Page 35 of Grave Flowers
The man peered at me. Confusion wound through his face, followed by some rage of his own.
“What would you know of it?” he demanded. “I’ve tended these since they were nothing but little slips stolen out of Radix. You think they get better treatment in that Primeval piss of a country? Mind your tongue, or I’ll find another use for these shears.”
At that, Aeric surged by me. There was nothing princely about him. His eyes blazed with a heat that, for once, didn’t remind me of Acus or its infernal sunshine. It reminded me of a flame struck in a dark place usually kept hidden.
And then, Aeric, the ruling monarch of Acus, punched a sellist from the Oscura in the face.
Shock rendered me speechless. The Radixan part of my brain appraised his form as not half bad, though Father’s punches were much more accurate, practiced, and lethal. The man stumbled back.
“Watch out!” I cried.
The man barreled forward. His body collected momentum with each step, and even the swing of the platform worked to his advantage. He feinted a blow and hit Aeric squarely in the face, making him stumble against the rail. However, he immediately turned back to the man.
From the different platforms, hoots and shouts rang out as people saw the fight. I surged forward and caught Aeric’s arm. With all my strength, I yanked him back.
“We need to leave,” I said. More dark light flickered in Aeric’s eyes. I pointed to the others. If we didn’t get out, they would realize who we were—or, at the very least, who Aeric was. “Now.”
Rationality slipped back into his gaze, particularly as the carousers began climbing the ladders of stairs to get a closer view. The man charged. Aeric stepped aside. The sellist, every bit of him cresting forward, flew past. I cried out as a blur of floral silk toppled by me and over the rail. A crash and a jolt followed.
The sellist had landed on a lower platform that sold barrels full of brews. Two of the barrels had smashed apart, and foamy, fermented brew cascaded over the platform’s edge. The man leaped to his feet, shaking his fist at us, but slipped on the liquid and fell again. People on the platforms below grabbed any sort of container they could find and held them out to capture the gushing liquid. They guzzled it downwhile others laughed and danced in the sticky, malt-laden golden rain. The man selling the brews leaned over the rail and screamed that they’d better pay for every drop, but the people only laughed and gulped more.
“Hurry, while they are distracted,” I said. Aeric nodded and gestured for me to head to the stairs. I moved as quickly as I dared, given our elevation. We made our way out of the subterranean portion of the Oscura and through the door back out to the main hall. Bright light forced me to hold my hand over my eyes. We kept going, stepping around the dead white bats.
Finally, we slipped out of the building. More stalls were set up against the far sides of the Oscura, away from the main street. One of them had a crude bar with wobbly stools. A glass contraption made from several bulbous, wide-mouthed orbs sat atop it. Each orb had different liquids in reds, golds, pinks, and greens, and narrow spouts injected them with bubbles until they fizzed and frothed. Copper tankards of various sizes hung on the wall. Aeric slipped onto one of the stools, and I sank down next to him.
An elderly woman was snoozing in the back on a chair, and at our intrusion, she opened one eye, sighed with beleaguerment, and stood.
“What do you want?” she asked around a giant yawn.
“Um …” I glanced at the liquids. “A green one, I suppose.”
The woman didn’t bother to ask me what size or even what Aeric wanted but rather poured two fizzing green drinks into the largest tankards available. She set them down hard in front of us and returned to her chair. A few moments later, her head tilted back, and snores fluttered through her lips.
I turned to Aeric. He had a hand cupped over the side of his face.
“Let me see,” I said. For a moment, he hesitated, as though reluctant to show me. Then he lowered his hand. A blueish-red bruise spread across his cheekbone, the two colors intermixing as though the contusion couldn’t decide which hue to be. I winced. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
“Doesn’t look too bad?” he asked with indignation. “Well, it feels bad.”
“It adds to your mystique,” I replied, amused.
He held up the tankard, using its reflective surface to inspect the blow.
“The poor man never stood a chance,” he brazened. Delicately, he touched the bruise as he stared into the tankard, regarding the welt with interest. “I’ve never been punched in the face before. I don’t … like it.”
“The face doesn’t hurt as much as other places,” I said without thinking.
Aeric set down his tankard, hard enough to make some of the liquid froth over the side. “You’ve had experience?”
“I—” The strength of his reaction made me waver. I certainly had. Mother had never struck me, but Father did as a teaching tool, and Inessa as well, once she sought the title of heir. She wanted to show me she was stronger in every regard, and she quickly had, her hand flashing against my cheek if I was overly annoyed or wearied by her commands. And, of course, Rigby’s dancing stick had left countless bruises on my shoulder.
I hated it but I understood, even though I could never slap someone myself. In my opinion, pain afflicted by another taught more lessons than caresses ever could. Such pain was the most honest teacher of all. It reflected life—its fickleness and its many mystifying hurts—even as it left me aching inside. Somehow, that interior ache was always much stronger than the actual blows themselves.
“Ah,” Aeric said quietly, when I failed to continue. Sympathy filled his eyes, and he stirred in his chair, as though he wished to help. Frustration ignited in me. Why did he pity me over something so trite and commonplace as being struck? If only he knew the true nature of reality: My upbringing would leave me alive and well with a crown on my head when this was all over, while his would deliver him into a casket.
“It was necessary,” I said. “Not everyone can be spoiled.” I thought the insult would return us to our usual state, never mind the fact that Aeric was far from spoiled. His scarred hands and rearing in a monasterium testified as such. It didn’t matter. He would take offense and be sulky, and I’d … I’d be able to kill him when the time came.
“No one should hit you.” His tone was severe and it startled me. “And, as long as I live, no one will ever hit you again.”
