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“You’re still going? What if someone knows you have a ‘guest?’ What if they start asking questions?”
“Oh, darling, I know.” Lasaraleen pulled a few diaphanous veils from her wardrobe and tossed them down on the bed holding them each against the lilac-colored dress she had picked out in turn. “But it will look horribly suspicious if I don’t go!” She tossed aside the black and maroon veils she had pulled out, eventually settling on a pale pink veil edged with tiny golden bells that tinkled with even the slightest movement. “I must behave as if nothing is strange, and when have you ever known me,” Lasaraleen asked, pressing a hand to her breastbone and raising her penciled eyebrows meaningfully, “to not attend a feast unless something was wrong?”
But that wasn’t exactly reassuring to Aravis. She leapt out of bed and grabbed Lasaraleen’s shoulders. Staring intently up into her friend’s face, she asked, hissing, “What if my father finds out?!”
Lasaraleen looked down at her in silence, her lips slightly pursed. Then, she reached up and drew Aravis’s hands away from her shoulders. Squeezing Aravis’s hands gently, she said, “Aravis, after all these years, I should think I know how to handle your father. It will be perfectly fine, just like all those times we were little and I told your parents you had stayed in the paddock instead of taking your horse out into the forest.”
Despite her misgivings, Aravis nodded slowly. Lasaraleen had always been a good liar. Sometimes, Aravis forgot how good. She just hoped Lasaraleen was still as good at lying as Aravis remembered her being. Good enough to keep a straight face in front of Aravis’s father, and her betrothed, as well.
Aravis awoke with a start when a loud ‘THUMP!’ sounded somewhere outside. She bolted out of bed, heart pounding painfully in her ribcage as her eyes darted frantically around the dark room. As Aravis was trying to decide whether she should go for the window or her sword (while barely reflecting on the difficulties of either jumping out a window or getting into a swordfight in the dark), she heard a second thump, and paused, frowning. Then there came several more thumps, accompanied by a distant shriek of laughter. Aravis collapsed on the side of the bed, cradling her head in her hands and groaning. It was just some merrymakers with a drum, somewhere outside—maybe on the narrow path between the back gardens, the ones servants and slaves used when delivering messages. The tension slowly drained out of her shoulders, taking with it any measure of energy she had in her. Aravis ran a hand through her loose hair, and sighed heavily.
She had honestly been enjoying having the opportunity to sleep on a real bed again. After what felt like an eternity sleeping on, at best, soft turf, and at worst, hard-packed earth that left Aravis feeling as though she had fallen from Banu—no, Hwin’s back, having a real bed with a real down mattress to sleep on seemed nothing short of miraculous. This was the first time in well-nigh two months she had woken up without her back or her neck screaming protests.
I don’t think I will be getting back to sleep now, Aravis allowed ruefully, standing again and grimacing as her feet hit the almost shockingly cold tiles. Her feet were still sore after wandering about Tashbaan on foot for several hours. All the baths and soft beds in the world couldn’t make that go away.
But still, Aravis didn’t crawl back into bed. Instead, she made her way carefully across the floor of the bedchamber in the guest quarters she had been given, and over to the window. As she approached, Aravis could hear the gentle babbling of the gazelle-shaped marble fountain in the flower garden outside. But when she peered out through the wooden lattice set over the interior of the window, she could make out neither fountain nor garden. All was darkness, except for faint pinpricks of golden light off in the distance.
The sun was still in the sky when Las left for that party, Aravis thought to herself, a faint strain of anxiety playing in the sudden hitch in her chest. It must be nearly midnight now. Suppose…
No. Aravis shook her head bracingly, trying to banish any such thought from her mind. Las always did love to socialize, even if it did mean not getting to bed until morning. And if I had been found out, surely I would have had some sign by now.
Still, she could hardly call herself ‘comfortable,’ being less than a mile away from the father whose house she had fled, and the man whom she would be bound to—thoroughly against her will—if she was caught here. Both men knew Tashbaan better than Aravis; even if Aravis had some forewarning of their coming to capture her, how likely was it that she would be able to get away? A woman running down the streets, dressed in fine clothes (however loose-fitting Lasaraleen’s clothes might be on Aravis) couldn’t have been any more common a sight here than it was than it was in any of the cities Aravis had visited and lived in over the years—she’d be spotted immediately. There’d be no time to get to the horses and get them out to anywhere they could run. Unless Lasaraleen was able to pass them off as her own (and Aravis’s father would recognize Hwin the moment he saw her), they’d be taken back into captivity and Lasaraleen would be punished for harboring a horse thief as well as a runaway, and…
Aravis gritted her teeth. It was just like at home, just the same as with Zhaleh and Minu. Why couldn’t she make good her escape without endangering other people? Why? Why couldn’t she slip the dragnets without someone else getting caught in her place?
At least the worst they would have done to Minu is beat her, Aravis assured herself, for what felt like the thousandth time since she had left Calavar. She’s a freewoman; Father can’t cut off an ear or a finger like you can with a slave. Aravis ran a hand over the prickly, over-sensitive gooseflesh of her arm, wincing as she did so. And Father wouldn’t sell Minu to the markets. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’ll realize Minu was drugged, and stop being angry with her.
Whatever had been done to Minu, she would be alright, eventually. If she was beaten, the bruises would fade; if she was whipped, the welts would heal. And if for whatever reason Aravis’s father realized that she probably hadn’t obtained the means to drug a servant on her own, that wouldn’t necessarily put Zhaleh under suspicion. Zhaleh would deny everything, just as she had said she would before all this began. The child growing within her and the well-known animosity between stepmother and stepdaughter would keep her safe.
Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just grasp my freedom without anyone else having to suffer for it? Why must it be that I can only move forwards by leading someone into harm’s way? Have I angered the gods by going against the will of my father? Or am I just too shortsighted to find a better way?
So far, it was only Shasta whom Aravis had managed to involve in her escape, and yet not harm, and that quite possibly only because he had already been trying to escape too. And now, even Shasta had been imperiled, dragged off by some Narnian king.
What could they want with him? Aravis wondered, clenching her jaw. She could think of many things a man, especially a highborn man, might want with a boy of Shasta’s age. Some were good, and others bad, but the bad seemed far more likely to Aravis at the moment, especially with the way Shasta had been so roughly dragged out of the crowd. As far as traveling companions went, Shasta had easily been the worst Aravis had ever had, sullen and sighing and incapable of even the most basic forms of politeness. Everything Aravis said or did made him glare or mutter something under his breath. Honestly, Bree had been more pleasant to talk to than Shasta, and Aravis still found herself reeling at the idea of being in the presence of Talking Animals from time to time. But that didn’t mean Aravis wished any of the worst she had imagined to befall Shasta. Not that.
If the Narnians don’t let him go, or he can’t get away, we’re just going to have to go on without him. No matter how poor an augury it seemed to lead yet another person into harm’s way in her own bid for freedom. Just as poor an omen as leaving Minu in the forest had seemed, with Zardeenah’s rites left unfinished. We can’t afford to wait for him any longer than tomorrow, and trying to rescue him would be suicidal. Maybe the Narnians mistook Shasta for someone else; after all, how many children with yellow hair are there running around the streets of Tashbaan? But even as Aravis told herself that, it seemed unlikely that that was the case.
The best thing to do would be to get out of Tashbaan as soon as possible. Yes, leave Tashbaan and go… Go to Narnia.
When the contents of the vial Zhaleh had given her had not seemed enough, when Aravis had despaired of finding a safe haven anywhere, Hwin had saved her, finding her tongue and telling Aravis of Narnia. Hwin had named it a safe haven for women looking to escape unwanted marriages, though Aravis didn’t doubt that the possibility of returning to her homeland had had something to do with Hwin’s recommendation. Even the slimmest chance of a successful escape had seemed worth latching onto at the time, but now? Now, Aravis was beginning to wonder.
It wasn’t so long ago that Narnia had languished under the dominion of a sorceress of terrible power, the Queen Jadis, or the White Witch, as she was more commonly known. Aravis had attended to her history lessons, even if equestrianism had always held grater appeal. Narnia had been wrapped in frozen winter for a hundred years, and any human who was foolish enough to pass Narnia’s borders was summarily executed. For a hundred years, Narnia had been a domain of Talking Animals, witches, demons and other monsters, with no human lords to rule them.
Magic left its mark on the land, left its unnatural stamp wherever it touched. Aravis was willing to accept that Talking Animals were not the result of Jadis’s sorcery—not once had Hwin or Bree ever struck Aravis as being evil. But who knew what other impact Jadis’s sorcery had had upon Narnia? Who knew how the land might have been twisted by its queen? And Aravis had heard it speculated that the current sibling rulers of Narnia must themselves have been powerful sorcerers, to be able to oust Jadis in such a short amount of time. Who knew what effects their sorcery might have had upon the land, if they were sorcerers themselves?
That wasn’t all.
Not long after Aravis and Lasaraleen had made it to the latter’s house, Lasaraleen had called for an early lunch. After all, it must have been ages since Aravis had last had any decent food; surely she must have been famished. An hour later, a few servants brought out more food than Aravis had seen since she had left home. The aroma alone had been enough to set her stomach growling and her mouth watering. Soon, Aravis was gorging herself on lamb drenched in raita, the yogurt flavored with mint and parsley, and boiled dates stuffed with minced chicken, parsley, rice and chopped walnuts. After that, she had moved on to the cucumber slices set out on the plate, the qurabiya, the pastries almost more pistachio than flour, and tasting of almonds and vanilla, before reaching for the rose sharbat brought out at the last, eating as though she’d not eaten in years.
Lasaraleen’s hand lit on Aravis’s. “Aravis, darling, are you alright?” she asked, concerned.
With some difficulty, Aravis looked away from her plate. “What are you talking about?”
Lasaraleen frowned deeply. “You’re crying.”
Aravis reached up and touched her cheek; she blinked, bewildered, to find it wet. “Oh,” Aravis muttered, looking away. “I… hadn’t noticed.”
After that, Aravis had spent nearly an hour in the baths, availing herself of the hot water available thanks to Lasaraleen’s husband’s willingness to invest in the newest innovations in plumbing (Though she did not take a milk bath, as Lasaraleen had tried coaxing her to do; no matter how Lasaraleen might swear by them, Aravis had never been enamored of milk baths). Every bit of mud and dust and blood fell away from her body, and Aravis felt almost as she had before she left home. Like someone who could be sure of her own future, someone who didn’t have to be afraid…
But that would never be again, would it? This would never be her life again, once she left Tashbaan. She couldn’t never go home again, never see her father or brother again, nor her half-brother or half-sister, once Zhaleh’s child had been born. Aravis was beginning to suspect that she would even miss Zhaleh herself, strange as it might have seemed a few months ago (If nothing else, it would be rank ingratitude not to miss the woman who had given her the means to escape in the first place). She would likely never see Lasaraleen again, either. The scandal of being known to have aided a Tarkheena fleeing her father and prospective husband could easily ruin Lasaraleen in court, not to mention put her in anger from Aravis’s father, from Ahoshta Tarkaan, and from anyone else who might take offense at Lasaraleen breeching the natural order of things.
Once she left the country, she could never return. Aravis would exile herself, and would have to make a new life elsewhere. Never again would she eat the food or hear the songs of her people. Never again could she be among her people, for a highborn woman alone and abroad was rare enough a sight that those who saw her might well send word to her father, who would send men to drag her back.
And she would be nothing. Just as she had been nothing to the people of Tashbaan, she would be nothing to the Narnians. Not a Tarkheena, not a woman to be treated with deference and respect, just a lowborn girl to be cuffed and shoved by every rough tradesman who saw fit to do so. Wherever she went, she would go with no fanfare, no recognition. It was possible that even the gods would turn their eyes away from her; it was said that the gods of Narnia, especially their chief, were jealous of their land and suffered no intervention in it.
For that matter, was Narnia even the safe haven Hwin claimed it to be? Aravis did not want to believe that Hwin would lie to her, but Hwin was a captive trying to make her way home. Might not a desperate captive resort to deceit to achieve her ends? Moreover, Hwin had been a little foal when she was taken from her people; Aravis could still remember the day Hwin had been brought to them, small, trembling and apparently nameless and voiceless. What little she could remember of Narnia must surely have been tinted with nostalgia.
Narnia was a land of barbarians; everyone knew that. It was small, provincial and backwards. Who was to say that its people were any kinder to women fleeing unwanted marriages than Aravis’s own? For all she knew, what humans had settled there since Jadis’s reign had ended might keep women as slaves and pets, fit for nothing but menial labor and fulfilling the base desires of the men who owned them. Perhaps the people there would be more than happy to ransom Aravis back to her father, if they got some profit out of it.
Suddenly, Aravis was glad that her bedchamber and the garden outside were both so dark. She couldn’t imagine what she would have seen in her eyes if she could have seen her reflection in the window. Night was not supposed to be a time for fear, not for maidens; Zardeenah was protector both of maidens and of the night, after all. But Aravis had not felt as though Zardeenah smiled upon her since she had left Minu unconscious in the forest in Calavar. It made sense, she supposed, that the night would become a thing of terror, if Zardeenah was wroth with her.
…It doesn’t matter.
“…It doesn’t matter,” Aravis said aloud, wishing her voice was more even than it was. She received no reply; the darkness did not shift. And yet, somehow…
Aravis had always known that it would be her will alone that would sustain her in her bid for freedom. In fleeing marriage to Ahoshta Tarkaan she decided society, disobeyed her father, and offended the gods, who demanded that children be obedient to their parents. If she made her way to Narnia only to find that it was no safe haven for her, well, there were many kingdoms on this earth. She would keep her sword, keep her wits, and she would never again give herself to despair.
What Aravis knew, what she had always known, was that she could not look to a past that was lost to her. No matter how she might want to.