by Anya Josephs
“Didn’t they have names?” Sisi asks, sensibly.
“Why would they need to have names? They were the only beings of their kind and needed no further distinguishing. But they had many things that the others didn’t. They had language and art. The King taught the peoples of the Earth how to govern themselves, living not wildly as beasts do, but in towns and cities and tribes. In turn, the Queen also taught them to use their ruak to create magic, for though many of the creatures, those we now call the adirim, were powerful in ruak, they knew not how to use their power until the new beings arrived. Adirish magic, under the supervision of the Queen, built the City at the center of the realm, and forged the High Road we travel on, even now.”
I’ve heard this story before, of course, but that part of it is new to me. Or, rather, I’ve never heard the tale while on that very road, so it’s never struck me with such intensity how much our whole Kingdom is shaped by the figures in this story, and by the shadowy forces of magic that we know so little about.
My whole life, I’ve been told to fear magic. Or, never told, exactly, because no one wants to talk about it except in old tales. But Kariana, who only wanted to bring us peace and prosperity, was burnt. And we never spoke of her or her magic again, once she was gone.
I see the reason for that fear, if this great road that stretches across the entire Earth could have been built by that power. I fear it too. Not as much, though, as I wonder at it. And long for it. Long for the knowledge of what was, and perhaps also—though even the thought seems absurd—for the power to reshape the Kingdom to my will.
“The First King and his Queen had four children, the First Four Men. It was they who brought balance and order to the land, founding the Kingdom where we live today. Their father taught them how to rule as he had done, and their mother taught them to use their ruak so that they might preserve these mysteries for generations to come. In his wisdom, the First King realized that all of his children were intelligent, noble, and good enough to govern. Nonetheless, he also feared that these great princes would one day pit themselves against one another over who would inherit and rule when he was gone, back to Gaia. In order to stop this conflict of brother against brother, the King divided the Kingdom into Four Corners. Each of his sons was given absolute rule over their respective Corners.”
“But who were they ruling over?” Sisi asks. “If the First King and his Queen were the only people, whom did they rule? And for that matter, when they married and set up households of their own, whom were they marrying in the first place? Weren’t there any girls? Did they intermarry with the adirim or pahyat? Or their own sisters?”
“No, but I suppose they did rule over them. Their sisters and children and the go’im, I mean. Everyone. Perhaps Gaia gave them wives, or perhaps they did not need wives. That’s not the point of this story, though.”
“I thought the point was what we can learn from it. The history of the Kingdom,” Sisi interjects. I wish she weren’t up at the front of the cart, so I could give her a good kick because she’s about to ruin everything for both of us if she doesn’t stop bothering our storyteller.
“I think the point is to keep ourselves occupied on this ride, one way or another,” I interrupt, and Aunt Mae nods approvingly, pacified, for which I am grateful. I want to hear the story, not my cousin and aunt squabbling with each other. It’s not like anyone knows the truth of how humans came to dwell on Earth, or why. It’s just a story, which might help us pass the time without fighting with one another.
It probably isn’t even true. This road was probably made by hard-working men, not by some force we can’t understand. And there were probably never any such things as zizit and magic schools and such. I remind myself of that before I get too enamored with the story.
“The little bird is right. As I was saying, they divided the Kingdom into four pieces, from each Corner of the known Earth to the center, where the King and the great City were, and each of the sons ruled over his section. Later, when each of the First Four Men had sons of his own, with whomever it was that they chose, they divided the land again, each Corner into Quarters, and that’s how we get the division that separates us today. It is how we know who will protect us in a time of war, and who we are obligated to pay our tribute to. All our Numbered lords and ladies are descended directly from the First King and Queen—and before you ask, Sisi, I don’t know who everyone else is descended from.”
“So that includes me, then?” Sisi interrupts again. “You’re saying, what, if I went back far enough, the first Queen is my many-times great-grandmother?”
“If you believe the stories are true, then I suppose so.”
“But do you believe it?” Sisi presses. “Is it just a story, or is it the truth?”
“I don’t know. All I know is a story my mother told me, which her mother told her, and so on and so forth. If you want to research actual history, you should look in the Royal Library. All I have are stories,” Aunt Mae says plainly, without even a hint of her usual sharpness.
Sisi answers with a note in her voice that sounds very much like shame. “I’m sorry, Aunt Mae. The stories are wonderful, real or not, and I do want to hear them. I apologize if I insulted you. I was being foolish.”
“Well, that’s all right then,” Aunt Mae responds, entirely mollified. “Where was I? Right. The King became sickly at the end of his life. He was so wise, so close to the great power of Gaia, that he knew when death was about to reach him. They say the Goddess Herself whispered it in his ear, calling him back home to Her loving breast. He knew he had to make a plan for the Kingdom. He had divided it so that his sons would not fight for power during his lifetime, but he did not want the Kingdom to splinter forever into four parts at his death, nor for the children he had nurtured to kill one another to unite it under one of them.
“He begged Gaia to intervene, and so one of the great magics of the land was created, binding the crown only to the worthiest member of the royal family, forever. With Her own hand, Gaia chose among his Four Sons and their Four Sons, and still, She so chooses among the First Sixteen in the Kingdom, naming the worthiest of them to rule over all Her children.
“So, the Kingdom was established, and so it would continue until the seventh generation with the Great War of Succession. But that’s another story for another day.”
“What’s so great about a war?” Sisi asks. “They all seem to have such fancy names, and all that ever happens is that a lot of good, innocent people die tragically early deaths.”
“They’re great because they’re an enormous and important part of our history. And because people made sacrifices, from the First King and Queen down to your own family, so that you could be here today and have what you have.”
That silences Sisi, but I can tell there’s still something on her mind. I wish I could pry, though I know she won’t say anything else in front of Aunt Mae. And probably not at all. She’s been intermittently silent and snappish throughout the journey, as she is today. No doubt the end of our travels, and the meeting with Lord Ricard, are weighing heavily on her. But she doesn’t speak of that, of course. She says only, “Thank you for the story.”
For the rest of the day, little else is said. I watch the land roll on beyond us, the orchards of our Quarter beginning to grow patchy and the landscape becoming hillier as we approach the border. I wonder if there’s any truth to the tale. Not so much the history, but everything else. Did the adirim once walk these roads? Did zizit fly through the skies? Did strange creatures hunt through the forests we’re leaving behind us?
More likely than not, I’ll never know. Even if I could try to track these stories down in the royal library, that would do me little good—I couldn’t even read them. Besides, what do I need to know history for? I’m an ignorant farm girl from the middle of nowhere. Going to the palace for a party doesn’t change who I am. It doesn’t make me special. The only thing that’s special about me is my friendship with Sisi, which certainly won’t help me learn
the secrets of our Earth.
Still, as the landscape rolls past us, I wonder what it might once have looked like. I can almost see it, golden and perfect. No, I can see it. It’s hazy and faint, and I know it’s only in my imagination, but I see what this place once was.
These thin, patchy trees, now full and rich with green leaves, stretching up toward the sky. These barren woods, now filled with strange beasts, eagles with cats’ heads and flying six-winged worms and tiny elephants all watching from the woods. And this empty Earth, now occupied by a man and woman standing together, tall and dark and lovely, not unlike Sisi, dressed in simple garments of pure white, raising their hands to the sky as the Earth split for them, leaving this scar across Her surface, this road that we journey down now.
I blink, and the vision fades away, leaving me feeling cold and exhausted. I’m grateful when the sun goes down and Aunt Mae suggests making camp for the night.
We haven’t passed an inhabited town since we left our own behind, so we end up simply sleeping on the side of the road, as we have been doing on our journey so far. Aunt Mae turns the cart over onto its side, and we pull the blankets over the top to hide that we’re there. We tie the donkey up to a tree a little ways away, in the hopes that he won’t run off or be stolen. He’s mean and lazy enough that he probably makes a poor prospect for any thief with half a brain.
The sun wakes us unpleasantly early the next morning, the unexpected brightness making me greet the day with a glower and squinted eyes. At least no unfriendly strangers have disturbed us in our sleep. We make a sad little breakfast out of the last of our now very stale bread and a morsel of cheese each, washed down with a single still-juicy apple and a few swigs of the precious skin of water Aunt Mae is rationing out with dedicated care, unsure if we’re ever going to see a river or a well again.
Having quenched our fatigue, our thirst, and our hunger as much as we can amidst the perils of the road, we set the cart aright, and begin our journey once again.
Chapter Seven
We’ve been traveling for two weeks before we even lay eyes on another person. By now, my cousin, my aunt, and I are all violently sick of one another’s company. Aunt Mae must have told us every story she’s ever heard. We’ve played every foolish game any of us can think of. And for meals, we’re down to dried apples, stale crackers, and slightly dingy river water, which isn’t improving anyone’s temper in the slightest.
The High Road itself is still as deserted as it’s been since we left the farm, which means we’ve had no trouble from any passing strangers—but also no one to trade with. Our rations are running low enough that, after yet another meal of molding and damp crackers, Aunt Mae agrees we need to pull off the road and follow the signs that Sisi tells me say “Town Center.”
Sisi guesses that we’re somewhere in the Fourteenth Quarter, in the middle of the eastern portion of the Kingdom, though we haven’t yet left the Fourth Corner where our home is. We still have to travel through the rest of the Fourteenth Quarter and then cut across part of the Second Corner before we’ll arrive at the City.
Or so we think. Sisi is merely cobbling this knowledge together from Jorj’s maps, but her guesses are the best we have to work with.
On our way toward the center of this unfamiliar town, we pass a young woman hauling a bucket of water. I’m downright shocked by the sight of her. Not by her appearance—she’s an ordinary girl, small and slim with reddish hair cropped short around her ears, though she’s paler-skinned than most folk in our Quarter. No, what surprises me is seeing her at all. I’d almost forgotten there were other people on the Earth.
She’s clearly struggling to haul the heavy pail down the road. Sisi calls out to her. “Can we give you a ride?”
“Thank you, ‘d be most kind of you.” Her accent is unfamiliar to me. Her vowels are much slower and more rounded. But, though she looks and sounds unlike anyone I’ve ever known, I recognize her as a farming girl, not so different from us. She climbs into the back of the cart with her full bucket and points down the road. “Center o’town is that way, and that’s where I’m headed. I’m guessing you’re looking for the inn?”
“How’d you know?” Sisi jokes, smiling as she looks down at our travel-worn clothes. “I’m Sisi. This is my Aunt Mae, and my cousin Jeni.” For once, she uses our by-names and not our True Names, Sigranna and Jena, which she usually insists on even when it could get us into trouble. Even Sisi knows better than to start speaking the Old Tongue in front of a total stranger.
“Lajie. It’s nice to meet you. What brings you to Bartston, especially with how things are going?”
Sisi also has at least enough sense not to tell the whole story. “On our way to, uh, to celebrate the Midwinter holiday. We’re hoping to pick up some supplies before we head back out on the High Road.”
“To the City, I assume?”
“Aye.”
Sisi doesn’t elaborate, and the girl—Lajie—looks her over for a long moment, as if searching for more information. But Sisi is stony-faced, and eventually the girl shrugs. “All right, then. If you want to keep it to yourselves, I won’t push you. With the soldiers here, it’s best not to share too much, anyways.”
“The soldiers?”
“Aye.” She doesn’t elaborate, and we return her courtesy, not pressing her for any more details, just as she had done for us.
We wind our way slowly through the darkening streets, following Lajie’s directions at the crossroads. The sun is setting, casting a glow over the dirt road. Maher’s hooves slowly pat the street, sending up small clouds of dust each time. I look out at the town, at the several dozen small houses within eyesight of each other. It’s so different from our Quarter, where families live on their own farms, spread out for leagues around, and the center of town is just a green we use as a marketplace, usually empty except for holidays. People here seem to keep in their homes for the most part; other than Lajie, we don’t pass anyone on the street. However, unlike the burnt-out wreckage I saw on our way here, I do spot a few pale faces peeking out of windows, looking out at us. There seem to be far more people here than there are in Leasane.
Lajie hops out with her bucket, headed back toward her home. Before she disappears, though, she points toward the center of the small town. “You can find the inn in that direction. It’s the only building with three stories—can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much, miss.”
“Thank you for the ride into town, and good luck on your journey. May the Goddess guide you, wherever it is that you’re going.”
It’s a kind wish, and we thank her for it. Following Lajie’s directions, we have no trouble at all finding the inn. Its three stories mean it towers over the small single-floor cottages in the center of town, and it’s made of solid wooden slats.
Weary and covered in dust from the road, we pull up in front of it and practically fall out of the carriage. Our feet have barely touched the ground when a stout young man comes rushing out the front door, holding his hands out in front of himself as if to ward us off. “There’s no room, madam, mistresses. I’m sorry.”
“Every room is taken?” Aunt Mae asks, surprised.
“It’s the Golden Soldiers, madam. They’re cleansing the region.”
“Cleansing?”
“You haven’t heard?” he says. “Well.”
“Can we come in and have a cup of ale at least?” Aunt Mae asks. “Maybe you can see if there isn’t something you can do? There must be someone in the town who has a spare room, and we can pay—”
“You wouldn’t want to stay here,” he says flatly. “Not when the soldiers are in town. And it’d probably be best to keep the young mistresses out of their view. My poor sister’s been hiding away since they got into town. They’re—”
Before he can say anything else, another man stumbles out the door. He’s broad-shouldered, ruddy-skinned, and blond, with a gleaming smile and dressed in the familiar purple-and-gold livery of the messengers who’d gone back and
forth between Sisi and Lord Ricard. He slaps the innkeeper on the shoulder. “Henric, man, we need more beer.”
“I’ll be with you in just a moment, sir.”
The soldier turns his head, seeing the three of us for the first time. When he catches view of Sisi, a slow grin spreads over his features. He lazily reaches out for her arm, and I watch helplessly as she freezes, rigid and terrified. “Who is this pretty little thing?” he asks.
“I am Lady Sisi of Eastsea, Four Hundred and Fifty-Third in the Kingdom. You will unhand me at once.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Sisi use her own title, although sometimes Jorj will call her that in jest, or when she’s in trouble. But there’s nothing playful at all about Sisi’s tone as she tries to step away from the soldier.
The man lets go of her, holding his hands up with a nasty, mocking smile. “I’m sorry, milady.” Despite his sneer, it seems like her bluff has worked, at least enough so that he takes his hands off of her. “Do come in for a drink, pretty lady. Some of my men in there are lonely, out here in the middle of nowhere. They’d appreciate some much-welcomed company, especially from such a fine young lady as yourself.”
Every time he says Sisi’s title, he does it with a vicious sneer. At the last usage, he takes her hands in both of his, using his grasp on her wrists to pull her body flush against his.
Sisi doesn’t react this time. She doesn’t even move. She seems to be frozen with terror.
I look over at the innkeeper, Henric, who shakes his head at me slightly, like a warning. Aunt Mae’s hands are trembling. None of them are going to do anything, I realize, suddenly and shockingly. None of them know what to do.
Neither do I, but I can’t do nothing.