The Head on the Pole
She had no time to react.
Through the startled parting of her lips, a slick tongue pressed in, and with it a liquid thick and clinging as honey. Thalia, who had braced herself for a bitterness sharp enough to scorch her stomach, widened her eyes at the unexpected flavor.
A sweet liquid steeped in the scent of flowers coiled gently around her tongue. When she swallowed what had pooled in her mouth, the flesh that had pressed against its tip withdrew, slow and deliberate.
"So you skipped dinner after all."
The reproachful voice brushed against her swollen lips. Thalia looked up at him, dazed. Ever since she had begun coaxing kisses from him under the pretext of taking her medicine, their mouths had met nearly every night—but this was the first time he had initiated it.
No. Strictly speaking, this was the second time.
She flushed, recalling the bewildering first night. Barcas gazed down at her quietly, then traced the corner of her mouth with a calloused thumb.
"Want more?"
The almost-whispered words sent a spasm through her heart. Thalia recoiled from him as if burned.
"W-what did you just feed me?"
At her stammered question, he indicated with a glance the shelf beside the bed. There sat a small silver pitcher and a bowl filled with various fruits.
"A drink made from fermented goat's milk. The women of the East often take it in place of breakfast."
The flat explanation only tangled her already confused thoughts further. Yet he looked utterly unconcerned, as though feeding her from his own mouth were nothing of consequence.
Perhaps, to him, it truly was. Just as he had once forced medicine past her lips when she refused to take it, he might simply be seeing to it that she ate.
Yes. That had to be it.
He was a man broken in some fundamental way, after all. Just as he had once bent entirely to Aila's will, now he was merely accommodating her demands. Thalia forced her heart to settle and put on a deliberately prickly expression.
"Who asked you to feed me my meals?"
At her sharpened tone, his wide-set eyes narrowed. But he did not seem offended. Stroking his chin with a thoughtful look, Barcas set a tray before her.
"Then eat it yourself."
With that, he rose and walked to the window. Thalia watched him ladle water into a basin and wash his face and neck, then lowered her gaze to the tray.
A sudden urge to bite her own tongue seized her. If she had only refused to eat, he would have fed her himself. Holding that abject thought, she picked up a piece of bread.
It was still hot, freshly baked. As she tore the steaming bread into small pieces and pushed them one by one into her mouth, Barcas returned to the bed, having changed into fresh clothes.
"Does the food not suit you?"
Barcas frowned at the mangled scraps of bread she had left and asked. Thalia hesitated a moment, then shook her head.
"It's fine enough."
"Then eat it properly. Stop treating the food as if it had wronged you."
His tone, as though scolding a fussy child, made Thalia lift the corners of her eyes. She had meant to snap that she had no idea what was in it. But meeting the eyes that studied her so intently, the barbed words crawled back down her throat. She had no desire to pick a pointless fight with a man who had returned from a grueling night of battle only to see to her meal first.
In the end, Thalia picked up one of the small pastries that looked as though they had been fried in oil. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a large bite—and hot spiced meat filled her mouth.
Nausea surged up at once.
The taste of the greasy meat itself was not the problem. It was the simple fact of putting something of unknown origin into her mouth that provoked such fierce revulsion. Surely it wasn't lizard or bat or frog. As she crushed the soft flesh between her teeth, something crunchy gave way. Nuts, she thought. Or perhaps insects. The finely minced meat was mixed with all manner of ingredients that seemed to have been fried in oil.
The fear that some filthy foreign matter might be hidden inside made her stomach twist in agony. Working her jaw mechanically, as if chewing mud, Thalia could no longer bear the disgust and simply swallowed what was in her mouth.
Seeing this, Barcas quickly poured water into a cup and held it out.
"Drink."
Thalia snatched the cup in haste. The ice-cold water forced the food that had clogged her throat down her esophagus. She shuddered at the sensation of having swallowed gravel, and a sigh-tinged voice came from above her head.
"That dreadful way of eating of yours never does improve."
Thalia looked up at him with startled eyes. She had never imagined he would care what she ate, and so she was slightly flustered.
"I just… don't have much appetite today."
At the words she offered like an excuse, creases formed at the corners of his eyes. He seemed to know that she ate even less than the most ascetic of priests. Barcas sighed softly once more and poured her some of the goat's milk drink.
"It would be best to gradually expand the range of foods you can manage. You can't live on honey and fruit forever."
Thalia stared blankly up at the man delivering this oddly parental lecture, then took the cup with a reluctant face. When she forced down the liquid that filled it, he set the tray aside.
"I'll call a maid. Begin preparing to leave."
While he stepped out, Thalia washed lightly with her nanny's help and changed into clean clothes. Her bandages had been changed only the evening before, so there seemed no need to summon a healer. Draping a fur-trimmed coat over her shoulders, Thalia shook off her nanny's supporting arm and stepped outside alone.
The weather was radiantly clear.
Gazing up at a sky without a single cloud, Thalia lowered her eyes and took in the peaceful village scene. Horses freed from their saddles grazed across the broad grassland. The cavalrymen who had returned from the punitive expedition were gathered in the open yard, taking their meal.
She was about to pass them and head for the carriage when she noticed a strangely shaped shadow stretching at her feet, and stopped. Not far away stood a long pole. Looking up without thinking, Thalia found herself face to face with a large head hanging from its tip, and her spine went rigid.
At the sight of that face—ashen and bloodless, as if every drop of blood had been drained from the body—her stomach, already abused since morning, convulsed. Thalia clamped a sleeve over her mouth. The food she had forced down threatened to surge back up at any moment. Even so, she could not tear her eyes from that face twisted in terror.
Public executions were held regularly even in the capital, but this was the first time she had ever seen a body that had actually been beheaded. Seized by a strange curiosity, she stared into the clouded, milky pupils. The thought came to her that she might, through those eyes, catch a glimpse of hell.
According to doctrine, unclean beings fell into the pit of fire. And she, being unclean herself, stood a high chance of going to hell. If she could, she wanted to see in advance the world that awaited her after death. Held by that thought, she stepped closer to the pole—when a powerful arm blocked her view.
Thalia whipped her head around.
Barcas was looking down at her with an expression she could not name. It was not only Barcas. As if the sight of her staring, entranced, at the beheaded corpse had unsettled them, everyone was casting uneasy glances her way.