A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2) Page 22

  “Are you staying?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Keshav.

  They were silent for a long time.

  “What if it never gets better?” It was the question he hadn’t been able to face, let alone voice. That things wouldn’t be perfect after his rescue had never occurred to him. They should be perfect—after all he’d been through? Nothing should ever seem difficult or unpleasant ever again, and yet here he was complaining over things that hadn’t even occurred to him while he was in captivity. Three weeks ago, he would have laughed if someone had told him that he’d actually considered refusing to take a shower if it meant a man watching him.

  “Then it never gets better,” said Keshav. “But I’ll be here.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  When he woke, Keshav was gone. It had now been well over a month since he’d left Charon II, and his twin had slept with him most nights. There was nothing sexual about it; something inside Kisten was broken, and the thought of his own body disgusted him.

  Of all the problems he’d ever envisioned having, he thought dryly as he sat up and began unbuttoning his pajamas, this wasn’t one of them. And his dear, sweet mother had been convinced that he’d die from some exotic venereal disease. He smiled to himself.

  After showering—he’d finally been allowed to shower without Mangal waiting in rapt attendance, after proving that he wasn’t apt to faint—he wiped the fog away from the glass and stared at himself.

  His hair had grown in more, until he had something resembling a buzz cut. Still black, thank God. He’d been worried that it might grow in white. His skin was even paler than usual, almost translucent, and bruise-like smudges stood out under his eyes. His cheeks were still hollow, although he’d put on a great deal of weight even in a few short weeks. Not that he looked normal—nothing close. He might have been able to fool himself better on that score if he hadn’t had an identical twin, and if not for people’s reactions when they saw him. They tried to hide their shock, of course, for politeness’ sake.

  But they couldn’t.

  A large part of his problem, he knew, was vanity. He was used to people, if they remarked on his looks at all, thinking him handsome. Not finding him an object of pity. He hated leaving his cabin, because the experience made him feel so emasculated. But he’d be home soon, and then he’d have to face the world—at least for the length of time it took him to gain his room and lock himself inside. And he’d have to see women. Oh, God, women.

  He was hideous now and, evidently, asexual. What if he saw someone he used to sleep with? He didn’t think he could live through seeing that same pity—the kind of pity he might reserve for a mutilated puppy—in the eyes of a woman he’d once seduced. A woman who, at one time at least, had thought him desirable. Intimidating. A man.

  He wrapped a towel around his bony frame and went in search of clothing. There was no point, really; he might as well wander the ship in his pajamas for all the difference it would make. But if he was going to be back on Brontes, he’d better steel himself for the stares. And get used to them. Intellectually, he knew that he wouldn’t always be so emaciated. But somewhere deep inside, somehow, he’d come to the firm conclusion that he’d always be hideous.

  He wasn’t on duty; at least he didn’t have to wear a uniform. What a parody that would be. He opened the locker and, rummaging through its contents, recognized some of his old clothes. In his present condition, his undershirt looked more like a shift dress. Sadly, he pulled out the neck and stared down at himself. The white cotton billowed on him. Deciding that he wouldn’t get anywhere by moping, he found a pair of gray wool trousers and a belt to hold them up with. Which didn’t have enough holes. He’d grown more resourceful over the last year and, instead of complaining as he once would’ve done, simply fixed the problem with a penknife. He slipped on a plain white shirt, buttoned it up, and didn’t tuck it in. He found a pair of leather slippers. He didn’t bother with socks.

  Thus accoutered, Kisten left his cabin. Men hurried past him. Some checked when they saw him, but most were intent on their own tasks.

  He knew this, rationally, but he still felt like he was on stage. He hated it. He felt eyes, even when there were no eyes. He wondered if he was going insane. Growing up in his family, he’d always recognized the possibility that he might. To categorize his father as unwell was an understatement. His brother Arjun was a predator. He wasn’t terribly intelligent, per se, but he had a kind of low cunning that made him dangerous. His father’s grandparents had been brother and sister, and their parents had been brother and sister.

  Was this it, then? He studiously avoided thinking about what the rest of his life might be like, but sometimes certain images and ideas…intruded and he found himself utterly overwhelmed. He’d been so strong, in prison. He’d kept himself going when so many others had died. He’d kept Aros going. He hadn’t kept Asif going. Suddenly, he saw the man in his mind’s eye. Dead, in his tent. He felt the heat of the sun, heard the cries and moans of his fellow prisoners, and the low buzz of their chatter, and smelled the reek of the swamp.

  Aros found him staring out the observation porthole some time later. “Hello,” he said.

  Kisten didn’t respond.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Aros.

  What a stupid question. “I’m thinking about something I read, once, a long time ago. Life and life’s sorrows,” he quoted, “once to die is better than thus to drag sick life.” He turned and regarded Aros with a blank gaze.

  “I was just going to ask if you wanted a cup of coffee,” said Aros.

  Kisten thought about it. “Alright,” he said finally.

  They turned and walked toward the officer’s mess. This would be Kisten’s first visit; he’d thus far avoided leaving his cabin, ever since he’d been transferred to it from the infirmary. He’d gone so long without privacy of any kind that he craved it, but at the same time he’d been lonely with no one to talk to. Getting out felt surprisingly good, or at least seeing Aros did.

  By some common consent, neither of them spoke. Arriving at the officer’s mess, they took a table in the corner and ordered coffee. It twisted Kisten’s stomach in knots and made his throat burn but he drank it anyway. He might have a bad stomach for the rest of his life.

  Aros looked awful. His eyes were black pits in his head and his cheekbones stood out in sharp relief from the rest of his face. He was shorter than Kisten, and sitting in that chair he looked like a child.

  He smiled, knowing full well what Kisten must be thinking. “It’s my new look,” he said.

  “Shoot your stylist,” advised Kisten.

  They sipped their coffee.

  “Thank you,” said Aros, after a moment or two.

  Kisten didn’t respond. What was there to say? The truth was, caring for Aros had given him a reason to keep going. He owed Aros just as much as Aros owed him, maybe more.

  “I had dinner with your brother,” Aros said.

  “Oh?” Kisten had been staring into the black depths of his coffee; now he looked up.

  “He’s a good man. You both are.”

  “That must be a difficult statement, for an anti-royalist like you.”

  “You’re the one having coffee with a peasant,” Aros replied good-naturedly.

  Kisten smiled slightly.

  “I asked him for help with something, and he agreed.” Aros paused. “I’m putting in for a transfer.”

  “You’re staying in the navy, then?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you?”

  “There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

  “Me either,” said Aros.

  “What about your little chickadee? She must be anxious to see you.” His friend’s expression grew clouded, and Kisten realized that he’d said the wrong thing. He might as well have punched Aros in the gut. A sinking sensation came over him. “What is it?” he asked.

  “No one wanted to show me at first.”

  Their servitor reappeared and Aros asked if he co
uld please have a slice of cake, chocolate if possible. “I can’t stand any more toast,” he told Kisten. Kisten also decided to have a slice of cake. A few minutes later, the man returned with cake, grapefruit juice, more coffee…and toast.

  This was the navy.

  Aros tried a small bite of his cake. Their stomachs had shrunk to the point where a few mouthfuls of food were more than filling. That, at least, would change with time. Kisten tried his own cake. It had chocolate mousse filling with raspberry pastry cream and little chocolate shavings on top. Putting down his fork, Aros continued in the same soft tone. “I didn’t even regain consciousness until after the first week, and then I asked about my family. And Sonam. Everyone acted so cheerful and vague, I knew they were hiding something.

  “There were letters—dozens of them. I read them all, one after another, and then I read them all over again.” He poked listlessly at his cake, the fork leaving little marks in the mousse. “She doesn’t want me. She’s found someone else.”

  Kisten knew full well how Aros’ personal life had become common knowledge; all communications to and from navy personnel were read by a censor before passing on to their intended recipients.

  “I am sorry,” he said. And then, “is your family well?”

  Aros nodded. “They got the letter: missing, presumed dead and all that nonsense. But some kind soul had seen me taken prisoner, and told them what had happened and that I was alive. Memorial services were, I gather, planned for the following week. Which”—he favored Kisten with a rueful smile—”have yet to occur.”

  “They’ll be pleased to see you.”

  Aros sipped his coffee. He’d abandoned his cake. “She”—he was talking about Sonam again—”said that she’d had some time to think about things, and realized that she couldn’t be, as she put it, some officer’s consort, dragged from outpost to outpost like an old suitcase. She had no wish to leave Brontes; she wanted a real life. To grow old in one place, surrounded by her friends, and to have a husband she actually got to see and spend time with.

  “She said, further, that this is the best thing for both of us, she really believes, and she hopes I’ll come around.”

  “At least she didn’t ask if you could still be friends.”

  “Worse.” Sometimes, things were so bad that there was nothing left to do except laugh. “She sent me a wedding picture, said she was sorry to hear that I was a prisoner of war and knew that I’d want to give her my blessing as soon as I got out as, naturally, I’d want her to be happy.”

  “This woman,” said Kisten, a bit untactfully, “is a cunt.”

  “I know,” Aros replied mournfully. “I loved her so much.” He put his head down on the table.

  Kisten resisted the urge to point out that at least Aros wasn’t impotent. Or maybe he was. In which case, he wouldn’t have been able to do much with his cunt of a dulhan anyway. Situations like this were further proof of why it was a terrible idea to risk one’s heart. Kisten resolved again to never get married—not that getting married was even an option at this point. No woman wanted a hideous, impotent crazy person for a husband. Suddenly, he wished he was back in his room. If he was going to spend the rest of his life alone, he’d better hurry up and get used to it.

  Instead, he sat and watched as Aros lost himself in his grief. Clearly, he hadn’t had a chance to discuss the problem until now. He’d probably unburdened himself to Kisten, because he didn’t know anyone else on the ship. The nursing staff certainly didn’t invite confidences.

  “Aros,” Kisten said, “there’s no such thing as someone who’s perfect for you, but whom you’re not perfect for.”

  His friend looked up. “What would you know about it?”

  Kisten might have been single his whole life, but his brother hadn’t always been. And, single or no, he was no babe in the woods when it came to interpersonal relations. A romantic relationship was, at heart, just another kind of partnership. “I’ve seen enough relationships bloom into first hesitant, and then glorious life, grow and fracture and fall apart under their own weight to understand how they work. And I have cared for people, you know.”

  He’d cared about some people he shouldn’t have, and he’d been an idiot.

  “I want a family,” said Aros.

  “You’re young. You have plenty of time.”

  “I’m not going home.” Pulling himself together, Aros made a dismissive gesture. “I can’t…face her. She’s not good enough for me. My brother owns a clothing store in the capital; he’s invited me to stay with him, so I’m going to do that. And then when my leave is up, I’ve asked to work with you.”

  Kisten didn’t quite know how to take this news. He was flattered, of course, that Aros thought so highly of him and had such faith in him. He was annoyed, though, at the same time. Was Aros his—what—helper animal now? Was Kisten supposed to direct the course of his friend’s life? Tell him what to do? Provide him with goals when he had none of his own? Kisten could barely take care of himself, let alone someone else; which led to his last emotion: fear. His faith in himself had been severely shaken, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be fit—truly fit—for command again. What if he let Aros down?

  He dropped his eyes and stared into his coffee cup. He felt weak for admitting it, but he was also relieved. He hadn’t really allowed himself to consider the possibility that the only person who understood, really understood what he’d been through would leave and he’d be alone with his depression and anxiety and conviction that there was someone behind him.

  Aros waited. They’d both learned patience.

  “Then I’m a fortunate man,” he said at last.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “You’re lucky your heart didn’t shrink,” said the white-haired gentleman.

  Kisten didn’t respond, only turned his head toward the wall and waited for him to go. Omar Ravipati had been the Mara Sant family’s personal physician since Kisten was a child, and Kisten had always thought him an irascible old coot—until he’d come home, and been given into the man’s none too tender care.

  He watched his patient shrewdly now from under wrinkled eyelids. His eyes were bright; he might be old, but he was still observant. Too observant. Kisten wanted to be left alone, not lectured on what he should be doing. He’d had quite enough of that already—from everyone.

  Kisten had been home now for a week, and in that time he’d barely left his room. He had a large room. A suite of rooms, actually. And besides, there was nowhere he wanted to go. He took his meals in his bedroom; sometimes, he shrugged on his robe and walked out onto the covered balcony overlooking the formal garden. But late at night, or in the grayscale light of the false dawn. Before the gardeners had appeared. Never in full daylight.

  He couldn’t sleep, so the time didn’t matter. He read, too, and drank coffee and thought.

  Keshav spent time with him when he could, but his new position was demanding. Kisten had refused to admit anyone else, after that awful first interview with their parents. His mother had wept. His father had been ominously silent. Kisten couldn’t bear the fact that he was a horror, even to them. A small voice within him protested that that wasn’t it, that his mother’s tears were for his suffering. But he didn’t listen.

  The doctor dropped his stethoscope back into his pocket and folded his hands in his lap. He was sitting on the edge of Kisten’s broad, hand-carved bed. “I’ve reviewed Doctor Natali’s report, and your other doctors’ reports, and I’m inclined to concur with their findings.

  “What you need,” he continued, “is rest. And exercise.” He leaned forward. His expression turned serious. “Son, you can’t spend the rest of your life in this room. I can prescribe you medication for your stomach, and adrenal gland, but what ails you can’t be cured with pills. What you need—what you really need—is other people.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” said Kisten, “for coming to see me.” It was a dismissal.

  Ravipati, sensing defeat, turned back to business and beg
an explaining about how Kisten was meant to take his prescriptions. Kisten listened with half an ear, waiting until he was alone.

  He was sick of being told how lucky he was; he was sick of everyone acting like he should be jumping up and down for joy and wondering how, after all he’d survived, anything could ever bother him again. These reactions bothered him only because they so closely mirrored his own thoughts. Why couldn’t he be happy? The whole time he’d been languishing in prison, he’d thought about his former life—and now that he had it again, he didn’t want it. Because he didn’t really have it. No one looked at him like they once did; he didn’t look at them like he once did. At anything. He felt like a stranger in a strange land.

  What his doctors didn’t understand, what his family didn’t understand, was that it was easier to feel lonely when he was alone than to feel lonely when he was surrounded by people. He felt such a sense of disconnect; it hurt him, and hurt him doubly because it reminded him of how different things had been before. Of what he’d lost.

  Kisten thanked the doctor for coming and continued to stare at the wall. He didn’t turn his head to say goodbye, or react when the doctor stepped out and the door clicked shut behind him. He knew what his room looked like. It had been his room since he was a child, although he hadn’t slept in it much since leaving for school at age eleven.

  His massive bed projected from one wall. To his right were the carved screens of the balcony and to his left was an expanse of carved plaster. On the opposite wall, to the right of the fireplace, was the door to his private study. Behind him, on either side of the bed, were the doors—carefully hidden in the wooden paneling that reached from floor to ceiling—to his bathroom and dressing room. There was also a smaller room for his valet and a kitchenette where simple things like hot chocolate and an omelet could be made. When he was little, his and Keshav’s amah had used it to make them the occasional treat in the middle of the night.