Kitaryn

The feel of his lips chases me up the mountain: their warmth, their gentle brush over mine. I gasp in ragged breaths, pounding my feet against the path in desperate flight. The warmth will not let me escape, tingling up and down my core and grasping at my soul.

It was wrong of him to kiss me. Wrong.

I should never have known the feeling of a kiss full of meaning. As a child, I had dreamed of love; but as I matured, I abandoned those daydreams for my reality.

I am going to matron for “breeding,” not for love—not even for my preference. I have to partner someone even-tempered, practical, and completely dedicated to raising refined leaders. No passion allowed.

Now my heart bleeds with passion.

“How could you?!” I cry to the air. I know not whether I cry to Aodan, to my father, or even to the unhearing gods I redact each day. “How dare you?!”

I slow, wheezing, and lean against a tree. I'm nearing the city. I can't be seen entering like a madwoman.

Aodan’s apology isn’t enough to cover his transgression. It’s wrong, most of all, to take without permission. Just as when Trom had plunged forward with his quest for a partnership, my silence was taken for affirmation.

But it isn't what Aodan did that angers me. It's that I wanted it. That he had been right.

Days ago, I was the flawless jewel, cut and chipped into perfection, ready to be mounted on the family crown. Until the Barleyblossoms. Until him. Freedom. Family. Warmth.

 I close my eyes and sink to the ground. It's a lie. I've never been perfect. There was always a crack. And Aodan had seen it with the skilled eye of a jeweler, and had embraced it gladly.

He had seen through my glittering exterior; he had seen me. He’d known, somehow. Or did I betray myself? No matter what, he still shouldn’t have kissed me. “I know you can’t,” he’d said.

I've fled from him, but I cannot flee from myself. Instead, I gather what dignity remains. The memory of his warmth follows me home.

I'm shivering with its absence when I finally push open the door. My home is carved from the face of the mountain, hidden in a hollow. It gives the home a cave-like quality, even when hung with rugs and tapestries. I pass into the main chamber and see my father's eyes glowing in the darkness like twin moons. There's no candle lit for work. He's waiting for me. 

“Athyr.” I bow slightly and turn to go to my room. “Beautiful dreams,” I say in parting. This confrontation is the last thing I want.

“I hope you didn't exclude Master Clerk Trom on purpose.”

I stop halfway to my room, my mind spinning through my options. I have only a few: invent excuses, explain everything, or… run? The last one sounds appealing, but it would only add anger to disappointment.

I lift my chin and turn. Option four: double down. “What do you mean, Athyr? The Barleyblossoms chose today.”

“Then today should not have been an option. I assigned Trom to join you on this case, and you ignored that order. As if your display at the festival wasn't enough.”

“Athyr, I know I made a mistake. That day, I went too far—”

“You ‘went’ in the wrong direction, Kitaryn. I've been more than clear in my favoritism.”

“He started hinting at a matronage, Athyr.”

“Then we should have offered him one.”

“But I only just turned—”

“—and so you are within partnering age.” He hasn't moved from his cushion, not even to unfold his stark hands, and neither has his tone shifted from its glacial resonance.

“That doesn't mean I should rush—”

“You have no reason to delay.”

“I'm scared, Atti.” Yes, I am begging him to, for once, be not the Ceann, not my boss, but my father. 

“Scared?” One brow raises, then lowers with a vexed sigh. “If you're going to try to manipulate me, at least attempt subtlety. It will aid you when you become Ceann. Politicians are easier to manipulate when they aren't aware of your machinations.”

Machinations? Manipulate? “I'm not—”

Now he stands. “You're not a child, Kitaryn. I did not raise you to be any less than an intelligent and capable leader. Don't you dare prove to be anything less.”

I stare, dumbfounded. The little girl in me wants to cry. I wasn't lying. I am scared. Scared of the future where I obey and become just like him. And scared to do anything else. “I… I'll figure out how to correct this.”

“Yes, you will.” It is he with no heart who leaves the room first. Mine trembles with loneliness. I think again of Aodan, and go to bed scolding myself.

 My promise shadows me into the atrium of the Center of Culture the next morning. 

The day is dim, the weather drizzling from a gloomy sky. Soon, the highest peaks will glitter with snow.

I finger the crystalline leaves of my family tree. In the mournful dim, they appear lackluster. I need them to shine. I squeeze a vine in my fist. “Please help me forget.”

Plaensys appears in the corner of my eye, ducking toward the stairs.

“Plaensys!” Heat rushes to my cheeks. I've been caught talking to a tree. A dead tree. At least my friend has the respect to try and sneak by.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to pry, Kit.” The she-elf bobs her head. “It... seemed like a private moment.”

“I was just–well, I suppose it was.” I move to follow her up the stairs. “But I was also standing in the middle of a public room.”

Plaensys gives an uneasy smile, twisting a lock of her inky hair in her fingers. Together, we walk up the steps in silence until Plaensys pauses before the landing.

“Kit,” she faces me full on, squaring on me with a hard gaze that I would not tolerate from anyone else. “What you did to Trom was cruel.”

I lower my head. “I know. I didn’t just scratch the silver; I took a knife to it.”

“Twisted it into his heart, Kit. He’s a good man.”

I search my friend's face. She is pained, but something about the way her shoulders pulled taught and her hand clutches at her chest speaks to more than concern.

“Oh, Plaensys, I had no idea.” I squeeze her arm. “Why did you never initiate a match?”

“You’re athyr so obviously favored–”

“Oh forget that old clam.” Even to an elf’s eye, those are eternal creatures, unchanged and unmoved by the tides, growing thicker and harder shells each year.

“He’s been encouraging Trom’s affections for you for decades. I can’t compete with the daughter of a Ceann.”

Decades. I grimace. Sure, I've been an adult, but the idea that they’ve been conspiring since before I realized he existed makes me shudder.

“So, what’s happened to you?" Plaensys presses. "It’s unlike you to publicly shame someone. At worst, you would find a clever way to rebuff him privately, or perhaps deny him head-on in a closed room. What’s gotten into you?”

I pull her closer into a whispered conference, glancing around for eavesdroppers. “I tire of clams and their cold-blood and hard shells. I don’t want to become a clam.”

“Your father isn’t a sea-creature, Kit. He is a respected leader. What’s eating at you?”

It all comes rushing to the tip of my tongue: the wonderful dance, the easy laughter of the Barleyblossoms, the cold rebukes of my own childhood, and the loneliness of long nights locked in my father’s study. I swallow it back. 

Instead, I bring Plaensys into the office landing and gesture for her to sit at her desk. In the corner, Trom sits with his nose buried in stacks of scrolls. A few others shuffle books and pull pens quietly at their places.

I lower myself onto the opposite cushion while Plaensys takes her place. Then, I slide my order for a reconciliation and the list of ingredients across the desk. “I must recuse myself from this case. I believe you and Trom can handle the rest.”

Plaensys glances over the order, then raises her thin brow at me. “Didn’t you just prevent Trom from joining you last night?”

I nod.

Plaensys dons an anticipatory, “go on,” look.

“I no longer believe I can be objective.”

“Did something happen?” Plaensys dips her pen, ready to take notes.

“No, it was a perfectly beautiful meal full of kindness. The family was welcoming and provided me with a list of ingredients with little persuasion.”

Plaensys rests her quill. “And off the record?”

“They were all warm and kind, like I said. Warm, living, breathing, elves. Not a clam in the mix. Mattans. Athyrs. Sons.” I whisper the last word emphatically.

“Ah.” Plaensys presses her lips together, suppressing her girlish instincts to smile and demand details. I wish we could chatter like the children we once were, but this is no light matter. Plaensys’ finger taps rapidly on her desk, and she composes herself with a heavy sigh. “Trom may not be objective, either, in this case.”

I nod. That is a risk I must take. If Aodan had never said anything, had never acted, I could’ve locked my admiration inside, unacknowledged. But he put me in a difficult position by acting on what he—we—felt, rather than what is right. And I cannot deny my fancy for him. Or my envy over the joy in their lives.

If Trom oversteps, then I will intervene, but otherwise I need distance. I hope it will help seal away the hole inside of me.

“To confirm, this order states that if the reconciliation leads to multiple items tagged as ‘potentially magical,’ a search warrant should be issued for the recipe?”

“Yes, please look into it for me.” I rise from Plaensys’ desk, glancing at Trom. He flips to the next page of whatever he is annotating.

“Yes, Fyr-Ceann.”

Plaensys probably bobs her head, but I don’t see. I'm walking over to Trom’s desk. I crouch, not sitting, and watch him work. It’s a list of old epics that have been deemed atraditional, either too mythical or too religious for our Culture. He is notating which are still on file. One must be highly trusted to touch these epics and the heresies they contain. I bet it's a part of Athyr’s apology to him. Now it's my turn.

“Trom,” I begin. He doesn’t look up. “I will find a way to apologize publicly and mend things with you. What I did was harsh. I was rash.”

He marks another scroll as present.

“I left the notes from my investigation last night with Plaensys. The two of you can look into the next step. I have other things to attend to.” I stand.

“Why a Cultivator?”

“What?”

“Why not an artist? Or at least a businessman? Why so thorough, Kit?” He raises his eyes, and they're rimmed with red. His bad night must've been worse than I thought.

“I..." I'd love to tell him Aodan is a better man, and it had nothing to do with class. But that's not how it happened. "It was rash. A mis-step. I do make those, Trom, despite what you said.”

Before he can respond, I flee the room for the libraries. He didn’t deserve to be so thoroughly humiliated just for being fox-nipped. Or ambitious. His family has high expectations for him, too, and my partnership would have been a double win for him. Frosts, my own father has encouraged the notion. For decades. It's hardly his fault for being overconfident in this.

Most of all, I understand now how easily he could rush headlong into feelings. I wanted to for myself. In a single moment, I had felt I would give up everything just for a fleeting happiness. Just for that kiss. I press my fingers to my lips and shiver. I retreat into the Library of Ancestry and try to let my memories become only those: memories of missteps along a greater path.