the clouds pulled at her skin, dragging her gaze up from the water. The dampness in the air tickled her face and arms with the knowledge that the gravid sky was groaning with the weight of rain. She knew lightning would flicker in the west the moment before it flashed. Her soul felt pierced, and she remembered that she was fighting something. She remembered Grandfather. She had promised the flowers blooming around his grave that she would never succumb to what had taken him, to the lies of solidarity the water gibbered. She’d had to save Razo, but she would not toy with that curse anymore. She would live.
Razo was pulling her to her feet, and she followed, tearing herself from the river. Thunder laughed at her, and she glared up.
I won’t play. I am done.