I looked up, coming to attention. The name rang in my ears. Say-thahn-nah. I pulled my shirt tighter around my shoulders, feeling the warmth of the wounds seep under my skin. They bled if I stretched the scabs. Only a little bit. It was already much better than when I woke up. It was healing faster than even alchemy would have allowed. Cecily had bandaged most of it up after my bath, but there were still a few tiny open wounds, like cuts made from the tips of branches and the splinters of bark. It’s getting better, I told myself. And anyway, he said it would be okay. For a moment, reality had settled in and fear choked my breath, and suddenly I thought—Saythana, the Dream Weaver, had visited me in my sleep and chewed through a part of my shoulder. Then the next moment, I told myself it was just a dream and he would never visit me again, and if I ignored the shoulder, it would heal on its own and I would have nothing to fear. It was only real if I thought about it.
“Come now, there are better things to talk about than that,” Father Clairmont said, feigning disinterest. His eyes glittered with enthusiasm as he spoke. He looked at the wooden clock at the back of the classroom. Class was already over, but no one moved, eager to listen to anything he might have to say. The rare and sudden surge of attention around the class made him wince. He took his glasses in his hand, and rubbed his eyelids tiresomely, as though just preparing to answer the question had already drained him of his energy. He was clearly also soaking up the moment, a rare occasion when all the class was ready to carefully listen to his every word.
“You do know what happened in Chaya last night, Father Clairmont?” Elsa asked, pressing on louder than Mawlik. She rested her head on her knuckles, pitching her tone just high enough to avoid being overtly glib. Her pink lips pulled into an innocent smile that promised a more relentless curiosity than her classmates.
“Ahh, the vampire and the Vannadrays.” Father Clairmont sighed. He shook his head and pursed his lips together. It looked both serious, and impressively insincere at the same time. “I’ve seen worse things happen to better families. It’s hard to say why they turned to Narkissa. They wouldn’t be the first.” He shook his head solemnly, now in genuine disappointment. “It’s always the old families. The ones with deep roots in Adhib. The lands there breed a taste for sin.”
“Dina’s family is old,” Elsa said. “And they’ve got roots in Adhib that go all the way back to the Immortal King’s warlords. Not to sound treasonous or anything, but sounds like they could be just as bad as the Vannadrays if you ask me.”
A long, awkward silence followed.
I shot Elsa a stiff glance. She was hiding a smile underneath an exaggerated expression of concern and sudden worry. This was her own favorite habit. Using a youthful mask of ignorance, Elsa would poke and prod at things adults said, aggravating and irritating them as much as she could. She had it down to a science. She wouldn’t use the skill in class often, but when she did, it was like watching a master craftsman sharpening the ends of her tools, preparing them for better use in the future.
Jahlil and Mawlik snickered from the front of the room, hiding their faces behind parchment.
Elsa, Nikhil, Jahlil, and Mawlik. They were my closest of inner circles. I would make them courtiers one day, to advise me on all the unimportant decisions, and I’d make them Queen’s Guard too, and grant them castles and vast acres of land. Father had his favorites, but he’d met most of them after he was already king. My favorites would be my closest friends, the ones I grew up with, and when I was queen, I would shower them with lavish gifts and throw monumental celebrations for the slightest of honors bestowed upon them. Taa would say, That’s not the way. I knew that well, but at least for a few things, I would do things my own way.
Father Clairmont walked around the room for several minutes. The sunlight coming through the stained windows put an owlish cast on his face. “The old, odd families,” he finally said, nodding to himself. “Yes, those families. Those are the ones that turn to Narkissa. The families that keep to themselves. The ones that…” He flashed a glance around the room, counting all the children that may have come from old nobility. “The ones that are always dabbling with things from the night.” He moved his fingers about, as though he were scratching the air in front of him. “It’s no good. The new gods gave us alchemy for a reason. To search for the old magic is a sin on its own.”
“Well, there was a man yesterday,” Mawlik interjected. “A Vannadray. Or maybe just someone who was in their home while it was burning.”
I wasn’t particularly sensitive to these kinds of things, but the more we spoke of it, the more vividly I could see the madness the family must have gone through. Flames leaping from floor to ceiling, thrashing along the sides of rooms. Burned alive in their own home, by their own neighbors. This was how Narkissa broke apart kingdoms and cities. She never sent her undead legions or her ghost assassins or her bone fleets. She made slight disturbances that could spiral out of control on their own. It would have been better if Taa was here all along. She could have done more. She could have prevented this. But at the very least, it was good that she was able to keep the Vannadray bloodline from ending.
“I heard about that,” someone else said, interrupting Mawlik. “A man in the fire rushed out of the Vannadray house and started screaming that Saythana was coming to Chaya.”
“Did he?” Father Clairmont asked flatly, before any kind of silence could settle around the room. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He stood staring at his glasses for a long moment. It could have been my imagination, but I thought the corners of his eyes hovered around my shoulders.
“You’re not the first to ask,” Father Clairmont finally said. “But there’s not much to know. Not more than what we’ve already taught you. What you hear in songs and tales, at home from your parents and in poems.”
“He’s the only daemon feared by the gods?” A boy’s voice from the back.
“He helped the prophet end the Immortal King’s rule?” A girl’s voice from the left.
“Let’s hear all the tales again,” Elsa said, with a tone of finality.
“And he’s in Chaya?” Jahlil asked. He pushed his hair back, clasping his hands around his head. There were lines of dirt buried deep inside his fingernails, likely from running around the marshes with Mawlik before class. He let his glasses rest lopsided above his slightly crooked nose.
“Saythana hasn’t been for hundreds of years,” Father Clairmont chuckled. “There’s no way to tell when he’s here and when he’s not—unless one of you had a dream about him and are hiding it. Ehh?” he asked, looking around the room. His eyes relaxed on Elsa, who shook her head quickly. “And what would Vermilion want with Chaya? He visits prophets and heroes, great scientists and talented artists.”
“Obviously no one in this lot,” I muttered.
Only Elsa laughed, raising a hand to her mouth, but not laughing any quieter.
Father Clairmont continued, supplying his words with a lively tone and flailing hands, “Saythana… Dream Weaver… he grants a person any wish they want in all the world… and then eats their soul in exchange for their wish.” He snatched the air in front of him and then pulled his hands to his mouth, leering at the front row as he spoke.
“How did he help Enek’Senehet conquer the Ice Kingdoms?” Nikhil asked from behind us, his eyes rich with curiosity.
“His body covered the skies, worming and winding through the clouds and stars, blacking out the sun,” Father Clairmont answered, waving his hands in sudden circular motions. He clapped his hands quickly in front of Elsa three times and shouted, “Ta! Ta! Ta! The stars fell from the heavens, and all that you knew… homes, villages, entire cities and kingdoms, disappeared into the night. Saythana brought us iron rain and floods, screaming winds that could break apart stone castles and glass mountains.” Father Clairmont raised a finger to the air and shook it vigorously. “Whole kingdoms would vibrate, split, crack, crumble, and then vanish.” He turned his back to the class, then
spoke again, sounding disappointed now. “But those were different times. An older era. When man and the gods were much closer.”
Father Clairmont eyed the clock again. He fidgeted with his fingers, looking tempted to continue even though class was over. His mouth opened, closed, opened, closed. He ran his hands along the creases of his robes, folding one layer on top of another. The last time someone egged him on to speak about the old gods, we were here till dusk. He made us write down three scrolls worth of genealogies, memorize Adhib’s pantheon, and sketch out what the world looked like before the Ice Kingdoms. I had a script with Elsa ready for faking demonic possession in case that happened again, but a creaking at the door suggested we wouldn’t have to use it.
Mother Mendhi cleared her throat.
The class turned.
She was wearing a dark blue velvet cloak, with a black and blue wool scarf that wrapped loosely around her head and neck. She was similar to Taa in appearance, at least back when most of Taa’s body was intact. She had silver hair as thick as beads of mirror wine, and dark black eyes that bore down on you like bottomless pits if you disappointed her. I only knew that feeling once, when she caught me in this very room, stealing something from the apothecary to fake alchemy at home. It was obvious at a glance what I was trying to do. She let it pass without much fanfare. Mother Mendhi played favorites. For some, she had a temper as quick as whiplash. For others, she was as patient as a snake with its mouth full.
“I was wondering what was keeping them for so long,” she said. The lines on her face went deeper as she smiled. Instead of having many wrinkles or folds, she had a few very broad and rooted ones, as though her years had chosen to seep into only three or four grooves, leaving the rest of her face to pass with a perpetual middle-aged look. You couldn’t call Mother Mendhi or Taa old, at least not in the way you would use old to describe a sage. Mother Mendhi might’ve been past her prime, but she was still one of Chaya’s most formidable alchemists. Taa said when Mother Mendhi was young, before she joined the Church, she had spent years studying in the Sisterhood to learn the way. The Church would strip her of her oaths if they knew.
“Ahh, Mendhi, apologies,” Father Clairmont said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting for the class. You know how it is when I start ranting.”
“I know how it is when you start ranting,” Mother Mendhi returned, only a hint of reproach in her voice. Her smile began to strain as they watched each other for several seconds.
People began shuffling their things together, standing up and filing out of the classroom. They took longer than usual, hoping for Father Clairmont to discover new details he wanted to share. Adhib had its metal deserts and its everlasting nights, but the real magic of old continent lore was its ability to make the Cathedral an interesting place to be.
I walked to the front of the classroom. Nikhil and Elsa stood by the back door, and I could feel their eyes watching me. I’m sure others were as well, just out of curiosity, but I didn’t notice them. After thirteen years, I was only beginning to understand what it was like to be enamored of someone. It felt strange, more than anything, to have so much of your thoughts be wrapped around someone you knew so little about. And because you knew so little about them, you had to make stuff up on your own, just so you could think about the things you made up. I must’ve been a romantic. Or a masochist. When you’re young, the two look the same.
Stepping slowly, I approached Father Clairmont. He was sitting behind his table, a dark maple wood desk with a lacquer and dry oil finish. There were iron hinges nailed to the sides and smoothed tree rings that spread from the left corners in wide arcs. When he sat, his sleeves pulled upward, revealing colorless scars along his forearm and a thick silver bracer with two lines of engravings in Old Emelim. They were the words that Yuweh had said when the old gods came to look for him at the bottom of the seas.
Who comes to the deep to steal my treasures?
Who comes to the deep to see my throne?
You could find these words written on the walls of any Cathedral built for Yuweh. Chaya didn’t have a war call like Xenash, but if we had, it would’ve been those two lines. They didn’t carry the same weight when you said them in Emel or Emelin, but in Old Emelim, they echoed from the barrel of your chest down to the pit of your stomach. For people of the ocean, Yuweh’s words warmed the blood as much as any horizon could.
“Excellent work, my dear. Excellent,” Father Clairmont said when he noticed me. “You’ll have to show me more in private when you have the time. Of course, now you’ll have to go with Mother Mendhi. But another time, another time.” He fiddled with his bracer.
“Thank you, Father. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” I was still holding my quill. The ink spilled over my hand. I rubbed it on the back of my shirt, just realizing now that my shoulders felt dry. “It’s been bothering me all day.”
“Ahh, yes, yes, you did look distracted. Shall we go to the bell room? If it is a personal or private matter, no one will bother us there.” He ushered me forward. “It will be just you and I.” He reached over to pat my shoulder.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” I said, stepping away. “It’s about… well it is about Saythana. Mother would like to know some things. My sisters weren’t feeling too well last night. She’s worried.”
I had two younger sisters. Yephi was nine. Iris was eight. They were the center of my world, the same way I was the center of my father’s. In another run of irony, they did have magic, and they were by far the most talented children at the Cathedral. They could do—really do—all the things that I pretended I could do at their age. Well, maybe not everything.
“Anything I can do to help,” Father Clairmont said. His bracer clicked against the table as he folded his hands on top of an iron hinge. “Well… perhaps not everything. Your mother has come to me before with some questions and I had to turn her down.” He looked to the windows, then took off his glasses and set them on the table. “She was persistent, but so was I. Sometimes people don’t understand that the Church stands above all. Kings, queens, even the Sisterhood.” He turned to me, bending his head low while eyeing the space right next to my head. “We serve the gods directly. A priest is just as important as anyone of noble birth. Including royalty.”
“Umm… right, yes, well… could you tell me more about Saythana?”
He sucked in a breath then shook his head slowly. “A weary subject, both interesting and unnerving. Both chilling and compelling. I know more than one priest and nun who took up the oaths just to learn more about the Dream Weaver. Let me go lock the door at least. We wouldn’t want anyone to overhear.”
“No need, no need,” I replied. “I told Elsa to keep a watch outside. She’ll be waiting for me with Nikhil.”
“Will she?” He sat back down.
“I won’t take too much of your time. Just a few short questions.”
“You do know, though…” Father Clairmont continued, then paused. “Well your mother must understand…” His voice trailed off and then he interrupted himself again. “Daemons exist. It’s just the way of the world. The way of our land. Tell your mother not to worry. Someone screams that Saythana has returned every other year. Either in Chaya, or some other kingdom. I must have heard it a dozen times already. Daemons exist, and they are attracted to people who have sinned. That’s why the gods don’t kill them off themselves.”
“Of course, of course. The gods need daemons to remind us they exist. Miracles never quite cut it.”
He looked at me speculatively.
I continued before he could think about it. “I suppose saying Saythana returns while your body is on fire adds a bit of intensity to the spectacle.”
“Yeeeessss,” Father Clairmont said slowly. “Exactly, exactly. People are always sold by spectacles.” He waved his hands left and right in a slow thrash. “The man was already on fire. He just wanted to give Chaya a good scare before he burned for his sins. Nothing to be worried about.” Father Clairmont clos
ed his eyes and touched his pinky to his thumb in a warding sign. “May the Vannadrays find their way back to the peace of Yuweh’s depths.”
“Much more convincing. Much more believable.” I hesitated, then leaned in an inch, making sure he understood the next question was of a delicate nature. “My mother would like to know how Saythana is summoned. Just so we’re ready to prevent anyone from trying to do so.”
Father Clairmont broke out into a chuckle, then rubbed his brow with his bracer. “Summoned?” he asked curiously. “Saythana isn’t summoned, dear. That’s not Saythana. He’s not summoned. It would be easier to attempt to summon all the new gods to this Cathedral to defend us during the blue moon.”
“Yes, of course. Called upon, then. Well you know, how does he come about? Choose when to exist and when not to? When to wake and when to sleep.”
Father Clairmont gave a low “humph,” as though it were the first time he was hearing the question. He considered what I asked, then glanced at the back of the classroom.
“I don’t know to be quite honest. The Church has knowledge about most daemons, but everyone has their own specialty, you see. I know much about the myths and histories of vampires, whereas Mother Mendhi knows much about the myths and histories of the Serpentine tribes.”
Vermilion Dreams (Book One of A Vampire Fantasy Epic) Page 5