Chapter 63: A game of cards
Germon didn’t sit quiet! The light was perfect, but Vivianne couldn’t draw him because he moved so much. She had never sketched burnt skin before. It reminded her of the texture of the Rock, but smooth. The hair on Vivianne’s arms stood on end and she gave up sketching Germon.
Sitting by the window, she began to trace pieces of Tuen. A house, a roofing tile, a wooden framed window. What she really wanted to draw was Chambert, she even took the road to the castle, together with Coalim, but her leg began to throb ten paces after she left Tuen, and Coalim begged her to go back.
Joanna had found her crutches after fixing the broom Vivianne had broken. Pierre had found trousers for her. The Plume was cozy and everyone was comfortable, even though nobody knew where Fulbert was, why Henrique didn’t show up or Olivier didn’t leave his palace. It was like standing in the eye of the storm, waiting for the second wave of destruction. Vivinne hoped this second wave wouldn’t have dragon fire in it. She hoped that the scale in Pierre’s pocket didn’t call for more tragedy. Vivianne rested her forehead on the glass window and looked out on the rosy sunset. What was Marcus doing now? He must be back in Lune from his patrols on the Waves. How was Clément? The Wraith?
In spite of those anxieties, Vivianne liked the evenings in the Plume. She had never before stayed so long with people before. Of course, she ruled Lune, and there were Marcus and the Wraith in Deran, but normal people raised by more normal people, that kind of company Vivianne had rarely kept. Sometimes it seemed they didn’t speak the same language, except for Pierre, but Pierre was far from noraml. Funny thing was: he thought she was extraordinary.
‘You were raised by a mystery,’ he said. ‘I wonder what type of life you had. When did Quepentorne adopt you?’
‘When my father died. I was four.’
‘I was seven when my mother died.’
‘My mom died long before my dad,’ said Vivianne. ‘I don’t remember when. Is your father still alive?’
‘In a way,’ said Pierre. ‘Do you remember your parents?’
‘I remember boots, but I don’t know if they were my father’s or my mother’s.’
‘My mother had black boots with silver buckles, some kind of belt that held them in place.’
‘The boots I remember were brown and well used,’ said Vivianne.
‘Can you feel their texture?’ asked Pierre. ‘If I close my eyes, I feel my mother’s boots.’
Vivianne liked it that Pierre didn’t speak with sorrow. He had lost his mother and remembered her boots. Vivianne had lost her parents and remembered boots. She was glad Pierre’s mother wore black boots with silver buckles, because now they could remember boots together.
At the table behind her, Bojet shuffled and dealt the cards. The only difference between Bojet and Germon was their height: Bojet was 10cm shorter than Germon. All the rest was burns. Mayor Maurice studied his hand and spun his moustache between the thumb and middle finger. Germon scratched his burnt neck. Vivianne cringed and turned her attention back to her sketchbook. She had accidentaly drawn Pierre’s eyes between a tile and a window.
She started drawing Germon again. What right did she have to turn away from those burns? She, who had escaped unharmed.
Though Vivianne knew little about burns, she thought they had healed and dried too fast. Like her leg. There was something about Tuen.
‘Do you think he’ll make it?’ asked Bojet. He put a four of diamonds on the table. ‘He is determined to reunify Franária, the whole Tuen is a-talk.’
‘A-talk?’ asked Maurice.
‘My father was Anjarian. He learned Franish a grown man with the bards and I grew up singing instead of speaking. So. Pierre. Will he make it?’
‘Well, look what he did to Tuen and Chambert in such a short time,’ said Maurice. ‘A week ago, Tuen was a band of desperate soldiers and Chambert a band of rejected dissidents. Now we have an army, a mill, things are happening.’
‘What of the one named Jean?’ asked Bojet. ‘He seems anxious to break a neck or three.’
‘Why hasn’t he stopped Pierre yet?’ asked Coalim. He spoke so little and so low that it took the others a moment to register. They had even forgotten that he was playing cards with them.
‘I think Jean doesn’t know what to do with Pierre,’ said Maurice. ‘No one does. He has a life of his own.’
‘Don’t we all?’ asked Bojet.
‘Sure, but he drags us on with him.’
Germon threw his cards on the table. He had lost, but he was laughing.
‘That’s our Pierre!’
Our Pierre, thought Vivianne. Three weeks ago nobody knew he existed, now Germon, Bojet and the whole of Tuen followed him like a hero. She focused on her sketching, but the light began to turn into shadow, and her pencil dropped stains on the paper.
‘I think it’s possible,’ said Maurice. ‘Franária, I mean. I think Pierre can make it happen.’
Bojet shuffled the cards amd gave them for Coalim to deal. For a few moments the cards did the talking.
‘Olivier will certainly opose Pierre,’ said Maurice.
‘Olivier doesn’t exist,’ said Germon. ‘The man doesn’t leave his palace.’
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Bojet. ‘This Franária that Líran tells us about in her stories. Wouldn’t it be great if Pierre could kill them all? Jean, Olivier, Henrique of Baynard, Fulbert of Patire, Clément of Deran.’
Vivianne was the only one to notice the stiffening of Coalim’s neck.
‘I don’t know,’ Germon scratched his nose. ‘Maybe he’s just another mad man.’
‘Who is mad?’ Pierre’s voice made everyone jump. He was leaning on the door frame, arms crossed in his chest.
He heard everything, Vivianne thought.
Maurice pulled him a chair. Pierre took the cards and began to deal They played, they drank, they laughed. Vivianne stopped sketching. It was dark. With the day light gone, the fire took over the room with brushes of orange. Soon the Plume’s clientelle would begin to arrive and Vivianne wanted to withdraw in her room for a few minutes to be alone before she went down to help Joanna. There wasn’t much she could do with that leg, but she helped behind the counter. Vivianne stood up, excused herself, but nobody heard her. Only Pierre. He was like the Wraith: Pierre always heard her.
Líran was standing in the dark corridor, her face momentarily clear in the light from inside the room. Vivianne didn’t close the door completely, leaving a streak of orange light dividing Líran in two, separating brown from violet. Vivianne followed Líran’s gaze and spied the man playing cards inside. In the corners, fire and shadows argued about hope and despair. The shadows spoke of nightmares, the fire iluminated the future. What fiture? the shadows asked. One of darkness, danced the flames. Fire, shadow, flame, shadow, more shadow, ember, darkness, dragon fire.
Vivianne tried to scream but her voice got caught in her throat. Suddenly the door opened and someone took hold of her arm.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Pierre.
‘Hst thou felt it?’ asked Bojet. ‘As though there was a breeze, but instead of wind, it was made of darkness. I know it was darkness. The same thing I felt before… before…’ he covered his burnt nek with his burnt hands.
The fire light had been tamed and recoiled in a little orange pond around the fireplace. The rest of the room was darkness.
‘Darkness is too strong,’ said Germon. ‘What chances does Franária have?’
The cards were silent.
‘Germon,’ called Pierre, his voice uncannily strong in the dark. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Patire, sir!’ He answered as a soldier, was surprised by the unplanned sir at the end, but found it adequate.
‘You, Bojet? Where were you born?’
‘Also in Patire, sir.’
‘Maurice,’ said Pierre, ‘are you from Baynard?’
‘Lived my whole life in Tuen.’
‘Vivianne,’ Pierre said a little more softly, ‘you are from Deran. Coalim is not Franish, but chose Deran as his home. And I,’ he put his hand to his chest, ‘am from the Frontier.’ The fire dared stretch a little fruther. ‘Don’t you see?’ asked Pierre. ‘Franária is playing cards at the Plume.’
