Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [108]
She couldn’t let her past go. She had tried for so long to avoid it, had perhaps even fled the city to escape thinking about it. Always, when abroad, her life came back to her in images:
Shafts of sunlight bleaching stone floors. Eir crying after being covered in flour in the kitchens. Pock-faced tutors issuing grammar instructions while it rained. The first time she ever saw a garuda. The day the tapestries caught fire in the dining hall. Two servants kissing with intensity against the wall of one of the studies. On a balcony eating an apple in the fading autumn heat. A city cat licking the sole of her bare foot—its tongue strangely rough.
Rika and Eir had played frequently about Balmacara from a young age. There were so many corridors to explore, so many rooms that meant nothing but the challenge of exploration, tall windows offering vistas of Villjamur’s great bridges and spires, and they were curious young minds with endless days ahead. Time was not a concept with which to be concerned.
Many of the city guard were charged with their protection, soldiers humbled by nursery duty. She often wondered what these towering, muscular men, swords at their waists, must have thought of these two tiny girls in ridiculously expensive dresses. Their training left them somehow inadequate for this new duty. She remembered the glances when two new guards were asked to watch them as they played. The men would look at each other, shrug, then merely stand there. By the end of the day they would inevitably be on their hands and knees, Eir and Rika riding their backs, brandishing wooden swords, and their mother would burst in the room laughing. The guards would retreat later, blushing.
Rika laughed. I bet they enjoyed it really.
They would try to lose them, Eir and Rika, try to vanish and cause panic. Once Eir managed to hide for an entire afternoon on top of a bookcase in one of the libraries while soldiers trotted along the corridors, checking every room, and their mother would vacillate between annoyance and worry. Knowing where she was, Rika would slip in every hour with some sweets for her.
“Are you coming down yet?”
“How long has it been?” Eir had said, brushing down a cloud of dust with the side of her arm.
“You should come down before they clip you round the ear. Eir. Ha! Ear Eir! You’re named after an ear!”
“Shut up or I’m never coming down. Worse, I’ll say that you scared me up here, and made me stay here and cry for ages.”
“You wouldn’t,” Rika said.
“I would. So how long has it been?”
“Four hours.”
“Give it at least two more. This book is good. The sweets are good. Anyway, I like the fuss being made. Makes a change.”
Eir had always been the one less likely to follow instructions, the younger sibling, testing the rules that had been first set for Rika. And she had a point: they would often be ignored. They were children, so she should not be so harsh on them. Their father was busy being Emperor. A tough man, he shouted at them and their mother for no noticeable reason. Then there were the beatings, memories she tried to repress. One could see the neglect upon her mother’s face, the withered features while in conversation with him, occasional bursts into tears as she sat staring out of the window. She had been beautiful. Sleek black hair, a pretty, oval face, tall and regal. Such dramatic clothing. Girls would help her select outfits, makeup, jewels, perfumes. Every bit the Emperor’s wife. To Rika she was how ladies were supposed to be in the first instance, a role model for the glittering things that simply don’t matter. Back then Rika would sit on her bed, dazzled, feeling lucky if her mother tried some of her items on her, smiling. She remembered her breath smelled of mint leaves—
A knock at the door.
For a moment she considered not answering. If she remained seated here by the window with her memories, it was possible that her day wouldn’t even begin. As soon as she got up, events would inexorably be set in motion