The reflection in the mirror changed to show Alyla, the whites of her eyes yellow from damage to her liver caused by toxins. I had missed it at the time, yet I judged her mother had poisoned her with the herbs to try to rid her of the baby.
In a second mirror, I studied my memory of Sri the Once Flawless and her rough and cracked fingernails, signs of depleting bone strength, common enough in the pregnant yet dangerous in elders. The grandmothers of Morimound would continue to break bones; their hearts would stop, and their veins would burst from the stresses of pregnancy.
Sri was seventy-three years old, while Alyla had only lived twelve. For both, the dangers would intensify over the next two months, during which they would likely give birth too soon, and if they survived to gaze on what they had born, they would in all probability be suffocated by grief.
I had to do something, for the thousands of women in serious risk. Either I had to watch the old and very young succumb to deadly childbirth, or I had to succeed where Noblin the herbalist had failed in terminating the pregnancies. The thought induced me to retch.
Although my magic could serve to expel a pregnancy, I loathed the idea. In addition, I could not go to sleep with thousands of women, no indeed. Wormwood also seemed to have failed in the worst way thus far, apparently insufficient to overcome the spell or divine will responsible. I hoped to find out which power was at work; knowing the cause of the pregnancies might present a safer course of action.
In the short term, I had to save Alyla. Her breath had reeked of wormwood, and if Faliti gave her another dose then she would likely perish before even beginning the trial of labor. Her mother might not listen to my warnings, yet I trusted that her father would. Harend Chandur would be spending his day at the White Ziggurat, or so Faliti Chandur had complained, and there I would make an appearance.
While peering at Alyla through the mirror, I realized her angular and spindly features shared little with the bone structure of Harend Chandur, giving me ninety-five-percent confidence she was not his true daughter.
Outrage stopped me from breathing, and I might have passed out, if I were not already dreaming. I would never have betrayed Harend, had I been able to marry him.
I awoke sticky with sweat, and I bid Deepmand drive me to the White Ziggurat. We arrived in minutes, as he had shaded the carriage nearby in an Island District mango orchard.
I left the carriage and craned my neck upward to gaze at the White Ziggurat, its gypsum plaster glaring brighter than snow on a mountaintop. Acolytes in white robes and merchants in finery walked together on the steps, talking on the ziggurat’s terraces.
After arriving at the base of the stairs, I stopped. I could manage a few steps in these gowns, if I was careful, yet I feared the heat would incapacitate me before I reached the first terrace; a faint would result in injury. By no means could I endure the one thousand, one hundred and eleven steps leading to the ziggurat’s summit. Neither could I employ one of the sedan carriages, due to the volume of my gowns. Removing my adornments was not an option: Only their lavishness bewildered others into taking me seriously.
I walked into the path of two acolytes, my silks blocking their way. “A silver coin for whoever finds Harend Chandur and mentions my desire—my wish to speak with him. I will await him in the shade of that tree.”
“We’ll return faster than flies, Lustrous Lady.” The acolytes sprinted up the steps, making a game of it.
“Walk,” I shouted after them, “or I will not be the one to piece together your broken skulls.”
The banyan tree I had chosen overshadowed the road and, being in plain sight, would not cast suspicion on the respectability of the meeting.
My stomach kneaded itself while I thought of encountering Harend again at last. My father had polished diamonds for his father, who had been a master gemcutter, and I had thought his family unimaginably wealthy, in my youth. The other girls had teased me, saying he only liked me because we did ill-fated things together at night. We most certainly had not. Sleep had imprisoned me from sunset to sunup, and in evening and morning, too, when my mother had tired of kicking me and let me lie.
My head began to nod, even though I stared at the blinding ziggurat to try to stay awake.
“Elder Enchantress, may I make a request regarding my family?”
“What? Ah, you may, Spellsword Deepmand.”
“Thank you, Elder Enchantress. Given your new position as the Flawless, I think it possible your residence in Morimound may be of significant duration.”
“I will thank you not to associate me with that title, and my departure will come as soon as I judge the city safe.”
“May the Fate Weaver grant swift success to that endeavor, Elder Enchantress.” Two ziggurats of gold embellished his breastplate, designed after the structures towering above us. “My request was whether my family might reside in your manor, for as long as I have the privilege of protecting you.”
I bowed my head, allowing the folds of my headdress to cover my grimace at the idea of the children of another woman running through my halls. Like Alyla, one of his children was illegitimate, sired when Deepmand guarded an enchantress away from the Academy. His wife had claimed the baby premature, yet the boy’s healthy birth weight spoke against it.
The alternate parentage might not have been as obvious to Deepmand, and I had never mentioned it because he seemed to love the child. Besides, he should have known of his fate to be a cuckold, as he had married a foreigner.
“My wish has always been to return here for my retirement,” Deepmand said, “and I will begin the arrangements to move my family to Morimound. In the happy event of your sudden success and departure, I would still be able to join them in two years.”
I said, “Your family will be provided with a respectable residence in the city proper.”
“Your generosity humbles me, Elder Enchantress.”
Tilting my chin to peer at the gilded globe of his turbaned head, I rubbed my upper lip against my teeth. “Deepmand, there is something of which you should be informed.”
“Yes, Elder Enchantress?”
“I may need to—that is to say it is possible—I may be required to treat another woman.” If I drew Alyla into my dream then I could determine immediately if she too carried an unchild and what might be done to help her. In my estimation, the Propriety Pledge was meant to stop young enchantresses from foolishness, not to thwart the Provost of Applied Enchantment from doing essential work.
“A woman other than Lady Sri?” Deepmand’s lips folded inward, disappearing in his beard. “My concern lies in matters of...propriety.”
“My concern, Spellsword Deepmand, lies in the wombs of our people.” I waited until two men in robes passed out of earshot before continuing. “Not everything may have progressed properly.”
He frowned. Maid Janny looked up with concern, asking, “Are the children not right?”
“Shush!” I lifted a hand to her, my eyes still on the Spellsword. “It may be necessary.”
“If it is necessary,” he said slowly, “then I will assist you in discretion. Elder Enchantress, I believe the gentleman walking toward us may be none other than Harend Chandur.”
I searched for the symmetrical face and well-proportioned physique I remembered from my youth, and I kept looking even when someone stood before me, blocking my view.
“Resha, is that you?”
The familiar voice came from a man past his prime, his back slumped, his double chin shabbily shaven. His eyes were dull, and they could not meet my stare.
I knew this was Harend Chandur, yet the sight jarred with the portrait of him I had painted years ago in my dream. A tightness spread down my throat into my chest, as I thought how unfair it was that in addition to my having to spend my life far from the city I loved, everything in that city had the inconsideration to change in my absence.
“It is I,” I said.
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you. You avoided me on your last visits, didn’t you
? Ah, anyway, they say you’ve come to lead the city to prosperity, and everyone is buying goods. Even Nilmar Tightfist gave me a loan today.”
I had often thought of what I might say to Harend when next we met, yet much of it no longer seemed suitable, especially not with Deepmand and Maid Janny beside me. My resentment toward Faliti brought one fact to my lips.
“Are you aware your wife has forged your handwriting, twice, to ask me for money?”
He sighed. “It’s my own fault, I refuse to ask for handouts, and the gods haven’t blessed any of my ventures.”
“The fault cannot be yours, unless you knew of the forged letters.” I had thought Faliti had wrote them to discourage me from writing Harend, yet I could discriminate her imitative scrawl from his with ease.
“I didn’t, but I don’t blame her. We’re sending our son through the empire's martial university, and the tuition is turning us to paupers. Couldn’t do less for him, though, because he’s the hope for the family.”
“I have not had the privilege of meeting your son, yet I did see your daughter today. There is something I wished to tell you about her.”
Harend fingered the threads of a frayed section of his vest. “Yes? She’s a good girl, though, I admit, not everything I expected.”
“What are you implying?” I wondered if he suspected her mother’s unfaithfulness.
“I guess I’m comparing Alyla to her brother, which is less than fair. We were counting on a good bride price for her, and she’s ruined that by, well, you’ve seen her.”
“Her current state does not negatively reflect on her fate’s thread. That thread may be short, however, if Faliti continues to poison her.”
“Poison? You mean her complaining?”
“With wormwood, to purge the pregnancy. You must intervene.”
“It’s not really poisoning then, is it? Alyla won’t have much of a life, if she has a child now.”
“She will not have any life,” I said, “if she dies.”
“Faliti wouldn’t harm her. Alyla’s been sick, but isn’t that expected? Who’d know what’s best for her, if not her mother?”
“I would. You must stop Faliti from giving her another dose of wormwood.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. I’ll mention it to Faliti, if you think I should, Resha.”
A distaste pervaded my mouth as if I had eaten bread that I only now realized was spotted green. Something more than Harend’s appearance conflicted with my expectations.
I said, “You cannot call me that anymore, Mister Chandur.”
“I suppose not. The Flawless of Morimound, then?”
“Nor that.”
“You sign your letters ‘Elder Enchantress Hiresha,’ but your friends couldn’t call you that.”
“Everyone calls me that.” Hearing him say my title made me feel as lifeless and dusty as book stacks in the Academy library.
He glanced to Janny, who had her head down, and to Deepmand, who scrutinized anyone who walked close. When Harend Chandur’s gaze fell on my cane, I became self-conscious.
“This may sound odd,” he said, “but I once thought we’d have more between us. I can see now the Fate Weaver had greater plans for you.”
“I am uncertain what you mean. There could be no greater aspiration than to raise a family in this city.”
“But look at you.” His eyes followed the train of gowns, which wound around the trunk of the banyan. “You’re a city patron. You built the Flood Wall.”
His words faded, slipping farther and farther away as I labored to keep my head upright and my eyes open. “You will wish to return home, Mister Chandur, for your daughter’s sake.”
“You’re right, and, um, Elder Enchantress Hiresha, it was amazing to meet you again.”
Before I realized what he was doing, he clasped my hand. My fingers wriggled, and I tried to scan the street, to see if anyone witnessed the improper gesture.
He plodded off, and I let go of myself, slumping on my cane. My eyes blinked shut; the world darkened, and everything in me felt as if it weighed twice what it should.
Janny guided me back to the carriage, and I plunged into sleep. A shock awaited me, in reviewing my meeting with Harend Chandur. I had waited years to speak with him, only to find a man indecisive and scarcely capable of mustering the resolve to save a girl’s life, even if she was not his true daughter. At the mention of her, his face had shifted from embarrassment to sorrow.
His thread of fate was a flimsy one. I did not know what I had ever seen in him.
A tearing feeling crossed through me as if a tether connecting me to the world had severed, and I could not help but think that I floated in the laboratory because nothing filled my body: I was a hollow woman.
Not feeling ready to face the real world yet, I decided to correct an imperfection in my dream.
I threw myself upward, toward the dome roof, and airborne jewels swirled in the wake of my gowns. Although this circular room had no doors, a skylight at the top of the curved ceiling opened to the night sky, and my jump carried me through it. Stars above glittered green, pink, and purple; they were jewels I had thrown to the sky in moments of frustration.
Among them loomed the moon, full, dim, and red; some would call it a blood moon, yet I preferred to think of its lighter edge as the hue of amber and its darker face as the shade of spessartine gems. I had Created the moon in replica of a lunar eclipse I had once witnessed at sunrise, which had required the heroic effort of waking predawn.
I Burdened myself, landing on the laboratory dome then Lightening my body and leaping off again. The roof fell away behind me, along with an island of rock on which the laboratory drifted in the sky, leaving nothing below but a drop of three thousand, two hundred and fifty-one feet to the ground.
I glided in my gowns.
The rush of the chill air caressed me as I spread my arms to encourage my sleeves to billow outward. Silver streaks of rivers raced closer, below on the savanna. Leaning to the left, I circled through the air down toward a dark hill on the flatland, its rough surface growing distinct as the homes of my replica of Morimound became more visible.
The White Ziggurat I had Created glistened blue from the light of my earrings as I swept over the step pyramid, down to the street of Diamond Way. The buildings and empty merchant stalls in the Bazaar reformed to represent the changes I had seen.
My slippers landed on the street. I Lightened myself to nothing and sprang off the bricks, sailing into the air. Whisking over Rainsweep Street, I decided to leave the door to the Mitul house forever broken, in memory of the confrontation with the Feaster. Although no children peered out from this doorway, glowing jewels inside leaked light of blue and red out onto the dark street. I did not permit myself the indulgence of replicating other people, and the city was empty, except for my jewels and myself.
I vaulted back toward the ziggurats, past the High Wall and into the upper section of the city, the Island District. My estate encompassed a grove of strangler fig trees, their trunks weaving around host trees to crawl their way to the sunlight. The roof of my house steepled in pyramids, one on each of its wings, and I touched the eastern marble pyramid with my hand and pushed off to coast to the front doors.
Quartz windows rippled with the light from my earrings, and I ghosted inside and up a curving stairway, into a dining hall set with porcelain that had never been used, by chairs in which none had ever sat, below chandeliers that had never been lit.
An ache built within me as I passed from dark room to silent hall. Dim moonlight fell on a painting, a portrait of a young man as seen through all the blurry hope of an adolescent girl; Harend Chandur gazed down at me from the shadows of his picture frame. Shaking my head, I waved a hand, and the paints faded and transformed into the wood of a jewel display case. A rainbow of corundum stones whisked past my shoulders to arrange themselves in place of the man I had never had the right to call mine.
I felt I had to scream, or I would die. I asked mysel
f where the harm would be in wailing here in my dream, where none would ever hear me, except myself.
Outside, my laboratory had descended closer to the city. The mound of rock obscured a patch of stars. I calculated my trajectory then hurled myself toward the floating island in one swooping arc; the ground and city plummeted away from me, and my insides felt squeezed down into my thighs. Dropping as planned through the laboratory skylight, I kicked off the wall to the diamond dais and returned to the waking world.
Aches in my legs and back caused me to groan, as they often did; I wore an enchanted opal, which flexed opposing muscle groups throughout my body, causing me to exercise in my sleep.
“We have arrived at your manor, Elder Enchantress.” Deepmand appeared relieved that I had woken before full darkness.
Outside my carriage, the open front doors of my manor glowed with candlelight, windows blazing in the colors of sunset. The sight pierced me like a shard of diamond in the eye: My home looked so welcoming, so full of warmth, that for a moment I assumed someone else’s family must live there.
Night Four, Third Trimester
The manor servants insisted on giving me a tour. I knew I should not compare the home they had labored over for years to the one I had Created in my dream, yet the similarities disoriented me while the discrepancies upset me.
“We now approach the guest rooms,” Mister Obenji said, tapping his glinting fingers together. He wore at least ten rings. “Here you will find Lady Sri convalescing.”
“No Bright Palms have deigned to heal her yet, have they?”
“One has promised to come tomorrow, at noon.”
I was determined to be present at that time to ensure the Bright Palm did not refuse to heal her because of some technicality.
My earrings lit the sickroom with a bluish-white glow. Sri the Once Flawless lay in bed, belly up; her yellow skin had whitened to a pallor, and her pupils had constricted from the milk of the poppy. Her gaze strayed to Mister Obenji, whom she blinked at with both eyes in a peculiar manner. He touched her hand and asked if she needed broth, another pillow, or more milk. She shook her head, brushing a lock of sweat-plastered white hair off her brow.
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