What From the Water Rises #20

In which Azar makes some startling discoveries

Sometime around dawn, Azar woke to Phaeon pacing circles around their little house and muttering to himself.

Still half-asleep, he tried to eavesdrop, but caught none of the words; a minute later, Phaeon headed out the front door, slamming it behind himself. Before he had time to worry about it, Azar drifted back into a light, dreamless sleep.

When he woke again, it was to the sound of Phaeon returning; he guessed from the character of the sunlight through the open door that he’d slept in until mid-morning. Usually, the sound of Phaeon preparing breakfast was what roused him. Now he was groggy from oversleeping, trying to determine what Phaeon was talking about this time.

For a while, he lay motionless, feigning sleep in the hopes he would catch a mumbled word or two. He could discern none of them, though, only the aggravated tone—and as soon as he lifted his head, Phaeon fell silent and turned, mid-pace, to the stove.

Azar pretended he had not noticed, but he had to wonder how stupid Phaeon thought him. Despite the wall of courtesy the swordsman maintained between them, Azar had learned to read his moods with little effort; they’d known each other for years, and now they’d lived together in the same tiny house for weeks.

Did Phaeon think he was subtle? Or did he think Azar was too self-absorbed to notice his agitation?

Even after he’d stopped pacing and started cooking breakfast, Azar recognized the tension in Phaeon’s shoulders—the avoidance of eye contact when they greeted each other—the way his fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against the pantry shelf as he waited for the tea water to boil. It all spoke to something unsettled in him.

And whatever it was, Phaeon did not want to talk about it.

They ate breakfast together in a silence too heavy to feel companionable. The tension was palpable, and it was almost painful to pretend not to notice it, but Azar said nothing. If Phaeon wanted to talk about whatever bothered him, he would; if he thought it better to keep it to himself, Azar would never be able to force a word from him.

The moment he finished eating, Phaeon stacked his dishes and abruptly stood. “I’m going out,” he said stiffly. “I’ll be back later.”

Azar nodded and took a sip of tea, watching Phaeon head toward their beds over the rim of his cup. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked, his tone light, though he knew the answer.

Phaeon hesitated. “Not today,” he said. His tone was firm—final. After a lengthy pause, he explained, “I have an errand to run, and it’ll take all morning. You don’t need to come.”

Any other day, Azar would have said he wanted to go with Phaeon whether he was needed or not. Today, he dropped the subject and watched Phaeon pull his sword belt from the hook on the wall without a word.

That was unusual, Azar thought as he collected their dirty dishes, still feigning ignorance. Phaeon never left the house by himself with his sword anymore. Apparently, he carried the weapon for Azar’s protection alone, never for himself. It struck Azar as absurd, either way; maybe Phaeon liked the quiet threat of carrying it, but even if someone harmed Azar, Anvashe would certainly react first. At best, Phaeon might take revenge before the god had the chance to respond—an act of violence that would put him, too, at the mercy of Anvashe’s judgment.

Why Phaeon would insist upon leaving the house both alone and with his sword, Azar could not guess. He glanced back in time to see Phaeon pushing out the door with a murmured goodbye, then stood in the empty house and considered his options.

It would be easy to follow Phaeon to his “errand”—to slip out and rely on the likelihood that Phaeon was too distracted to notice him tailing. If he wanted to do that, though, he needed to act now.

The decision came to him easily, his curiosity overcoming a vague sense of guilt, and he slipped outside.

Azar circled around the side of the house, grateful to find Phaeon in the distance, heading inland on the now-familiar path toward the city. Azar kept a slow pace, creeping near the edge of the path in case he needed to jump into the brush and hide, but Phaeon never glanced back; he just kept walking. At the city’s edge, he curved away from the path to head straight to the westernmost corner of Zuenos.

Azar hesitated, then followed.

There, at the edge of the city, Azar was startled to see a large gathering of people milling around a wide plaza. In the clearing at the center of the crowd, two men were speaking to each other, both of them Sehmeri. One—a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing an easy smile—held a war hammer; the other, narrow and long-haired, had a hand planted on his hip, a sword hanging on his other side.

Was Phaeon here to watch the fight, or did he have some other business in this part of the city? Azar could not imagine why he would choose to wade into this crowd if it was not his destination; he’d lost track of him the moment he stepped into it. Though the air simmered with an anticipation he didn’t like, he slipped into the crowd as well, scanning for his familiar face.

People murmured all around him in mingled confused and excited tones, with familiar Sehmeri cadences among the lilting Mesaanoti accents. The two people beside him were both Mesaanoti women, and they whispered excited praise about Leontas—who, he gathered, was the man with the war hammer, and if their gossip was to be believed, the best fighter on the island and a notorious sword-breaker.

His gaze swung back to the middle of the crowd, easily finding Leontas at his towering height. Besides his size, the confidence in his posture and written across his face—almost bored as he prepared to fight—made the women’s claims easy enough to believe.

Why was he standing beside his opponent, though? What were they waiting for? Azar lifted himself up on his toes for a better view through the throng—

His breath caught in his chest. Phaeon emerged from the crowd and approached the others standing in the center.

Phaeon had mentioned once—offhand, and furious—that a child messenger had approached him at some point to ask if he would champion for someone; Azar had never quite understood why Phaeon was so affronted by what Isle Ezu had done to the noble art of dueling. Solving problems with swords struck Azar as more barbaric than anything, regardless of tradition. Still, he had been certain that Phaeon would never participate in the island’s version of the old Sehmeri practice.

But now, Phaeon’s mood made sense. Of course he was conflicted and unsettled; he was doing work he was not proud of, for some reason. Azar had thought they were self-sufficient, but was that a naive assumption? Were they in a more desperate position than he knew? And what other sacrifices did Phaeon plan to make for their shared benefit?

He caught little of Leontas and Phaeon’s exchange prior to the fight’s start. It was something of insult and honor, the expected language of dueling; the distance, the ambient noise of the crowd, and the distraction of Azar’s own racing thoughts masked their exact words.

When Phaeon drew his sword, though, all fell silent for a moment.

Azar had seen Phaeon handle a sword before; he thought he had known what to expect. But he’d never witnessed such intensity—such passion. What he could see of Phaeon’s movements past shifting heads and shoulders were quick and fluid but powerful, as graceful as they were violent and relentless.

As little as Azar knew of sword fighting, and as little as he could see from his position, the speed and efficiency with which Phaeon overpowered his opponent was readily apparent. Phaeon made the first touch mere moments into their bout, the crowd erupting with a cry of “One!”

After a brief pause, the two continued to fight, and Phaeon pressed on with relentless ferocity. His opponent, to Azar’s surprise, was laughing throughout; even at a distance, his view obscured, Leontas’s sheer joy was obvious.

Azar found himself on tiptoe, captivated, fighting to get a better angle on the fight—but soon realized how foolish it was to stand and gawk when he should leave before Phaeon. Perhaps he’d stay through the second touch, then run before Phaeon had time to clinch his victory and navigate out of the crowd—

Someone tugged at his sleeve, and he looked down to find a child peering up at his face with narrowed eyes.

“What do you want?” Azar asked, pulling his arm away. His voice was swallowed by a collective shout from the crowd—and he turned just in time to see Phaeon step back from his opponent, slinging blood from his blade.

“Two!”

When he glanced back down, the child was gone.

Phaeon and Leontas paused to reset their stances. Now was his chance—and he was more than eager to slip away, unsettled by the look that strange child had given him.

As soon as he turned from the fight, though, he spotted that same child about to reenter the crowd, an elderly woman close behind.

It took him a second too long to recognize her as the woman who had confronted him at the market—and by the time he did, she had seen him.

“You!” she said, far too loudly. A couple of Sehmeri strangers tore their eyes from the fight, following the line of her glare to Azar.

He gaped at her in horror for a moment before whirling away and pushing to the edge of the plaza. As soon as he reached the path he’d taken there, he realized how foolish it would be to lead her to his home, so he veered onto a branch that went further inland.

“Don’t ignore me, boy,” she demanded from behind him. “I know who you are.”

Azar’s mind blanked with panic. He tried to recall the details of the false identity he’d created. Someone’s bastard, right? Had he gotten any further than that? But there was no point in bringing it up; he didn’t want her to ask any more questions. He wanted her to know nothing.

“I think not,” he said, glancing back at her. “I’m nobody.”

“Here, no,” she said, “but in Sehmera—”

She was interrupted by the roar of the crowd behind them: “Three!”

Azar rushed ahead, trying to put distance between them, not wanting to hear the rest of what she had to say. Who was she? It seemed impossible that she knew; he had not recognized her when he met her at the market, and surely she hadn’t met him in Sehmera recently enough to recognize him. She didn’t quite look related to him, either, though her attitude suggested she was a noble herself—

The old woman was much quicker than he’d imagined; he didn’t even hear her approach over the pounding of his pulse. He just felt her grab the neck of his shirt and yank him backward. The impact startled him—he choked for a moment before she released him—and he whirled around, glaring, trying to play his horror off as offense.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Listen,” she hissed. “You cannot lie to me, Azarion.”

He stared at her. The sound of his given name should have filled him with terror, but instead, it numbed him—emptied him out, left him brittle and speechless. “Who?” he asked, a little too weakly to maintain a convincing air of ambivalence.

“Oh, shut up, boy. You look just like your father when I knew him.”

If he had been able to deny it before, he could not now. “I don’t,” he whispered. It was all he could manage to say.

She smiled at him, cruel and triumphant. “I knew it. There was no other answer, once I arrived at it. Who else would you be?”

He knew he should say something—should determine what threat this woman was to him—but he just stood there, thoughts clouded and useless.

“It should have been obvious. You wouldn’t have people asking after you if you were nobody.”

“People—?” he asked, choking on the word. And there was a hit of the terror he should have felt, accelerating his heart rate again, tying knots in his stomach.

“Nobody smart enough for you to worry about,” she said, with a dismissive flick of her hand. The smug smile lingered on her lips as she spoke. “Someone thought you might be important, but not why. Only I know the truth.”

Azar let out a trembling breath. His chest was too tight to take in another. The fear hit him in all its fullness, threatening to suffocate him—but at least it shook him from his numbness, gave him a strange sort of clarity.

Yes, it was only her—one old woman, currently alone—but that was no comfort. What would happen if she told anyone? How fast would word spread? What if he was kidnapped, arrested, killed—what would Phaeon do?

A sudden jolt of inspiration cut through his desperate panic, and the words left his lips before he had time to think. “I challenge you—”

“Oh, stop it.” Her smile vanished, replaced with her familiar scowl.

“No,” he objected, aware of how petulant he sounded. “That’s how it works here, isn’t it? My swordsman—did you see him fight? Against Leontas, the best fighter on the island? Phaeon beat him with no trouble at all! He’ll fight anyone on my behalf, and if he wins—”

“I said stop!” she snapped, now glaring at him with unmasked hostility. “Listen, boy—I’m not threatening you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me from knowing what I know. Even if I wanted to tell the whole island your secret, I doubt the words would leave my lips without Ezu-anvashe stopping or killing me for trying.”

“He promised me his protection,” Azar said, then clamped his mouth shut. How foolish of him to bring it up; Anvashe wouldn’t want that information to get out, either.

“Did he?” she asked sarcastically. “You’re not listening. I don’t intend to put you in danger; I have no interest in watching a mob of savages tear apart the sole heir to the throne, regardless of how I feel about you.”

To his surprise, Azar found it easy to believe her. It all made sense—that she would not find it worth the risk to tell anyone what she knew, that, even on Ezu, a woman so convinced of her own nobility would maintain her loyalties to the throne that would have been his. Of course someone like her would not want to see Sehmeri royal blood spilt at the hands of a “mob of savages.” A cautious relief began unfurling in him.

“That’s all I wanted to tell you—how utterly stupid you are for running away from your destiny. Your ancestors killed gods for the throne you’re trying to run from, you brat. Stop this charade and go home to your duty.”

The words briefly rendered him speechless. “I can’t go back. I’ve exiled myself.”

With a snort, she said, “And what choice would they have but to welcome you back as the king’s sole potential successor? Don’t be an idiot.” She gave him no chance to object or question this before bitterly adding, “Anvashe’s never forced anyone to stay here, you know.”

Azar gaped at her, torn between disbelief at her words and a strange, twisted hope. Was it possible? Someone had discovered his secret, had found the vulnerability that would unravel the entire life he’d longed for—and all she cared to do with that information was insult him? Tell him to leave?

Of course he wouldn’t leave; he’d never even considered whether he could. She was right, though; as the king’s one and only son, they needed him—needed his blood. But he had no reason to go back. He was happy on Isle Ezu, happy to spend time outside with the sun on his skin, happy to live and forage and build a new life with Phaeon.

“What if I stay?” he asked her.

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I imagined.”

It was not the threat he had half-expected.

His lips parted to challenge her again, or to refuse her, or to reiterate her own words that Anvashe would kill her if she told anyone what she knew—but nothing felt sufficient. The woman stood, glaring, arms crossed, waiting for him to make an excuse or argue so she could continue berating him.

But what he really wanted was to leave, and each passing second made it likelier that he’d run into Phaeon on the way home. He didn’t want to make up an excuse for what he was doing here—didn’t want to explain what this confrontation was truly about, knowing how much it would frighten him—so he tore his eyes away from the woman and hurried back toward home.

This time, she hissed something after him that he didn’t catch, but she did not follow him.

He went the wrong direction for a few minutes, checking frequently that he wasn’t being tailed, then cut through the brush to the path that would take him home. If Phaeon found him here, he’d lie about foraging, though he knew nothing of the plants he was crushing underfoot.

It was inevitable, now, that he must tell Phaeon—but not today. Not when he was still so shaken, not after Phaeon had spent the morning so agitated.

He encountered no one on his journey before he finally arrived at the house.

But as soon as he circled around to the front door, he stopped in his tracks.

Someone had left a note there, stabbed in place with what looked like a dull little fruit knife. Again, panic struck him with full force, and he went rigid, unsure whether his curiosity outweighed his desire to flee. What if it was a trap? What if whoever left it still lingered, watching, waiting?

It was an easy decision, though, when he considered how Phaeon might react if he found it. Literate or not, the knife spoke its threat clearly enough, and Phaeon had enough to worry about for now. Azar would read it and tell him everything, of course—but not yet. Not on the day when Phaeon had already sacrificed for them, had lowered himself to doing something he viewed with complete contempt.

So he yanked out the knife, shoving it and the letter into his pocket, and slipped inside. The fortunate thing about living in such a cramped space was that it took only a glance around the room to ensure nobody was waiting there to assault him.

When Phaeon returned home mere minutes after Azar decided the house was safe, his eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled with either exhaustion or anxiety.

Azar was sure his own fear carried through his tone when he greeted Phaeon. But neither of them acknowledged the other’s discomfiture. They both pretended that nothing had happened.