“Of course,” Rahami said. She met Armyni’s glare. I will see this man’s futures. I will know what you know, and more if I am able. She removed her head-scarf. “If something has been hidden from you, Honorable Matsomsa, we shall soon know it.”
* * *
Rahami sat on an oval rug, shoes removed, toes touching Morshimon’s naked back.
“I summon the spider,” she said. She removed the webbery plug and extended wooden tongs through the opening. A blue orb spider, starved for days, pranced across invisible strands of its web. Rahami got it on her first try. Catching a hungry spider was not as difficult as catching flies.
She withdrew the flailing creature. “And now, the bite.” She pressed the spider to her wrist. This was the most difficult part, much harder than seeing futures.
When the spider did not immediately bite, she moved it elsewhere, lifting and lowering, pressing its mouthparts to her skin. The spider bites where the Weaver wills.
She felt a pinch and resisted the instinct to squeeze. A convulsion of her grip and the spider might be damaged, or worse, escape to bite the client.
“The spider has chosen,” she said. She dropped it into the webbery and re-plugged the glass.
“We begin,” she said. Morshimon slouched to make his spine more pronounced. She positioned her hands and forehead along his back.
The poison was already taking hold. Rahami’s heart raced. Heat coursed through her, sweat beaded on her face, breathing became as difficult as pumping air through damaged bellows. Be calm. Be calm. As many times as she had undergone this process, she still feared she would die. It was ironic in a way. Once, she had wanted the poison to take her, and it had not.
Her consciousness seeped through Morshimon’s skin, into his spine. Breathe, she thought. Breathe with this man. See with this man.
Heat dissipated in a rush, leaving a warm residue of knowing. A web opened within her, thousands of strands, possible futures, entangled futures, a pattern. Not all strands appeared equal, thicker, brighter ones being most probable.
A sexual encounter with a dark-haired woman. A river forded by militia. A forest camp. Meetings with war leaders. Angry disagreements. A forced march through mountain passes. Bone-biting cold. A highland meadow. Approaching the enemy from behind. A successful surprise. Invaders repelled. Death from infection.
A second strand. Marching, camping, a surprise attack. Death.
A hundred strands. Marching. Fighting. Death.
A thousand strands. Death.
I cannot continue, Rahami thought. The Sisters were right. This man has only death in his future.
A hundred more strands. Death. Death. Death.
Then, a small thread, barely visible. The militia leaving under seven banners. Morshimon remaining at Manor, hunting fliers in the northern forests. Ubi warriors invading, Ubi adepts controlling the Spider House. Villagers enslaved. Morshimon’s father and brother murdered. He weds a woman of Ubi heritage, has four sons and dies an old man.
A second thin thread. Morshimon remains at Manor. Ubi warriors invade. Morshimon’s life is spared. He does not marry or father children.
Others. Morshimon remains and lives.
Futures faded into the dark gauze of Rahami’s exhaustion. She struggled against it, searched for other threads, other options. She had never seen a clearer pattern. Morshimon’s life meant Querc’s death and vice versa.
Sadness overwhelmed her. This is what Armyni fears. For a heartbeat she felt sympathy for the Sister. To guide this client to his most promising future would require Querc’s destruction.
Feeling returned to Rahami’s fingers. She felt Morshimon’s muscles, the interlocked bones of his spine, and recalled her father’s body, so bloated she could only recognize him from the copper necklace embedded in his neck. Would he have chosen to sandbag the river if a seer had warned him he would die?
She disengaged. The Sisters had revealed that Morshimon would lead the militia to victory. They had clearly not told him he might choose instead to live. What do I say? Life radiates from this man.
Silk slid down Morshimon’s back. “The seeing is finished,” Armyni said. “Seer? Can you hear me? You are finished.”
Acid pushed up Rahami’s throat. She swallowed it down, unwilling to grant Armyni the satisfaction of seeing her vomit.
“Village seers are not bred for this, Matsomsa-born,” Armyni said. “Now you see the toll of it. She probably remembers nothing.”
I have seen, Rahami thought. Her face throbbed, her skin burned. Something was wrong. The Mother must have chosen an unusually potent blue.
“Poison clouds her mind,” Armyni said. “She requires time to recover. I will return her to the seers’ quarters.”
“My father may trust you,” Morshimon said, “but I harbor no such delusion. You are excused, Sister. Rahami will remain.”
“She requires attention.”
“I will attend her,” Morshimon said. “Now, get out!”
“As you wish, Matsomsa-born.”
Rahami tried to speak but only managed a croak. The spider poison was not dissipating. It was too potent. She clutched at Armyni, and the world tilted sideways.
Armyni’s breath tickled her ear: “You had your chance to leave.”
Rahami heard her mother’s voice—The job’s not suited to girls—and the world went dark.
* * *
Water flowing, heart thudding, breath in her ear. Rahami opened her dreaming eyes onto a surreal world, trees fuzzed with glowing green, a blue sky too intense. The river clucked for her attention. It was slick, too wide to cross, clogged with death.
She remembered the spider and opened her fist. There it was, huddled on her palm, legs kneed up around its pudgy body.
“Curse you,” she spat. It was supposed to bite. She had taken it from the Spider House, sneaked into the blue orb section and snatched it from the nearest webbery. It was supposed to bite. It was supposed to take her down into the depths with Father and Owabe, down there where her Mother’s grief lived. If she made it to the river, all the better. She would throw herself in and let the toxin take her.
Well, here she was at the river, and it hadn’t bitten. She squeezed her fist until the spider’s body deformed like clay in her hand. Still, it would not bite. She tried to fling it. It clung to her palm. She prodded with her finger until it turned its bulbous back.
Rahami considered jumping into the water. She did not trust herself to die. She was too strong a swimmer, and the river had lost its rage. Exhaustion came over her all at once. She sagged to the ground. She closed her eyes and cried.
A pinch. The spider had bitten at last. A dull heat spread from the wound, soothing her to relax, to calm, to listen. All around her the world went silent. She watched, fascinated, as the creature spun its web from her arm to her shoulder, her chin. She watched it skittle along strands too fine to see, watched it dance upon the air.
Rahami woke with a start. She was wrapped in blankets on a sofa facing a crackling fire. A cinnamon scent infused the room. She tried to sit, but only managed to lean heavily on the sofa’s arm. A vomit stain marked the rug by her feet.
Morshimon sat at the table across the room, mug in one hand, a book in the other.
“The spirits have released you,” he said. “For a time, your skin was so blue I feared you might not return.” He set the book aside. “The herbalist said your life was in the Weaver’s hands. I dismissed him. If a man is not going to help, why keep him around?”
Rahami rubbed her forehead. “I apologize for my weakness.”
“The weakness was not yours,” Morshimon said. He came to the couch and tilted the webbery bottom-up. There, etched into the glass, was a flower and three bees. “This is not a Spider House design, but the Manor’s. You were poisoned.”
Armyni, Rahami knew at once.
“The Sisters will answer,” Morshimon said. “Now, tell me what is so important that they were willing to kill you?”
Rahami gazed at the carpet stain.
“The Weaver spared you for a purpose,” Morshimon said. “Please, Rahami Honra, tell me my truth.” He took her hand between his.
Don’t touch me, she thought.
“Why does no one trust me with my destiny?” he said. “It is mine, is it not?
Rahami stared into the fire.
Morshimon sighed. “Will you horde the future, or return the power to shape it to we who must live out your visions?” He released her hand and flexed his fingers. It’s the poison, Rahami thought. It’s me.
“I do not create the strands,” she said. “My duty is to convey your most probable path.”
“I have heard enough of duty,” Morshimon said.
“I’m merely a village seer,” Rahami said.
“What we are born,” Morshimon said, “and what we become are two very different things. I could say ‘I am but the second son’. Does that mean I must live in my brother’s shadow? Can I not love him as he loves me and do the best I can to serve our people too?”
“That is your choice,” Rahami said.
“Do you not also have to choose?” he said.
Rahami frowned. “The Sisters have conveyed your most probable futures.”
Morshimon shook his head. “The Sisters assure me I am to become a hero if I follow their instructions. I have developed strategies for my captains, but it will not do if I am held responsible for butchering a thousand Matsomsa warriors. I do not trust the Sisters’ motives. I must know that my plan is the best possible approach. Am I leading my men into danger? Is this what the Sisters withhold?”
Rahami breathed deep. “No,” she said quietly. “Not that.”
“Then what?”
Rahami met his gaze. “What the others did not tell you, what I should not tell you, is that the major threads lead inevitably to your death. If you go south, you will die.”
Morshimon did not look away.
“Circumstances vary,” Rahami said, “but your death is certain. It’s rare to find such a clear nexus. It is as if the Weaver has woven your destiny into the Web Beneath the World.”
“And the war?” Morshimon said. “The Ubi threat? What of that? Could you see?”
“I cannot be certain,” Rahami said, “but they are routed in nearly every thread before you....” She looked away. “It seems unlikely they would return.”
“My life for the land I love,” Morshimon said. “A fair exchange.”
“There is more,” Rahami said. She could feel the tension building in her chest, a sense of unwanted revelation. “Remain behind, Matsomsa-born, and you will live a full life.”
“And Querc?”
“Querc will be enslaved, our Spider Houses destroyed, families broken apart to serve Ubi overlords.” Rahami could be certain of these outcomes since he would be alive to witness them. “Sons will be born to you in many strands. You will know happiness.”
“Ah,” Morshimon said. “The stew thickens. But, tell me, little flower, how could I possibly be happy in such a future, with Querc in ruins, all I care about destroyed?”
“It is possible,” Rahami said, “for I have seen it. The strands are fragile, but there is hope. You have but to remain behind. This is what the Sisters fear.”
Morshimon erupted in laughter. “Spider-witches. How could I live among them all these years and they not know who I am?”
Confusion replaced Rahami’s dread. “You will go willingly to your death?”
“Of course,” Morshimon said. “I know that must be difficult for you to understand.”
“No,” Rahami said. “I understand what it is like to want to die.”
“You?”
Rahami gazed into the fire. “It was a time ago. My father and sister had drowned, my mother was sick with grief. I stole a spider from the Spider House, and it bit me. I thought I would die, hoped I would die.”
“But you did not.”
“No,” Rahami said. “Villagers found me. The Sisters could not deny the miracle, much as they would have liked to, and sent me south for training.”
Morshimon whistled low. “And that is how an Ashim became web seer. The Weaver truly does watch over you.”
“If so, he must be laughing,” Rahami said. “The Mother Oracle shuffles me between assignments like hand-me-down clothes. I might as well be invisible.”
Morshimon chuckled. Rahami’s lips turned down. It was not funny to her.
“I’m surprised you would wish to die,” she said. “It seems to me that a man with your privilege and position should want to live forever.”
“I am the second son, not the first,” Morshimon said. “My demise does not much matter in the larger scheme. I only hope that our people will recall my sacrifice.”
“They will,” Rahami said. That was beyond her seeing, but how could the world not remember such a deed?
Morshimon stood. “You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. I would like nothing more than to personally show you the grounds.”
“I’ve been here too long,” Rahami said. “I will leave as soon as I can make the arrangements.”
“As you wish.” Morshimon paced to the table. “It is probably best that we do not let emotion cloud our resolve.”
“Yes, of course,” Rahami said. She watched him sit, his eyes going blankly to the closest map. For the first time in her presence, he seemed defeated. She longed to comfort him.
He did not look up as she exited, but she felt his attention on her like a strand of spider silk stretched to its breaking point.
* * *
Rahami mounted the goat cart sent for her return to the Spider House. She was pleased to see the same driver as before.
“You look well,” she said as he took her satchel. The Mother Oracle’s webbery had already been loaded.
He hopped onto the bench. “I brought a different team. It should be an easy ride.” He shook the reins, and the cart began a slow turn. Rahami looked to Reuda Anch, who stood alongside several serving girls, hands on her bulging stomach.
“Uh oh,” the driver said. The cart skidded as a towering man bent through the doorway. Serving girls scattered.
Rahami’s face warmed. A tingling sensation wriggled in her gut. She hoped it did not show in her expression. This was a time for professionalism, not girlish lust.
The driver tied off the reins, jumped down, and bowed so low his forehead nearly scraped. He went to tend the goats.
Rahami nodded. “To what do I owe this honor, Matsomsa-born?”
“I could not let you go without seeing you off,” Morshimon said. “Will you resume your duties in the south, then?”
“The Mother will probably assign a new region,” Rahami said. “I am nothing more to her than an uncomfortable itch she must scratch from time to time.”
“You are not alone,” Morshimon said. “My father sees past me whenever I enter the room. And yet, we will soldier on and do what we can to make the world better, yes?”
“Of course,” Rahami said.
Morshimon took her hand.
“Careful,” Rahami said. She felt the poison leeching from her pores. It would be days before she recovered.
Morshimon laughed. “It seems to me we should both welcome a little numbness.” He kissed her fingers. “I owe you a debt, I wanted you to know that, before.... You have given me hope.”
Rahami felt a surge of shame. She wanted to throw her arms around Morshimon and keep him here. She wanted to lie with him and give him the sons he deserved. How could he speak of hope, knowing that he would die in the coming months? And here she was, complaining about petty politics. She diverted her gaze to the goats. The future she longed for would never be, could never be.
Morshimon released her hand. “Safe journey, Rahami Honra. May the Weaver watch over you.” He started to leave but stopped after two strides. “No, there is more I must say.”
Rahami held her breath. Had he changed his mind and decided to live?
His steady
eyes met hers. “We have reached an important juncture for Querc, Rahami. Once the militia marches, my father will no longer possess force sufficient to control our Ashim caste. Many of them plan to leave Querc for the Lost City.”
“The Lost City is a myth,” Rahami said. She thought of the people in the forest, the driver’s worry, Jonji’s offer to take her beyond the divide. She dared not admit these things to a Matsomsa.
“Perhaps not,” Morshimon said. “One of our ancient texts describes it vividly: ‘A white city built of the bone and sinew and blood of the pilgrims within a green valley so hidden from nature that the snows dare not intrude.’“
“Is the flying elephant also real?” Rahami said. She forced a smile.
“The exodus must succeed,” Morshimon said.
Rahami’s mouth fell open.
Morshimon chuckled. “What? You never thought a high-born could think in this manner?”
“Why would you?” Rahami said. “Ashim are to serve the higher castes. That is not a myth.”
“You do not believe in castes any more than I do,” Morshimon said. “I have argued with my father’s advisors for years. We waste precious resources—talent, intelligence, people like you—by continuing this outdated system. War brings an opportunity to prove it. The exodus must succeed, Rahami.”
“How can it?” Rahami said. “Without supplies, maps, a knowledgeable guide.”
“I know the perfect guide for them,” Morshimon said.
“He will need to be more than perfect to find a city that does not exist,” Rahami said.
“I was thinking of you,” Morshimon said.
Rahami stared. “Me? I’m no leader.”
“Ashim will trust your guidance,” Morshimon said. “Not only were you one of their own, you are truthful, resourceful... passionate.” He smiled gently. “There is more quality in your character than the three Sisters combined.”
“It’s impossible,” Rahami said. “I’ve never climbed a mountain in my life.” And yet, the idea sparked an ember inside her. “How would I find the Lost City in any case? An obscure reference in an ancient book hardly constitutes a map.”
“You have your sight,” Morshimon said.
“A seer cannot know her own futures or the futures of other seers,” Rahami said. “The poison masks us from ourselves.”
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