Page 23 of Humans Don't Have Horns
“Why should I care for the Puresouls’ farmers?” He looks at me askance. “They are as honorless as the soldiers. They prosper from our exploitation. In a hundred years, I have not met even one Puresoul who stood up for my people.”
Yeah, these are hard arguments to counter, but it still can’t justify killing random commoners. Trying to placate him, I say, “Maybe they’re afraid. Going out against the church and the royals is a terrifying thing for a commoner.”
I only manage to exasperate him though. He’s practically seething now. “Who knows better than the Mongans what the price is for defying the church and your royals? But better to die than to live a life with no honor.”
“So they all just deserve to die?” I exclaim.
“Yes,” he growls back, and I can only gape at him incredulously for a while. “You can’t mean that! There are innocents. There are children!” I exclaim. “I know you don’t mean it. I know you don’t drink the blood of Puresoul kids and—” Because yes, he’s killed a lot of Puresouls, but he’s not the monster they like to portray.
“Why the fuck would I drink the blood of Puresoul kids? Like I would contaminate myself with your blood. Fucking Puresouls and their fucking imagination,” he snarls.
There is a long silence between us as I stare at him.That was not why I expected him not to drink kids’ blood.
He growls, “For fuck’s sake, Lian, I don’t kill children. There is no honor in killing children.”
“Thank the Goddess. I started freaking out there,” I sigh in relief.
“But every other Puresoul is fair game, and there is honor in killing the oppressor,” he says and starts walking away, ending our argument.
***
I sit waiting for him until noon, my mind bursting with contradicting thoughts and questions. If I were a Mongan, would I view things as he does? And after all the atrocities he has endured, can I judge him? But is he a good person, and why does it matter to me so much? Maybe I’m not good at all myself. He protected me from his people, but what have I ever done to help the Mongans? I always believed what I was told. I never questioned any of it. Am I a good person? Can I become one?
At noon, Daton returns with two mares, and by their saddles, I can tell they belonged to the army. It gives me a fuzzy feeling that he didn’t steal from farmers after all, and I work very hard to stifle a smile. Apparently doing a really crappy job at it because he growls, “Stop being so happy with yourself, or I’ll steal another pair.”
“Sorry.” I bite my lower lip in the attempt to kill my growing smile.
“And stop doing that too,” he scolds.
“What? What am I doing now?” I exclaim.
Daton just shakes his head as if I’m a lost cause and hands me a knife. “You need to learn how to defend yourself now that you’re an outcast.”
I scoff at the knife, and Daton smiles wolfishly, a smile full of white teeth. A common smile, my guardian would have called it. But it is the best smile, and it makes my knees feel like jelly. I’m fearful he will notice my blush. He’s probably smiling because the idea of the Princess of Aldon becoming an outcast is amusing to him, or even worse, the idea of me fighting is hilarious. But I don’t find it in me to care.
“I’m not sure I should be trusted with a knife. Not after the poorway I fought you with it.” I keep eyeing the knife gingerly, trying to distract myself from my weak knees.
“You were soaked in Nimatek then. Now that you’ve completely withdrawn from it, you can be a real menace,” he smirks. It’s complete nonsense, of course. I’ve seen him kill men with such ease. Nimatek or not, I had no chance against him. So I can’t understand why he says it and why he is acting in this playful, smiling manner. Shouldn’t he be testier after our argument in the morning rather than less so?
I turn to my new horse, feeling very strange things I shouldn’t feel. Not just with this broken man that most likely will never see past me being a Puresoul. But not for any man. Because I want things that may seem wonderful, but I know better. I know these things are pain and shame.
***
I can’t speak to the horses. I tried. Why could I speak with the direwolf and the demichad, but not with the horses?
We ride on side roads so narrow that sometimes we need to get off the horses and cut some of the bushes that block the road. This is the first time I’ve ridden on a regular saddle. Until now, I’ve only worn dresses and ridden with a sidesaddle. I enjoy the freedom pants offer, although they make me feel more exposed, showing the shape of my legs the way they do. Old habits die hard, and so does old prudery.
We camp in the late afternoon, and Daton tries to teach me some basic combat positions. He is more at ease when it comes to fighting. Less brooding than usual. It’s in his gait, in the tone of his voice and the expression on his face. As if combat is his comfort zone, which it probably is. He’s too close to me, fixing my straddle, my posture. I shiver from the things his proximity does to my body. I’ve known how traitorous my body is, but I never thought it would betray me like this. And Daton touches me, barely, only to show me the better grip. But he is warm and gentle. It is marvelous how this brutal killer can be so gentle. When I feel his breath on my nape, I say I’m tired in astrained voice I don’t recognize and retire to my sleeping bag. What would it be like to kiss him? I’m too scared to find out.
***
When I spot a mastic tree, I tell Daton about the healing powers of its flowers, and he asks if I’d teach him Renyan healing. I know they will view this as an act of treason in Renya, but everything I’ve learned of my home only makes me agree. I enjoy teaching him. He’s clever and asks questions I don’t always know how to answer, which makes me dig deeper into the memories of my mother’s lessons.
I ask Daton to teach me Mongan in return. “But you already know Mongan.” He looks baffled.
“I think it has something to do with understanding the direwolf and the demichad. I understand them, but I don’t at the same time. It’s kind of like having this inner translator in me. But it’s not the same as studying it and understanding it. Languages have an inner logic.
“It’s based on the people’s culture. I don’t know how to explain any of it, but I have this nagging feeling that when you speak in Mongan to me, I understand you in Aldonian. For example, why would you call the people you hate Puresouls? It doesn’t make any sense. You know?”
