“Thank you,” Rahami said. Stomach churning, she stepped through the opening into a small hexagonal chamber with a mosaic floor depicting a blue orb weaver in a geometric web.
Three ivory-robed women entered from the opposite archway. They moved in unison, blue-eyed faces identically gaunt, blond hair pulled back in braids. Rahami breathed and released. Manor seers were said to breed like spiders. Maybe it was true. She could imagine these three emerging from an egg sac.
The first Sister extended her hand. “I am Armyni.”
Rahami touched her forehead to bony flesh. “I am honored, Sister Oracle.” The hand withdrew, and Rahami straightened. Armyni was clearly the eldest of the three, the skin of her brow and temples hinting at creases.
“It is unfortunate you must leave your village duties,” Armyni said. “I am certain they are pressing.” The corners of her mouth ticked upward. “But take heart. Your stay here will be brief. Have no doubt of that.”
Rahami forced a polite smile. Her year of training with Sister Mathe’s acid tongue had taught her to tamp emotion down.
“Thank you, Sister,” she said. “I am indeed needed elsewhere, yet the Mother Oracle has determined my duty is here. Perhaps, when we have solved this problem, she will send you South to aid me in settling a farmer’s dispute.”
Armyni’s jaw clenched. She turned on her heel and walked from the room.
“Come,” another Sister said. “I will show you to your quarters.”
* * *
By the end of the third day, Rahami began to question Armyni’s understanding of ‘brief’. She had already endured too much idleness in the seers’ quarters, a collection of alcoves surrounding a common area. With no books to read and no sewing to occupy her hands, she spent her days gazing upon the lake and her nights dreading. She had heard of seers tortured when their reports displeased a powerful client. Of course, there were consequences for such abuse, but fines held little sway over people with vast wealth. That Morshimon had requested a minor seer, one with Ashim roots, was troubling.
On the fifth night, she woke to peeling thunder. Flood! was her first impulse. Again she saw Father slip from the sandbag wall he had helped erect. Her younger sister, Owabe, reached out and was gone too, lost in a current stronger than her will. Lightning flashed. Rahami sat up, brow slicked with sweat.
A figure in white hovered by the common room windows. Ghost? Rahami pulled a silk sheet over her head for protection.
The figure resolved into the youngest Sister, Tifan, and Rahami relaxed. Of the three, she liked Tifan best. Where the others evaluated and dismissed, Tifan showed a spark of curiosity.
“I did not mean to startle you,” Tifan said. She entered the alcove. “The storm keeps me awake. Armyni says I am foolish to fear the weather.”
“Fear is a healthy response to powers greater than our own,” Rahami said. She removed her makeshift headscarf.
Tifan knelt onto the sleeping mat. “Armyni claims we are well protected within the manor, yet I often feel the hair rise from my skin.”
“I’ve felt that too,” Rahami said. “I believe lightning causes hair to lift as it energizes the air.”
“You are not afraid?”
“No,” Rahami said.
“Then Armyni is right. The Weaver has blessed us with an ability to see beyond his veil. We have no cause to fear nature.”
“Perceiving a future is not the same as controlling it,” Rahami said. “I may not fear lightning, but I fear other things.”
Tifan edged closer. “You do?”
“Floods,” Rahami said. “My father and sister....” She stopped. It was not like her to blurt personal details.
“I’m sorry,” Tifan said.
“It was a long time ago.”
Lightning flashed, and Tifan leaned forward. Rahami’s arm went around the younger woman. She remembered holding Owabe after they were caught sneaking to the slaughterhouse to watch an elderly elephant put down. Rahami remembered Owabe trembling, tears shining in her eyes. No, that direction was not where this conversation needed to go. Diversion was a better antidote for fear.
“I also fear love,” she said. “A man who pulls at my heart as lodestone draws metal filings.”
“Oh, yes.” Tifan sat straight. “We all dread that.” She cocked her head. “Have you met such a man? Your travels surely present more opportunities than we have here.”
“Once,” Rahami said. A thrill ran through her. She had not thought of Jankol in months.
“What was he like?” Tifan said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rahami said. “I forget.” I hoped I had. She had danced with Jankol at Solstice celebration, knowing even as their hands touched—hers shielded behind kid skin gloves—they would never kiss or cuddle or whisper sleeping mat secrets. Only a man with seer blood might mate with her, and even that was risky.
“Tell me about Morshimon,” she said to deflect the subject. “What does his future hold? What choices did you see?”
“We should not speak of such things,” Tifan said. Lines creased her brow.
“I cannot help but wonder what I am expected to report,” Rahami said. “Armyni seems worried I will contradict her.”
Tifan sighed. “Armyni believes you will not stand up to the Honorable Morshimon. She believes you will tell him what he wishes to hear. It is no secret that you were not born to the craft.” A low rumble sounded. The storm was passing.
“I will do my duty,” Rahami said. Without conjecture, without twisting the Weaver’s design.
“I believe you,” Tifan said. She paused. “There is something else you should know, Rahami.”
“Yes?”
Tifan looked into her lap. “The Honorable Morshimon went to Chindra, to recruit.”
“He’s not here?” Irritation surged through Rahami, a storm all its own. Who was this Morshimon, to toss her about like thistle seed? “I cannot remain here forever. People depend on me—farmers, fishermen, town elders.”
“Armyni understands this,” Tifan said. She pressed a coin pouch into Rahami’s hand. “Ten standards. We do not possess enough for the Mother Oracle’s fee, but Armyni wanted to compensate you at least.”
“Compensate me for what? I have not undertaken the seeing.”
Tifan looked up. “You are not the first person the Honorable Morshimon has abandoned. Armyni says he discards people as children discard torn kites.”
“Surely, he wouldn’t trifle with a seer dispatched by the Mother Oracle,” Rahami said.
“This is a difficult time,” Tifan said. “War threatens to turn the world upside down.” She lowered her voice. “Armyni knows what she is asking of you. You dare not return to the Mother Oracle, who would as like have you unmade as listen to your side, but.... Perhaps this is an opportunity too?”
“How so?” Rahami asked.
“This calling we share, is it not also a burden? When we open our eyes onto the Weaver’s tangle, it is his domain, not ours. We are constrained by forces beyond our control. Would you not wish to be free if you could?”
Rahami found herself nodding, even though she had never considered gaining her freedom in this manner.
“Accept this payment and leave Querc,” Tifan said. “In time the poison may fade, and you will have your old life back. Armyni says that you are not bred to be a seer.”
Rahami thought of Jankol. Rid of the spider poison, she might find love. She might even find a way to use her natural talents for something more meaningful than reading futures for farmers.
Tifan squeezed Rahami’s hand and stood. “Sleep, Rahami. Perhaps your dreams will convince you. I cannot help but to put myself in your place. For me it would be an easy choice.” She strode to the exit.
“Wait,” Rahami said. “You haven’t told me why Morshimon doubts his Sisters’ readings. Why was I summoned?”
“The Honorable Morshimon believes we withhold something. He will not let go of his suspicion.”
“Is he wrong
?” Rahami asked.
Tifan looked away.
“What did you see?”
“His destiny, of course,” Tifan said. “His death.” And then she was gone, another shadow in the darkness of the common room.
* * *
Rahami’s dreams did not help. Again and again, she witnessed her father’s swollen corpse returned to the village for burial, her sister’s face disappearing into angry black water a final time. The grief seemed as fresh as ever. Her Mother had been healthy then, which only made the tears more cutting.
Each time Rahami woke, she thought of Tifan’s suggestion. Leave Querc. In time the poison may fade. And then she would whisper “no,” close her eyes, and eventually fall asleep only to have the cycle repeat, until, finally, she was too tired for even that to wake her.
Morning brought sunshine streaming through the windows. A coin pouch lay rumpled beside the mat like the bean bags some children kicked for sport. She should be glad that Tifan’s offer had not been another hallucination, but she could not get past a feeling of impending doom. Had Morshimon truly abandoned her? How would the Mother Oracle react? She gathered up the coin pouch and went in search of Armyni.
The passage from the common room was lined with tapestries depicting forests and lakes. Dark blue silks trimmed in gray draped from the ceiling.
A man groaned.
“Hold him,” Armyni’s muffled voice said from a side passage blocked by silk.
Rahami moved closer. Why would a man be permitted in the Sisters’ quarters? Even the female servant had been specially purified.
“He’s spent,” Tifan said.
“Do you think I will not know when he spends his silver in my inn?” Armyni said.
Rahami worked her fingers through the curtains. Across the room, Armyni straddled a naked man on a mound of pillows. Tifan held his hand while Orinda, the third Sister, leaned onto his shoulders. His breaths came as shallow grunts.
“He’s not well,” Tifan said.
Armyni snorted. “Oh, do not worry, precious Sister. He claims his mother comes from seer stock.”
The man choked. Spittle erupted from his mouth.
“You’re killing him,” Tifan said.
“She may be right,” Orinda said.
“Imagine that,” Armyni said. “A man who lies about his heritage. Well, I suppose his lesson is that lies return to roost.”
“But—”
“What concern is his death to us?” Armyni snapped. “He is Ashim.”
Rahami swept the curtains open. Rage clouded her thoughts.
“What are you doing here?” Armyni said. “Do you want a turn?”
Rahami threw the pouch. Instead of striking Armyni, it landed on the man’s chest and skidded into his chin, drawing a startled grunt.
Eyes stinging, Rahami fled through a surreal landscape of fake forests, fake mountains, fake lakes. Nothing here was real.
“Wait,” Tifan called. Rahami ran faster.
The passage emptied into the hexagonal room where Mistress Anch had abandoned her. She crossed the mosaic spider floor and paused at the curtains.
“It’s not as it seems,” Tifan said, from the inner corridor’s mouth.
“It never is.” Rahami pushed through clinging silk into the hallway beyond. Stately paintings punctuated the walls as far as she could see.
Tifan’s shadow moved behind the curtains. “You are one of us,” she said. “Return with me, and Armyni will not punish you.”
“No,” Rahami said. “Come with me, Tifan. We’ll report her cruelty.”
“If Armyni is cruel sometimes,” Tifan said, “it is only because of the pressures of her station.”
“And the man?” Rahami asked. “Does the Honorable Matsomsa tolerate murder in his manor?”
The curtains parted. A blue eye peered through. “Murder? He is only Ashim.”
The words hit like a splash of scalding water. Rahami turned and sprinted through the corridor, listening for sounds of pursuit that did not materialize.
A stairway led down. She took it.
Girls in brown shifts replaced sconce candles from a cart. A pair of guards chatted by an archway leading to a room filled with tables set for breakfast. Only the farthest table was occupied.
Rahami willed her speeding heart to slow. The way outside was through the dining hall.
“What is your business?” the older guard said. The younger one was the mustached man Rahami had seen in the courtyard.
“I am needed in the kitchen,” she said.
“Use the servants’ passage.”
“Thank you,” Rahami said, pretending to misunderstand. She strode between the men.
“Are you deaf?” the older guard said.
Rahami continued walking, though every nerve in her body screamed at her to run. The dining hall was as high as it was wide, with skylights placed along the ceiling. No rafter women here.
A hand grabbed her. “Don’t touch me.” She spun, lifting a sleeve to expose her spider-bite welts. Her heart thudded.
The older guard drew back. “Spider-witch.”
“She’s the woman from the goat cart,” the mustached guard said. “Morshimon sent for her.”
“I doubt that,” the older guard said.
“One way to find out,” the mustached guard said. He nodded toward the occupied table.
“You will take the consequences,” the older guard said. “I want no part of this.”
The mustached guard grinned and shook his head at the other before leading Rahami toward the table, which hosted six balding men and a soldier in partial armor. The soldier’s face was broad-browed, nose sharp and straight, a dimpled chin. Thick, dark hair topped his head, more than enough to make up for the others’ lack.
Déjà vu washed through Rahami. She had seen this face before. The Spider House door.
“What is it, Kapren?” His voice was resonant and deep.
The mustached guard came to attention. “I found this woman wandering the halls, Honorable Morshimon.”
Morshimon? Rahami touched her bare head. She felt naked.
“Ah, the seer from the south,” Morshimon said. “The Mother Oracle promised you days ago.”
“I have been here nearly a week,” Rahami said. “The Sisters said you were away recruiting soldiers.”
“Is that so?” Morshimon sighed. “I shall have to educate the Sisters concerning my itinerary. These miscommunications grow tiresome.”
Rahami swallowed. “I am sorry to interrupt your meal, Honorable Matsomsa, but when I saw that man, I didn’t know what to do.”
“A man?”
“An Ashim man in the Sisters’ quarters. They were.... Armyni....”
Morshimon’s jaw tensed. “Kapren, instruct the Mistress of Women to find a suitable room for our guest. You will stand guard at her door tonight.”
“Yes, Matsomsa-born.”
Morshimon started to drop his lap napkin to the table but tossed it to Rahami instead.
“Thank you.” She positioned the cloth over her hair.
Morshimon stood, and Rahami suppressed a gasp. He was at least a head taller than the guard. Massive arms strained the seams of his sleeves. Hexagonal plates of silk-bonded armor covered his chest and shoulders.
A giant if ever one existed.
“I mean to pay a visit to the Sisters,” Morshimon said to the other men. “Anyone care to come along? They have invited one man into their quarters, what are a few more?”
“Your father will not like it,” one of the men said.
“There is much that annoys my father these days,” Morshimon said. “I doubt this will make the first five.” He nodded to Rahami. “Go with Kapren. Tomorrow you will undertake my seeing.”
Rahami averted her eyes. “Yes, Matsomsa-born.” Tomorrow I will see your death. A shadow passed over her, a chill of deep dread. Maybe she should have accepted Armyni’s payment and run.
* * *
It was nearly noon before Kapren
escorted her to Morshimon’s sitting room. Three windows overlooked the lake. To one side, a table was strewn with maps. Across the room, a hearth warmed two stuffed chairs and a floral-patterned sofa. Morshimon drowsed in one of the chairs. The webbery stood by the other.
Kapren cleared his throat. “The seer is here, Morshimon.”
Morshimon jerked but recovered smoothly. “Thank you, Kapren. You may leave.” Kapren withdrew.
Morshimon stood. “Rahami Honra is an interesting name,” he said. “You hail from a Hashin Village near the river?”
“Yes, Honorable Matsomsa, that is where I am currently assigned.”
“Trained by the Oracle Mother?”
“A Sister.”
Morshimon nodded. “My militia captain recommended you. He is Hashin by blood, and claims that you reveal truths beyond the politically expedient.”
Rahami cast her gaze down. “I do my duty, Honorable Matsomsa.”
“As do I,” a new voice said. Armyni bustled into the room, the hem of her ivory robe clutched in one hand. Rahami adjusted her head-covering to hide her surprise. She had not expected to see Armyni again.
Morshimon snorted. “The Sister arrives at last.”
“As you requested,” Armyni said.
“As I ordered,” Morshimon corrected. “My father insists that one of you vermin be present.”
“He is wise, Matsomsa-born.”
“He is old fashioned,” Morshimon said. “Now, be silent or I will have you replaced with another spider-witch. I may have to tolerate your presence, but I will not tolerate your tongue.”
“As you wish, Matsomsa-born.”
Morshimon returned his attention to Rahami. “Scarred warriors have crossed Alenja River. They will reach the Decid Plains soon and push north. If we do not defeat the Ubi army at Apatsoi River, Querc will fall. This is what my Sisters tell me. All well and good, but it is what they hide that interests me.”
“We hide noth—”
“Silence!” Morshimon shouted. Armyni looked away. “We will begin when you are ready,” he said to Rahami.
“Yes, Matsomsa-born.”
“I want a full reading,” Morshimon said. “A true seeing, do you understand?”
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #154 Page 4