5

Morning came and went. After too short a time, and the garden barely weeded successfully, his back, his legs, his arms, his everything was quivering and flushed. In the end, Hamasa had spent more time gasping and splayed out over the dirt, arms little more than limp rags at his sides, than he did working. When they finally stopped for lunch, Hamasa guzzled down the entire wooden bucket full of well water. Marya, on the other hand, had spent the entire morning, which started before his, whistling and chatting between grunts, her entire body in constant motion. She had taken her coarsely-woven overshirt off in the afternoon heat, the sun beating down on the sweaty, dark skin of her bare arms and neck. Hamasa pushed himself up and stared at his own arms. Pulling up his sleeves, he saw the slight tan and almost pink of his underarms, the brighter pink scars high across and behind his biceps, and wondered if his frail body would ever look like Marya’s. Or if he would ever work so effortlessly through the same arduous tasks.

He had never known what a human body was truly capable of until he could compare his fledgling, unfamiliar one to a young woman in her prime amid hard work like Marya. Fortunately, his healing had progressed so well during this third week at the Garsia farm that all that was left of the terrible burns was the pink skin that was still stiff and new. And only so obvious because of the natural brown of his skin. He sighed and sank back into the cool dirt, gazing skyward longingly.

The sun was the sort of warm that reminded him of his mother and of the Sun that shined in that far away place. It shined here in the flat vast of the blue, blue sky. A blue vastness broken by the occasional puff of white clouds and large dark predator birds that cawed their freedom proudly through the air.

He never thought he would miss the sky so much…

“I think this is as good as it gets. The soil’s a bit rockier than I’d like, but whatcha gonna do,” Marya said with a grin, thumbing at her nose and leaning on her shovel.

Hamasa jerked upright, grimacing, but it wasn’t because of the burns for once. A hot, deep ache was in his every muscle. “You’re amazing.”

“Nah, Mamá says I haven’t stopped moving since I learned how to in her belly,” Marya joked. Her chin braced on her hands crossed over the top of her shovel, eyes curious and intense as Hamasa struggled to his feet and pounded on his shoulders with his fists. “You know I never did ask, what kinda spell didja blast yourself with anyway?”

Hamasa blinked at her, fists dropping to his sides. “W-What did I b-blast w-with w-what?” he repeated, flabbergasted.

“What?” Marya asked, just as bewildered.

Hamasa cleared his throat and tried again. “What did you mean about, uh, the blasting?”

Marya snorted. “I’m not stupid. No way can a boy drop outta the sky and live. You must’a been fiddling with some magic and it exploded right in your face. Everyone knows how much trouble them wizards get in.”

Hamasa blinked even more rapidly. He had started to wonder why the Garsias hadn’t bothered asking him questions.

“Yes, um, mage. I’m an apprentice mage from Riyushu.”

“Yeah, like I said, not stupid,” Marya said with a heavy eye-roll. Hamasa nodded and swallowed painfully. “Riyushu, huh? Explains why you don’t catch every word we say and your accent’s so funny, like Ma said. Riyushu’s got that fancy Riyukezu talk. So, how’d you get this far north?”

“We…” Hamasa gulped and stared at his blistered hands. “We went up to San Yamarasu. The university there, there was special training,” he said haltingly. He didn’t know every university in Mekshi, but he knew enough of them, thankfully. Marya made a thoughtful noise. “It was a dare, but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, so I came out of the city some ways. At rea-least no one got hurt.”

“No one but you.” Hamasa shrugged. Marya rubbed her nose with a little frown. “So I guess you’ll be going back soon enough?”

“No! I cant! I… I’m most definitely experred for this if they find out!” Hamasa said, a glimmer of truth in his words that lent his panic some credibility. Marya peered at him, then let out a gusty sigh.

“Experred? Expelled?” At Hamasa’s nod, she continued, “Doncha got family down there? In Riyushu?”

“No,” Hamasa whispered, eyes lowered. “I have no family now.”

Silence fell, the bleating of goats warbling through the air. A moment later, the young farmer cleared her throat. Hamasa glanced up to see Marya’s grin.

“So how ‘bout we go into Elorra, the nearest village, for dinner? I know the best place for sangria,” Marya said.

Hamasa slowly and awkwardly smiled, his nose scrunching. “I’d rike that.” Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure if he would like sangria, but he did like how Marya beamed cheerfully.

***

“Whaddaya mean you’ve never had sangria? Everyone drinks it! What else is there?”

Hamasa stared at Marya’s back as the door to the local cantina swung inward under her hand. The question didn’t make any sense. The past fortnight had passed without either of them drinking sangria. Of course there were other things to drink.

“Water. Sakki. Fruit waters. Tea. Mer- milk. Cow’s milk, sheep’s milk, goat’s mi—”

“You don’t have to be a know-it-all,” Marya interrupted with a theatrical groan, eyes rolling upwards, wide mouth pulling up at the corners.

“I don’t mean to be?”

Marya clapped her big hand to Hamasa’s back chuckling good-naturedly, and led the way to the long wooden bar. They scrambled onto the high stools, both of them too short for their feet to touch the ground even if they stretched their legs and pointed their toes. The wood under Hamasa’s hands was smooth and darkly stained with both age and care, and he ran a finger along the grain as his eyes scanned over the cantina curiously. The tables here, like the single table at the Garsias’, were all tall, maybe hip high, with simple wooden chairs arranged around them. People lounged indolently, rocking on rickety chair legs and stretching their legs out beneath the tables. The few wooden dishes on the tables were large and flat, and the cups were large with handles to slip a hand through. He didn’t see a single teapot in the entirety of the cantina. The only small cups were squat and made of cheap glass, occasionally filled with a milky clear liquid.

Everything, from the way these people sat to the way they spoke, seemed so… unrestrained. Behind the bar, a scruffy, shabbily-dressed man wearing a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes meandered his way towards them. Hamasa glanced towards the man with his heart beating too hard against his breastbone.

“What’ll it be, Garsia?” the man drawled in a voice as slow as his languid movements.

“Definitely two sangrias and whatever Tonyo was told t’cook tonight.” Hamasa gave her an odd look, and Marya grinned as she rubbed her nose. “Whenever Tonyo gets an idea for something special, it’s usually the best thing getting ate all day.”

The bartender, Vacero, scraped a hand over the patchy stubble on his face and finally said, “Tonyo’s all over the chilaceles and grilled goat. Added some fresh peppers, so folk have actually been eatin’ their greens in this den.”

“Sounds great,” Hamasa said at Marya’s eager glance. He honestly had no idea what chilaceles was, but if the Garsias’ meals had taught him anything, green peppers he loved.

“That’s the spirit, Hamasa!” Marya crowed, clapping his shoulder with a friendly little shake. Hamasa smiled awkwardly, but preened somewhat at the praise.

Vacero’s gaze went from laconic to dagger-sharp and back again so fast Hamasa almost missed it. A chill went down his spine. “Hamasa, was it? Not much of a Mekshan name. Haven’t seen you here before, neither,” Vacero said. Said leadingly in Hamasa’s opinion.

Hamasa answered with his eyes resolutely on the grimy counter, “I’ve never b-been here b-before.” He completely ignored the observation about his name. He really was a danto.

“C’mon, Vac, I’m starving,” Marya said with a petulant whine in her voice. “What’re you doing small talking?”

Vacero acquiesced with a tip of his hat. He sauntered away as leisurely as he had come, leaving the two friends (are we friends? Hamasa thought with a pensive frown) to talk alone. Their drinks appeared somewhere between Marya naming every patron in the bar and an amusing anecdote of the unlikeliest-looking old man who loved to dance on the tables when far enough in his cups. Hamasa was giggle-snorting his way through a glass of ruby red wine filled with slices of fresh fruit, the aches and pains of farming long forgotten, when two huge steaming platters of meat, fried beans, and green peppers topped with a fried egg were set in front of them. Marya eagerly snatched up her utensils, all but drooling, while Hamasa eyed his platter in bewilderment.

“There’s no way I can finish all this,” Hamasa said, a hand on his stomach. His surely much too small stomach. The first two weeks in his strange body had been mostly consuming soups, maybe some tortiyas and beans, but the Garsias didn’t exactly make meals this large when they were living mostly off last year’s harvest.

“’Skay. Wadeba yeh don’ ‘iniss dey give t’da pids,” Marya told him through a bulging mouthful. Hamasa squinted at her, bewildered.

“I know it’s not the cleanest bartop, but I prefer you not t’spray it with food,” Vacero said mildly. Marya grinned sheepishly and shoveled another mouthful in. “If you can’t finish what you’ve got, the pigs’ll do it for you,” he added in Hamasa’s direction, his gaze on the the drinks he was pouring.

Hamasa nodded, and then took a more sensible bite, teeth clacking against the underside of his spoon. He was still clumsy with these strange eating utensils. Why didn’t anyone out here use hashi sticks? He blinked rapidly as he chewed. Under the beans were more tortiyas, soaked to softness in a spicy, flavorful, red sauce. He met Vacero’s eyes and said, surprised,

“It’s good.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” Vacero answered with a humorous twinkle in his dark eyes under the shadow of his hat. He looked back to Marya, leaning his hip against the bar after sliding the drinks down the bartop to some waiting patrons. “So you’ll be wanting t’hear the latest from Riyushu?”

Marya perked up, black eyes glittering with curiosity. Hamasa sunk as low as he could on his barstool. His shoulders hitched around his ears and his hand methodically brought food to his mouth.

“Seems like the Shield of the Sovereign has got itself good and lost.”

“What!” Marya exclaimed, spraying food over the bar and immediately choking. Vacero sighed and threw a cloth in her face.

“Missing?” Hamasa repeated, his lips numb and fingers curled into fists on his lap out of sight. It took everything in him to keep his gaze on Vacero without flinching.

“Missing. Took off t’face down a monster and never came back. Folks are saying the Shield got itself killed,” Vacero explained bluntly, his eyes too sharp. Too keen.

“No chance the Shield is dead! The Sovereign’d know, wouldn’t she?” Marya interrupted, slapping her hands down on the bar, rag already discarded. “What monster could kill the Shield?”

A tremor worked its way down Hamasa’s spine.

“The Beast,” Vacero said harshly. Marya’s jaw dropped. “The Merciless.”

Marya gulped loudly, throat clicking dryly before she forced out a chuckle. “But the Shield, everyone said it’s the strongest, fastest, most powerfullest Shield in living history.”

“And the youngest,” Hamasa whispered softly. Vacero and Marya glanced at him and he grimaced slightly. “The Shield isn’t half the age of the Shield that came before it. Maybe ress—less than a quarter.”

“I had heard something ‘bout that,” Vacero agreed, stroking his scruffy chin pensively. “Garsia here was right ‘bout something.”

“Huh, what? I was?” Marya actually startled on her stool, then puffed up her chest, chin rising. “A’course I was! What was I right about?”

“That the Sovereign would know if the Shield was dead. I got word from a pal in Riyushu and it looks like half Her Imperial personal guard are gone. Whispers ‘round the Capital is they’re all lookin’ for the Shield.”

Hamasa’s heart twisted while his stomach knotted and writhed. “The Lances.”

Vacero tipped his hat at Hamasa with a humorless smirk on his face. “The famous ones themselves. Looks like the Sovereign don’ think the Shield’s gone for good. Nobody knows what happened ‘tween it and the Merciless, but it’s been more’n three weeks. Soon enough them Lances will be knockin’ on the trees ‘round these parts, seein’ what falls out.”

“The trees? I don’t think a—” Marya started with a loud, incredulous snort. She broke off as Hamasa’s platter scraped over the bar’s surface. He clambered down to his feet, unable to even think about food let alone eat any more of it.

“I’m tired and this tark about m-monsters and, uh, Shields. I’ve lost m-my appetite. I’d, uh, I’d like to return to the farm and sleep,” Hamasa told them with a small shake of his head and embarrassed, quavering smile.

“Ay, you really do look tired, Asa, and I can barely understand you. Let’s get you back ‘fore you fall out, yeah?” Marya said in true, kindly concern. She didn’t even bother pointing out how bad Hamasa’s affectation had gotten. Guilt flittered over Hamasa’s ashen features.

“N-No, you don’t have to do that,” Hamasa protested shamefully.

“Stuff it, Asa. I’m not letting you walk all the way back alone. Uh, Vacero, do ya mind maybe giving me a pail or somethin’ for this food?” Marya asked with a beaming, hopeful smile.

Vacero tore his somber gaze away from Hamasa. He nodded once as he picked up both platters. “The pigs’ll be sore disappointed, but sure. It’ll be extra if you don’t bring ‘em back.”

As soon as Vacero disappeared through a swinging door, Hamasa headed for the exit. He couldn’t be here a moment longer. He couldn’t be in this village a second longer, not even the Garsias’ farm would be safe for another day.