Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  His thoughts were at their bleakest since his departure from the Freehold. Jedda’s warning about the Kion and the sneering mockery of the Beast echoed in his memory. Even as Laska’s fate had been sealed, a worse loss was preparing to overtake him. He almost wished Nightside had held his tongue regarding the pirate fleet’s destination: he might have gone on thinking that the threat to Samiha was something farther off, an eventuality he had time to prepare for. Instead, he realised that the future had already escaped him. It had become the present. Events had spiralled out of his grasp. He was crawling like an ant on a far-flung limb, separated from the one he loved by an insurmountable, impassable distance.

  ‘Ama,’ coughed a little voice in the depths of the night.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, perplexed — and then realised that the child who gazed at him through the gloom was not the Oracle.

  ‘Ama?’ repeated Lai.

  Her lower lip trembled slightly. The rain had finally stopped and the moon shone down through the twigs outside the shelter, glinting on the wet bark. He could see the little girl’s form in the faint light. She sat up, staring with round eyes at the Argosian youth she did not know, at the bark roof of the shelter she had never seen before, like a frightened Tree-hare. Tymon raised himself up on one elbow, torn by pity, and cast about for some means to comfort the child. She won’t even know you’re gone, the Oracle had said to Jan. How could that be?

  ‘She’s just stepped outside for a moment,’ he answered, attempting to keep his voice bright. ‘Your mother will be back in a minute. She’ll return very soon. Do you understand me, Lai?’

  She did not. She fixed him with her terrified gaze and crouched in a heap in the farthest corner of the lean-to.

  ‘Look,’ he said, desperately, pointing to the twig-thickets. ‘Look through the door. I can see her, she’s coming back. Do you see her, Lai? Your Ama.’

  He concentrated with all his might on the thought of the young woman he had met briefly in the slum. He imagin ed her standing in the moonlit thicket, the white of her hair shining as she turned to smile at them. Be, he prayed silently. Just be. As he did so, his heart leapt and knocked against his chest. Where there had been nothin g but a play of light an instant before, a figure now stood, shimmering among the twigs. A woman smiled at them in the moonlight. Slowly, the child followed the line of his gesture and peeped out of the lean-to. Then she made a chirruping noise of surprise and delight. A grin stretched over her lips as she watched the glimmering form of Jan. After a moment her eyelids drooped and she curled up on the bark, sound asleep. Tymon felt the dizzy heat that accompanied the Grafter’s power, the bright glad pulse of the Sap. Then it was gone. The Seeming vanished and the thickets outside were dark and empty once more.

  14

  It was all the same to Jedda whether people thought badly of her. They might spin their fantasies about her as long as they liked; she knew what she was doing. She did not care a mite whether all Nurians throughout the length and breadth of the canopy hated her and cursed her name, she thought, furiously, sitting hunched on her bed in the cabin of the Lantrian dirigible. She had been there since they docked in Marak city, unable to leave the vessel unescorted.

  The mood in the colonial town had become volatile after the Kion’s arrest. Seen as a traitor and a sell-out, Jedda would have been killed as soon as spoken to by her people. They would accuse her of being the one who tipped off the authorities to Samiha’s identity, though as the Tree was her witness, she would never have betrayed her sovereign in that way, even knowing what she did. What her countrymen did not realise was that she had good reason, excellent reason, to defect to Argos. They did not realise the extent of the travesty they had been believing in for centuries. She blinked back the angry tears she had been careful to hide from those around her. Maybe one day they would know, she ruminated. Maybe one day they would thank her. Even Tymon.

  Her back stiffened and she quickly wiped her eyes as a man’s heavy tread approached the cabin. The door creaked open to reveal Gowron’s leering face.

  ‘Well, doll, time to say goodbye,’ he remarked. ‘You and I are parting ways. Though I do hope to have the pleasure of your company again.’

  Jedda’s answering smile was tight and cold. She tried, and failed, to summon up the front of careless confidence that was her daily refuge. The native brutality she sensed in Gowron threw her off balance, scattered her defences. She deplored the seminary’s use of this vulgar criminal, however necessary his services might be. She could not wait to be rid of him and he knew it: he seemed to take special pleasure in dragging out the process.

  He came to sit down beside her on the bed, leaning in close though he must have guessed by now she had no use for men or their attentions. His attitude was abominably familiar.

  ‘You’re off now,’ he breathed. ‘Off to enjoy your new life and your new master.’

  She did not answer, as she did not know what she could say that would not further extend the uncomfortable moment. She tried another frosty smile.

  ‘A master,’ continued her tormentor, ‘who has certain requirements which he will appraise you of; special, shall we say, needs, in exchange for his instruction.’

  She stared at him. What was the brute talking about? Surely he did not mean to insinuate that the Argosian Envoy would insist on bedding her? That was evidently his own preoccupation. She resisted the urge to shrink away in disgust.

  ‘No, not that,’ murmured Gowron, with uncanny prescience. His eyes gleamed behind lanky locks of hair, running up and down her, up and down. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay with me, doll?’ he gloated. ‘I’m a little rough around the edges, granted, but I can be nice too. You might not find your new master so nice once you get to know him. He’s as sharp as a bloody spike under all that smoothness.’

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ Why did she thank him? Why ever would she thank him for insulting her? She exhaled her pent-up breath in frustration. ‘I’d rather go to Argos city to complete my training,’ she replied shortly.

  ‘Well, well … that’s a shame … but inevitable, I suppose.’ To her intense relief the ex-priest stood up, grinning. ‘Time to go, then.’

  She rose, expecting him to lead her to another vessel bound for Argos, and was taken completely by surprise when he spun around and hooked an arm about her waist, pulling her hard against him. She struggled to break free with a cry of alarm but his grasp was a vice. He was still grinning, fumbling with his other hand to retrieve something from his pocket.

  ‘Poor old Gowron not good enough for you, hey?’ he sneered. The grin was mirthless now, an animal grimace that barely concealed his contempt. ‘Not good enough for the pale ice-queen. She should learn to relax a little, yes she should. She should treat me with a bit more respect.’

  He held her in place with one arm though she struggled against him with all her considerable vigour. His free hand darted up and he pressed something against her forehead; she recognised the cold touch of orah. A queasy sensation washed through her. The strength fled from her limbs and she sagged against him. The small rod he pressed against her skin warmed as the life-power flowed through her, out of her, into him. She could do nothing but stare up at him, lolling in his arms. After an instant it almost felt good. Part of her wanted this, to be forced like this. She despised herself for it.

  ‘That’s right, doll,’ he whispered, his sour breath on her face. He held her gently now, sure of his control. ‘I have my own little piece of paradise, just like you, though you haven’t the slightest idea how to use it yet, do you? Our master taught me long ago. I know him better than you do, see. I know this is all there is to his instruction. He can promise you more, much more. But in the end you won’t want anything else. This is all there is. What’s that you say?’

  Her lips moved almost soundlessly. He bent closer to listen.

  ‘Let. Me. Go.’ Each syllable was a supreme effort for Jedda. She spat them out through sheer will alone.

 
He gazed at her a moment longer, his lips twitching in bitter mirth or some other emotion she could not read. Then, as suddenly as he had taken hold of her, he released her and stepped back, holding up his hands as if in surrender. Jedda swayed and stumbled to her knees, breathing heavily as the strength flooded back to her muscles.

  ‘Never touch me again,’ she gasped, her heart racing. ‘Never look at me. I hate you.’

  He gave another humourless smile, making no effort to obey the last directive. He had slipped the orah back into his pocket.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of troubling you further, young lady,’ he rasped. ‘You belong to our master now. Take what just happened for what it was, a warning. You think you hate me? You haven’t begun to hate. Years will go by and you’ll think back to this day, and truly understand.’

  He sauntered toward the door, waiting pointedly for her on the threshold. She had no choice but to scramble to her feet and limp after him, glaring at him in wordless anger. It would be worth going to Argos if only for this, she thought. It would be worth learning how to make such creatures pay. For Gowron was not the first to imagine he could use her body as he saw fit. She had met men like him before, though they had no orah to help them. He thought he was teaching her a salutary lesson, but it was one she had learned years ago. To be strong was all that mattered.

  She would bide her time. She would become power ful enough to resist even the effects of the orah, so that no filthy brute could ever swagger his advantage over her again. If she must pay a price to the Envoy for that power, then so be it. Gowron was right. She would think back to this day and she would not forget.

  15

  During the days that followed the episode in the twig-thicket, Tymon kept an anxious watch over the sleeping Lai, worried he might not be able to reproduce another glimpse of Jan should the need arise. But Lai never returned to full consciousness. She slept peacefully in his sling as he trudged along the branch-road, and when those dark blue eyes opened it was always the Oracle’s unmistakable gaze that greeted him.

  His teacher took the news of Nightside’s departure with perfect equanimity, as she took all else. She merely commented, as after he informed her of it the following morning, that since their friend had made the decision to travel south, they would need to ration their remaining provisions. Nightside had been adept at survival, an authority on edible lichens, wild plants and birds’ eggs. Tymon, she noted, had different gifts. They would have to eat only one meal a day until they found another means of procuring food. When he asked her if she had known in advance Nightside would leave them, or the Freehold would be attacked by pirates, she replied with typical evasiveness. The Freehold was always in danger, she said. He had to accept the fact that he might not be able to help those he loved. As to Nightside, she had Seen he would make a defining choice. North or south, together or alone. She had found the Letter of Knowledge on him, the divergence of opposites. But she pronounced no judgment whatsoever on the Saffid youth. His path would take him where he needed to go, she told Tymon. It would bear its fruit. One’s choices always did.

  If she had gone on like this for the remainder of the journey, he might have been driven to exasperation. But after Nightside abandoned them, the Oracle changed tactics, as if she sensed that time were short. When they set off once more on their long march north across the canopy, her lessons became fundamentally different in tone. She began to teach Tymon the practical skills of Grafting he so craved. The rites traditionally associated with the trance had no special power on their own, she informed him. The ‘words of welcome’ sung at the start or finish of each Reading were only a key to a certain mindset. In that same spirit, she taught him to use ‘watchwords', repetitive chants based on the names of the Leaf-Letters which would hone his concentration. When they stopped by the road for the night, she showed him simple relaxation techniques to enhance the trance-state. All these tools were no more than a means to an end, she explained. An experienced Grafter might launch the trance in the blink of an eye without any special procedures. The exercises would develop those of his abilities which most needed work. He was naturally good at visualising objects and drawn to the art of illusion: it was emptiness that escaped him, not form.

  The way she remarked on this made him suspect she knew what he had done for Lai, though she never mentioned it. She did not admonish him for this unsupervised use of his power, and over the next few days he applied himself to his watchwords and exercises with a will, happy to learn the specifics of his art. The one step the Oracle would not allow him to take was to launch the Grafter’s trance on his own. So far, he had only experienced the Sight in dreams and under the protection of others, she cautioned. He was not yet ready to enter the world of the Sap alone. There were Beings in existence who preyed on people like him, luring vulnerable Grafters into a soured trance in order to suck the vital energy from them. Inexperienced students were most prone to attracting their attention.

  ‘Like the Envoy from Argos city,’ he broke in eagerly when she said this. ‘He was one of those Beings, right? The kind I asked you about last night. What you call a shadow and I call a demon.’

  The conversation took place the morning of their third day out of Cherk Harbour. Tymon had been walking as usual down the long empty road of planks, carrying his teacher on his back, to spare her short legs. He had already begun asking her about Lace the previous evening, questioning her about those creatures she had named ‘shadows'. At the time the Oracle had broken off the discussion, saying that such matters were better left till daylight.

  ‘The Envoy,’ she murmured now. ‘Yes. He is an emissary of sorts, though the powers he serves are not those of Argos city. I say “serves” because I’m afraid he does so still, Tymon. He doesn’t die any more easily than I do.’

  ‘Then it’s true!’ he exclaimed. ‘The priests are in league with demons. Of all the hypocrisy.’

  ‘Not in the least!’ she said. ‘The fools have no idea. And the ones who suspect are ready to put out their own eyes rather than admit the truth. The fact is, the members of your Council were duped, willingly duped. They wanted to maintain the dignity and power of Argos. But they are also proud and cannot admit to their mistakes. They thought they could keep things the same as they had always been. But that’s not how the Sap works. Things change. If you try to stop it you cut yourself off, you die. The rot began centuries ago at the seminary. By the time the current Dean got his hands on an Explorer’s artefact, and began setting himself up as a latter- day Saint Loa, complete with tithes, the damage was done.’

  ‘Explorers?’ Tymon frowned with recollection. The name was familiar.

  ‘A group of scientists who searched for another world below the Storm. Some say they actually found it. In any case they came back from their travels, bringing relics the Council has long kept secret: devices made by the Old Ones.’ She laughed wryly. ‘The priests had the witnesses killed, of course, and kept the orah-clocks for themselves. There is one left in working condition I believe — maybe more. They are credited with the ability to control the Sap directly, as one would some brute element. I doubt that was their original purpose. I would hazard a guess the clocks have been tampered with. They are the secret of the Dean’s influence. He meddles with the Sap, for all the good it does him.’

  At this Tymon’s steps faltered and he craned around at her in shock. ‘But how can we ever hope to fight him in that case? If he has magic tools as well as demon allies he’ll be unstoppable!’

  His reaction caused the Oracle to laugh all the more. ‘Good grief, child, no one’s unstoppable,’ she said. ‘Besides, I told you, a sorcerer is halfblind. A hundred of those devices would not be as effective as a single well-trained human being. That’s the joke, the sad trick the Envoy has played on the Council. He has convinced them they need a clumsy antique to do what they might accomplish themselves, if they had a little more humility and understood their own traditions. A Grafter is the most perfect channel for the Sap. You don’t need
ancient technology. You don’t even need the orah, really. You simply are.’

  ‘And the Envoy knows it?’

  ‘The Envoy knows it, most assuredly. He is wildly jealous of everything you can do. The least student of Grafting is further advanced than he is, for the Sap will not touch him. It won’t go near him. He must live by eking out an existence on the edge of things, in the shadows; he must be a parasite siphoning off others. It’s a sad story, like I said. Of course that doesn’t make it any more excusable.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Tymon curiously. ‘How did he get the way he is? Are there more like him?’

  ‘It’s always about pride,’ she replied as they walked on. ‘The Envoy and his people were like the priests in Argos, once. Knowledgeable, powerful, but lacking in humility. They called themselves the First-Born, and indeed they were the first in this universe to cross between the worlds, the first to use Grafting and travel the Tree of Being. But everything has an end. Species have life cycles just as individuals do. When the time came to step back and leave room for others, some of the First-Born did not wish to go. They wanted to remain the same forever. They rebelled and tried to set themselves up as masters of the physical realm. They couldn’t be wiped out, but were banished to a place called the Veil, which is a sort of sub-reality or prison. The Envoy’s true existence is there; that’s where he has the strength to harm you. He only acts here by proxy, doing mischief through others.’