“Do yours hurt?” I asked cautiously.
He shook his head, still without looking at me. Some of his hair fell free of his grasp to brush across his shoulders. “No. Not now. But the application of them was extremely painful. And of great duration. They held me very still, for hours at a time. They apologized and tried to comfort me as they did it. That only made it worse, that people who otherwise treated me with such love and regard could do that to me. They were meticulously careful to needle them in just as she instructed them. It is a horrible thing to do to a child. Hold him still and hurt him. Any child.” He rocked slightly, his shoulders hunched. His voice was distant.
“They?” I asked very softly.
His voice was tight, all melody gone from it. He shuddered out his words. “I was at a place rather like a school. Teachers and learned folk. I told you about it before. I ran away from it. My parents sent me there, parting from me with both pride and sorrow, because I was a White. It was a long way from our home. They knew they would probably never see me again, but they knew it was the correct thing to do. I had a destiny to fulfill. But my teachers insisted there already was a White Prophet for this time. She had already studied with them, and already set forth to fulfill her destiny in the far north.” He suddenly turned his head and met my eyes. “Do you guess of whom I speak?”
I nodded stiffly. I felt cold. “The Pale Woman. Kebal Rawbread’s advisor during the Red Ship War.”
He returned my nod as stiffly. Again he looked away from me, staring into a darkened corner of the room. “So, a White I might be, but I could not be the White Prophet. Therefore, I must be an anomaly. A creature born out of my time and place. They were fascinated by me and listened to my every word and recorded every dream I spoke. They treasured me and treated me very well. They listened to me, but they never heeded what I said. And when she heard of me, she commanded that they keep me there. And they did. Later, she commanded that I be marked this way. And so they did.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Save, perhaps, that we had both dreamed of these creatures, of sea serpents and dragons. But perhaps it is what you do with an extra White Prophet. Cover him over so he is no longer white.” His voice tightened until the words were hard as knots. “It has shamed me so to be marked like this, at her will. It is worse now, to know that the Narcheska is also decorated with the Pale Woman’s markings. As if she claimed us as her tool, her creatures . . .” His words faded away.
“But why did they obey her? How could anyone do a thing like that?”
He laughed bitterly. “She is the White Prophet, come to set time in a better path. She has a vision. You do not question her will. Questioning her command can have severe repercussions. Ask Kebal Rawbread. You do as the Pale Woman tells you.” His shivering had become a wild shaking.
“You’re cold.” I would have put a blanket around him, but I would have had to step closer. I don’t think he could have allowed me to do that.
“No.” He gave me a sickly smile. “I’m afraid. I’m terrified. Please. Please go out while I get dressed again.”
I withdrew, shutting the door quietly behind myself. Then I waited. It seemed to take him a long time to put a shirt on.
When he emerged, he was meticulously attired, and every strand of his hair had been restored to its rightful place. Still, he did not look at me. “There’s brandy by the fire for you,” I told him.
He crossed the room in short nervous steps. He took up the glass but did not drink from it. Instead, arms crossed as if he were cold, he stood very close to the fire, hugging his cup to him. He stared fixedly at the floor.
I went into his room and took one of his thick woolen cloaks from the wardrobe there. Coming to him, I put it around him. I pulled his chair closer to the hearth, then took him by the shoulders and sat him down in it. “Drink the brandy,” I told him. My voice sounded harsh. “I’ll put on the kettle for tea.”
“Thank you.” He whispered the words. Horribly, tears began to track down his face. They cut runnels in his carefully applied paint, and dripped paleness onto his shirt.
I spilled water and burned myself putting the kettle on the hook. When it was in place, I dragged my chair close to his. “Why are you so scared?” I asked him. “What does it mean?”
He sniffled, an incongruous sound from dignified Lord Golden. Worse, he took the corner of the cloak and wiped his eyes with it. It smeared his Jamaillian cosmetics, and I saw his bare skin. “Convergence,” he said hoarsely. He drew a breath. “It means convergence. All comes together. I’m on the right path. I feared I had strayed. But this confirms it. Convergence and confrontation. And time set aright.”
