Jala's Mask (8 page)

Jala smiled, too. “I'm sure my mother will be glad to hear it. I hope you don't expect me to look like that every day.”

He laughed at that, and for a moment his smile looked more like the one she'd seen on the beach weeks before. Was this his real smile? Azi the sailor's smile, perhaps? And if that was true, was Azi the sailor the real Azi?

“I didn't know if you would come,” he said. “But I hoped you would.”

“I hoped I would, too,” she said. There was a moment of awkward silence before Jala realized the silence didn't have to be awkward if she didn't want it to be. She kissed him. His mouth was warm, and her lips parted against his. Azi's hands ran down her side, and his fingers brushed lightly over her back. Why did that make her shiver? She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his chest. So she did. But the feeling of his skin and muscles beneath her fingers just made her want to touch him more. His hands tightened around her waist, as if he would pull her closer.

But instead he pushed her back and then turned away from her. “I'm sorry, I can't,” he said, breathing heavily.

“What do you mean, you can't?” Jala said, not quite able to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Did you have too much wine? Are you tired?” In spite of the possible reasons, she still reached for him again, but he backed away, keeping her at arm's length.

“No, it's not that. I just . . . I can't.”

Jala shook her head. “You don't mean you can't,” she said. “You mean you don't want to.”

“I do! I've wanted to since the night we met, and every other night since then, but . . .”

“But what? Have you changed your mind about having me as your queen? You're a day late if that's the case.”

“I don't want another queen,” he said, his voice so emphatic she almost forgave him. But when he reached out to take her hand, it was her turn to pull away from his touch.

“Then what is it?”

“I don't know. It's everything. We've hardly been able to talk the last few weeks, and I haven't been home in twice that time. They're going to expect me to be a king for real now. There's going to be the Sectioning, and I'll have to sit in judgment and . . . and I'm scared. Of all of it.”

“It's no different for me,” Jala said. “I'm no less scared. And at least you'll be home, with your family and friends around you. You haven't had to give up everyone you know.”

Azi's mouth twisted down. “What do you know about who or what I've had to give up? You only know Azi the King, ruler of the Five-and-One. If you'd met Azi the sailor you'd have hardly even looked at him. Your family wouldn't deign to let me dance with you, much less marry you.”

Why was he bringing her family into this? The last thing she wanted to talk about right now was her parents. “Is that so different from the way your uncle looks at me still?” Jala demanded. “You don't know me any better than I know you, either one of you. There are only two, aren't there? Or is there some other Azi I don't know about?”

He flinched, as though she'd hit on some nerve. “The only thing my family hasn't chosen for me is you. We're the king and queen now. Why shouldn't we take our time? If we were both commoners we wouldn't be bound by anyone else's schedule. We could do what we wanted when we wanted, marry or not marry, wait as long or as little as we needed to . . . to know who we were. And that we were right for each other. As Azi and Jala, not just as King and Queen.”

If they weren't right for each other, they'd both made a pretty big mistake, hadn't they? But she thought she understood. They hadn't had much time for just talking. They were talking now, and everything felt more awkward than before. She wanted to be back on the beach stealing kisses and hiding from everyone and their expectations.

Azi sighed and sat on the bed. “I don't think I'm ready for this. For any of this. Do you?”

“Yes,” Jala said. “No. Did you feel ready the first time you crossed the ocean? Or the first time you drew your sword?”

“This isn't the same thing,” Azi said, and she wasn't sure if he was talking about being the king or being with her.

She wasn't even sure she disagreed with him. She hated that, hated feeling confused and hurt and lost. Better to just jump in and hope everything worked out. Well, maybe not always better. But easier.

“Maybe you're right,” she said, turning away from him and opening the door. “Maybe you're not ready.”

She opened the door and stepped across the small hall into her room. It was dark, with only the slightest sliver of light from the stars and the lamps on the deck making its way into the room, but there wasn't much to see. She took off her crumpled dress and climbed into bed.

Jala lay awake for a long time, thinking of her family and the First Isle . . . and Azi. In spite of herself, she couldn't help thinking of him and remembering the moment—so brief, and yet it had felt so long—before he'd turned away from her.

I should have told him I was scared too
, she thought, floating in the darkness between the waking world and dreams. But it was too late, and soon sleep took her.

Jala slept late the next day, but eventually she knew she'd have to go out and face Azi. They were seated beside one another now, but they said almost as little as they had when they'd sat at either end of the ship. This, Jala noted, in spite of everything he'd said about learning more about each other.

What made the whole long journey even more frustrating was that despite being annoyed by him, she still couldn't help wanting to be near him. But just sitting next to him all day made her want to throw something—or someone—overboard.

She lay in bed that night, again unable to sleep, waiting for the sound of footsteps just outside her door. She wasn't going to go to him again, but he would come to her, she was sure of it.

He didn't come. Not that night, and not the next, and then there were no more nights left between them and the First Isle.

A hot, humid rain fell that morning, and they sat together. Her dress was damp and clung to her skin, and she pulled at it in irritation.

“I'm sorry the journey wasn't more exciting,” Azi said. “It wasn't what I wanted for us.”

“You could have changed it easily enough. You've hardly spoken to me this whole time,” Jala said, not bothering to mask her frustration. “I'm sure your uncle's pleased.”

“My uncle . . . isn't speaking much to me either. He's been taking mournroot again, I think. I'm sorry I've been like this. It will be better soon, I promise. I'll make sure of it. All that's left is the gifting ceremony, and then you'll get to see your new home. My home. I hope you like it.”

Jala wanted to say something to show him that she hadn't forgiven him, but then he reached out and took her hand, and for a moment she held her breath. “I hope I like it too,” she said, her voice quiet and uncertain. He squeezed her hand, and even though she knew something so small shouldn't erase the boring days and lonely nights . . . it made her feel better.

In spite of the rain and the wet clothes, she smiled. They were both new to this. Things would be all right.

“There it is,” he said, pointing needlessly at the island that appeared out of the rain and mist. “The First Isle.”

“Sails at half,” the captain called. Two sailors were already by the mast, clearly anticipating the order. The sails slackened, and the already slow ship moved more slowly as the island grew closer and more distinct. Soon Jala could see the beach where they would land and where the gifting ceremony would be performed.

“Sails slack. Oars down,” the captain ordered. Oars were lowered into the water, and they were rowed ashore. Azi took her hand again to help her down off the ship. Jala didn't need the help, but she took the hand anyway.

The other three families, the Gana, Rafa, and Nongo, had sailed ahead to land on the First Isle and make preparations for the gifting, and now they waited for Jala and Azi on the beach. Two wooden thrones had been set out for them, with palm fronds overhead to keep the rain off. They sat, and each of the ambassadors gave Jala gifts to welcome her and pledge their loyalty. There were fine dresses, combs and hairclips, rings and earrings.

The Rafa gave her a bird with a magnificent silver plume as fine as a spider's web. “It speaks better than any bird found on our islands,” the Rafa ambassador said, “and sings songs from far-off lands that it never forgets.” The Gana gave her a bottle of rare and very beautiful purple dye that had the misfortune to smell like rotten fish. They also gave her a jar filled with a thick cream made from the liver of some fearsome mainland beast. “They say it will make your skin stay smooth and beautiful, like the sky on the night of a full moon. Though now I see that our queen is so beautiful she may never need it.”

The Nongo brought her many trinkets of gold and copper, and one final gift: a large, brittle tome filled with gilded markings. “You see?” the ambassador said, laughing. “On the mainland, their minds are so dull that they cannot remember their own tales. But the illustrations are very beautiful.”

Jala had heard of the mainlander art called writing, but she'd never seen it before. It seemed so ridiculous, like catching fish with your feet instead of throwing a net with your hands. Careful to keep the rain off of the paper, she opened the book. The pictures were beautiful, just as the man had said. One caught her eyes as she continued to turn the pages: a man and a woman, fighting. Each of them wore a different mask over their faces. The man stood on a mountain, and on his mask was drawn a mountain. He held stones in his hands and threw them at the woman. She stood atop a wave or winding river, and her mask was a serpentine river. The stones did not hit her, and her river broke against the mountain.

Jala realized she was holding her breath, losing herself in the picture the way she might lose herself in the words of the very best storyteller.

“Thank you,” she said. “A truly unique gift. Perhaps I will hold a contest to see which island's storyteller can find meaning in these pictures.”

The ambassador smiled widely. “I have no doubt the Nongo would win such a contest, but the tales themselves would be a gift to all the islands. Wondrous new tales for a wondrous new queen. A promising start, yes?”

“Did your raiders find you a golden tongue, too, my lord?” Jala asked with a laugh. She dismissed him with a wave of her hands. The Nongo ambassador bowed and walked away, still smiling with self-satisfaction.

Jala looked down at the book again, flipping to another page. Someone had drawn thick, dark lines through the writing here and obscured the drawing with streaks of dark ink. She thought it might be flames, but it could just as easily be another mountain.

A promising start . . . not if her father had his way. But what could she do? No more than the river could, beating itself against the mountain.

Her family's presents waited for her in her room. By tradition, they gave her old, familiar things to help her feel more at home when she arrived: drapes from her old room, a pair of her mother's earrings, one of Marjani's dresses. Jala decided she wouldn't have it resized. She set the birdcage on a windowsill, and after a few minutes the bird repeated several dirty jokes. She wondered what she was supposed to do now that she was queen.

Of course, her parents already had their plans laid out.

The Bardo are royalty now
, her father had said.
Why should we scuttle after scraps when others eat from the table? The Rafa were great once, I don't deny it, but now they're old and weak. They don't have the ships to raid all the lands they lay claim to. It's time for us to get our share.

“I just have to figure out how to make it happen,” Jala told the bird.

Her father was right; the Rafa were too weak to raid all of their towns and caravans. But the Rafa were proud, and they'd blame her. When she brought it up, her father had just laughed and said, “Rafa anger is like the mountain's fart. It's harmless, and the stink will pass soon enough once the winds blow.”

She needed to speak with Azi. But when she opened her door, a maidservant was there, standing in her way like a very polite boulder.

“I want to see the king,” Jala said. “Please take me to him. I haven't learned my way around yet.”

“Wouldn't my queen prefer to rest after her journey?” the woman asked, not making any move to let her pass. “I can bring you fruit and wine if you're hungry. The hot springs are close by. If you don't mind the rain, it's very restful.”

“I've been resting for three days,” Jala said with a sigh. “I'm sorry, I should have asked you your name.”

The woman smiled. “Iliana, my queen.”

“Hello, Iliana.” As impatient as she felt, Jala decided she probably should eat, or she'd be hungry
and
irritable. And she shouldn't take her frustration out on a stranger. “The food does sound good, and the wine. I'll take both. When I'm finished, will you tell the king I want to see him?”