“Essentially, yes,” he says. “And you should know that after Sadra cut out your brand, we had to further disguise the area with—with hot oil.”
I yank the covers up to expose my left leg and hip, and my heart leaps—the brand, the symbol of my enslavement, is gone. But in its place is a vast, rippling sea of scar tissue that spreads from my hip all the way down my thigh and onto my knee. I twist my leg back and forth and feel the scar pull with a sharp twinge of pain. If shifting from side to side hurts, what will happen when I walk? When I dance? I look up at Bard, alarmed.
“Will the scar go away?”
Bard closes his eyes, looking a little ill, but quickly recovers himself.
“Some of the scarring may yet fade in time, but it will remain fairly extensive,” he says. “I’m sorry, Sasha. We did the best we could. It shouldn’t affect your ability to dance as long as you treat the area to keep the skin supple.”
I let out a tiny sigh of relief and pull the blankets down. “How long has it been?”
“Two days,” Bard says. “Going on three. It’s just after midnight. Lucoran is sleeping downstairs.”
“And Sadra?” I ask. “Where is she?”
“Mother Wenla thought it best that she distance herself for a time,” Bard says, a little stiffly. “Sadra will remain in the Temple cloisters until it’s safe.”
“But it wasn’t her fault,” I protest. “She was just trying to help me—”
“No one thinks it’s her fault,” Bard says. “Indeed, we owe her a great debt. Because of Sadra’s Dreamwhispering, Ismeni thinks you died as a result of Cimari’s assault. Sadra handled a difficult situation with commendable finesse. However, Mother Wenla feels—and I agree—that Sadra has allowed herself to become too emotionally entangled and would do better in the cloisters.”
“She’s my friend,” I protest, my throat tightening. “My only friend. How can you punish her for that?”
“It’s not a punishment,” Bard says patiently. “No one is angry with her—or you, for that matter. We only want to keep you both safe.”
“And how are you going to do that?” I ask. “What happens to me now?”
“You will stay here with Lucoran,” Bard replies, “as his Companion. When the passes open in the spring, we’ll—”
I hold up a finger. “Companion?”
Sadra has explained a Companion’s role repeatedly, insisting that it’s not the same as a prostitute, that sleeping with influential people in return for gifts and privileges is a perfectly respectable thing to do. She doesn’t understand my distaste for prostitution, either, since the City’s prostitutes aren’t prey to the same dangers faced by prostitutes in my world. They’re protected by a guild and can apparently make quite a good living. We’ve spent a truly silly amount of time arguing about it—to no avail, it seems. Revulsion twists my features as I stare incredulously at Bard.
“Yes, Companion,” he says, his voice firm. “Don’t look at me like that. Obviously, you aren’t expected to provide any actual, er—”
“Companionship?”
“Yes.” His gaze softens. “I know how it must seem to you, Sasha. I really do—we come from the same world, you and I. But this isn’t that world. To host a Temple Companion in one’s home is a great honor, one that will increase his status and yours. No one will question your presence here, and no one will wonder if he seems…protective. You have been sheltered and secluded in the Terrace these many months, and there is much you don’t know. Lucoran will be able to guide you and protect you until it’s time for you to leave.”
“And no one else can do that?” Heat rushes to my face at the thought of sharing living quarters with Luca. “Why can’t I stay at the Temple?”
“Too many people,” Bard says, shaking his head. “Too many relationships. Do you think you’re a good enough liar to hide the truth from all of them?”
I sigh. I think I could, actually—but I don’t want to. I don’t want to exchange one mask for another.
“This truly is your best option.” Bard pats my hand, his face sympathetic. “The arrangement with Lucoran will give you mobility, respectability, even autonomy, though certain boundaries must be observed to ensure your safety. You won’t find that anywhere else, not even the Temple.”
Resentment creeps into my chest. Is this really the best cover they could come up with? I’m supposed to let people think I’m sleeping my way to the top? That I’m some kind of pet? An ornament for a lord’s household? It’s not that different than thralldom, in that regard. But if there is a better option, I don’t know enough about this world to find it. Not yet, anyway.
“What does Luca think about all this?” I ask.
“He agrees it is the most practical solution,” Bard says. “And of course he understands that you are to be his Companion in name only.”
“Oh, good,” I mutter.
“You should rest,” Bard says after a moment and moves to get up.
“Wait.” I reach out and seize his wrist. “I need you to tell me—what do the visions mean? And…and what does it mean if they stop?”
“Visions?”
“When I sleep,” I say urgently. “I’m back—back there. I’m in a hospital and I’m sick. I think I’m dying. Or I was. They started to go away, like you said. And now you tell me I’ve been asleep for nearly three days and there was nothing. What does it mean? Is it because there’s nothing to see? Am I…am I dead there?”
“I can’t tell you, Sasha.” He shrugs and spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” I insist. “You know more than I do. You must know something—it happened to you, didn’t it?”
“I experienced something like what you describe,” he acknowledges. “And, like you, I wondered what it meant. But I came to realize that it was pointless to speculate. Perhaps I died, perhaps not. It makes no practical difference here and now."
“It does to me, if I might be able to go back one day. I know there’s something you’re not telling me about what happens when the Pall is lifted. But maybe you’re right,” I say bitterly. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if I can’t go back. I don’t deserve to go home. I let Pretty Girl die. She was just a baby, and I let her die because I wanted to live… I hope I am dead.”
“Stop it,” Bard says, his voice sharp. “I wish I could give you answers, Sasha. But I can’t, because I don’t know them. I wish even more that I could give you absolution. I can’t, because there is none. You were forced to make a terrible choice, and now you must find a way to live with it. I can’t tell you how.”
“How do you do it?” I press, growing desperate. “How do you live with what you’ve done?”
He spreads his hands, helpless. “I don’t know. I just keep trying.”
He reaches out as if to touch my face, then pulls his hand back and crosses to the door.
“Get some sleep,” he suggests, and closes the door behind him.
I glare at the door, my vision blurred by tears.
A soft whine sounds from somewhere below me, and I lean over to see Kirit crawl out from under the bed. He jumps up beside me and lays his snout on my shoulder. I run my hand gently over his head and play with the fluff around his ears and cheeks, my breath catching at the memory of Pretty Girl’s feathery wisps of fur. My poor, sweet baby. She didn’t deserve to die.
What would Emily say if she knew what I’d done, what I’d become? Even if somehow I make it home, how could I ever face her? But how can I not? If I give up now, Pretty Girl’s death will count for nothing. I will have committed an atrocity of selfishness for no purpose at all.
Kirit lifts his chin from my shoulder, and a second later there’s a knock on my door.
“Sasha?” Luca calls. “Can I come in?”
I hesitate. The blanket feels suddenly much too fragile against my bare skin. Practically transparent. But hiding from Luca now will only make things more awkward later. I force myself to speak.
�
��Yes.” It comes out as a strangled whisper. But as I clear my throat to try again, Kirit yaps once and Luca lets himself in. I look sharply at Kirit, then at Luca.
“Can he understand me?” I ask. “I thought only a Beastspeaker…”
“He can understand you if you keep it simple,” Luca says. “It’s quite extraordinary, really.”
“Clever boy,” I murmur, stroking Kirit’s head again.
“He is,” Luca agrees. “But it’s not so much that he’s more intelligent than other animals. It’s more a matter of opportunity and interest. He’s fascinated by us, and through me he’s been able to learn not only how we speak but how we think and reason, at least to a certain extent.”
“And you’ve learned from him, too?” I guess.
“Oh, yes. The world looks indescribably different through his eyes.” He looks down, suddenly uncomfortable. “Kirit doesn’t really understand—or maybe it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t always accept—certain human concepts. Concepts like politeness or privacy, for instance.”
“Oh?” I blink at him, wondering where he’s going with this.
Luca grimaces a little. “He was listening to your conversation with Bard and relaying it to me, even though I told him I didn’t want to hear. He thought I should know—mostly so I could explain it to him.” He shrugs, his cheeks flushed pink. “He’s very curious, and not at all tactful about it, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” I say again and drop my eyes.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Luca says hurriedly. “But I wanted you to know…Bard told me how it was for you, living as a thrall. I’d wager a finger at least that the king’s best soldiers don’t have your self-discipline, or your courage. But I know you might be lonely without Sadra, and I thought—I mean, I hope …”
In spite of everything, I smile at his flustered earnestness. He smiles back, his teeth flashing white in the dim.
“I’m doing a poor job of explaining myself, aren’t I?” he says wryly. “I just want you to know that I’ll be your friend, if you want, not just your bodyguard. It would be my honor.”
A hint of warmth seeps through the icy crust of bitterness and grief.
“I’d like that,” I tell him, a lump rising in my throat.
He grins, suddenly boyish. “I’m glad.”
Changement de pieds
I finger the strands of my hair, now a light rust-color thanks to the harsh dye Luca delivered to me this morning. The difference, though subtle, is startling. I barely recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. But then, it’s been so long since I really looked in a mirror that I might have simply forgotten what to expect.
I hold the mirror out and step into the patch of light coming in the window, studying my face carefully. No, I decide. It is different. I’m different.
It’s not just my hair. My face has lost the last of its childish roundness, revealing the hard, elegant lines of my bones. My skin, hidden from the sun for months on end, is as pale as milk. My lips, though full and generous, have lost their sweetness, making the firm line of my jaw seem brittle without a smile to soften it. My eyes, once cloudy with dreams, are cold and sharp. The hint of red in my hair makes them seem bluer and brighter, like chips of ice.
I nod in satisfaction. I don’t look like me, but I don’t look like the thrall Cygnet, either.
I lean the mirror against the window and use it to arrange my hair into a series of loops and braids. That done, I put on the soft wrap dress Luca brought me, pulling the cloth snug around my torso and shaking the skirts out to fall in heavy folds to my ankles. I stroke the fabric, my eyes roaming greedily over the deep blue and the creamy, pristine embroidery on the cuffs and hem. The dress is simple, but indisputably the garb of a citizen—and a high-status citizen at that.
A tiny sparkle catches my eye, drawing my gaze to the floor. My moonstone necklace winks at me like a long-lost friend turned up unexpectedly on my doorstep. I stoop and pick it up, cradling it in my hands. I stare at it for a long time before finally fastening the chain around my neck. I face myself once more in the mirror.
I’m not a thrall anymore.
I hike up my skirt and twist, staring down at the mess of scar tissue on my left hip. The brand is gone, just like Bard said. The whole area looks awful—a ruin of puckered, melted flesh stretching from the crest of my hipbone down to my thigh. But the starburst insignia of the House is gone.
“Sasha?” Luca taps on the door. “Are you ready? Mother Wenla is expecting us.”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
Luca’s eyes widen when I open the door.
“You look lovely,” he says. “But different.”
“That’s the idea,” I remind him with a slight smile.
“Come on, then,” he says, offering me his arm. “We shouldn’t keep the Temple Mother waiting.”
He tucks my hand into his elbow and leads me out into the busy streets. Kirit trots cheerfully at our heels, and Luca’s stride is relaxed and easy. I hurry along beside him, trying not to slink or creep. It’s only with great effort that I resist the urge to cringe into his side. After the tranquility and quiet of the Terrace, the chaos of the City is terrifying.
But it’s exhilarating, too, with a crisp wind blowing out of the autumn sky. How many times have I wished I could be a part of these crowds? How many times have I imagined myself strolling along these streets on an errand of my own choosing? And now here I am, free to meet the gaze of passers-by and smile at a little girl who waves at me from her father’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Luca says as we make our way toward the Temple.
“For what?” I ask, looking up at him in surprise.
“For that.” He nods toward my hip. “I helped Bard with the, ah, process.”
“Oh.” I twist my hands into my skirts, fingers clenching, then look up at him. “It’s alright. I don’t remember it. And I’d rather have a scar than—than what was there before.”
We walk the rest of the way in silence. I can’t tell, really, whether the silence is comfortable or not. I imagine it would be, if the rest of the world were silent too. The crowds and their noise still make me jumpy. Kirit, perhaps sensing my unease, yips and gives me a wide, panting smile. I can’t help but smile back. I scoop him into my arms and cuddle him as we walk, finding comfort in his weight and warmth.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we reach the sanctuary of the Temple. The soft murmur of conversation and prayer mingles with wandering strains of music, ebbing and flowing like breath in the lungs. Despite the ambient noise—or perhaps because of it—the Temple is permeated with a sense of purpose and serenity that calls to mind my grandmother’s studio. I close my eyes, imagining that the chatter all around me is that of students and parents. The music is Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, not the strange melodies and rhythms of Kingsgarden.
“Sasha.” Luca touches my elbow. “This way.”
Reluctantly, I leave the music behind and follow him into the upper stories of the Temple where Mother Wenla waits in her study. She rises gracefully from her desk and greets me with a warm embrace. I study her through my lashes, looking for some sign of anger at our lateness. There is none. My muscles relax.
“The sun shines on you, my child.” She lays a hand on my forehead, frowning. “Sit. You need a boost.”
“Shall I leave you, Mother?” Luca asks, hovering awkwardly near the door.
Mother Wenla gives him a stately nod. “Return at the evening bell, if you please.”
Luca bows his head, then winks at me as he and Kirit back away.
Mother Wenla nudges me toward a cushioned bench when the door closes. We sit, my hands clasped in hers. She closes her eyes, and I wonder if I should close mine. But I don’t. I watch her instead, my gaze tracing the soft lines around her mouth and eyes. I see laughter and joy, but also hardship and grief. Was it the strength of her character or the strength of her love for her unnamed man that led her to found the Bird’s Path?
A littl
e shock runs up my spine as I recognize in her the same hidden iron that my grandmother possessed. For once, the thought of Baba Nadia doesn’t stab into my belly, but instead wraps around me like a warm blanket. The warmth doesn’t fade but grows, filling my body with a steady flow of energy and strength that I didn’t realize I’d been missing. This must be the “boost” Mother Wenla was talking about.
“Thank you.” Her eyes open, and I squeeze her hand. “Truly.”
“Of course, my child.”
Mother Wenla pats my cheek in response and returns to her desk, pulling out a small packet from underneath. At her nod, I approach and take it from her. Inside I find a spread of seemingly random objects: a thin, flexible wire; a series of rings and lockets; a dagger so slim it seems little more than a needle; soft straps of various sizes and lengths; a wrought-silver comb; and a set of hairpins. It’s the hairpins that make it all click—these are the tools of my new trade: A Companion’s weapons.
“You will come to me each week for counsel and instruction,” Mother Wenla informs me. “The Bird’s Path is well able to protect its nestlings in the ordinary course of things. However, your situation is far from ordinary, and you must be able to protect yourself. Lucoran will teach you the fundamentals of unarmed combat. You and I will practice…alternate methods.”
A thrill of vicious pleasure ripples through me at these words. I told Sadra I would kill Cimari if she ever touched me again, and I meant it. I’d tear her throat out with my teeth if I had to. But it would certainly be easier with the training and tools offered to me now. I think of Sadra’s skill with her poisons and daggers. Will I ever be that good?
“I’m sure you’re very busy,” I say, looking at the floor. “Couldn’t Sadra teach me?”
“Sadra is unavailable, as I’m sure you’ve been told.” Mother Wenla fixes me with a stern gaze. “I expect you to work hard and without complaint, Sasha. Your safety and that of the Bird’s Path depend on it.”
The Chalice and the Crown Page 20