“I cannot bear to watch her,” I confessed.
“Afraid she’ll set someone’s hair on fire?” He winked. “Can’t really blame you. But she won’t, you know.”
“Not that. Only…” For a moment, my attention wandered back to the bride. Red flame. Red gown. Wheels of fire in the night. Her eyes. I looked away. “Only it would strike me blind if I gazed at her too long.”
What he read in my face, I could not say (although I know you’re wishing I’d just make something up), but he turned to follow her movements as she danced.
“Mmn,” he grunted. “Can’t say I see it, myself. She’s just Hyrryai. Always has been. Once, several years back, my mother suggested I court her. I said I’d rather mesh with a giant squid. Hyrryai’s all bone and sinew, you know. Never had any boobies to speak of. Anyway, even before Kuista died, she was too serious. Grew up with those Blodestone boys—learned to fight before she could talk. I wouldn’t want a wife who could kill me with her pinkie, would you?”
My eyebrows went past my hairline. In fact, I have not located them since. I think they are hiding behind my ears. My new acquaintance grinned to see me at such a loss, but he grasped my forearm and gave it a hearty shake.
“What am I doing, keeping you from your grub? Eat up, man! You’re that feral firemaid’s husband now. I’d say you’ll need all your strength for tonight.”
And that, Nugget, is where I shall leave you. It is morning. As you see, I survived.
Your fond brother,
Shursta Blodestone
He was reading a book in the window seat of his room when Shursta heard the clamor in the courtyard. Wagon wheels, four barking dogs, several of the younger Blodestones who had been playing hoopball, an auntie trying to hush everyone down.
“Good morning, Chaos,” a voice announced just beyond his line of sight. “My name is Sharrar Sarth. I’ve come to meet my mesh-kin.”
Shursta slammed his book closed and ran for the door. He did not know if he was delighted or alarmed. Would they jostle her? Would they take her cane away and tease her? Would she whack them over the knuckles and earn the disapprobation of the elders? Why had she come?
The letter, of course. The letter. He had regretted it the moment he sent it. It had been too long, too full of things he should have kept to himself. He ought to have expected her. Would he have stayed at home, receiving a thing like that from her? Never. Now that she was here, he ought to send her away.
Sharrar stood amongst a seethe of Blodestones, chatting amiably with them. She leaned on her cane more crookedly than usual, the expression behind her smile starting to pinch.
No wonder. She’d come nearly twenty miles on the back of a rickety produce wagon. If she weren’t bruised spine to sternum, he’d be surprised.
When Shursta broke through the ranks, Sharrar’s smile wobbled, and she stumbled into his arms.
“I think you need a nap, Nugget,” he suggested.
“You’re not mad?”
“I am very happy to see you.” He kissed the top of her head. “Always.”
“You won’t send me away on the next milknut run?”
“I might if you insist on walking up those stairs.” He looked at his mesh-brothers. His mouth tightened. He’d be drowned twice and hung out to dry before asking them for help.
Hyrryai appeared at his side, meeting his eyes in brief consultation. He nodded. She slung one of Sharrar’s arms about her shoulders while Shursta took the other.
“Oh, hey,” said Sharrar, turning her head to study the newcomer. “You must be the Gleaming One.”
“And you,” said Hyrryai, “must be my sister.”
“I’ve always wanted a sister,” Sharrar said meditatively. “But my mother—may she sleep forever with the sea people—said, so help her, two children were enough for one woman, and that was two more than strictly necessary. She was a schoolteacher,” Sharrar explained. “Awfully smart. But I don’t think she understood things like sisters. She had so many herself.”
For a moment, Shursta thought Hyrryai’s eyes had flooded. But then she smiled, a warmer expression on her face than any Shursta had yet seen. “Perhaps you won’t think so highly of them once I start borrowing your clothes without asking.”
“Damisel,” Sharrar pronounced, “my rags are your rags. Help yourself.”
There was a feast four days later for the youngest of Hyrryai’s brothers.
“Dumwei,” Sharrar reminded Shursta. “I don’t know why you can’t keep them all straight.”
“I do not have your elasticity of mind,” he retorted. “I haven’t had to memorize all three hundred epics for the entertainment of the Hall of Ages.”
“It’s all about mnemonic tricks. Let’s see. In order of age, there’s Lochlin the Lunkhead, Arishoz the Unenlightened, Menami Meatbrain—then Hyrryai, of course, fourth in the birth order, but we all know what her name means, don’t we, Shursta?—Orssi the Obscene, Plankin Porkhole, and Dumwei the Dimwitted. How could you mix them up?”
By this time Shursta was laughing too hard to answer. When Hyrryai joined them, he flung himself back onto the couch cushions and put a pillow over his face. Now and again, a hiccup emerged from the depths.
“I’ve never seen him laugh before,” Hyrryai observed. “What is the joke?”
“Oh,” Sharrar said blithely, “I was just mentioning how much I like your brothers. Tell me, who is coming to the feast tonight?”
Hyrryai perched at the edge of the couch. “Everybody.”
“Is Laric Spectrox coming?”
“Yes. Why? Do you know him?”
“Shursta mentioned him in a letter.”
Shursta removed his pillow long enough to glare, but Sharrar ignored him.
“I was curious to meet him. Also, I was wondering…what is the protocol to join the Sing at the end of the feast? One of my trades is storyteller—as my brother has just reminded me—and I have recently memorized a brave tale that dearest Dumwei will adore. It is all about, oh, heroic sacrifice, bloody deeds and great feats, despair, rescue, celebration. That sort of thing.”
Observing the mischief dancing in Sharrar’s eyes, a ready spark sprang to Hyrryai’s. “I shall arrange a place of honor for you in the Sing. This is most kind of you.”
Groaning, Shursta swam up from the cushions again. “Don’t trust her! She is up to suh—hic—uhmething. She will tell some wild tale about, about—farts and—and burps and—billy goats that will—hic—will shame your grandmother!”
“My grandmother has no shame.” Hyrryai stood up from the edge of the couch. She never relaxed around any piece of furniture. She had to be up and pacing. Shursta, following her with his eyes, wondered how, and if, she ever slept. “Sharrar is welcome to tell whatever tale she deems fit. Do not be offended if I leave early. Oron Onyssix attends the feast tonight, and I mean to shadow him home.”
At that, even Sharrar looked startled. “Why?”
Hyrryai grinned. It was not a look her enemies would wish to meet by moonlight.
“Of late the rumors are running that his appetite for hedonism has begun to extend to girls too young to be mesh-fit. I go tonight to confirm or invalidate these.”