Screaming quietude hung between them as Yzabel tried not to dwell on the wretchedness of her physique, defaced by wounds and thinned by hunger. Tried not to dwell on how inappropriate she felt next to Fatyan, who was everything a princess should be—fearless, beautiful, and of full flesh.
She kept her eyes down and her body still while Fatyan trailed a finger along the cilice. “Why do you hurt yourself?” she asked, cautiously, the sound barely registering.
Something complicated in her core woke under the touch; flustered, Yzabel was quick to reply, hoping speech would take away the riotous sensation. “I told you. I tried many things to take the curse—the gift—away. Mortifying my flesh was but one of them.”
The Moura opened the device on Yzabel’s leg, and a hiss fled Yzabel’s lips along with a stab of pain as Fatyan peeled the device off, blood welling in every little puncture.
“You must never do this to yourself again. No matter what is being preached, no god wants to see their subjects suffer. Especially when they’ve blessed said subject with a great gift.”
“You don’t think suffering brings you closer to the Lord?” Yzabel asked—the notion seemed foreign to her.
“No. And it doesn’t. God only cares if you’re good, which you are.” She fluffed Yzabel’s hair, sending shivers up her spine. “Never believe the interpretations of men. They distort the original meaning to suit themselves.”
“But the Bible is sacred, and—”
“I was raised on the Bible, too, Yzabel. It’s just something else written by men as well. Like history. Like my own story.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s wrong about this,” she countered.
“And you don’t question parts of it? If I were to believe everything unconditionally, then I’d believe the lie you tell about my people and how we invaded Al-Andalus, or the lie about my loving Bráfama. We never invaded, and I never did.”
The revelation almost knocked Yzabel off-balance as she tucked her clothes in the shelf. Not because of the part about the Moors; she’d known as much from her teachers back in Aragon, and it was supported by the Moors left in Portugal and the Algarves as well.
But the rest… “Why do they say you loved him, then? In your legend.”
“The men who disseminated my story must’ve been romantics at heart,” Fatyan said as they walked out of the dressing room and into the bath antechamber paved with a shallow pool of cold water. She paused for long enough that Yzabel wondered if she’d offended her again. But just as she was about to ask, Fatyan continued. “I guess they wanted their women to be like I am in that tale. So already in love with a man our parents choose for us, we’d rather die than to live without him.”
“That’s…” Stunned speechless, Yzabel took a hand to her chest, where her heart beat fiercely against her rib cage.
As if sensing her disquiet, Fatyan stopped at the threshold between the antechamber and the springs. Steam swam in the air beyond the door, wisps reaching around her, almost like ghostly fingers trying to pull the Moura in. “It is what it is. Any story is bound to change if enough time passes, and even more so when said change comes from the mouths of the powerful. And the men who wrote the religious texts we guide our lives by might’ve distorted the words to benefit their own desires.”
It should bother her that Fatyan spoke of heresy, but the crux of her statement rang true. So many stories were changed with the passage of time.
“Have you noticed how you’ve been fixated on creeds that tear you down?” Fatyan went on with breathless determination, each question widening her eyes more and more. “Noticed how they tell you to starve and suffer, when God’s own son wanted us to love each other? How they tell you every kindness you do is never enough, even though one small act of goodness enriches the soul and the world better than unnecessary pain?”
Outright denial stormed to the tip of her tongue, but the memory of Dom Domingos’s voice and the cold phantom of his touch on her shoulder welded her lips shut. His encouragement that she keep fasting even though she was so close to death, his advice that she should strengthen her flesh by wounding it even though she barely had any. She’d become skin and bones and scars, and for what?
Acid swept her mouth. “Why would anyone who could do good resort to defiling the Lord’s words?” It was inconceivable to her that someone would bastardize something sacred. Yet she’d seen it happen, greedy vicars hoarding gold instead of using it to help the citizens, noblemen and women mistreating and overworking their charges rather than protecting them. “We’re supposed to help each other, not—”
“Not everyone has a heart like yours.” Fatyan sighed sadly. “Their words were enough to convince you that you’d been cursed, when in fact, your sahar is quite the opposite.”
Conflict waged within Yzabel, her upbringing warring with Fatyan’s provoking statements. She shouldn’t believe a woman she barely knew over the sacred book she’d been baptized on. But on the other hand, Yzabel had believed the magic to be a curse all her life solely because the Bible told her so, and there had been nothing in the other religions that explained it, either.
And once she mastered the magic, her blessing would let her do wonders instead of horrors.
“I understand your point,” she acquiesced with a tight smile. “It might take me some time to fully absorb everything you said, however. It’s…hard to question what you’ve always taken as mostly fact.”
“I only ask that you consider nothing is as it seems. Now…” Fatyan looked toward the springs. “Shall we?”
Together, they walked across the torchlit bathing chamber. A rectangular pool of marble took up most of the heated room, and the steam escaped through the narrow windows along the top of the white walls.
Yzabel followed Fatyan down the stairs and to the springs, where the Moura dropped her towel without ceremony. She went ahead into the bath, waves of black hair trailing behind her. In a fluid motion, she threw herself backward, letting the water cover her entirely before she rose again, the crystals dripping along her curves.
Yzabel swallowed. No matter how often she pulled it away, her gaze insisted on straying to Fatyan and her round breasts. How differently would they feel from her own, which were small and barely there? Would they be soft like a pillow, or hard like muscle?
Questions she told herself to be driven by mere curiosity brought on by their differences—how Fatyan’s breasts were fuller and bigger than hers, the nipples brown instead of pink, or how she seemed to have more hair on her belly, or how her hips were broader, her buttocks generous. That she was jealous of the Moura and that was why her eyes kept darting to her—because she wanted to look more like Fatyan and less like herself.
You’re staring. Stop staring! Lord Almighty, what is wrong with you, Yzabel?
Scared of her own thoughts, Yzabel let the towel fall and all but stumbled into the water, with the hot steam making the steps hard to gauge, and all the wild ideas playing distractedly in her head.
To her mortification, she ended up landing right in Fatyan’s arms, who enveloped her with their steady softness.
“Careful,” the Moura said. “We can’t have you break your head open.”
“S-sorry.” Yzabel quickly stepped away from their tangle of slick limbs, thankful that the hot air masked her blushing embarrassment. Realizing she was clutching the soap tight as if her life depended on it, she set it on the edge of the baths. “I slipped.”
Yzabel sank into the warm water, and it did feel nice. She dunked her head, lingering under the surface before rising for breath. Keeping herself emerged to her neck—which wasn’t hard, as the springs were deep enough that she could do so if she was on her knees—she waded over to Fatyan, who leaned against the corner with a contented smile on her face.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” asked the Moura.
Yzabel sat with her back to the wall, head leaning
on the warm stone. “It does.” Closing her eyes, she soaked in the springs, let the warm waters ease away the weariness. Yet the restlessness in her limbs refused to settle, and the thoughts running through her head found their way back after she tried to lay them to rest. The magic inside her twirled in every direction, tugging at her fingers and toes, spreading numbness on her tongue.
Under the water, Yzabel fisted her hands, fighting for control. The effort lined her face with a grimace, had her eyebrows trembling and her muscles spasming.
A drop landed on her cheek, startling her out of her trance. She opened her eyes to see Fatyan playfully kicking the water next to her face. “I have an idea,” she said with an impish smirk.
Yzabel closed her eyes so as not to fall into the temptation to steal another glance at Fatyan’s breasts—which she was keenly aware was an odd, worrying fixation, but…
They floated.
Larger breasts were capable of floating. She hadn’t expected them to be so buoyant.
Overly aware of her own small assets, she resisted the urge to cover them. No one else was there, and it seemed like an exercise in vanity to be so self-aware. Clearing her throat, she made herself hold Fatyan’s gaze. “An idea?”
“Yza,” Fatyan called, so close Yzabel had no problem seeing the smaller details, such as the water tying some of Fatyan’s thick lashes together, or that the green of her eyes was specked with brown, or the freckles dusting the top of her nose and cheeks. “You need to accept the sahar into you—and for that you need to lower your guard. To relax and let the magic in these waters do what they do best.”
“You think I’m not trying?”
“I know you are. But you need help.” She drew a circle on the surface of the water. “Turn around.”
“What for?”
“Trust me.”
The argument was persuasive. Oddly, she did trust Fatyan, in a strange, instinctual way.
But it was the wink that did her in.
Yzabel did as Fatyan asked, almost jumping out of her skin when her curly curtains of hair parted in half, and the Moura gently swept it over to her front, leaving her back exposed.
“Back in my day, sahar-bearers went to springs such as these to center their powers. It makes the ritual easier when magic and body are in synchrony.” With deft touches, Fatyan found the stiffness on Yzabel’s shoulders, and although it hurt at first, there was a certain release that came with the painful kneading. Her eyes closed of their own volition, and she let her head droop forward.
Wariness had stalked every waking moment of Yzabel’s life. It had been mandatory she be careful, never too trusting. Then Fatyan had come into her life, scraping away at the rock of her defenses with each deft touch, and with her questions, she chipped at the foundation of Yzabel’s beliefs. She often reminded herself to be wary, that this was nothing but a transaction to benefit them both, yet she couldn’t bring herself to harbor it for long. It ate at her that she couldn’t figure out why. Nor could she understand why she felt safe with Fatyan, as though she could tell her anything without fear of breaking confidence.
Was this all a facade, or did Fatyan care?
Why would she lie?
Why would she not?
“Relax, Yza. Let the sahar come to you.”
Even her ears seemed to grow numb, eating pieces off her name as it left Fatyan’s lips. In that warmth and safety, it was as if her soul had become untethered. Her bones lightened, the bath and Fatyan’s ministrations slowly peeling away the layers of exhaustion. The anxiety that plagued her every moment fell away, melting under Fatyan’s touch, which moved from her neck, to her shoulder blades, her spine, then back up again.
She looked down, saw the magic settle on her chest, a sunlit snake coiling tighter and tighter around her heart. With every beat, the wisps of light traveled farther into her veins, blood and blessing flowing in perfect harmony. Steady, the gift progressed to her throat, and the air tasted cleaner, fresh even though she was in a room full of steam. Then it moved to her eardrums, and her hearing sharpened to hear the birds calling to each other outside.
In that moment, encased in wonder, Yzabel could see her destiny sprawled before her, what could be if she simply let the magic exist instead of fighting it at every turn. She could see herself, one with this wonderful force, feeding a nation with nothing but willpower and wildflowers. Everything she wanted to be, there for the taking—and she tried to take it, to catch it and bind it to her heart—yet years of neglect were not so easily undone, and the blessing scattered along with her breath.
The gift wasn’t in tune with her yet, but it was closer than this morning. Not an enemy, but a skittish stranger willing to approach. Not much progress, but progress nonetheless.
Yzabel wasn’t aware Fatyan had stopped until she leaned forward to speak in her ear. “Feel better?”
She was in such a delirium that for once, she wasn’t bothered by the other girl’s nearness, or by their nakedness when she turned around to pull Fatyan into a fierce hug. “You were right,” Yzabel said. “You were right. It’s a gift. It was always a gift.”
And with that gift, she would change the country.
Chapter Eleven
Secrets
Their bath finished, Yzabel and Fatyan returned to the changing room with towels wrapped around them, a new lightness in her steps. Since the curse—the blessing—had shown, it was as if a shadow had been following her trail. An invisible weight shackled to her, one she’d believed to be dragging her down.
Yet, if Fatyan was right, it had never been a burden. A weight, yes, but that of responsibility, a cross she was meant to carry for the good of the world. One she’d willingly bear.
Yzabel’s giddy humming filled the changing room with song while they dressed; however, by the time they reached Vasco—who’d also taken the opportunity to bathe—the blessing, so calm moments ago, roiled back to life in her famished stomach.
On the small of her back, the Moura’s firm hand steered her along the empty streets. “Don’t give in to the vicious cycle of blame and doubt. Remember what you felt at the springs and keep it close. As long as you do, the ritual to center the sahar will succeed.”
Nonetheless, the ritual and the magic weren’t Yzabel’s only sources of worry, and with a frown upon her brow, she asked, “What do I do in front of Denis, though?”
“We’ll give the sahar a meal before you go. A sumptuous one, so it’s not tempted while you’re with him.”
“If you’re so certain it’s a blessing, perhaps you should tell him,” Vasco said. “End this web of lies you’ve been spinning.”
Yzabel looked over her shoulder to see his glower and threw him a matching glare. “You were the one who suggested I hide the gift in the first place,” she reminded. “And you know I cannot tell him—at least not until I’ve mastered it and shown him it can give instead of take.”
“And what happens when Dom Domingos eventually talks to the Abbess of Carmo Convent about this sister you’ve taken in?”
She snorted. “That would be a first. In all the years we’ve been engaged, neither he nor Denis bothered with my affairs with the nuns. Not unless dinheiros were involved.”
“But men talk amongst themselves, and women overhear. Then, they gossip. Dom Domingos is already suspicious.” His eyes narrowed. “The longer Fatyan stays, the more rumors will breed, and sooner or later, her origins will be called into question.”
Must he always be so dour? She turned her eyes to the cobbled road ahead, a defensive arm wrapped around Fatyan’s. “Then I shall endeavor to work harder, so Fatyan is free before that happens. Can you please go on ahead and tell Brites to bring extra food to my rooms?”
Unhappy to be dismissed so inconsequentially, Vasco pelted her with a look of “this isn’t over.” He veered off to the servants’ passage, closing the door with a violent ban
g that rattled the wooden frame.
“And women are the dramatic ones.” She rolled her eyes.
Fatyan’s, however, were shrouded in pensiveness as she tucked a stray lock of hair back into the white wimple. “Vasco’s concerns do have some merit. Men do talk. And I…” Consternation weighed on her half-lidded eyes, and grim teeth chewed on a worried lip. “Brites had to smack a young page across the head this morning when he asked to marry me.”
Under the swaying torchlight of the castle’s archway, Yzabel noted that the straight, loose cut of the black dress didn’t diminish the promise of her curves, and that the veil didn’t take away from her lovely face—if anything, the modesty shone light on Fatyan’s beauty, made her green eyes seem bigger and her lashes thicker, her nose more regal, her lips more luscious.
“You could marry someone. If you wanted,” Yzabel found herself muttering while a cold breeze shivered on her spine, and a queasy knot tightened in her belly.
“And lose the freedom I’ve craved all these years?” A little harrumph and she waved her hand over her chin, tilted in haughty dismissal. “When you fully control the sahar, I’ll make myself uglier and tell all of them I burned my face. No one will bother me then.”
“You shouldn’t have to. It’s not your fault men think they’re entitled to every woman they fancy,” Yzabel spat.
They came to the stairs and their daunting steps. Trembling hand cold on the freezing wall, Yzabel put one foot in front of the other, letting Fatyan support her when she needed. Her legs ached, her lungs burned, her tongue dried, and every time she swallowed, a metallic taste lingered on the back of her throat, but she could see the top. A few more shaky steps, taken with heaving gulps of air, and the corridor stretched before them in its dim, candlelit glory.
Clutching her midsection with one hand and Fatyan with the other, Yzabel stumbled forward. Farther ahead, a silhouette caught between the solar and the main passage, one hand on the door’s knob, the other smoothing her disheveled hair.
A Curse of Roses Page 10