All that Matters

Kin could have been Kinsom.

Jadda found it disturbing. Every time she looked at him, she would at first see the young man who’d come to her on Firenight, back up at Lake Elfstan, and convinced her to come away with him in search of her brother. Then, in the next second, she would see him again through different eyes and know that he wasn’t quite that man, there were still subtle changes, in the shape of his face, the hue and texture of his skin, in his eyes. And he was older, though he didn’t look as old as she felt he should. She guessed that decades had passed for him, but to her eyes he looked like a man on the cusp of maybe thirty.

His last few days had been difficult. The transition from one world to another had caused him pain. She’d had to crouch beside him while he rocked and moaned, tortured by the world he’d been born in reacting to those parts of him that didn’t belong to it. Those parts slowly fell away, this barkskin moulting, drawing blood when it did. He told her he felt like his bones were on fire. He told her sometimes that he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t move. He might beg her not to leave him in a voice that sounded like a child’s. She would sit and hold him, rocking him like a child, remembering how the other Kinsom had held her when she’d been burnt in the forest.

Kin. He’s still not Kinsom.

Though she doubted her own convictions. They’d both come from the same core, who was to say which one was the real one and which one the duplicate? What mattered, she told herself, was that this was not the one she knew, he was not her Kinsom, so if she chose to call him by a different name, that was her business. And she admitted to herself that the feelings she had towards that other one had been romantic, she had held a kernel of hope, she had considered.

They approached the latest town, and she assured Kin that he looked quite normal now, that he wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

Their coin was getting limited. They might have to work for a night of food and board.

“That’s fine,” he said, “I’m strong enough now.”

More than strong enough. His strength was still that of an ogre’s.

The last town had been gold. They’d spoken to a farmer whose family had hosted Dreok for a half a year a little longer than a year ago now. He’d been ragged and unwell at first, but he’d rallied; and they spoke highly of him – a good man, a solid young man, quick-witted, they could confirm his intent to go to Ashelmarring. The farmwife thought that he had prospects, he was meant for a better life. The daughter had embroidered a scrap of sheepskin for him – would they give it to him when they found him?

Buoyed by it all, Jadda walked into the latest town, eager for more news.

This was Two Rivers, a magical place where the Shaliethe and Ushelay rivers met in a boiling pool, spraying mist into the air, and in the bright light of today, spraying rainbows with it.

“You can feel it,” Kin said, “there really is power beneath that spot?”

Jadda couldn’t. She wondered if Kin was guided by a genuine sense, or by his imagination?  He knew about Ashelmarring, though. Perhaps his time in that forest had imbued him with a gift for wizardry. There were legends surrounding such things.

#

In the village they made enquiries, would a bed for the night be too much trouble? They were young and healthy, willing to work. And had they seen her brother, Dreok, might he have a passed through here about a year ago?

Yes, and yes. A big, beefy farmhard assured them he’d seen Dreok, had even gambled with him for a few hours at dice. He’d been friendly, and eager, and in the young man’s opinion he’d been in love.

“In love?”

“He was chasing a girl, wasn’t he? All the way to the big city.”

“Dreok was?”

“Infatuated. He was planning to make his fortune, just to be worthy of her.”

This she could imagine. Dreok with his sights on some woman of breeding and means, someone out of his range, deemed by society too good for him, so of course he would only want her all the more. Yes. This was her brother. The same Dreok. He’d been this way.

“My aunty can give you board for the night. If you help with the weeds in the morning.”

As simple as that: a bed, a supper, in exchange for a morning of work.

But then an old woman pushed through the little market crowd. She came up to Kin, staring at him, her eyes bright in her creased, gnomish face.

“Is it you?” she demanded.

Kin just looked puzzled.

“Is it you? Anastrin?”

“No… my name is…” and he didn’t know if he should use Kin or Kinsom, Jadda could see him hesitating.

“This is Kin. My… friend…”

The woman met his eyes, there was a fearless quality to her that perhaps came from caring for too little. Eyes that said: I’ve lived nearly eighty winters, what should I be afraid of? She held him with those steely, unforgiving eyes. “It is you,” she said, “you’ve changed, your skin isn’t golden anymore, but it’s you, and you’ve barely aged a day.”

“I’m not… “

“Oh you are. You can change your name and change your face, but I know you. It’s true then, the fey don’t age like other men. You return to your magic forest, forget about me, while I age half a century, and time hardly touches you.”

“I’m not… I wasn’t alive half a century ago?”

“Why didn’t you come for me?”

“This wasn’t me.”

“I waited. As long as I could. You promised me Firenight.”

“That was another man. I swear. I’ve only lived twenty-eight years.”

“Liar,” she said, her voice soft and cold. She glanced over her shoulder at an old man who came towards her, made a sound of disgust and turned away to walk to him, but when he tried to take her arm she shrugged him away, walked past him, while the man turned to follow her.

#

“But could it have been?” Jadda pressed him.

“I don’t see how.”

“Yes, you do. There was you. And there was him.”

“He was with you. He went looking for Dreok. And he didn’t do it fifty years ago.”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Time moves different there.”

“Not backwards.”

“Who’s to say?”

“You don’t really believe that?”

“Why not?” There was something about the old woman that convinced Jadda she’d seen Kin truly. “What do we know about that forest and how it works. Maybe when it spits him up again he’ll live and change, his skin turns to gold, he changes his name, and he finds a way out for long enough to make a promise to the girl that woman used to be.”

“We don’t have any reason to believe that?”

“Except that she recognized you?”

“She thought she did.”

#

The family hosting them had heard about the altercation. The story had passed with the forest fire speed of a gossip in a little village.

“Ah, that one,” said the wife, “well the truth is, she’s a little daft. Was never quite right in the head, so they say. Her poor husband. He could never do enough to please her, and he tried, the poor lad – he was as young as she was when they married. But nothing he could do was good enough, she scorned him, ignored him. Rumour has it she would barely tolerate his bed.”

“What about this Anastrin?”

“First I’ve ever heard that.”

Jadda reached for a small, dark loaf when the basket was passed to her, “Do you think she could have had a lover?”

“It might explain a lot. She wouldn’t be the first girl compromised by a some slick Firenight visitor, who then had to live with the consequences. Not that they ever had a baby, all these years, so maybe not quite that compromised. Still, it happens often enough.”

“She referred to him as fey.”

“Huh, well there’s no end of lies a man will tell a girl when he’s trying to lift her skirt. Never believe a man, and believe him half as much again on Firenight.”

The husband gave her a look.

She returned it boldly: “What wouldn’t you have told me to drag me up onto the ridge twenty years ago?”

The husband smiled affectionately, “Yes, indeed, I would have said I was the king himself.”

#

In the dead of night, rustling sounds woke Jadda. And then a keening that chilled her in the base of her spine. Kin was awake was well, and he sprang to the window.

There was a trickle of firelight outside.

The old woman stood there. She wore a thick-skirted dress – perhaps her best – and had beads around her neck. She stood tall and held a torch up in one hand. There was a thunderstorm raging across her face.

Kin whispered, “Wake the family.”

It was Kin she wanted though. She held the torch high, inching it towards the thatch. “You’re a dirty, filthy liar. And I gave away my life pining for you. Do you know that?”

Jadda opened the shutters, “It isn’t what you think?”

“You’re his lover now? He won’t stay by your side.”

“I’m not. He’s a friend.”

“Don’t let him touch you.”

“Are you going to burn us all?”

Her face hardened, though it was wet with tears. “I will. If he’s in there. I will. I will. It’s what he deserves.”

The farmer and his wife, with their two children were emerging from the house.

“Go too,” Kin had come up behind her.

“What?”

“She’ll let you leave.”

“She’ll try to burn the house with you in it.”

“I’ll be behind you. She’ll wait.”

“For you.”

“I’ll be safe.”

The woman was old, almost ancient; but the resolve in her was unmistakable. The farmer and his wife were trying to calm her, but she jabbed the burning torch at them if they tried to get too close. The flames didn’t care that she was a frail old woman, all they saw was fuel.

Jadda stepped out in the night. “He’s not the one,” she said, “Trust me. The man you met is still in the forest, he’ll find you, back then, but he hasn’t yet. I promise.”

The woman looked at her, assessing.

“I’ve been to the forest. I know. His name was Kinsom. He would have come back for you if he could. But this isn’t him.” Mostly. Mostly true.

“Kinsom. Kin.”

“He’s not the same. I promise.”

A shout broke through the air. A name, gruff and gurgled, carrying on the air. “Sanlith!”

The woman turned. “Petrod?”

The old man – surely her husband – approached at a run. Though he must be close to eighty, he moved little slower than a man half that age. He rushed toward the woman. “What are you doing?”

“He lied to me. Anastrin. I loved him and he lied.”

The man blinked, confused.

“I was his before I was yours. Haven’t you figured it out? I loved him, and you could never have measured up. Are you happy?  Did you never even dream of it?”

“Let Mogroth have the torch.”

The farmer reached for it.

“Were you going to burn their house?”

“Him. I was going to burn him.”

The man put his arms around her shoulders while she sank to the ground, fingers clawing her eyes, massaging out more tears.

“I never loved you,” she said, though it sounded more like spite than truth.

The man just smothered her in his embrace. “I have always loved you. And that’s all matters.”

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work