The Pattern Scars

by Caitlin Sweet

  “I will eat mutton before dusk.”

  Teldaru came for me early. “Haldrin is silent,” he said as his piebald mare bore us toward the gate. “He says nothing at all, so Derris is speaking for him. We will summon soldiers from other cities and even from the borderlands. We will be ready to face the islanders when they arrive.”

  The bell was still tolling. The streets beyond the castle were empty.

  “Are we not going to the Hill?” I asked, for he had turned the horse away from the road that would have taken us toward the gate. I felt a throb of hope, though I was not yet sure why.

  “No—to the house. There is a sword there that I think will be useful.”

  I was alone again, while he searched for the sword. I slipped into the mirror room and stood with my hands wrapped around the bars of Uja’s cage.

  “Uja.” She blinked at me from her highest perch. “I know you understand me. I don’t know why, but you do. And you have seen . . . everything.”

  She cocked her head. I could hear Teldaru’s footsteps above me.

  “You . . . open things. You’ve opened them for me. Now I need you to sing me to sleep.” I shook my head violently and pressed my forehead against the bars for a breath. “I need more opening. Listen, Uja.” Listen, for Bardrem will follow us, or come here again alone, and you must let him in just as you once let me out.

  She bobbed her head. Her crimson neck feathers ruffled and smoothed.

  “Thank you,” I whispered—and that was all, because Teldaru was in the hallway, calling my name again.

  What are you doing, Nola? You and Teldaru?

  I’ve seen inside the house. I’ve seen the island bird and the creatures—a man, a woman, and they are dead, except they breathe. And the red book in the library—Bloodseeing—what is this? Tell me now—or is it already too late?

  When I straightened from the wardrobe (this note slipped away with the others), Leylen was behind me.

  “Do not look at me like that,” I snapped. “And fetch me a clean dress; this one was filthy when I put it on.”

  She stared at me a moment longer, then turned and went to do my bidding. I sat on the bed, hunched forward. My tears were warm and clear on the backs of my hands.

  Sarsenayan soldiers streamed into the city as Belakaoans streamed out. There were scuffles between them, but no real violence; both sides saving strength for whatever would happen next.

  “And so the armies gather,” Teldaru said as we all watched the comings and goings from the tallest tower. Haldrin was there, but his eyes seemed to be seeing nothing—not even Layibe, who was lying limply in his arms, crying her thin, tremulous cry.

  “My King,” Lord Derris said, his voice even higher and windier with impatience, “please give the child to Mistress Nola—she is the only one who seems to be able to soothe it.”

  Haldrin did. He smiled at me a little, but I did not think he knew it. “Daru,” he said, “do you remember the time when you balanced Old Werwick’s mirror on your head to make my sister laugh? But she cried instead, and you sulked for days—worse than any girl yourself, people said. That was just before the fever, I think. Before she died.”

  “My King.” Derris was gasping with effort and emotion. For the first time I thought that he too must know what it was like, never quite being able to make words sound right. “Think of where you are. Look there—that is an army, and it needs a leader. You must be that man—now, Cousin. We all need you now.”

  “He is right,” said Teldaru. His voice wavered a bit, and Lord Derris glanced at him.

  Yes! I wanted to cry. Teldaru is even madder than the king! I put my lips against Layibe’s fine curls, instead. She was asleep, her chest making swift, shallow movements against mine.

  I would go to the king now with what I know, but it isn’t enough. I need to know what you and Teldaru are doing at the Hill, too. I need more proof. I am a cook. Who will believe me, let alone the king? Bloodseeing! The Paths of the dead remade! Who will believe me?

  If you are committing these atrocities against your will, why do you not tell me so? And if you are committing them willingly, why have you not told Teldaru about me?

  There is one thing. One thing that will make everything else plain. Why do you not help me, Nola?

  There were no lessons any more. The students returned to their homes—the farther away from Sarsenay City, the better. Dren’s mother cried when she saw him; he cried when he left. Mistress Ket sat in her tiny dark bedchamber and would not Othersee for anyone. “That beautiful lady,” she said to me one day, when I brought her a fresh bun and some soup. “That beautiful queen, and her poor baby. Such twisting Paths; I do not know why my own has been so straight.”

  She would not Othersee for anyone, so I did. I could not refuse them, after all, and I could not steal away on my own: Teldaru checked on me several times a day. Sometimes he even brought them to me: “Here, Mistress Nola—Keldo the stable master—he was hesitating outside, so I have brought him in myself.”

  For years I had hardly noticed the lies that came after I Othersaw. Now they were mouthfuls of bile. The images were very bright, and they lingered, as the curse thrust out twisted shadows. And I felt weak, even as I reached for my mirror, or for seeds to scatter. Ranior was nearly remade because we spent almost every hour of darkness with him—and so I bled and wove my own strength into his, and then I returned to the castle and slept for an hour, and then I gazed on other people’s Paths and told them lies. I was more in the Otherworld than I was in my own, and I was wrung with fear.

  I thought, once or twice, that I could lose myself. Look into the mirror at my Otherself until I went mad, and be done with everything. I even started to look once, bending over the copper, watching my eyes swim into focus beneath me. But it was Grasni I saw, instead of myself—Grasni bending over too, to grasp my ear and pinch it. “All you need to know about your Path is that you will tell other people about theirs. You give; you do not take. You are too important for that.” It was enough to stop me, though I did not know why.

  One afternoon I was finally alone. Except for Princess Layibe, who was lying on a blanket beneath a tree. I was watching the baby: her arms and legs, which had relaxed since her nurse brought her to me an hour before; her sliding, sightless eyes, which were beautiful. There were branch shapes on her skin and her cream-coloured dress. I was alone and hoping to remain this way—so when I heard footsteps on the path I did not look up. I am not here, I thought. Let him pass me by.

  The footsteps stopped. I could feel someone behind me, but I did not turn.

  “Nola.”

  He sounded very calm. We were in another courtyard, perhaps with a wooden walkway and a scrawny tree and girls leaning on railings above, looking bored.

  “You haven’t come to me. Did you get my notes?”

  “Yes.” I should have turned then, and gripped his tunic in both hands before I pushed him off along the path, but I stared at Layibe instead. She moved her head, as if she were listening to us. Her cheeks were plump, though the rest of her was not.

  “At least look at me, Nola.”

  I did, slowly. I was sitting cross-legged and he was standing. In the slanting light he was a giant whose face I could not see.

  “I can make no sense of my Pattern or anyone else’s. So look for me, and tell me what you see.”

  I could not say, No—go now, before we both are lost. I saw the dappled, dancing light on his face and I sank into the shadows that lay between.

  His face dissolves. It oozes together again, so slowly that each pore must be taking its own turn—but soon it’s done, and he’s back, but he’s a boy. His hair is lighter and so long that it falls over his eyes. His lips are fuller. Even as I strain to hold his face still it recedes, so swiftly that it feels as if I’m falling backward. There are stones behind him: row upon row of them, all tall, all bent into terrible, bulbous shapes. He stands among them and cries a long, raw, ragged-ended cry. Looking at me—but not at the woman
-me: the Other-me, who (I see, looking down) is wearing a dirty brown tunic and no shoes. There is no braid hanging over my left shoulder. I wrench my gaze to him again and he shouts again. Maybe it’s my name? His mouth twists and he rubs tears away with his palms, viciously. Just then a bird rises from the stones: a glorious scarlet bird with a blue head and a green and yellow tail. Blood is coming from his eyes now, and from mine; I feel it on my arms, warmer and thicker than tears. If I could look down and see the pattern of the drops; if I could just do this perhaps I’d be able to find a way back through the shadow-sky. I try to look, but I’m frozen, watching him bleed and weep, and suddenly a scream rises in me, as quick and bright as the bird was, but even it gets trapped—

  My head was in my hands. I felt words coming, through the knot of the curse. “I saw a cottage by the sea. I saw a child.”

  I was crying. I did not know this until he leaned down and ran his finger along my cheek—then I felt the wetness and the warmth.

  “I heard a bird calling. I saw you kneeling to touch something in the surf—a shell—lovely, the colour of ink that has only just dried. . . .”

  He was squatting. His head was a little higher than mine.

  “Tell me the rest. Please; tell me what you know.”

  Layibe whimpered. Borl whimpered. I did not look at either of them. I looked at Bardrem’s eyes and mouth and the collarbone that jutted from the neck of his tunic. He was as sharp and slender as he had been as a boy. Or he was not—but I made him so because I needed to.

  “No.” The curse was thickening in my throat.

  “Why?”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Nola—look at me. Help me.”

  “I cannot,” I said, over the tears which had risen despite Orlo or Teldaru; despite Paths burned and knotted. I lurched to my knees and thrust at him—the palms of my hands against his tunic and the taut, living flesh beneath.

  “No—no—and you must leave now—”

  He put his hands on either side of my face, just as Teldaru so often did—but it was not the same; Bardrem’s hands were strong and gentle, and though they held me, they did not hold me still. He kissed me, suddenly but slowly. His hands were on my braid, unwinding. My hair fell around us both.

  Just as I was sagging against him he pulled back. I gasped one long, deep breath and said, “Go,” even as he rose. He stumbled away from me, just as he had years before, though now his limp made him look even more headlong—and now, too, there was someone else to see him go.

  Teldaru was coming through the trees. He was on a path that ran away from the one Bardrem was on, but they were close, separated only by a few tree trunks and some low-hanging branches. I watched Teldaru turn his eyes to follow Bardrem. I watched Teldaru frown and turn his eyes to me.

  “Who was that?” he said when he was standing above me.

  “A stable boy,” I said calmly. “He was not happy with what I told him.” I gave a little laugh. “Ran off without paying me. But there were many others, today. It was not worth following him.”

  I ran my hand over the pile that was sitting beside me on a piece of purple cloth: some copper coins, a length of green silk, a pair of silver earrings, some cherries. I smelled the cherries when I lifted my hand—their soft insides, almost too ripe. I wondered, suddenly, what Borl and Layibe smelled.

  “Ah.” Teldaru hunkered down and took my face in his hands, as Bardrem had. His eyes darted from my own eyes to my mouth. “Ah,” he said again, as his fingers pressed and pressed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Bantayo was only days away.

  Ranior was breathing.

  He was not the same as Mambura or Selera or Laedon. He did not look as though he would be able to sit, let alone stand; he was looser, somehow, as if his skin had still not quite adhered to the rest of him. As if the bones themselves were wobbly and soft, beneath.

  “He is magnificent,” Teldaru said, on the night we finished the remaking. His voice trembled.

  I watched the War Hound’s chest rise and fall. Something rippled under his breastbone—a worm crawling—an end not tied down, trying to find a way out.

  “He is,” I said, thinking, as I looked from Mambura to Ranior: I understand why this is forbidden. I see how strength becomes decay. But I smiled, too—for Teldaru could not see the truth, himself, and so he would not see his own failure looming.

  “We must practise.” He went to the litter that had held Mambura and picked up a short spear; it must have been wedged beneath the hero’s body.

  “That was from Zemiya’s bathing chamber,” I said. Although its bronze head glinted clean, I wondered if there were blood on the metal, or maybe on the haft, which was wrapped in dark leather.

  “Indeed,” he said. “She was most distressed to see me holding it.” He laid it across Mambura’s chest, then went to Ranior’s litter and lifted up a sword. This he placed on the stone beside Ranior, the pommel touching his swollen, purple-tipped fingers.

  He knelt beside Ranior and I knelt beside Mambura. “What will happen?” I asked. A real question, which felt stranger than all my lies.

  Teldaru smiled at me, across the bodies, and drew his palm along the sword’s blade. “Let us see.”

  The spear tip’s edge was keener than I had expected it to be; he must have honed it, after he wrested it from her ceiling. I watched the blood drip from my palm to the mottled flesh of Mambura’s arm—two drops, three, and then the red sky of his Otherworld rose up around me.

  The sky is not empty, as it was when we first remade him. The green hills are not bare. Mambura’s Paths pulse among images that are thick as forest or cloud, and I am on my knees on this ground too, clawing, clutching for purchase. A breaking wave, and a fish gasping in mud; a naked man lying on his stomach on a beach of black rock, smiling in his sleep; a scarlet feather drifting out of a shower of sparks, in darkness. These things blur and sharpen and blur again, layer upon layer of them, and it is only me among them—no Teldaru, this time, to hold me steady.

  I hear him, though. He shouts—far away but also so close that I know I could touch him, if I tried. It is a formless shout, at first, and then it is words: “Two bodies, Nola! Two at once! Look outward and find his hand. . . .”

  Look outward.

  I gaze through the swirl of pictures. I see another layer, beyond the sky. The surging of my blood carries me out along the Paths, and I hold my hand out to break the fall I can feel coming—and there is another hand around mine. My fingers wriggle within its fingers. My palm rubs against a larger palm. I am dizzy again, and I think I may be sick, but after a moment I flex my fingers and my arm, and the strangeness of wearing another skin is not as intense.

  I remade you, Flamebird, I think, and now I am inside you.

  I grope. A crab scuttles by my cheek and a woman in a blue headscarf swoops to kiss my forehead and a sheet of lava rises and ripples. I reach past all this. I feel worn leather. My fingers remember how to wrap themselves around it. My hand and arm remember how to lift wood and balance it so that the bronze head does not dip. I see the spear lift. I see a man’s pale face, past the farthest hills, and a sword gleaming, and I remember rage and need.

  I lunge.

  “No!” someone cries, from the pale man’s lips, and “No!” I cry—me, Nola, writhing within other flesh, trying to be stronger. And I am. I hold us both still, though I think I will die from the effort of it, my breath squeezed away by the weight of sky and memory.

  I was coughing. There was blood in my mouth. I spat so feebly that the blood ended up on my chin. I was sprawled on my belly; I realized this slowly, as my body ached its way back. My cheek was pressed against something yielding, and I thought that I was not back; I was caught in the Otherworld, on a Path that would soon envelop me. But I lifted my head, after a time, and I opened my burning eyes—and I saw the splotched skin of a thigh. It throbbed with after-vision. I was lying across Mambura’s lap. I heaved myself away, scrabbling and whimpering like Borl—beca
use Mambura was sitting up now. He was sitting up, his left hand resting on the floor but still wrapped around the spear haft.

  I crouched with the soles of my feet braced against the sarcophagus. I retched but nothing came up. I gazed through the squiggling black shapes at Teldaru, who was sitting back-to-back with Ranior.

  Toys, I thought. All of us are toys, waiting for some great, guiding hand to move us.

  “Your man,” I said eventually, slowly; exhausted, but also plucking words that would not call up the curse. Teldaru swung his head around to look at me. “Did he have images? Memories?”

  Teldaru blinked as ponderously as the heroes were. He licked his lips but said nothing.

  “Teldaru—they are real again. They are their own men, somehow.”

  He fell forward onto hands and knees and pushed himself up into a crouch. “No,” he said, and stood. He swayed, dropped to one knee, then both. His eyes never left me. “They are ours—ours!”—and he coughed until blood sprayed from his mouth and nose.

  Hours later. Close to dawn.

  “What will happen when they do meet? What if one wounds the other—will we be wounded too?”

  “That will not happen. They will meet, yes—they will stand, and their weapons will clang together once or twice, and then I will rise up and subdue them both. Mistress Nola’s vision made truth. The people will rejoice.”

  “And—forgive me, Master—what will you tell them when they ask how the men came to meet again? How they came to be again?”

  “Enough questions, my love. They are far too clumsy—my own fault, I know, but they irk me.”

  “You will say you were blameless, won’t you? You will say that it was me. . . .” I was breathless. I had not thought of this before—how had I not thought of it?