For Bahiyyih
Contents
Cover
PROLOGUE
PART ONE ROOT
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
PART TWO STEM
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
PART THREE CROWN
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
About the Author
BOOKS BY MARY VICTORIA
Copyright
PROLOGUE
‘Kill the witch!’
The crowd waited for her. She could hear its faraway voice, a hundred mouths speaking as one. The sound echoed loudly over the city, though the docks were some distance away, then faded as the breeze changed direction. The young woman listened a moment. She sat on a stool in a tiny, windowless room, at a table littered with scraps of paper. The candle by her elbow provided the only light. A draught caught the flame, causing it to gutter. Carefully, she shielded it with her hand until it grew bright. Then she turned her attention to the paper, dipped a pen in an inkwell, and wrote.
I used to know who I was. I was the twelfth Kion, the Chained One, the last Nurian sovereign before the End Times. My fate had been foretold by Grafters down the ages. I would be captured by my enemies and put to death. After my passing, the old world would be consumed and a new one would grow up out of the ashes …
‘Kill the sorceress!’ The angry cry echoed out from the air-harbour.
A single voice led the pack on the dock, the crowd taking up the words with bleating conformity. The woman continued to write urgently, bending close to the paper. There was not much time left: the morning hours had already slipped away. It would not be long before the soldiers came for her.
Now, I am not so sure. Now I wonder. Who is this woman who is so eager to embrace death? Am I only that tool of destiny marched onto a dusty stage to perform her role, deliver her lines and make way for more important players? Or am I the deluded fool the Argosian priests describe, half mad and living out the lies drummed into her by a dangerous sect? Neither option permits much in the way of personal thought. Neither allows for a mind, a heart, a soul.
‘Death to the whore of Nur!’ cried the voices.
The woman paid them no heed. She wrote furiously, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead, pale and freckled in the candlelight. The soldiers would come, and she would not be ready.
I refuse to be either a heretic or a martyr. I will not play their game. Though I stand by my beliefs, I would not have anyone think I died willingly. I am not convinced as I once was that when change comes — for it will come — it will be the familiar, satisfying mix of reward and retribution we Nurians expect.
It will be uncomfortable, unsatisfying, as compromise generally is.
I rely on you, Tymon, to tell my story, without embellishment. I am not a hero. I am not a martyr. Mine is a tale of failure, written in the language of defeat, the language of the conquerors. Only my name, Samiha, survives in the original. The people here mispronounce it. In any case the name and the person will soon be rubbed out. I go now to my execution. But I do not begrudge them this final payment. I do not ask for retribution.
Her eyes darted away from the page as bolts rattled in a trapdoor on the floor of the room. A man’s shape — an Argosian, a soldier — rose up against a background of torchlight.
‘Out,’ he growled, and withdrew.
She did not comply immediately, bent over her desk. Her hand clutching the pen moved across the paper as if of its own accord. She could not stop writing. The red-brown ink spilled from the end of the reed like a trail of dried blood.
Remember, my love, she wrote. There is no triumph without loss, no power without weakness. My life has been the exact opposite of a hero’s. A hero spends his time fighting for victory and making his mark on the world. I fall, and fail, and will be forgotten, at least for a while. If you wish to see me again, do not fear darkness and defeat. Do not fear Loss. If you can do that — if you can unbind yourself from wanting and winning — then we will meet again at the heart of the world, where all divisions cease.
‘Samiha.’
A voice summoned her. The sound did not come from the trapdoor but from above. It whispered through cracks in the walls with the breeze. It was a joyous voice, a resonant, free voice. It did not send her to her death but called her home.
‘I know you,’ she murmured. She looked up at the ropes dangling through a small aperture in the ceiling, both puzzled and happy.
And then, almost with a sense of disappointment, she awoke.
She was on an open-air sleeping platform in the high, bare twigs of the Eastern Canopy. Samiha was home.
Around her on mattresses and in sleep-sacks stretched the slumbering forms of the Freeholders who shared the communal platform. She pushed aside her blankets and sat up in her shift, freeing the strands of sweat-tangled hair at the nape of her neck. Slowly, her heartbeat returned to normal.
‘Was it the dream again?’
She turned to see her love peering drowsily at her over the rim of his own sack a few paces away. There he was, the perfect antidote to a martyr’s hopes. Her Tymon. He sat up in the rumpled bedding, blinking in the moonlight.
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘It keeps coming back. I’m up there in that high place without windows … they’re about to take me to my execution. The same thing every night since we signed the peace treaty. I can’t help wondering …’
‘It’s not the Sight, Samiha.’ He reached out and caught her by the elbow, quick as a Tree-snake, pulling her playfully toward him. She protested under her breath, glancing anxiously about them at the other sleepers.
‘Marry me,’ he whispered. ‘I promise you’ll stop dreaming and start living.’
‘You know I can’t marry you,’ she hissed. ‘Not in the sense you mean, anyway.’
‘Why not? It’s not like I’m asking you to play house or cook for me when I get home. We could have a temporary marriage just to try things out. Go on, say yes.’
‘A night-marriage?’ She gave a soft snort of derision. ‘How touching. We’ll live together in provisional bliss, as possible soul mates, till death doesn’t us part.’
‘Alright, so anything you want,’ he persisted. ‘I just thought you’d like the freedom.’
‘You think you’re free. I know I have to wait.’
‘Nonsense.’ He drew her toward him again. ‘You told me yourself, the Kion chooses her own mate. No one interferes. What reason could there possibly be to wait?’
‘You’re forgetting the prophecy,’ she answered quietly.
He had been about to kiss her, then, but her reply caused him to tense and jerk back as if stung.
‘That’s not a valid reason,’ he muttered in irritation. ‘We’ve talked about this, Samiha. The tradition’s disputed. The fact that you dream about it isn’t proof — just the opposite. The only thing it proves is that you’re obsessed with this notion of dying for your people.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’ she countered gently. ‘What if the twelfth Kion is destined to be put on trial? You’d be marrying a dead woman, Tymon.’
He sighed in exasperation and locked his arms about her again.
‘You don’t seem very dead to me,’ he murmured. ‘You aren’t a Grafter. The Focals told you that. The dream isn’t a prophecy, just
a nightmare.’
She relaxed at last, leaning against him. ‘I know. It just feels so real.’
‘Does this feel real, too?’ He planted a kiss on her forehead, then on her lips.
‘More or less,’ she said teasingly. ‘I’m not sure. Try again and we’ll see.’
‘How about this?’ He kissed her again, this time on the neck.
‘Much better. Maybe you aren’t a dream. Maybe you’re really here.’
‘And here?’ The last kiss was placed, reverently, in the space between her breasts.
There was silence on the communal platform. The moon shone down on the half-built village, on the people pressed cheek-by-jowl in the cramped, temporary encampments. It watched over both the old and the young, the grieving and the joyful, those who had their whole lives before them and those whose lives would be cut short, who would be plucked away before their time. It saw all and made no judgment.
PART ONE
ROOT
Look not for comfort in that season
Nor shelter seek in human reason
Death the fruit — and fire eternal
Life burns in a kernel.
— Nurian prophecy
1
‘Why would you ask a girl to marry you in any sort of way when you’re about to leave for three months?’
Samiha’s words rattled unpleasantly in Tymon’s memory as he trudged alone up the path on the western spur. It was a chill morning in early winter, eight weeks after the attack on Sheb. The rains had washed the Freehold clean of its coat of ash and only the outer branches of the promontory, pockmarked by blast-craters and shorn of their twigs, bore witness to the battle with the Argosians. He squinted up at the Lyla, hunched like a black mantis at the shattered extremity of the spur. A small group of people stood waiting by the machine. He picked out the Kion’s slender figure, her spark of hair leaping in the breeze. The sight of her there, ready to see him off, was bittersweet. Galliano’s wizened silhouette was a bent punctuation mark beside her. There was no sign of Jamil, but Tymon guessed that the workshop supervisor would be stretched out beneath the Lyla, tinkering with the engine. Puffs of steam escaped the machine.The young man’s friends had gathered on the spur to bid him farewell, for he was due to leave that very morning for Cherk Harbour, to pursue his Grafting studies with the Oracle of Nur. The departure was something of a wrench for Tymon, who had not expected to leave Samiha so soon. He remembered his answer to her the night before. Pleading. Stupid.
‘Be fair, my love. I couldn’t know I was going so soon. Don’t hold out on me. You know I’m yours, whenever you want.’
They had been talking some way off to the side of the branch-path, in a little hollow at the base of a vertical twig, a far more intimate option than the packed sleeping platform. He recalled the proud lift of Samiha’s chin, her profile caught in the gleam of the village lanterns.
‘What we like and what we want,’ she had whispered, sliding her arms about his neck, ‘may not be the only issue here.’
But her closeness, her pliancy in the darkness, had been at odds with her words.
Tymon was under no illusion that their relations were a secret in the overcrowded, half-built village. They had been discreet out of respect for others. It was still only a few weeks since the devastating loss of the battle: the Kion was supposed to be focusing on reconstruction work, not midnight trysts. He had not minded maintaining her privacy, but had wanted her to acknowledge him eventually. He wanted to prove he was good enough for her, for the judges, for the whole Freehold.
‘Promise me,’ he had mumbled as they held each other in the darkness. The smell of her was intoxicating. ‘Promise me you’ll be my merry night-wife when I get back from Cherk Harbour.’
She had not answered, but her actions had spoken louder than words. Breathless, they had lain down beside each other in the hollow, biting their lips so as not to make a sound. It had been their last night together for three months. He did not allow himself to contemplate the possibility that it might be the last of all.
A paltry few weeks. That was all that had been given him, the extent of the homecoming promised by Samiha. It was not that he was reluctant to meet the Oracle. He needed a suitable education, and for the time being she was the only person who could provide it. But he had never expected his stay in Sheb to end so abruptly. His broken bones had barely healed before Oren’s letter had arrived, upsetting all his hopes and plans.
The missive had reached the Freehold three days earlier aboard a trader vessel, and left little doubt as to Tymon’s duties in the coming months. He was to start his studies at once. The move was obligatory, vital, ordained by the Sap. Oren’s language had been stark: miss this opportunity and disaster would ensue. Disobey and the consequences would be devastating. He had not provided reasons, only imperatives. It had sounded to Tymon more like a directive from the Dean than advice from a fellow Grafter. He had accepted, but only for Samiha’s sake, because she had begged him to. Oren was the closest thing they had to a Focal, she had told him. To ignore his judgment would be a great mistake. He had found her attitude, as usual, perplexing. Had she not ignored the judgment of all five Focals in order to travel to Argos city? And yet he could not refuse her, even if it meant losing her for a little while.
His love had gone on ahead of him to the spur that morning, leaving him after breakfast with a hurried embrace and an admonition to find a heavier cloak in the village stores. He had taken the opportunity to bid farewell to his new friends: to Pallas, Rua and Tamal of the Young Guard, and the men at the refurbished workshop; to Gardan and the other judges, even Davil, who had mellowed greatly since the Argosian attack. Shasta, the youngest and most earnest of his acquaintances, had taken wistful leave of him at the foot of the spur. He had asked Tymon in a voice hushed with awe whether he had yet foreseen the time and place of his own death, as the other Grafting student was rumoured to have done — and whether, like her, the knowledge had cured him of all fear.
It was not only the prospect of leaving Samiha that weighed heavily on Tymon as he rounded the last bend in the branch-path. At least part of his anxiety that morning had to do with the fourth and final member of the group standing by the air-chariot. He distinguished her easily from her companions: Jedda, his fellow student, sent especially from Marak by Oren to begin her studies with the Oracle. Lithe and tall and tawny as a Tree-cat, the Nurian girl was not yet sixteen years old, but could look Laska in the eye and towered over Tymon with her brooding, feline confidence. It was she who had brought the troublesome letter from Oren, travelling aboard a spice-merchant’s vessel from Marak. Samiha had translated the whole thing for Tymon. As harsh as the young Grafter had been with regards to him, he was full of praise for Jedda. He had written of her great aptitude for Grafting and her natural strength of mind. In the three days since she had set foot on the Freehold, Tymon had heard practically nothing but talk about Jedda, praise of Jedda, and wild speculation about Jedda’s part in the liberation of Nur. It was beginning to pall. He found the fact that he was obliged to abandon Samiha in order to travel with this hoyden frankly disturbing. The Marak girl’s attractiveness was of the daunting variety.
The Kion had stepped into the air-chariot just before he arrived; he could see her shoulders through the hatchway as she bent over Laska at the controls. Jamil’s legs poked out from beneath the Lyla‘s belly. So only Jedda, standing beside the blindly beaming Galliano, saw him as he approached. She turned toward him.
‘Tymon.’ She threw out the name casually, as if she were commenting on the weather, and bared a set of perfect white teeth. He gave a panicked grimace in return.
‘Is that you, boy?’ Galliano’s summons was a welcome distraction. ‘I should say “young man” of course: you’re off on your first apprenticeship, after all.’
‘I suppose so, Apu,’ laughed Tymon, hurrying to his mentor’s side. ‘A Guild for Grafters: that would be a fine thing, wouldn’t it?’
‘That’s called
a seminary,’ noted the old man dryly, ‘so I wouldn’t consider it so fine, no. In fact, I’d call it an idea fraught with problems.’ He dropped his voice to a loud whisper. ‘Now, on to more important subjects. This will be the trip of a lifetime I hope you know.’
‘How so?’
Tymon peered curiously at his friend. Galliano had slept through the events on board the Envoy’s dirigible and his attitude to Nurian beliefs had, at least until that morning, been one of healthy skepticism. Was the scientist saying that he approved of his studies? Galliano’s ruined gaze was fixed on Tymon with uncanny accuracy. He had recovered from his illness and seemed as brimful of energy as ever rapping his new walking cane on the bark of the spur.
‘Look lively! You’re going to the Fringes,’ he announced. ‘You could see the Well of Worlds for yourself. If you miss the opportunity, I shall personally skin you.’
Tymon stifled a sigh. Galliano expected him to take time from his studies to search for the fabled second canopy beneath the Storm, which according to legend could be glimpsed from the southern marches of the Tree. He cringed when he heard Jedda’s soft laughter behind him. The old man’s obsessions were proving embarrassing.
‘I don’t think Cherk Harbour is far enough south for that,’ he protested.
But Galliano was already giddy with his stratagems. ‘Keep a weather eye on your toes,’ he cautioned.
‘Keep a weather eye on your toes,’ he pronounced. ‘You must take notes on everything you see between the clouds, even if it’s unrecognisable. You have an opportunity to make invaluable observations. Did you pack a roll of parchment? I’d ask for sketches but that won’t be of any use to me now, more’s the pity. I want a description of colours, forms, the temperature of the air currents, all of it. Every detail.’
‘Excuse me, syor.’ Jedda stepped up beside them, smirking over them both. ‘I could not help overhearing. Do you really think you can find the legend of Lacuna — your World Below — hidden inside the Storm?’
There was no missing the edge of condescension in her voice. Her mastery of the Argosian language was perfect, though she spoke with a thick accent, as if revelling in her difference, her foreignness. Tymon could have howled in frustration. He wished the scientist had kept his foibles to himself.
Samiha's Song Page 1