The Hillside

 There was a small inn on the waterfront whose owner told them to return in the evening, when he expected a friend to stop by, a man with his own vessel who'd been plying the trade route between the Pellian cities and the Oyebite coast. He was an enterprising man, said the innkeep, who was happy to take on passengers so long as it entailed no great detour. Tex decided to wait at the inn and chat with others who were passing through while Neteth walked about the town, followed by Asphodel, and together the two attracted more attention than he was comfortable with. He himself stood out as foreign in that country, blond hair being no less a rarity than his style of dress, suited as it was for a less temperate climate. He knew he would need new clothes, the damage to his cloak being all the more inducement to see to it soon, but decided to see to other things first.

They bought flatbread so fresh it was almost straight out of the oven and carried it in a covered basket to a hillside where they sat in the shadow of a fig tree, tearing off pieces of bread and dipping them in a shallow bowl of olive oil. They watched the ships on the bay. The hot bread, salty tang of the breeze blowing in from seaward, the sweet smell of the grove about them and the music of birds in the branches, the shifting chiaroscuro of sunlight trickling through the leaves, were all woven together into a moment that held for him more pleasure in its simple beauty than any luxury of the palace he'd left behind. He looked at the woman beside him and wondered if he would ever return to that life. If he lived, if he would make it back, if he would be welcome again. One contingency piled upon another. Then he swept such thoughts from his mind.

Even in such a tranquil moment her expression was guarded. There was a shadow over her dark eyes and her hair seemed a curtain drawn about her face. He wondered at the thoughts that must have haunted her, doubts about his intentions, a private fear and loathing of him no less potent than the strictures instilled by his own culture.

“I've never been so far from home,” he said.

“Not even on campaign? Your people raid further than this every year.”

“But I am not with them. Father says a king must learn statecraft first, lest he carelessly discard the lives of his men.”

“He sounds wise.”

“Yet more than anything, my education has taught me how much I haven't learned. How much simpler it is to fight. To see one's enemy face to face and settle the matter by strength.”

“If you know who your enemy is,” she said.

“I know our reputation and the cruelties of which others have accused us, some of which are true. Father says he can easily endure the hatred of those who fear him. That we are too few to betray weakness, no matter how slight it may seem to us.”

“You're his only son, aren't you?”

“The last in the entire line. His brother died childless.”

“I remember the feast when we learned of his death. No doubt there will be another when the king dies,” she said plainly, as though discussing the weather. “He may be your father, but to us he is Pazugesar the Butcher.”

“I'll not repent of his deeds. My people have our interests as do yours. We know from bitter experience how you treat others when you have the upper hand. It's the way of things.”

“Then why are you here?” she demanded.

“Because you're not...” He struggled to summon the right words. She watched him, inscrutable. “This is the right thing to do.”

“Such concern for someone you think incapable of repaying in kind. Once you're crowned you'll stack our bodies like cordwood and you'll feel nothing.”

“Necessity is a more reliable guide than the heart. What others see in us as kindness or malice is but the shadow of fate,” he said carefully.

“You and your father have different ideas of what's necessary.”

“I'm not doing this for you,” he said, though his expression failed far of bearing out those harsh words.

“Of course. One day we'll be enemies and you'll have earned my friendship for nothing.”

The chunk of bread in his hand had gone cold. He tossed it away and did not reach for another. The prince had never felt so badly at a loss for words and at length stood, turning from Asphodel lest she see any weakness in him.

“Were it any other way.” The words were utterly emotionless, and that offended her more than if he'd spat some insult in her face. She followed him down the hill.

“You keep talking like you don't have a say in this.”

“As a prince I very much do not.”

“So stop thinking like a prince.”

“Then what am I supposed to be?” He instantly regretted the outburst for revealing how deeply she had cut him. He grasped that wounded place within himself, feeble and frail and the opposite of everything he aspired to be. He composed himself the way he knew he should. The tutors, with their infuriating insistence that calm was a virtue in itself, had gotten to him through repetition if nothing else. He could imagine one of the old philosophers stroking his beard and asking the prince why he let mere words affect him so. The question was easy enough, but the answer eluded him.

“Will you stop following me?” he asked, more resigned than angry.

“They have no greater love for us here than in your country.”

“Us.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, we won't be here much longer. Going by sea will save time compared to the path that caravan took. Not as many people to contend with, either,” said Neteth.

The buildings they passed were made of timber and stone, solid structures able to weather the occasional storm that blew in from the open sea. As a rule they were small but well built, lining the hillsides such that from a distance they merged into a single chaotic facade, walls and windows jutting out at odd angles beneath the reassuring regularity of the acropolis above. The small citadel was expertly sited, overlooking the entire settlement from its perch at the inlet's mouth. Neteth evaluated it without conscious thought, for this too was a lesson slowly and irrevocably kneaded into the substance of his being. It was an excellent location, some part of him mused, but the towers did not project from the wall enough to cover the barbican. A small band, working with sufficient ingenuity and determination, could batter down the gate with ease. By inclination or by training it was so easy to fall into such patterns of thought that he didn't notice until Asphodel asked what he was looking at. He wondered if she would understand.

“The architecture here is different than back home,” he said. That much was true – aside from the choice of materials, Pellian work could instantly be distinguished by that people's fondness for columns. In contrast to the pleasing hierarchy of a pyramid or a ziggurat, as was favored for the monuments of their neighbors, these people were obsessed with top-heavy arches and domes, structures that seemed to defy gravity in their bold verticality.

“Is this what you'll make the world look like? Once you're done conquering it, of course,” she teased him gently.

“There's something charming about it, don't you think?”

“It's not like what I grew up with either,” she admitted. “The first time I saw it, I hated it. I thought it was crude, plain, and unimaginative. But it's not all bad, I suppose.”

“Maybe you'll have the chance to show me what something elegant, artistic, and creative looks like,” he replied easily.

“Maybe,” she echoed as they returned to the inn, something in her tone suggesting that what he said was impossible and they would both be better off if he left it at that. Neteth stopped at the entrance, let her go ahead, and the thought within him withered away before he could find the words for it. So he lingered at the threshold, wondering at the maze in which he'd found himself and longing for the familiarity of home.