Chapter 78: Neville – A vida inteira e só
The journey was a whole lot easier than Menior had foreseen.
‘It must be the tree,’ he said. ‘The forest likes it.’
From afar, its walls hugged by the sun, Tuen reminded the travelers of its imperial glory. It was easy to imagine how it was at its zenith, with large streets, palaces built in different architectures, embassies for all nations that belonged to the empire. Now the palaces had been recycled into practical little houses.
On east Tuen, near the wall, there was an old but well kept inn with flowers on the windows. The shutters needed painting, but they kept their imperial charm. The Plume was a tall house supported by wodden beams that were slightly bent from time. The walls were swollen like a huge vanilla cake melting on the street.
Neville, Gregoire, Menior and the Grey One met a crowd inside the Plume. Everyone in Tuen seemed to be there. So many people that they spilled out onto the street, enveloping the inn in a hug of a thousand arms, speaking in one incomprehensible murmur, the sum of all voices. Sometimes a name escaped the dense mass of uncountable voices: Pierre.
Neville couldn’t tell why people made way for them: if the horrifying Grey One, if Gregoire and Menior with their Frontier clothes, if Neville himself, with ashes from the Mouth of Wat and the black bow at his back. The tree stayed outside the wall. It didn’t like cities.
A young, red-skinned man crossed the hallway and came to Gregoire.
‘Brother,’ said Pierre. He also greeted Menior and Neville, calling them by their names, but cast a wondering look at the Grey One.
‘Our paths are connected,’ said Neville.
‘I see,’ said Pierre. ‘Welcome to Tuen. We’ve had a recent tragedy. I lost a friend and Tuen lost a mayor and ten soldiers.’
‘Tragic indeed,’ said the Grey One, opening his arms to the festive crowd.
‘It’s not the tragedy they celebrate,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m not entirely sure what it is that they’re celebrating.’
‘Pierre,’ said Neville. ‘Is Olivier in Tuen?’
‘He has escaped.’
‘Did he take a woman with him? A woman with Eslarian features?’
‘Thaila is here in the Plume,’ said Pierre.
Neville was silenced by too many feelings, which must have shown on his face, because Pierre put a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’ll take you to her.’
Neville followed Pierre up the stairs, emerging above the voices. They turned left and he hesitated in front of the door Pierre indicated.
Inside was Thaila, rescued not by Neville but by Pierre from the clutches of the man who had no fangs. Neville didn’t have fangs either. He had shame. He knocked.
‘Come in.’
It wasn’t a bedroom. There was a shelf with liquors at the corner. At the window a woman sketched. She trembled against the night like a flicker of moonlight. On a table at the center four people played cards. Two of the players were deformed by fire. One still had some hair on his head. The burns emerged from under the sleeves, made the hands look like claws, crept up the chest like poison ivy; up the neck and melted the ear. The other one had worse burns on the head, no hear, not even an eyelash. The skin, and maybe even the bone, melted over his right brow, nearly covering the blue eye.
But what horrified Neville was the broken Eslarian, with his arm hanging on a sling, his face looking like one huge bruise. He couldn’t stand up, so he gave his hand to Neville.
‘Maëlle promised you’d come back. I admit I doubted you.’
Neville held the Eslarian’s hand like he would hold a crystal.
The fourth player was Thaila. She used the table for support and stood up, even though Neville said she shouldn’t. She touched his shoulders with breakable fingers. Her eyes had sunk into her skull, her skin hung from her bones. She reminded Neville of the Skeleton from Anuré.
She noticed his horror, let her hands drop.
‘I refused to eat,’ she said.
He captured her fragile hands and held them against his chest, then pulled Thaila into a hug and rested his chin on her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Thaila didn’t know if he was apologizing for being horrified at her appearance, for not being there when Olivier came to her house, for not being there when she and Robert rebelled against Henrique. For not being there.
All her life Thaila dreamt of those black arms around her. She daydreamed with the big hands splayed on her back: she was dressed when she was younger, naked when she grew older. Strong, archer hands waking her skin with delicate friction, while her lips awaited for the smoothness of his lips. In Thaila’s dreams, from that meeting of mouths, little flames were born that swam like tadpoles to the tip of her toes, then back to the top of her head.
All her life and there she was finally in his arms. All her life and all she could say was:
‘Robert is dead.’
‘I know.’
‘Where were you?’
‘He came to Anuré for us,’ said the Eslarian. ‘Maëlle and I, I told you. After that,’ he turned to Neville. ‘Why did you go South? Were you looking for the dragon? It would kill you, you know.’
Thaila pushed Neville away.
‘The only dragon in our lives never left Debur,’ she said. ‘He is still in the Emerald.’
Neville took one of her hands and the Eslarian’s good hand. He made a sandwich of them with his own hands.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
One of the burnt players heaved a sigh. It looked like they wouldn’f finish that game.