“And have you?” Noé seemed unfazed by the fact that an outsider had been sent to spy on her and the other Mothers. Thrown by the girl’s calm, Cary took a moment to find his footing. She filled the gap. “I grew up with Juhn,” she explained. “Nothing he does can surprise me. I was raised by the former order master, and Juhn was so small that he was always destined to the Order, but that never seemed to stop him. He was always smart, bold, scheming.” Hearing her admiration, Cary felt a stab of jealousy. Was she secretly in love with Juhn?
“It sounds like you were close,” he ventured with a lump in his throat.
Noé laughed. “He was kind to me, but was also well older. I was just the ugly yuté girl in the corner of his master’s room. I don’t even know if he knew my name before Zhurn chose me. No one did. Not even the master paid me any heed except . . . .” Her voice trailed off, eyes growing distant. Despite everything he’d planned, Cary’s heart sank. He knew the look. The abuse had not started with Zhurn, but the old man knew how to use it. “Except nothing,” she continued with a smile to hide her pain. “I should not have been alive. I owed Master Vulcher my life. Still, I spent almost all my time alone – I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend.” She smiled at him, using the stole to make it seem normal. Still Cary noticed sarcasm in her voice. “I cleaned the order keepers’ rooms and stayed out of their way, but I was still there, and I learned from them. I learned their language, your language. I learned about the Order and my place in it, that everything happens for a reason, that we are not to question those reasons. I also learned to notice things that others missed – the stone that would catch the bottom of the door and keep it from opening, the single candle left to burn on a bed of muslin, the slight change in the keepers’ routines, the silence between words, the smell of alcohol in rooms occupied only by women. The smell of a different kind of smoke,” Noé finished. A tear formed in her eye and trickled down her cheek. She seemed not to notice it.
“What happened to your lodge?” Cary asked, somehow knowing that she was describing the oft-hinted disaster that had led to her elevation, that she was somehow blaming herself even for that. “I have heard rumors, but no one speaks of it directly.”
Noé wiped the tear and looked away. “I should have warned her,” she said with distance rather than emotion. “I saw all those things. I should have seen the danger. I should have told Mother Marika, but I was too afraid. I was not even supposed to exist, I couldn’t talk to the Mother. I told Master Vulcher instead, but he just sent me to gather snow to melt for water. It was the last time I ever saw him.”
“What happened?” Cary asked again.
“Our lodges are filled with smoke in the winter,” she mused, eyes so distant that Cary wanted to wave his hand before them. “But I still smelled it. I knew it was wrong. I . . . I should have done something.”
“You didn’t know.” Cary changed tactics. He reached out and took her hand. “It wasn’t your fault. There was no way you could have known what would happen. All those things were just . . . coincidences.”
Noé looked at him then pulled back her hand. “You’re right, I suppose. But I feel so guilty sometimes. Why should I have been spared when our Mother, the order master, so many sisters were killed? It just doesn’t seem right.”
“No one can hope to understand the Order,” Cary somehow quoted scripture. “We flow with it or are crushed by it.”
“Juhn said the same thing,” Noé said with another sigh. “I suppose you are both right.”
“So a fire killed the previous Mother?”
“It ran through the women’s quarters. In the end, fewer than a hundred sisters survived, and most of those were burned.”
“And of those, Zhurn picked you to be the new Mother?”
“I still can’t believe it. He was Father so he could pick any woman he wanted. I don’t know why he picked me. I . . . I do not belong in that meeting with all those Mothers. I don’t even know what they’re saying most of the time. If Zhurn weren’t guiding me, I would do whatever they asked.”
By the Order, Cary cursed in his mind. They are planning something. He was certain now, but what?
“Ut Eselhelt?” a voice outside the door interrupted. A statement followed in the Morg language – the introduction of someone seeking an audience. Ut Mehret was part of it.
Noé stiffened, eyes shifting to Cary, filled with panic. She motioned him to the passage and stood in a single motion. She said some words in her language. Cary caught the words for order keeper as he strode toward the passage. Then he remembered himself.
He sprinted to Noé, caught her arm, and spoke in her ear. “I have to be gone for a few days. I’ll see you when I return. Until then, don’t do anything.” Faces inches apart, Noé looked to the door then at Cary unsure. “Trust me,” he continued. “Something is happening that I don’t understand, but I am afraid for you. It will only be a few days, but please wait.” There were more words from the door, more urgent. Noé watched the portal with growing panic. “I won’t leave until you agree,” Cary finally threatened.
With a last look at the door, Noé nodded. Cary kissed her. It was barely a brushing of lips that left Noé too shocked for it to extend beyond that. The sound of latch clicking open ended it. Cary broke from Noé, pulled the hood of his robe over his head, and darted to the passage. The woman who entered the room saw only the back of an order keeper as he returned to his passage and a Mother, who was strangely out of breath.
“Ut Mehret,” Noé breathed as the passage closed behind Cary. Why is the Mother of Mehret visiting Noé? he asked himself then nearly ran as her greeting continued. “Yaruth Vlodr,” she greeted Juhn by his title. Cary knew then that he should run. Juhn would know that he had not sent any of his order keepers to visit Noé. He would know that it was Cary defying his orders, but he said nothing, and Cary did not run. He was riveted in place by his curiosity, which doubled when the Mother from Mehret said the words “thuluck raln shatar.”
Chapter 43
The 37th Day of Summer
“Get up,” Garth grunted.
Teth laid on the grass looking up at him. From her angle, he seemed to stretch past the walls of the inn to the scattered clouds above. His shoulders seemed to stretch the whole length of the courtyard, blocking her entire view with an expanse of tooled leather and homespun wool. Staring down from the clouds, his blue eyes, one of the only features visible through the parted veil of his long hair and longer beard, pounded her, weathered skin around them pulled into creases sharper than the ribs of Dasen’s fan. Teth could read nothing in those eyes. She had managed to hold the Morg’s impossible pose – one leg planted on the ground, the other stretched behind her, hands out in front – for a count of twenty. It was far longer than she’d managed thus far – not nearly as long as she’d have done a month ago – yet the Morg just stared.
Well, that was the thing about Morgs. You could never tell what they were thinking. That is what people always said. If one speaks, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks, but until then you have no idea if he’s going to hug you or kill you. And Garth acted as if it were his sole duty in life to maintain that stereotype. “Again,” he said. If Teth hadn’t heard it herself, she would have thought those were his only words – get up, again, stop, start.
Pushing herself up, she planted her foot, lifted the other, stretched her hands out, out, out. The ground rushed up to meet her. She caught herself, but not quickly enough to keep from ending in a pile on the grass.
“Humph.” Garth walked away. From the other side of the courtyard, a cluster of boys giggled then caught themselves as Teth’s eyes flicked to them. They were copying her exercises, thinking that she didn’t notice their mockery. They were just children bored in their confinement, but she scowled at them nonetheless. Turning from her, they formed a clump, whispering and giggling, no doubt at her expense. Across from them, two young women watched from behind their fans. They were probably a bit younger than Teth, but a few yea
rs older than she was supposed to be. It did not stop them from staring shamefully, giggling, and batting their fans in a way that would have sent a real pubescent boy into a palsy. Teth fought herself to keep from growling at them – as much as she knew about playing the part of the boy, being civilized was all but foreign.
“How much longer?” Garth grunted, tearing Teth’s eyes from the girls.
“Until I can do it longer than you. Until I say it’s time to stop.” Teth lifted herself back onto trembling legs. She had been working for hours now and was beyond exhausted. Her muscles were entirely spent, were barely responding to her commands, yet she forced them into the pose. She fell just as fast. The laughter of her audience was lost to her curses.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Garth grumbled.
“You won’t let me do anything else until I’ve mastered this, right?”
“Humph.”
“Because I’ll hurt myself, right?”
“Humph.”
“Well then, I’ll master this.” Teth torqued herself back into the pose. Her free foot barely rose before she stumbled forward and just caught herself before she broke her teeth on the tree.
Garth turned and walked away, grumbling in his native language. Though the words were foreign, Teth knew exactly what he was saying, “most stubborn, Order-cursed girl . . . .” It was exactly what Teth’s aunt had said about her a thousand times. This was nothing different.
She had always had the ability to push herself beyond anything normal people could contemplate. She had learned to shoot by spending hours doing it, firing until her fingers were raw, her shoulders ached, and her eyes blurred. She had learned to run by using it as her only means of transport, going for miles and miles, faster and faster until she thought her heart would explode. Climbing, hunting, fighting, it had all been the same. And now she had to do it all over again. Garth had shown her the exercises that Morgs used to build and maintain their strength. To her surprise, they had nothing to do with swinging a sword or shooting a bow. They had to do with strength, balance, and flexibility, and Garth would not let her near a weapon until she had mastered them, until she showed that she had recovered enough strength to use the weapons properly. So she called once again on the supernatural pigheadedness that the Morg now cursed. Weapons meant fighting, and fighting was the best, cleanest, easiest way to die. The only way to escape was to master the poses, to prove herself ready, to expose herself to the chaos of battle that not even the Weaver could control. But that was only part of what drove her.
For four days now, she had been doing these exercises from the first rays of morning sun until it was lost again in the west. She worked until she could barely move, could barely pull back the sheet of her bed, could barely force herself up in the morning, and best of all, until she was too exhausted to think or speak or dream, too exhausted to fear or hope or rage, too exhausted to feel at all. It was the only way she could make it through the few moments each night that she spent with Dasen. Though she had let him go, barely spoke to him, tried to forget he was even there, he had not reciprocated. No matter how late, he was waiting, was awake, was wearing the same worried expression, was hanging on her every movement and expression like a mouse watching a sleeping cat. And Teth could barely stand it. She just wanted to be left alone, to break away, to make it all stop. If not for the exercise, the exhaustion, the pain – aching muscles; raw, blistered hands; bruises everywhere – she wouldn’t have made it through the door.
Panting, she pulled herself from the tree. The girls on the bench giggled. Teth hit them with a wicked glare, bared her teeth, and growled. They diverted their eyes, beat their fans, and twittered.
“He’s so fierce,” one of them said.
“What will he be like when he gets his manhood,” the other gasped back. They both blushed and giggled, eyes firmly planted on a seething Teth. If only they knew.
At the other end of the courtyard, the boys had given up mocking her and started some game that seemed to involve one group chasing and tackling another. At some point, three older men had appeared on a bench near the boys. They seemed annoyed by the boys, fascinated by Teth, and only marginally focused on the deals they discussed. It was another pleasantly cool day, and the courtyard had been popular with the inn’s many residents. Mostly Teth had found that she could ignore them. It was only these vapid girls, for some reason, that seemed to bring out her ire.
Giving up on Garth’s poses, Teth turned to another exercise. She fell to the ground, pushed herself up, jumped to standing, leapt to grab a branch of the tree and pulled her chin over it. She fell to the ground and repeated, repeated, repeated until her shaking arms could not lift her from the ground. She fell back panting, and saw a pale-blue dress slide into her vision. Her eyes rose and confirmed what she feared. Sitting on the nearest bench was Dasen.
“Clearly, I am worried about him,” he said, voice straining to remain high. “He is exhausted. How much more of this can he take? I admire what you are doing, but he’s going to hurt himself.”
Teth’s eyes shot up. She scowled.
Dasen showed her that patronizing smile she knew from the forest. “My dear brother,” he cooed. “Please. I know what you are trying to do, but you will not help our beloved home by hurting yourself. Surely, strength must be built over time like a tree if it is to last.” He nodded knowingly, eyes nearly begging. “Come back with me and have some tea. We can talk and have a game of squares. You used to love that game.”
Teth had never played the idiotic game of the nobility, barely even knew the rules. Dasen was clearly trying to play his role and solidify hers. She should have been grateful. She was already pushing well past what the most capable, most stubborn boy could ever do. Though no one was like to believe her a girl, they would eventually start to question, and any questions now could be deadly. Still, Teth was not in a place to hear it.
She jumped up. “You don’t know anything,” she yelled. “I know what I can do. I know what I need, and I won’t sit here and let you tell me otherwise.” She turned and stormed from the courtyard. Though it had not been meant that way, it was the most credible-to-her-character thing she had done since she arrived at the inn. In a moment, she was in the common room. Somewhere, Mrs. Tappers was calling her as she dodged around the tables, squirmed through the crowds, and exploded out the doors into the light of the afternoon.
She ran. Her legs barely supported the weight of her body, her thighs trembled, her knees nearly buckled. She was winded before the first block was past, but she forced herself on, block after block, not even thinking about where she was or where she was going. She was focused on being outside, on the feel of the air, the smells of the city, the escape. As much as it hurt, it felt good to run, to be away from Garth and Dasen, Kian, the Tappers, those girls, everything.
On each side of her were blocks of buildings, shops with residences above, built in solid rows that ended only to give way to another street. She took the easy turns at each intersection, flowing where the road seemed to take her, barely aware that she was going in a great octagon around the city’s central hill. A smattering of people walked those streets, typically men, usually in groups, all tightly bound and wary. They stared at the boy running past them, drew closer together, and mumbled back and forth, passing by Teth in blurs that she barely recognized as people. In a few blocks, the fortress loomed above her, standing on top of the steepest section of the hill, looking down on the city from its barren perch with only a single winding road to connect it to the town below. She kept the hill on her right, missing the streets that spurred from it for the wagons, hawkers carts, or gaggles of people that seemed to block each. Soon, the grade of the hill eased, and a few manor houses appeared. Her breath was labored, heart hammering, feet tripping, but she focused on the houses of the city’s remarkably small elite – no more than six manors that she could see nestled between the fortress and temple.
Somewhere, she realized that she was going in a circle, tha
t it was almost complete, that the inn would soon appear. She looked for a side street, something to take her away from that place. She found one on the other side of the street going south. Planting her foot, she pivoted to turn and was nearly trampled. Eyes wide, breath catching, she placed a hand on the side of the dun horse to stop her momentum. It reached back for her with its teeth and the driver flailed at her with his whip. “Out of the way, ya idiot!” he yelled and struck again. Teth dodged, abandoning the side street to escape the whip and the guards that followed. Cursing silently, she continued around the hill, thinking little more of the encounter than to chastise herself for being careless.
Until she saw their inn, The River Maiden, looming again before her. She had come full circle, was coming back to the inn and the cluster of familiar faces standing outside watching the streets for her. Before they could find her, she dart up the first street she saw, staying to the right to remain outside the view of the inn. She did not look before she turned, expected to hit something, braced herself to dodge, to trip, to flail, but the street was empty, inviting, as if asking her to take it. It was only the slope that diminished her willingness to accept the invitation. It was not steep, a gentle slope meant for wagons to access the temple and backs of the manor houses, but her tired legs made it feel like ascending Cat’s Back Hill back home. By the time she reached the top, they were spent. She leaned against the rear of the temple’s rectory house, gasping for air and wondering if her legs could support her even to stand. She was just about to accept their surrender and slump to the ground when she heard the voices.
The False Martyr Page 54