Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  ‘But that,’ murmured Lace, ‘is exactly what has happened today, Holiness. The Saint has come. You are the new Lawgiver, the return of Saint Loa himself. Your authority supersedes all other. The Council’s mandate is effectively terminated, is it not?’

  The Dean ceased his nervous pacing as the Envoy’s meaning sank in. His shoulders relaxed and the conceit returned to his features. ‘Well, I didn’t think of it that way, I must say,’ he said with relief. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I’m always right,’ returned Lace, smiling his cadaverous smile. ‘In particular with regards to Grafting prophecies, Holiness.’

  ‘True, true.’ Fallow rubbed his hands together. ‘I shouldn’t doubt you.’

  ‘You should not,’ remarked the Envoy. There was a slight coldness to his voice, just enough to cut through the Dean’s self-satisfaction and bring him up short. ‘We need to find a secure location, Holiness,’ he said. ‘It’s time to continue our work.’

  ‘Of course,’ gabbled the Dean. His eyes wandered toward the Nurian youth once more, silently questioning.

  ‘Jed will accompany us,’ replied Lace. ‘He is a gifted student of mine and will aid us in all of our endeavours. You should find your efforts much enhanced.’

  Fallow nodded, but could not help shrinking back as the youth approached. The yellow-haired boy seemed to radiate a terrifying amount of good health and beauty. Weren’t all Nurians supposed to be suffering from poverty and malnutrition, wondered the Dean? But the peculiar creature only bowed, his smile languid.

  ‘I’d be honoured, Holiness,’ he murmured, in near-perfect Argosian, ‘to help you any way I can.’

  Later, when the Saint had dismissed them, Lace left Jedda in Wick’s care, to be shown to her quarters. The Nurian girl followed her companion up the narrow stairwell to the eaves of the main College building, where she was to have a private room apart from the rest of the acolytes. The short hair and boy’s costume were barely sufficient to mislead from afar, and a powerful Seeming cast by the Envoy veiled her more objectionable qualities in the presence of others. That protection would be in force only while she was with Lace. It was the price set for knowledge and power, and one that she was willing for the moment to pay.

  She was less enthusiastic, however, about the fellow acolyte who shared in her secret. She had taken an immediate dislike to Wick, whom she found intolerably arrogant. The young Argosian had already taken advantage of their supposed intimacy that afternoon, whispering smugly in her ear as they walked through the seminary corridors that he hoped the two of them would ‘become great friends in their master’s service'. Not content with such dubious promises, he had evidently decided to further their acquaintance right now.

  He shut the door firmly behind him as he showed her to the small room under the eaves, though she had not asked him to remain. She sighed. She was not afraid of Wick: he had neither the physical nor mental power of Gowron. But she was tired from her journey, bored of his insinuations before he opened his mouth to pronounce them.

  ‘I know what you are,’ he said, triumphantly, as if imparting divine revelation.

  ‘I know you know,’ snapped Jedda, dropping her small bundle of luggage onto the cot in the corner of the room. ‘Our master told you all about me. That’s fine.’

  ‘I wonder if you realise what that means,’ persisted Wick, strolling toward her. ‘It means you’re under my protection. It means we’ll be spending a great deal of time together.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she observed, whirling about to meet him. They were only a few inches apart now. Wick would have liked to gloat over her, she could tell, but she was far too long-limbed for that. Instead, it was she who dwarfed him, gazing imperturbably into his face. He faltered.

  ‘I’d like it to be a pleasurable experience for both of us,’ he said, with an attempt at a swagger.

  He reached out a hand to caress her hair; she slapped him away.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ she breathed. ‘You’re not my type.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ he muttered, stung. ‘I could have you arrested, you know. I could tell people about you. It’s forbidden for females to study at the seminary—’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she said. ‘Our master would punish you. He’s the one who decides what happens to me, not you.’

  He gaped at her in furious surprise. He had not expected to be turned down. Why were men so conceited, she wondered? But Wick’s insistence was more than the typical arrogance of his sex. He was not a physically imposing person, and yet had not expected to meet the least resistance. He had thought she would be ready and willing to be used by him. A reward given by their master for his cooperation, perhaps. Well, he had another thought coming, and so did the Envoy, if this was how he intended to dispose of her. She would be no man’s prize.

  ‘I’d like to rest now,’ she said coolly, turning her back on Wick. ‘I’ll see you in the library later, as our master said.’ She did not deign to watch as he stamped wrathfully out of the room, slamming the door.

  When he had gone she sat down on the creaking cot, feeling weariness envelop her like a shroud. A creature such as she could never hope for true friendship. She was a walking paradox, a female priest, a pariah at the seminary. Somewhere in a dungeon far beneath the College lay her fellow abomination. The Kion had been thrown into prison after her shocking encounter with the Saint. Jedda could not help a wistful twitch of a smile. It was comforting to imagine the Argosian Dean being chastised by a Nurry female. Even if she knew that the Kion did not properly qualify as either a Nurian, or a woman.

  The dungeon carved into the branch below the seminary had no natural light. The door opened in a flood of yellow, and the prisoner was shoved in so violently she almost lost her footing. Hardwood bolts and bars thudded shut behind her, extinquishing the guards’ torchlight and leaving her in near-total darkness. Samiha waited until her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. The cell was bare except for an ominous pair of manacles hanging from the back wall. Her effects from the ship — the bundle of papers, writing material and pilgrim’s shift she had worn on the way back from Marak — had been thrown in one corner. She breathed a sigh of relief. Beside her, a different species of shade had detached itself from the shadows of the room. The apparition of Ash emitted his own soft light, glimmering in the darkness of the cell.

  ‘How did our first session with the Council go?’ he asked.

  ‘All sound asleep and dreaming,’ she answered briefly.

  ‘I expect they’ll wake up,’ murmured the other, ‘when they realise what they unleashed on the world this morning.’

  ‘It’ll be a bit late by then,’ said Samiha, sitting down on the bare floor.

  The Focal reached out an insubstantial hand to brush the bundle of close-written leaves beside her, pursing his lips. ‘Was all this really necessary?’ he asked.

  ‘Not for you, maybe. I’m giving it to Tymon.’

  ‘Tymon?’ frowned the apparition. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But I’m still doing it. It’s cruel to leave him with no explanation.’

  ‘I doubt you’ll be able to give it to him in person. He only just set out from Farhang.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she answered, smoothing out the creases in the pile of paper. ‘He’s been with us all along. Didn’t you feel it?’

  Ash appeared taken aback. ‘You mean, he’s been watching? No, I didn’t feel it!’

  She smiled up at the Focal. ‘You know, for a spirit of light, you’re remarkably dense sometimes,’ she noted. ‘Did you really expect someone like Tymon to piously refrain from Reading the life of the Kion? He doesn’t even know that the act of Seeing changes what is Seen. He has no idea that he’s written himself in.’

  Ash glanced about him with comical anxiety. ‘Is he here right now?’ he whispered theatrically.

  Samiha burst out laughing. ‘Turns the tables on you a bit, doesn’t it,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, he can’
t See you. You are what I See, and what I See is closed to him.’

  Even as she spoke, however, her laughter faded away, as if that fact were somehow painful to her.

  ‘This could be a problem,’ ruminated Ash. ‘How much does he know? What will he try to change?’

  ‘We already have the answer to the second question, of course. He’s going to try and rescue me.’

  ‘Again? Didn’t he try that last time you were in Argos city? Doesn’t he have anything else to do?’

  ‘Now, Ashekiel, don’t be churlish. This time it’s different. He’s motivated by Love.’

  ‘Love is all very well, but it’s only one of the Letters,’ complained the apparition. ‘He could seriously skew our work. How much has he Read?’

  ‘Up to the execution, I think.’

  ‘What about the rest of the story?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Samiha cupped her chin in her hands and stared thoughtfully into the dim recesses of the prison. ‘I don’t know how much he Saw.’

  ‘Let’s hope he concentrates on the rescue and doesn’t try to meddle with the rest,’ sighed the Focal. ‘I’ve been growing these prophecies for a thousand years. I don’t want them knocked off kilter.’

  Samiha glanced sharply at him, though the corners of her mouth twitched with mirth. ‘Don’t get too precious about your work, Ashekiel. It’s in the nature of these things to change as they go along.’

  ‘But it was perfect,’ protested her companion. ‘Pretty near to, anyway.’

  ‘We don’t need perfection in this world, dear friend,’ she answered, gathering the papers in her lap. ‘We need beauty. You know that.’

  The apparition raised a wry eyebrow at this. ‘What about the other one?’ he asked, after a pause.

  ‘The other one,’ sighed Samiha, her smile disappearing. ‘Well, I expect Jedda will wear her chosen shackles for a while.’

  ‘You don’t think she’ll pose a problem?’

  ‘I know she won’t,’ said the Kion, quietly. ‘There’s nothing more predictable than someone bent on revenge.’

  Night had fallen over Argos city, silent after a day of turmoil and braying horns. No moon or stars shone in the overcast sky and only a few lights twinkled through the shutters of the College library. The research alcove at the back of the main stacks occupied by the Envoy and his two acolytes did not possess a window. In this blind corner the only light came from a single candle on the table before Lace and Jedda, its reflection gleaming fitfully across the circular object master and student were examining.

  Wick, relegated once more to guard duty, stood by the open door of the alcove, eyeing his young colleague morosely. He would have preferred to be the one sitting at the table by Lace, poring over that slickly gleaming device; he would have liked to be closer to Jedda too, despite his jealousy. He craned to see over the Envoy’s shoulder. The carved disc lying on the table was reminiscent of an astrolabe with its delicate background design of branches, sliding rule and adjustable rings. But this instrument did not calculate the position of the stars. Its bright markers steered a course through a different world entirely. Lace and Jedda conversed in whispers over the orah-clock. Their discussion had an intimate air which irritated Wick.

  ‘And it can do anything at all?’ The Nurian girl peered in fascination at the ancient instrument. ‘Make someone fall in love with you, for example? Or call down vengeance on a wrongdoer?’

  ‘I suppose it could, in theory,’ drawled the Envoy. ‘But power over a single individual would be difficult to achieve by this means. Remember the Sap does not allow for deceit, even when we have the best of intentions. All results achieved through the orah-clock are organically grown and lasting, not imposed from the outside. That’s what makes it so powerful and also quite limited as a tool. You might establish a remote viewing connection with an individual using the clock, but I’d recommend relying on your own resources to implant a hypnotic suggestion. The results are temporary but also far more flexible. The clock lends itself to real and subtle transformations affecting a whole society over long periods of time. Military and economic domination. Cultural supremacy. That sort of thing. Our work with the clock, if done well, is invisible. Individuals become important only when they embody the goals the Sap has been directed toward — when they are ciphers for our will.’

  ‘Like the Saint.’

  The Envoy graced her with his lizard smile. ‘Precisely like the Saint,’ he murmured.

  Wick rolled his eyes, careful to look away from the two at the table. It irked him that Lace treated his new student with such indulgence, an attitude he had never once displayed toward Wick. Saints be damned, thought the youth. What use was there in learning to shift and control the flow of the Sap if he could not even make a foreign chit in boy’s clothing look kindly upon him? Lace had practically promised him the girl on the way back from Marak, he thought angrily. But despite all he knew about her, all he could do to her in theory, she had cut him down without mercy. She had been the one to threaten him!

  ‘How does it work?’ she asked Lace, fixing her master with bright eyes. She had nothing to fear while he was on her side.

  ‘Basically, it detects and provokes fluctuations in the Sap,’ he answered. ‘You already Saw the Tree of Being during the Oracle’s so-called Reading. That method of divining the future is ancient and inefficient, and frankly drives the user insane after a while. It is not healthy for us to leave our bodies in that way. This system obviates the need for a trance. Instead of having to “be at one with the Sap” and all that nonsense, we see and control it in our waking state, with our critical faculties intact. No need to give up a part of yourself. You are the one who decides where the Sap goes, not the other way around—’

  ‘I see the Leaf-Letters marked on the ring,’ interrupted Jedda. ‘I’ve had a bit of schooling already, sir: I know it’s a divination tool. But how does one go about using it?’

  ‘You show a refreshing practicality, my dear,’ Lace chuckled. He seemed untroubled by her bluntness, thought Wick, glancing with a mixture of longing and resentment at Jedda’s bent head. Why could she not at least pretend friendship with him?

  ‘It’s quite simple, really,’ continued their teacher. ‘Touch the sides of the disc and concentrate on what you wish to See or do. There’s no need to say the Grafting words. That’s an empty ceremony I go through with Fallow because he expects it. As you know there are blind believers in both East and West.’

  There was a moment of silence in the alcove as the girl frowned down at the disc, and her fellow student seethed with frustrated desire by the door.

  ‘Go on,’ breathed the Envoy, ingratiating. ‘Draw on the power of the pendant I gave you. Channel that energy into the clock. This is the art the Oracle didn’t want you to learn. She would have told you such power is not the province of human beings. But it was your ancestors who first brought orah into this world. The Old Ones made that device in front of you. It is your birthright. Claim it.’

  ‘And I can do anything with it?’ she asked him. ‘You don’t mind what I try?’

  ‘Well, I don’t condone actions that would harm Argos, of course. But you know that. I chose to train you for a reason, Jedda. You’re made of the right mettle. No conventional morality or false patriotism limits you. You’re one of the very few people I’ve ever met who is ready for the truth.’

  A wave of nausea passed through Wick as he heard the whispered words. The Envoy had said as much to him, not long ago. But now he preferred his foreign plaything. He turned his back abruptly on the two figures bent over the table in the alcove. Lace’s voice echoed out behind him, plucking at him like an instrument.

  ‘Reach out and take your rightful place among those who direct, rather than blindly suffer their fate,’ he challenged.

  Jedda hesitated no longer. She withdrew the pendant from under her collar, holding the bright rod an instant, drawing on its strength before letting it go and cupping her hands about the disc. The hooks
and dials on the disc glowed in response and sprung to quivering life at her touch.

  The girl’s colour was high, two spots of triumphant red in her cheeks. On impulse she moved the rotating rule to a certain position. Lace followed her progress with deep attention: the orah-clock obeyed his young acolyte far more readily than it ever had Fallow. Gradually, a fuzzy sphere of light about the size of a child’s ball became visible hanging just above the disc. It contained a recognisable image. Cradled in Jedda’s hands was a replica of Wick, a picture of him standing by the door of the alcove just as he was at that instant, his hands thrust into his pockets. He looked away from the two people at the table unaware of what was taking place. The Envoy nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Genius,’ he breathed.

  The image over the orah-clock, and its full-size counterpart in the room, abruptly turned around to face the table again.

  ‘I want you,’ Wick blurted out to Jedda. The wavering image spoke correspondingly but without sound. ‘I want you more than anything. You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever met. I usually like boys, you know.’ His eyes widened in panic at this inadvertent admission and he clapped his hands over his mouth.

  ‘Sheer genius,’ laughed the Envoy, slapping his knee with mirth. ‘The Sap will countenance nothing but the truth.’ He grinned ferociously. Beside him Jedda gave a small, tight smile, her eyes still trained on the disc.

  Wick shook his head, but the muffled words continued to spill between his fingers — excrutiating, unstoppable. ‘I’ll do anything to be with you,’ he gabbled. ‘I’ve only ever desired one person like you and that was Tymon. I was too stupid and slow to get him, so I want you instead …’

  At this point the unfortunate acolyte emitted a strangled half-moan, half-yelp of horror. With his hands still clamped across his mouth he turned and fled from the room in embarrassment.

  ‘Enough,’ wheezed Lace, shaking with laughter. ‘It’s brilliant but that’s enough. You’ve had your fun. He’s an ally, after all.’