“Dove found me,” Sadra says. “She didn’t speak, but she made her meaning clear. You were right about her.”
“Will you help her?”
“It’s not my decision,” Sadra says gently. “Now, listen, since you can’t dance, I have some mental exercises for you to do…”
I follow Sadra’s instructions, doing my best to clear my mind. But try as I might, I can’t ignore the distractions piling up in my mind: I’m worried about Emily; I’m worried about Dove; my back is on fire, and where it doesn’t hurt, it itches; I’m thirsty; I’m hungry—but nauseous; there’s a crick in my neck from lying on my stomach for two days; and, of course, I don’t know if any of this is real.
But I do my best to do as Sadra says, and finally she lets me fall into a fitful sleep.
As always, I dream.
* * *
“Hi, Sasha.”
My eyes move slowly, laboriously, but I keep trying until they rest on James’ face. There are lines there that I don’t remember. His mouth hooks down, pulling his gaze along with it. I wonder what he’s doing here without Emily, but I’m glad to see him.
“Emily misses you,” he says. “We all do. I’m sorry it’s been so long. There were some…complications that we had to sort out. Some Social Services peon seemed to think—but you don’t need to worry about that.
“Anyway, I have something I thought you might like. I dug up some footage of your grandmother performing and digitized it. Emily gave me your tablet so I could bring it to you.”
James props the tablet up on the little table next to my bed. I watch, enthralled, as a young Nadia Nikolayeva floats across the stage, first in black and white and then, later, in color. She was magnificent. Once, I aspired to that level of skill and grace. And I could have done it; after the Swan Lake performance, offers came flooding in.
But everything has changed. Even if I get out of here, I’ll never be what I was. I don’t know what kind of life is waiting for me when or if I leave the hospital.
Whatever it is…I’m not sure I want it.
Arabesque
“Are you sure you need to keep her overnight?”
Ismeni hovers at the litter’s curtain, looking up at Sadra with an expression equal parts worry and suspicion. I sit in shadow, trying to ignore both the pain in my back and the four thralls holding the litter on their shoulders. Though Ismeni put some kind of—according to Orean—hideously expensive salve on my back, the burning ache is only just bearable.
“Don’t worry,” Sadra says. “We’ll take good care of her. The Healing will go better if she can rest after. I’ll have her home first thing in the morning.”
Ismeni purses her lips. “See that you do.”
I wince as the litter begins to move, catching me off guard. My hips ache from the strain of holding my spine perfectly straight; I can’t slump against the pillows as I so badly want to. The slightest relaxing of my posture makes the scabbed cuts on my back twist and pull. A trickle of blood is already creeping between my shoulder blades.
Each bump and jerk of the litter opens new rivulets as we make our way through the city. I grit my teeth and endure it silently, as a thrall would. Sadra sits across from me, her lips twisting in helpless sympathy. She doesn’t say anything, until a particularly sharp swoop of the litter makes me hiss in pain.
“Not much longer now,” she promises. “We’re almost there. It’ll stop hurting soon.”
I let out a skeptical grunt. Even though I’ve seen Ismeni use Light, I have trouble believing that my hurts will magically disappear—or rather improve, as Sadra so carefully qualified. A Lighthealer can make injuries vanish as if they’d never been; a Gifted one can only speed up the natural healing process.
The litter jerks as one of the thralls stumbles beneath us. I close my eyes against the flare of pain in my back and the sharp crack of a guard’s whip outside the litter. When I open my eyes, I focus on the sights and sounds beyond the litter’s drapes. The City of Roses really is beautiful, and I only rarely get to see it.
Everywhere I look there are elegant archways and delicately curved rooftops, all in pale pinkish stone. Flowers and vines spill from windowsills, and it seems like every other block we pass through is a courtyard decorated with marble statues and fountains.
People bustle about in colorful costumes, conducting business and laughing with friends. There are street performers everywhere. There’s dancing, singing, acrobatics—there’s even a puppet show.
A puff of cool, crisp air ruffles the veil draped over my head and shoulders. It feels like September. October, maybe? But, no, it was spring when I crossed over. It was warmer back home, that’s all.
When the litter finally stops, Sadra leaps down with the kind of thoughtless exuberance I once had and took for granted. I climb out of the litter after her and try not to see the scarred backs and shaved heads of the thralls who carried us. I shiver, wondering what might have become of me if I hadn’t been young enough or pretty enough to serve on the Terrace. The thought of considering myself lucky makes me sick, and yet I know it’s the truth.
We enter the Temple through a small side door, as far away from prying eyes as we can manage. Even so, we don’t entirely escape notice.
“Sadra!”
I shrink into the shadows as a short, round figure appears seemingly out of nowhere and throws herself at Sadra. Accustomed as I am to Ismeni’s calm complacency, the girl’s exuberance is a little alarming. How nice it must be, to live so…loudly.
“Hello, Feli,” Sadra says with a laugh, returning the girl’s hug. “How are you?”
“Tired,” the girl says. “I’ve been preparing night and day for my Trials. I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t win my Mark. If I have to stay cooped up in here for another year, I’ll go mad.”
A flicker of interest distracts me from my thoughts. Trials? Mark? I glance at Sadra’s tattoo, a scrolling rune intertwined with a rose. Perhaps it isn’t just decoration, as I always assumed. I’ll have to ask her later, if there’s time. I can’t ask now—I can’t say anything. I’m a thrall.
My curiosity dissolves into longing as I take in the easy familiarity between Sadra and Feli. What would it be like to join in their conversation, to be just another girl?
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Sadra says. “But you might just find you miss Temple life when you’re out on your own. I know I do.”
“But you live in the King’s Terrace,” Feli protests. “You get to go to parties and wear pretty dresses and meet people—you’ve met the king!”
“It’s not always fun. It’s work, just like you do here.” Sadra grins. “Well. Maybe not just like.”
Feli giggles but then stops, noticing me for the first time. Her eyes go wide. “What are you doing with a thrall? What will Mother Wenla say?”
“The thrall isn’t mine, obviously, and it’s Mother Wenla I’m here to see,” Sadra says. “Go let her know I’m here, will you? I’ll be in the old practice rooms. And, Feli—keep it quiet.”
Feli nods seriously and runs off, her golden curls bouncing on her shoulders.
“This way,” Sadra murmurs. Once we’re safely away, she slips a hand under my elbow for support. “Just a little farther and you can rest.”
Sadra and I make our way slowly down a deserted corridor until we come to a room that I recognize instantly, though I’ve never set foot in the place. The floor is made of smooth, polished wood. No clutter, no furniture except for a chair tucked away in one corner. All it needs is mirrors and a barre.
“I thought you’d be more comfortable here,” Sadra says with a slight smile. “Wait a moment.”
Beside the chair sits a large harp and, beside that, a door. Sadra opens it to reveal a small but neat closet and pulls out several pillows. She lays them out on the floor, and, at her urging, I lay myself carefully on top of them with a grateful sigh. Just as carefully, Sadra opens the back of my dress and applies more salve. The cold sting makes my flesh twitch, b
ut it helps.
“It’s safe now,” Sadra says. “You don’t have to pretend.”
“Yes I do,” I whisper. “I’ll always have to pretend.”
“No,” she says. “Not with me. You can cry. Or curse, or yell, or whatever you want to do.”
“I don’t want to cry,” I say. “And I don’t know any curses.”
“Well, I know plenty,” Sadra says cheerfully. “I can teach you.”
By the time Mother Wenla arrives, the fire in my back has receded to a throbbing ache and I’ve added a wealth of filthy words to my still growing vocabulary. But as soon as the door opens, Sadra leaps to her feet, her face burning a little.
“The sun shines on you, Mother.”
I twist my neck, trying to look at her without moving too much: Sadra’s mentor is tall and imposing, with piercing blue eyes and sleek blond hair faded in places to a buttery white. She carries herself like a queen. But when she smiles, I see the warmth inside her and understand Sadra’s faith in her. Something about Mother Wenla immediately inspires confidence.
I begin to hope.
“As it shines on you both, children,” Mother Wenla says with a gracious nod. “Let us begin.”
“Wait,” I protest. “I have so many questions—”
“I’m sure you do,” Mother Wenla says gently. “But they must wait until you are well enough to ask them. Sadra, if you would?”
Sadra settles herself at the harp and begins to play a simple, repetitive pattern that I’m not sure can really be called a tune.
“Try to relax.” Mother Wenla lowers herself gracefully to the floor and touches cool fingers to my skin, making me shiver. “Focus on the music, not on me.”
It’s surprisingly easy to do as she says. The harp’s notes are hypnotic, lulling me into a state of hazy half-sleep where pain seems like something separate from myself, something distant and pale and small. Warmth replaces pain, enveloping me in a soft, colorless glow that nevertheless puts me in mind of honey and lavender, or perhaps chamomile. Wherever I am, I want to stay here forever. I don’t want to go back to the pain and fear and helplessness.
But I do go back, however reluctantly. Mother Wenla’s voice guides me back into my body, and I find that the pain I expected to be waiting for me is gone, or nearly so.
I roll over and sit up, holding my dress to my front with one hand and reaching over my shoulder with the other to feel the soft, new skin.
“You’ll have a scar, here,” Mother Wenla says, touching my back. “The other marks will soon fade, but this one was too deep.”
“What did you do?” I ask. “Not just about the cuts. There was something else. I feel…different.”
Mother Wenla smiled. “You feel healthy. You’ve been affected by the Pall for so long you don’t remember what it feels like to be completely well. I simply…gave you a boost.”
“Thank you.” I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. “I… I don’t know what else to say.”
“Nothing else is necessary,” she assures me. She rises and helps me to my feet. “Move around a bit—work the muscles. It will help.”
“Will you show us your bal-lay?” Sadra asks, pronouncing the unfamiliar syllables carefully. “I’ve been so hoping to see what it really looks like.”
I hesitate. Who brought me to the Temple’s attention, and why? How do they plan to remove the shadow on my mind—the Pall, as Sadra and Mother Wenla call it? And, most importantly, when can I leave Ismeni’s household?
I want answers…but I want to dance more.
“Will you play for me?” I ask.
“I will play,” Mother Wenla says, and raises an eyebrow at Sadra. “Sadra’s fingers are not as practiced as they should be.”
Sadra blushes and moves to let Mother Wenla take her place at the harp. I toss her the pillows on the floor and, after a moment’s hesitation, slip my gown off my shoulders. The heavy fabric will tangle around my legs until I can’t move, much less dance. I kick it aside and tie the fine linen of my shift between my knees. Much better.
Mother Wenla begins to play a gentle tune a bit like an allemande. I move carefully at first, warming and stretching my muscles until they can carry me safely. As the music shifts, so do I, falling into the unfamiliar tonalities and strange, uneven meters. It feels different, challenging, but not unpleasantly so.
Though my eyes are closed, my whole body—my whole being—reaches for the music pulsing around me. Drops of sound like liquid gold ripple from Mother Wenla’s harp, and Sadra has unearthed a small drum from somewhere. Each beat settles into my chest and lower back, anchoring me as my toes stretch up to the ceiling or flick lightly along the floor. I dip, I spin. I fly, arms and legs outstretched like a bird’s wings.
I come to rest with the music, letting my arms fall slowly to my sides as the last note fades. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on my skin; I haven’t worked this hard in months. I dab at my face with the skirt of my discarded gown and peek shyly at Sadra and Mother Wenla. My shoulders relax at the broad grin on Sadra’s face and the more subtle smile of approval on Mother Wenla’s. Their respect, their acknowledgment of my art, means more than I thought it would. I wasn’t aware of how badly I needed someone to look at me without pity.
The glow of satisfaction doesn’t last long. A low, rough chuckle from somewhere behind me sends me scuttling across the room before I’ve even registered what the sound was. When I’ve regained control of my limbs, I move cautiously out of Sadra’s shadow to stand at her side.
There’s a man standing just inside the doorway, his scarred, weathered face lit by a beam of sunlight that slants through the room’s high windows. A scar—a scar—I know this man. At least, I recognize him.
“My thanks,” the man says. “It’s been a long time since I last saw a ballerina dance.”
I instantly forget whatever it was I was going to say. Instead, I ask, “And where…where did you last see a ballerina dance?”
“The Bolshoi,” he says softly. “In Moscow.”
I gasp and move forward, holding my hand out as if in supplication. “Vy Russkiy?”
After a slight hesitation, he replies, “Niet…ya Bolgarin.”
Disappointment makes my chest seem to deflate. Bulgarian, not Russian…but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s like me. He understands what it is to be a thrall. And he escaped, he—I frown suddenly and narrow my eyes.
“You stole my necklace,” I say, with only half a thought to spare for how natural it feels to slip back into the language of Kingsgarden.
“Borrowed,” he corrects me. “I borrowed your necklace. For safekeeping.”
My heart leaps. “You still have it?”
“I do,” he says. “But perhaps this isn’t the best place for that conversation. It will be a long one.”
“Indeed,” Mother Wenla says. “Sasha, Sadra will show you where to clean up. You can join us in my study when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now,” I say quickly. “Please—”
“It will be a long night,” Mother Wenla says, shaking her head. “Take some time and refresh yourself before we begin.”
Reluctantly, I let Sadra tow me away to the Temple’s bathing chambers, where I hastily wash and dress in the clean gown Sadra provides. As I smooth the fabric over my hips, I marvel at the change in my reflection. The gown, though simple, is lovely. The color is entrancing—a rich, vibrant burgundy that would never be found on a thrall.
Look at me, it says. I am someone. I am real.
“It’s a little big on you.” Sadra purses her lips, looking me over critically. “But it’ll do. Just bring it in some here, tie this a bit tighter—” I gasp as she yanks a sash into place around my waist. “Lovely. But what to do with your hair?”
I huff impatiently. “Who cares about my hair?”
“You should, if you don’t want to be recognized,” Sadra says sharply. She lifts a lock of my hair and twines it through her fingers. “Hm. Blond, I th
ink, but more honey than wheat. Yes, that will work.”
Sadra rummages in a cabinet and emerges with a wig, already styled in a mass of loops and braids. She settles it on my head, tucking my own hair firmly underneath.
“Give it a shake,” she says a few seconds later, and I tilt my head from side to side. The wig stays in place. “Good.”
She crosses to the door and looks back at me expectantly. I hesitate, fingering a shiny braid.
“Will this work?”
Sadra nods. “It’s worked before—repeatedly. The citizens of the City have no reason to think a laughing, talking woman is anything but what she appears to be. Now, if anyone asks, you’re meeting with Mother Wenla because you’re considering taking your vows.”
I follow Sadra through the Temple, trembling with eagerness and the after-effects of exertion.
Despite my impatience, I can’t help but admire the architecture. Though everything is made of stone, nothing seems heavy. Light streams in through windows and open courtyards, illuminating every inch of the place right up into the vaulted ceilings. Delicate, subtle carvings decorate pillars and arches, and potted plants dot the hallways. Everything about the Temple whispers of clean lines and serenity.
A wistful sigh escapes my lips. Perhaps I could stay, hide here until they can get me away to wherever they plan to take me. The waiting wouldn’t be so terrible in a place like this.
“Sadra!”
It’s the chubby blond, the one who accosted us not two hours before. She gives me a bright smile and holds her hand to her heart, dipping her head in greeting. At Sadra’s nudge, I return the gesture.
“My name is Feli,” the girl says. “Are you a new initiate? What’s your name?”
“This is my friend Calla,” Sadra says without missing a beat. “She’s considering taking her vows.”
“Was that your thrall I saw earlier?” Feli asks me. “They’re not normally allowed in the Temple, you know. You’ll have to give it up.”
“I know,” I mutter. “I—um—”
“We’ve taken care of it,” Sadra says smoothly. “It’s stashed in a storage room.”
The Chalice and the Crown Page 12