PRINCE PILATE
of house ieshan
T
he first thing I think when I see her is that I hope she doesn’t collapse. I don’t really feel like picking her up.And I hate being responsible for anyone but myself. If she’s expecting someone to pamper her, she is sorely mistaken. (For all our diversity, no one’s ever called Solterra the court of caretakers). And oh, isn’t it just like foreigners to waltz in here unprepared, fall to the ground from heatstroke or low blood pressure, and then ask for—I don’t know, money? Or a helping hand. (Not that I’ve personally seen this happen—I spend too much time indoors for that—but sweet Hagar ventures out into public far more often, and more than once she’s come back griping about the peasants and their expectations. I’m wont to believe her.)
In her defense, though—it is hot. Even for Solterran summer. Even for me, born and raised in the desert. Standing in the shadow of the arching entryway to our estate, I feel the sun waiting vengefully to swallow me whole; even out of its glare, sweat beads over my shoulders and drips into the folds of my linen robe. I feel disgusting. Common. Around my dark head, the nest of snakes swirl and hiss in discomfort. They are as privileged as I am, with none of the mobility, and even I am not cruel enough to shush them.
Shoulder pressed to the doorway, I lean my weight against the marble arch and watch with slitted golden eyes. The woman in the street is taller than I am, but terribly, terribly thin; her spotted coat is dull, and I can see the knot of her bones poking out from her hips, her shoulders, even her ribcage. I wonder if she’s sick. Then I wonder what sick girl would be foolish enough to waltz through the desert, our desert, which has swallowed even the healthiest of warriors, when it became hungry enough.
But I am interested in her—interested in what she thinks she’s doing here, and interested in the fact that she has not one but two dogs—and what looks like a sloth—walking with her. (No one in my family has ever had a companion, at least not for the past century or so. We don’t play nice with others, generally.)
Excuse me? My eyes are already locked on her when she says this; I stare at her with a gaze of bright amber, unflinching. Now that she’s turned to me, I can see that her eyes are a turquoise much brighter than the rest of her. Could you direct me to the markets?
Lazily, I shove my weight off the archway. A few of the snakes circle my ears and strain forward, sniffing her out from the scent of her dogs. "What are you looking for, exactly?"
