60 The Color Does Not Sui (2/2)
She laughed, in spite of herself, shaking her head. It was rude of my brother to ask such a thing. I apologize in his stead, she wrote.
Her words seemed to surprise him and he frowned, before drinking from the cup the fish had disappeared into. ”Why do you apologize for him?”
Because it is right. May I ask you about the show you gave us? He nodded and she continued, erasing her last question. Why did you show a hawk fighting a snake?
He smiled broadly this time, pleased. ”So you were paying attention. But is that all you saw? Tell me what you thought.”
She looked away before writing again. It was like a dance. The colors were so beautiful.
He sat down the cup, leaning forward, his eyes greedy, ”Tell me what you saw.”
It was like when crystal catches the light just right. All of these colors were in every part of what you made but they were dark. I can't explain it, she wrote.
When he looked back at her, his gaze moved from the board to her face, it was as if he saw someone different. ”Will you not have tea as well?”
She nodded and poured her own cup, matching his. Why did they turn into flowers, she asked.
He smiled, a secret, playful smile. ”When you understand that, you will understand the story I was attempting to tell.”
The light dropped lower, casting deep shadows over the tent. She frowned. There should be servants to light the brazers, she explained, standing to go and find the boy in charge of the duty.
He held up his hand, stopping her. ”Let me show you an old trick. We cannot make light but we can make fire.” He held out his hand, a orb of shadow forming in it. At its center it began to glow, a tiny flame that grew in the pure air. He sent it to the braziers, one by one, lighting them.
How, she wrote, curious.
”The same way anyone would make a fire, rubbing to things together to make sparks. There are thousands of small things to use, even dust. The trick is to be able to rub them fast enough and to keep feeding it. It is harder than one would think.”
You are very pleased with yourself, she wrote, raising her eyebrow.
”I am very impressive,” he replied. ”If you could be heard then what would you have done for me tonight? Surely the draw of this isn't to chat for an hour or two.”
If my sister Porras had been called she would have sung or played an instrument, I think. Sometimes she dances, she wrote.
”Can you not dance?” he teased.
There are no musicians here, she wrote before placing the board down and refilling his cup.
”That is not what I asked, Usoa,” he said.
She paused at the sound of her name on his lips. She focused on him, frowning slightly.
A servant cleared their throat behind them. Usoa turned they man bowed, ”I am sorry to interrupt but it is time to prepare for dinner.”
Usoa nodded and turned back to Lloren, shrugging. She had been quite late, their time was up. She stood, preparing to take her leave.
He smiled richly and shook his head. ”Another time perhaps you will answer me then. You haven't asked me the question you really came here for though.”
I came here because my father told me to, she wrote.
He stood then, his smile still on his face. He's tall, she thought looking up at him. He snapped his fingers and her scarf dropped from the air between them, settling in his waiting hand. He shook it out and laid it over her head as he bent towards her. She could feel the same touch of darkness against her skin as she had felt before in the throne room when the world turned to night. Feather light and soft as the flowers against her legs and hands.
Close to her ear, his hands holding the edges of the scarf, he whispered, ”This color does not suit you. Thank you for the tea.”
He released her and she nodded, shaken by his closeness, the feel of his breath on her ear. She turned, leaving him with the servants and to return to her own rooms. I have to prepare for dinner myself, she thought, trying to drag her mind away from the strange man in the garden. In the halls she slowed and looked at the scarf in her hands. But why was he looking at me at all?