Chapter 7

He thinks a lot about what he is going to say to Parth and how he will say it. In the end he can’t settle on anything that sounds adequate.

“My doors will always be open to you. Once all this is over, please come with me back to Satra, and stay a while. I will ensure that you will want for nothing.” He thinks of them spending warm afternoons in the gardens, and going for puppet shows when the stars are out, and sitting and talking by the fountains and waterworks that run all summer. If he can manage it, he will try to convince the king to let Parth to stay at the palace. Stuvan has never been open to guests of low station, but surely he will receive them if they are Toru’s companions. Toru rarely makes requests, and his word will count for something once he returns.

“I won’t come.”

Toru is taken aback. He had expected hesitance, but not outright refusal. “Is the journey too difficult from here? I can have a carriage arranged.”

Parth has closed his eyes, and when he opens them they are very tired. “I said I will not come. It is not because I do not want to.”

Understanding collides into Toru. He sits down heavily opposite Parth, against the wall, his mirror image. He does not know what to offer, how to fix this. He almost says something stupid like, Ishir hasn’t been able to cure it? At a loss, he starts talking, mostly to himself, trying to work things out so they do not end up as they likely will. “We have the best physicians at the palace, as well as equipment, and the weather is not so harsh. But the journey, I’m not sure…what if I called a caravan – ”

“Toru. There is nothing to be done.”

Toru wants to kick something. How can there be nothing? If they try hard enough, if they work fast enough, then they should be able to come up with something. The more rational part of him thinks back to the low mutterings of the palace physicians. “Sosha?” he asks. That is what they called it. Toru knows the symptoms. Fever. Chills. Weight loss. A bloody cough.

Parth does not nod, but he doesn’t have to.

“You’re…” My first friend is too pathetic to vocalise. Toru trails off lamely, covering his face with his hand. All the nervous excitement that had been in him has been swept away and replaced with something cold and limp. He wants to ask, How long? but Parth has probably thought about that a lot – he does not want to make him think about it even more.

Parth fiddles with the fringe of his shawl. “Lord Sukasha made his plan for me. What am I do to about it?”

“Sukasha? You’re Nagashinian?” Perhaps his plan to bring Parth to Satra had been ill-fated from the start; most of the city people remain in their happily secluded walls and regard outsiders with a kind of committed hostility.

“I am. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

Soaking grief has left Toru too tired to lie, even to be kind. “A little.” He tucks his knees under him. “Does it make you uncomfortable that I am Bishinyan?”

Parth’s smile is a small, wry thing. “Uncomfortable is not the right word. Wary, perhaps.”

Toru looks away. He hates the idea that Parth might find him aggressive or condescending – and the worst part is that he has reason to. “I – ”

“Apologise and I’ll put you on your ass. I’m not here for your pity.”

Toru blinks. “You couldn’t. I’m a good fighter.”

Parth bursts into laughter, which devolves into coughs. He covers his mouth with a handkerchief as Toru scrambles to pour him a cup of water. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he rasps, after he takes a long sip. He leans his head back against the wall. Breathes. His lashes are thick against his cheek. “Stay, won’t you?” It is not a request.

Toru stays.

***

The wind dies down on the day of the performance. Toru knows it is useless to practice in the hours before – he has done what he could. On the day of a performance, all you can do is put on a show and pray for triumph.

He is only a little nervous. He circles the gathering hall, throwing glances at the veena resting in a corner by the stage – the stage, that is, a carpet and a cushion for him to sit on. It is more than he expected. Ishir is not present; someone’s brat had fallen out of a tree, and he had gone to tend to her. Parth is seated cross-legged by a wall, talking quietly with a woman Toru recognises as Madhurima, one of the patients he has administered medicine for joint pain to during rounds. Her yellowed buck teeth are prominent as she laughs, and her silver hair shakes in its bun. Beside her a boy – perhaps her grandson – plays with a toy bullock cart, wheeling it along the uneven wooden floor.

Toru wants to speak with Parth, to help soothe his own nerves, but he does not wish to intrude, and he is an even worse talker than usual in groups. He ambles back to the veena, tunes it, idly warms up. Some more people have trickled in, including the headman who lent Toru his instrument, but the crowd is still thin. He tries to find it in him to be offended, but he is relieved that, if he stumbles (which is likely), there will be fewer people to see it. He takes a swig of water.

At length he settles onto the carpet. He waits for the crowd to stop chattering, but they carry on. He says, “If everyone could quiet down, that would be appreciated,” and is merrily ignored. A flush comes to his cheeks.

Parth stands up and gives two sharp claps, that good-natured smile never leaving his face. “Pipe down, everyone! The man’s trying to entertain us.”

After a few murmurs, silence descends. Toru makes a quick, silent prayer before beginning. He fumbles at first, getting the notes wrong, to his mortification; there’s sweat underneath his arms, sticking to his clothes. But then he settles into the performance, and his mind drifts to his old music teacher, the way he would pick students at random to come up in front and sing, that time he yanked Toru’s ear for not paying attention in class. He appreciated Toru’s skill with the veena, and praised him for practising so often, even though Toru did not consider it practise. He simply played it whenever he could. One night, after Master Vihana had hauled him over the coals for losing two spars in a row with another boy, he played in his chamber until he was disturbed by a flutter of wings outside. A bat, perhaps. He went to the window, and looked up, and the sky was a spray of stars. Its blue-black canvas was shot through with hazes of persimmon and lilac that disappeared into the horizon. A soft velvet of quietude draped over him, and any thoughts of sleep were banished. Till morning he sat beneath that window, staring up at the vast sky and playing his veena, and the next night he tried to do it again, but the sky was different, and that velvet had faded away, and he resigned himself to his bed, jilted and aching.

The gathering hall comes back into his vision as the music ends, the last solemn note reverberating away into the air. Toru watches the audience’s faces, many rapt, a few yawning, and beyond all Parth’s face, glowing, smiling, all teeth, with wonder in his eyes. It makes something in Toru’s chest swell pleasantly, and he soaks in the feeling, bewildered at it, breathless. After a moment he realises it is happiness. Happiness at playing for these people, for Parth.

Parth comes over and kneels before him and hits his shoulder. “I guess you really are a prince!”

Toru looks at the crinkles around his eyes, at the radiant honesty in his face, and thinks, It was supposed to be you on the throne. He thinks, You are thunder gathered to a needlepoint.

“And,” Parth is saying, soft all of a sudden, “here I was thinking you had no idea how to smile.”

Toru touches his own face, surprised, and his smile falters.

“It suits you, prince. You should do it more often.”

There’s a scattered applause, somewhere far away.

***

Outside, it has grown dark. After returning the veena to the headman, Toru walks Parth back to his house, supporting him by the elbow when he stumbles. Parth’s breath comes harshly. The wind has picked up again. “I am so tired today,” he says in a quiet, gossamer voice, with his eyes closed. When they come inside, Toru helps him sit in his bedroll with his back against the wall. Parth’s brow has a sheen, and his hand against the blanket is thin and spindly. Toru should go, check on Ishir. He does not move. “You need to eat,” he says.

“Not hungry.”

Toru gets him warm milk and some flatbread. Parth does not look at it. He leans his head against the wall and says, “If that was the last performance I ever saw, I am grateful for it.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Toru snaps. “Drink the milk.”

“It’s only the way of things. I know it is. I know, and yet, I can’t help but wonder, what would be there for me if things were not this way? I know I’m not old, but it stings that I’ve nothing to show for my years.”

“What about your weaving?”

Parth blinks like he is waking from a deep dream. “Yes, I suppose, I do love it, but it’s nothing of significance. I like to think there’s artistry in it, but so much is made in a hurry, as part of the next batch to sell. And I haven’t the money to use finer materials, or pay an apprentice. I keep thinking: is this all right?” He gazes at the sealed window. “I’ve barely seen the other side of the mountains.”

Toru does not know how to comfort him. All the words that come to him are inadequate and dissipate like smoke. “You are tired, Parth. Rest. Tomorrow I can play you another song.”

The laugh that comes from Parth’s mouth sounds like a sob. He lurches forward and slings his arms around Toru’s neck, and speaks against Toru’s shoulder. “Of course I’m afraid,” he says. “Of course I am.” His shoulders shake, and Toru is alarmed at this deepening crack in the bulwark of Parth’s courage and stubborn joy. He rests his hands on Parth’s back, first gingerly, then firmly; his neck is hot and damp from Parth’s breath. No one has ever touched him freely before. He has shared embraces with Stuvan and Suhasini, delicate things accompanied by wafts of rose and jasmine and musk. Not like this. It is uncomfortable, with Parth’s bones digging into him and his weight nearly tipping him over. He does not want to move away.

When Parth pulls back, his face is red and blotchy. He is clutching at Toru’s arms. There is a fissure splitting through Toru’s centre.

“Tell me about the palace,” says Parth. His voice sounds like he’s been screaming for hours. “Where have you been that is not here?” He rests his head against Toru’s chest, curling up.

Toru fortifies himself with a deep breath. He talks and talks, till his eyes grow dry and itchy and the lamp needs to be replaced. Neither of them sleeps. When dawn comes Toru lays Parth down on his bedroll and dabs at the sweat on his face. He should stay here to keep Parth comfortable – Ishir will surely be relieved to have the house to himself again. As he gets up Parth’s cold fingers grasp his own. “Don’t,” Parth says, hoarse.

“I am only going to get some supplies. I will be back soon.”

Parth shakes his head.

Toru sits back down, and holds Parth’s hand for a long time.