City of Keys, page 7
I’m coming, she thought, following him down, down into the warm dark. Just wait for me. Wait—
Chapter Seven
Malach stood at the sink as the children lined up to hand him their dirty bowls.
“Finish that,” he said to Inry, pointing at the half-empty bowl of porridge. “If you don’t, you’ll be begging for a snack in an hour.”
The boy threw his head back with a theatrical groan but sat at the table and shoveled in another mouthful.
“Cristory, go fetch your raincoat. And get Roseen’s, too.”
“Yes, Malach.” She skipped off, braids swinging. He eyed the smoothness of the weave with satisfaction. He’d added coconut oil while it was still wet from the bath. Then it wasn’t snarled when she woke up and it made pretty waves when he combed it out later.
“Where are your boots?” he asked Lonan.
“Don’t know.”
“Go find them.”
“Already looked. One’s gone.”
Malach thought for a moment. “You were wearing them when we came inside yesterday. Check under the couch.”
The boy dawdled.
“Now,” he said firmly, making eye contact.
He rarely yelled, but he’d learned that if you didn’t look at them when you spoke, they’d ignore you.
“’Kay.” Lonan ran off. A long pause. “Found it!”
“Then put it on!” He turned to Ealish. They were alone in the kitchen. Malach wiped his hands on the apron. “Remember what we talked about?”
She gave a sullen nod.
“Finish your orange juice.”
Her chin stuck out. “It’s got pulp.”
The girl had taken to not drinking so she could avoid the bathroom. Malach wasn’t having it.
“I believe in you,” he said quietly. “You’re going to show them that you’re a big girl.” An evil grin. “And I can’t wait to see the looks on their stupid faces.”
Ealish’s lips twitched.
“So finish the juice. Then you’ll give me the secret sign later. We’re going to make it this time. I can feel it.”
After weeks of coaxing, he had her at the point where she’d at least attempt to use the bathroom. They’d started with just sitting on the toilet when she didn’t have to go. For some reason that was easy. But she balked at actually using it. They’d made it inside the bathroom several times, but she always peed on the floor.
Ealish slumped down at the table. She drank the juice, complaining about the pulp the entire time. He rinsed the cup and set it on the drainboard. Then he crouched down so they were eye to eye.
“I’m proud of you no matter what, okay?”
She nodded, not meeting his eye.
“But if you do it once, just once, that’ll be it. No more itches.” He stood. “Get your boots.”
“It’s raining.”
“Playing in the rain is fun.”
“Yvor always made us stay in.”
“Do I look like Yvor?”
She took his hand and stroked the dagger. “No, you’re bigger. But we like you better.”
He blinked in surprise. “Why?”
Ealish looked at him shrewdly. “’Cause you don’t lie like other grownups.”
“Oh.”
“Is it because you’re aingeal?”
He stiffened. “Where did you hear that?”
Finlo never used the word. Malach had told the children his Marks were made from ink.
“Bretan says so.”
He was one of the older boys in Finlo’s charge.
“I am aingeal,” he admitted. “But my people lie, too.”
She absorbed this with a thoughtful expression. “Why don’t you?”
“I do sometimes.” He smiled. “Just not to you.”
She threw her arms around his waist. Poor Ealish. She was so desperate for affection. Roseen was the harshest, but all the kids thought she was weird. Malach picked her up and set her on his hip. At three and a half, she already had long legs.
“Be brave for me today,” he said. “Now get your stuff.”
He set her down and took off the apron, watching as she scampered from the kitchen.
They’d be muddy as hell when they came back inside, but he already had four loads of laundry to do. What did one more matter? And some form of exercise was crucial. If they stayed in, they’d trash the playroom and then refuse to nap, which was the worst possible outcome. Without that hour of quiet, he’d never get his other chores done.
“Form up!” he bellowed, grabbing a slicker from the hook by the front door.
There was the inevitable delay as he tied shoes, zipped jackets and located the stuffed snake with a red cloth tongue that Cristory couldn’t live without. If she took it outside, he’d have to pry it from her hands to wash it later, but he couldn’t face the battle it would require to leave it behind, so he delayed that fight until afternoon. Maybe he could sneak it away while she napped.
Finlo had taken the older ones on a field trip to visit one of the smaller temples to Valmitra. The house was pleasantly quiet.
They went out to the yard. It wasn’t raining too hard. Inry and Lonan beelined to the swings, immediately fighting over who got the one on the left. Both swings were identical. Unless it came to blows, he wouldn’t intervene. Then Cristory and Roseen discovered the deep puddle beneath the other swing where the children’s feet had eroded the ground. After jumping in it, they sat down to make mud pies.
“Take turns!” Malach called over when the boys’ dispute escalated. Each of them had hold of the swing, jerking it back and forth. They paused to stare at him.
“Inry went first yesterday. Today it’s Lonan’s turn.”
Inry scowled, but the solution complied with the children’s moral code. He backed away and let Lonan have the swing. “When do I get a turn?”
“Practice your numbers. Start counting to fifty.”
Finlo had given him that trick. Two birds with one stone. He’d be too busy counting to cause trouble and it satisfied the need for a definite end to the turn. Plus, Lonan needed the practice. Instead of writing numbers like all the others, he drew pictures of rainbows.
Inry backed up and let the swing fly. His feet hit the puddle as he passed over it, splattering the girls. Malach waited for a scream, but they seemed to like it.
“Do it again!” Cristory laughed.
The swing was passing dangerously close to the girls. Malach performed a rapid calculus. Tell them to move and they’d be mad. It was clearly the best puddle around. Sure, someone might get hit, but it wouldn’t be the first time. He used to be terrified of the swings. What if they fell off? Or crashed into another kid? As it turned out, they never fell off unless they were actively trying to. And the collision, while hard, wasn’t bone-shattering. The kid would get knocked over, cry, and then go on with whatever they were doing.
Malach chose to let fate take its course.
Raising children, he had learned, required some degree of forethought—if only to the next fifteen minutes. Who will get hungry and do I have a snack? If I have a snack, is a food item they’ll eat, or is that particular food on a taboo list? If I allow one child to do something, am I truly prepared to let all of them do it? And the most important of all: Never, ever make threats you don’t mean to carry out.
They were like the nihilim. If they wanted something, it was all they thought about. All they lived for. To get that one thing. Children were smart. They knew your attention was divided in a million places. If they just kept at you and kept at you, they’d eventually find a weak spot in the defenses. Yet with Malach they met a stone wall. It took weeks, but the children finally understood that he meant what he said.
And he never lied.
After that, things got a little easier. He learned the fine art of compromise. He was generous with praise when it was deserved. They obeyed his orders, mostly, though they didn’t warm to him.
That changed with the vomit soup.
It was another rainy day. He was exhausted by noon—a seemingly permanent state of affairs. The children were bored and cranky. So, in a fit of madness, he’d brought them all into the kitchen, yanked a huge bowl out of the cabinet, and told them to make soup.
The stove had safety latches. Through a fog of harassed distraction, he made sure they were all set and no sharp implements were lying around. Then he wandered into the playroom to straighten up the horrific mess before Finlo returned and passed out on the rug, having failed to learn his lesson from the last time.
He woke to Ealish shaking his arm. “Wake up, Malach! Wake up!”
He cracked his eyes.
“Come see what we made!”
Malach rolled to his back, filling with dread.
She tugged at his hand. “Come see!”
“Is everyone alive?” he asked blearily.
She ignored the question, but he thought screaming would have woken him. Probably.
“Come see, come see!”
The rest were crowding around now. All five. That was good. He moved to stand, Lonan hanging from his shoulders, and hoisted the boy higher. Piggyback rides were what had destroyed him after breakfast, but he felt better for the nap. Ready to face whatever fresh horror lurked in the kitchen.
It was about as bad as he’d expected. Every cabinet door standing wide open. Every drawer rifled as though the place had been robbed. Chairs were dragged to the cabinets so they could access the upper shelves. Flour coated the floor and table, along with various spices and condiments. A brimming bowl rested on the table.
“We made lunch!” Cristory announced, running to set out teacups as Lonan stirred the mess with a crusted wooden spoon.
Malach put on an expression of astonishment. “How did you know my favorite dish? It’s an old family recipe.”
They exchanged looks. “What’s it called?” Inry asked.
Broken chunks of carrot and other nameless things floated in a milky, speckled liquid.
“Vomit soup,” Malach said.
This was met with screams of delight. He pretended to eat some, then told them to clean it all up. That didn’t go so well, but at least he’d made a token gesture at teaching them responsibility. He poured the liquid down the sink and sent Roseen, who could generally be trusted, to give the scraps to the chickens.
He didn’t realize Ealish had laughed so hard she peed her pants until she sat on his lap.
Once, Malach would have felt private disgust, but he’d lost even that capacity. He simply said, “Whoops,” picked her up, stuck her in a bath, changed his Rahai, put on a clean one, and threw a load of the laundry into the washer without another thought. Personal dignity had no meaning down in the trenches with four-year-olds.
Now he watched Ealish closely. She’d drunk quite a lot of juice at breakfast. It was almost magic time.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
A car crept up the drive. Malach ran over and bent to the open window, rain coursing from the hood of his slicker. “Not a good time, Paarjini.”
He could have spoken in Athaaran, but he liked to make her use Osterlish. A petty inconvenience, but satisfying nonetheless.
The witch smiled. “Happened to be passin’ by, aingeal. Thought I’d see how you’re faring with the wee ones.”
“Fine,” he said, glancing over at the children.
“Finlo says they’ve taken to ye. And you’re not half bad at it.”
“What do you want?”
“Only to say ye’ve done me proud.” Her gaze moved to the house. “Where’s Finlo?”
“Field trip.”
She looked disappointed. “Tell him I say hello.”
“Yeah, I will. Look, I really have to get back.”
Her occasional visits were a reminder that they were watching. But he knew the witch also had something going on with Finlo. It would have been amusing if she wasn’t about to ruin weeks of hard work.
“So eager to be rid o’ me?” Parrjini laughed. “All right then.” She raised a hand in farewell, rolled up the window, and threw the car into reverse, backing down the drive.
Malach turned to Ealish. The girl crouched at the puddle, patting at her mud pie. Cris and Roseen played nearby but didn’t include her in their games, as usual. When Ealish suddenly stood up, knees pressed together, Malach leapt in for the kill. She was supposed to give him a secret sign, but she never did.
“Let’s go inside,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Help me grab the snacks.”
She gave a shaky nod. They hurried to the door. She was covered in mud. Did he dare take a few extra seconds to get her boots off?
Malach glanced down at her tense face.
No.
No, he did not.
They ran into the half-bath next to the kitchen, leaving a trail of muddy footprints. He’d left the light on. She wouldn’t pee in a dark bathroom. Nor would she let him close the door. Like some superstitious primitive of yore, Ealish insisted that the stars had to align perfectly, in every way, if the monster that lurked in the toilet wouldn’t get her.
“Almost there,” he said calmly.
They’d made it to the doorway countless times, only to fail at the last instant. The child stared straight ahead with a fixed, determined look in her eye. She was already yanking down her shorts. The toilet loomed ahead. Malach felt a surge of wonder as her butt hit the seat.
She held it in. She actually held it—
Ealish let out a stream of urine so hard it hit the doorknob. Malach leapt back. Hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat, but he held it inside. Laughing at her would ruin everything.
“Can you try to lean forward?” he wondered.
She clung to the seat, back rigid. At last, it ended. Ealish looked up at him with a glow of triumph. “I did it, Malach! I did it!”
“You sure did,” he said, grinning back. “Don’t forget to wipe. And wash your hands.”
She complied, then ran off without flushing. That would be another battle. He stood for a moment, confounded. He didn’t know little girls could even do that.
The kids played in the yard for a while more, then ate lunch and went down for naps. Malach dealt with the mess. When Finlo returned, they sat for a cup of tea in the kitchen. It was a daily ritual that Malach looked forward to with pathetic eagerness. They mostly talked about the kids, but just speaking to another adult kept him sane. He heard about the field trip, then proudly announced that Ealish had made it all the way that afternoon.
Finlo clapped him on the arm. “Nice work! I can’t believe she peed in the toilet.”
Malach looked at him seriously. “Well, she sat on it. And she peed. But she didn’t pee in it.”
Finlo looked puzzled.
“Not a single drop went in,” he explained. “Not one. She peed straight out.” He pointed to give a visual aid. “It went everywhere—except in the toilet.”
Finlo choked on his tea.
“I didn’t know what to do. I actually ran into the kitchen and grabbed a pot lid,” Malach explained, laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. “To . . . deflect it . . . . But it just made it worse.”
“Oh, goddess.” Finlo slumped at the counter, wiping his eyes. “Uh, which lid?”
Malach doubled over.
When he tucked them in that night, Ealish said she had to go, and this time she managed it in normal fashion. The child seemed peaceful as she burrowed beneath the covers. He kissed her brow, smoothing the dark hair back.
Is someone doing the same to my daughter?
The thought came out of nowhere. He’d been so consumed with getting through the days, his own grief had receded into the lightless depths—and Malach did everything he could to keep it there. But it was always waiting to bite if he came too close.
He switched off the lights, chest aching with a devouring emptiness.
Chapter Eight
Nikola faced the plump, flame-haired witch. “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she repeated, more slowly this time.
She’d woken in another cave, but the rough-hewn chamber was furnished with a bed, table and two chairs. Someone had dressed her in a white gown and bandaged her hands. They felt stiff. No sooner had she sat up than the witch appeared, yammering at her in a foreign tongue. It was guttural in parts, musical in others.
And altogether incomprehensible.
The witch eyed her impassively. “You must learn our tongue while you recover,” she said in a thick accent. “The task has fallen to me. We have little time, so I hope you are a quick study.” She touched her chest. “Es ain dom Cairness.”
The other witch from the ship. Nikola schooled her face to a bland expression. She could not let them know much she despised them. Not until it was too late.
“Es ain dom Nikola Thorn,” she replied.
There was no hint of approval in her gray eyes. “This is the last thing I will say to you in Osterlish, Nikola. If you want something, you will ask for it in my tongue. If you have a question or complaint, it will be spoken in Athaaran. You will do nothing else but practice the language until you dream in it. Do you understand?”
Nikola gave her a sour nod. “What’s the word for yes?”
“Ta. I expect to hear it from you frequently.”
Cairness handed her a battered primer made for children. It had pictures of everyday objects and people doing things, with words beneath.
“Sgrùdadh,” she said. “Study. Ionnsachadh. Learn.”
Nikola set the book aside. “I have to pee.”
Cairness stared at her. She said something that sounded like thigib and strode out the door. Nikola hurried to follow. A network of caves burrowed into the rock, some for sleeping, others for gathering. None had doors. A few women in the same wrapped dresses as Cairness glanced over as they passed. The steady, rumbling wash of the sea was not far off. Yet the rooms were dry and snug, with thick carpets covering the stone. The witch led her down a passage to a small alcove. It had a hole in the floor. A roll of toilet paper rested on a narrow ledge. Nikola peered into the hole. Waves surged below.
