The Well of Prayers

by Anne Boles Levy

  It probably didn’t matter where I put my hands, I reasoned. So I lay them flat on his thin belly and waited. Nothing happened at first. My hands slid beneath the multicolored fabric of light and noise. I closed my eyes and imagined myself pulling on the threads, picturing the way the knots would disintegrate, impatient to do it quicker. Babba’s moaning grew louder and more distinct, becoming shouts of pain and raw fear. He convulsed beneath my palms. But it was working. The fizzing built in the way it does before it bursts.

  I thought I heard Babba say my name, but it sounded too faint beneath the crashing noise of the spells as they came apart in my head.

  “Rimonil, love,” Mami said. “Oh, love, open your eyes.”

  “Lia,” Babba said. “The pain.”

  A light tap on my shoulder brought me to reality again. It was S’ami. “My turn. Quickly.”

  I backed up to the door. Despite being weaker, S’ami’s magic hadn’t changed from what I’d first heard on the wharf the day he came: sonorous, chiming, and clear. I spotted a few tendrils of color, just a few, snaking toward me along the floor and took another step back. The bright stripes withdrew until S’ami and Mami’s bodies blocked my view of them. The magic had been making its way to me, as though it had a mind of its own and knew me.

  Alright, I had some sort of eldritch power all my own, I told myself. It’s as unsubtle as a thunderclap and about as easy to wield. It’s not like the embroidery needles I could manipulate with such finesse. My un-magic was more like a hatchet, hacking at everything, or a bucket of acid, indiscriminate and coarse. I sighed. It wasn’t something that would be easy to explain to people, especially to the man sitting up on his sick cot, hugging my mother, motioning for me, a pleading look on his drawn face. S’ami’s spells had worked on Babba where others had left a knotty mess, adding one more mystery to the jumble in my head.

  I’d have to solve those mysteries, if Nihil let me live.

  30

  I shall take whatever form pleases me, for as long as it shall last. I am a man or a woman, a child or a grandfather, a giant or a human. You will worship me though I buzz like stingflies, or hide within the petals of a flower, or crawl through the soil under your feet.

  You will bring your oblations to me whether I make myself seen within the Temple or hide, whether I wander among the peoples of Kuldor or swim beneath the cresting waves of the sea, whether I land in your nets or in your traps, whether you know me or not.

  —From Oblations 8, The Book of Unease

  The morning horn woke me from a fitful night’s dreams. I’d been soaring toward the marsh again, desperate for a place to land, sure I’d missed my mark somehow. Falling, crashing. Wet.

  Panicking.

  I struggled up from the hard, knotty wood of the cot I’d slept on. I was in a converted storage room in the sick ward: my jail cell. Outside would be a pair of thick-necked, unsmiling guards. I took a chance and jiggered the latch to get their attention. Locked, of course.

  One of the guards slid the door open and peered inside. “Need something?”

  “Dawn prayers?” I wanted to get out, if even for a short while.

  “Not for you.” The door slid closed. The latch clicked. I’d be stuck here while everyone else was in the exercise yard, stretching and greeting the day. I wiped drops of sweat from the back of my neck and looked around for a basin and towels. A wet cloth and some soap would wash away the night’s foul humors. Someone had left a bedpan for me, too—crude, but it would have to suffice. I didn’t think I’d be granted a trip to the bathhouse.

  I could’ve used the Dance of Life. I looked and smelled and felt awful. Every part of me ached or throbbed or smarted. I flopped down on the cot again and regretted it. It collapsed beneath me and shed splinters of wood when I tried to right it. I gave up and nestled myself on the flimsy mattress. At least it was clean. Leba Mara ran a spotless sick ward. I could admire that. I liked her, trusted her, knew that if it were up to Leba Mara, I’d be out in the main part of the sick ward at my tasks.

  But I was at the mercy of the Azwans, who’d had me escorted to my cell, or whatever I was to call it, without even a moment alone with Babba and Mami. I couldn’t hug Babba for fear I’d undo S’ami’s spell. I only got a last, over-my-shoulder glimpse of Babba’s pained expression. Maybe Mami would know enough about my plight to explain. Maybe he wouldn’t worry too much.

  Maybe the world was upside down and I was the only one right-side up. I yawned again. It sure seemed that way.

  The latch clicked open and the orderly, Til, entered. He nodded toward the bedpan and basin. “Just here to clean all that up for you. Orders are to get you some hot water for a sponge bath.”

  I did a second take. Til grinned and added, “Not from me, silly. You can bathe yourself.”

  I returned his smile. “Good to know they trust me with that, at least.”

  He pretended to scratch his head. “Hmmm. Leba Mara says you’re under arrest, but you’re supposed to be treated nice and everything. What’s going on?”

  I shrugged. “I have a weird power to undo magic. I’m not sure how much I’m supposed to tell people.”

  “Is that why you went with the Gek? To undo something for them so they’d leave us alone? You know they’re encamped in the marshes outside the city, yes?”

  “I’m not surprised.” I wondered what else they wanted from me. Maybe they were checking to make sure I got rid of Nihil for them. How could I do that from here?

  “Yes, well, they’ve sent a peace greeting of some sort,” the orderly said. “But your father was too sick to receive it.”

  One of the guards angled his head in the door. “That’s enough of that. Do your business and get out.”

  Til and I didn’t speak after that, except to thank him after he’d reassembled my cot and tucked the bedding together again. He left and reappeared with an empty basin, a jug of piping hot water, and some fresh towels. A satchel slid off his shoulder and landed at my feet.

  “Azwan says to give you this.” The orderly nodded at the satchel.

  “What is it?”

  He shrugged and held a finger to his lips and murmured. “Something big’s happening.”

  “What?”

  The orderly shrugged again and backed toward the door. “When we’ve mastered our doubts, our faith will be strong.”

  I shook my head. “My doubts are stronger.”

  The orderly made a sad half-smile. “Nihil’s blessing on you then. I hope you’ll be alright, Hadara, I really do.”

  With that, he turned and left, leaving me with luxuriantly hot water and a bubbly soap with a tangy scent that left my skin glowing and soft. I scrubbed away the grime of the last few days and thought about my conversation with the Azwans yesterday after I’d helped Babba.

  It hadn’t gone well. I’d started out talking to S’ami, who’d brought me outside on the plaza overlooking the sea, only to have Reyhim rush out in a huff, angry because he’d heard from First Guardsman Valeo that a magic well of some sort had been found and sealed. Valeo had done his duty—I couldn’t blame him for that. He wasn’t about to show loyalty to me after I’d run off at the last second and made him look like a violent, sleazy, rapey thug instead of a hero. That hadn’t been my intent, but what did it matter anymore? He hated me, and I had to resign myself to that. I’d tried to save face for him and ruined everything instead.

  And that’s what I was thinking about, over and over again, while they argued and I tried to get the disquieting, creaking sound out of my head. It took long moments of staring around, trying to find the source of the sound, only to realize S’ami had seated me in the shadow of the gallows for all the doubtful souls they’d found unworthy. The creaking was the swinging of a single rope, the noose awaiting its next victim. How could I have let myself get so distracted that I hadn’t grasped S’ami’s unspoken message?

  And then there’d been Reyhim, pacing with the energy of someone much younger, moved just by the force of his
anger. There had been no word from Nihil on anything for more than a day, leaving him to believe that what Valeo had said had been true: that some essential connection to the source of magic had been severed. Yet both men could cast spells, if more feebly than before. They argued in Fernai, with Reyhim oblivious to the fact that I could understand him. S’ami didn’t give that away, so I kept a straight, cool face, stared out at the ocean with my arms folded across my chest, and listened in.

  Reyhim speculated there was another source of magic, and S’ami reminded him that Nihil pulled energy from the stars. To me, that meant the star people, some sort of numinous creatures who must be losing power more rapidly since the prayer well closed. What had I done? Had I made things worse? Instead of my own people on their knees to generate enough awe and terror to fuel Nihil, a distant, dimly understood species may die for his greed.

  Could I get nothing right? How many more lives would be on my head before it swung from a noose? How much more blood would shed because of me?

  As I listened in, I wanted to be sick. The nausea rose in me, jostling my insides, the bile searing the back of my throat as I forced it back down. My lungs sucked in deep, moist gulps of sea air, which helped clear my head and steady me. The two men argued so fiercely that neither noticed me panting or closing my eyes to block out my view of them.

  Mercifully, the two men didn’t last long before Reyhim sauntered off. That’s how it always seemed to go: they’d argue until Reyhim gave up, regrouped, and came back for another round. I expected S’ami to continue some sort of conversation with me afterward, but he led me to my cell without another word. I suppose the view of the gallows said everything for him.

  And that had been the last I’d heard from either Azwan until the satchel dropped at my feet that morning. The hot water for my bath felt soothing against my skin and hair, and a comb took care of the worst knots until my curls began to spring and sproing in their usual crazy way, drying quickly in the stuffy air. I could almost call myself refreshed afterward, if not quite calm. I decided to open the satchel to see what important thing might be inside. It held the shimmering, sunset-hued silk dress S’ami had given me for my Keeping Day. I found jewelry in there, too, bangles and beads and earrings and a headscarf made from lace so fine as to be nearly invisible.

  I put everything on, with each new piece giving me more reasons to feel surprised and flattered. By the time I finished dressing, tiny bells tinkled faintly from ankle cuffs made of real silver, rings with iridescent stones gleamed from my fingers and toes. I found a small vial of infused oil and dabbed some on my neck and arms, savoring the warm, flowery perfume. I slid whisper-soft slippers onto my feet and a few bangles onto either wrist. My sprain from the other day had proved little more than a nuisance, not an injury. I felt pretty good, all in all.

  I didn’t have a mirror but I was sure I looked more beautiful than any other prisoner on the island, maybe in the world. I certainly felt the most beautiful I had ever been. I didn’t know what big thing was happening, but I was certain it wasn’t my execution. No one would care what I wore beneath a shroud.

  Which Azwan had sent all this stuff? S’ami, I figured. He’d given me the dress in the first place. He seemed to have an eye for luxuries. I thanked him inside my head and could picture him nodding back. Maybe I was going to appear in public again, and S’ami wanted me to look spectacular for some reason. That had to be it, but for what reason?

  I became aware of a low, sweet hum in the air around me. Magic. It didn’t sound like anything I’d heard before, but it was distinct enough that I knew whoever was casting the spells wanted to be heard. I heard soft chimes and wooden flutes, warbling birds and the steady rhythm of the surf. It didn’t pound your ears, demanding you listen, as S’ami’s could do. It was more like the tempting aroma of a spicy dish, wrapping around you, calling you in. It teased, but it was persistent, impossible to miss.

  The latch to the door unlocked and a guard slid it open. He made no move in or out and didn’t motion me either. I peered into the corridor.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  One of the guards answered. “Flutes today, instead of horns or drums. You can proceed at your own pace.”

  I had no idea what that meant and said so. The guard acted cross with me, like I had deliberately misunderstood.

  “You’re being summoned.” He didn’t embellish, so I was left to figure out where to go and how to get there. How did he know this was a summons and it was meant for me? Guards. They were under orders I wasn’t allowed to know. It would’ve been nice if they at least pointed me in the right direction, but they didn’t budge.

  I decided to follow the music.

  It led out and around and wound into Ward Sapphire’s main yard, where dawn prayers would have already finished, but the usual flow of people was nowhere to be seen. Guards held positions on rooftops and at the Ward’s wide gate. Smoke curled beyond the Ward’s rooftops, the remnants of the battle from a few days ago. No battle cries or warring sounds broke through the soft music, which echoed across the empty space, growing more distinct and pleasant as I neared the sanctuary. Flutes, definitely. Reedy pipes, too, and the whistling of breezes through eaves, the creaking of trees in strong winds, the busy chirring of insects.

  I didn’t know what magic could make this music, but I felt it through every part of me. I could sense it with my toes even inside my shoes, or my fingertips, inside my belly or on the tip of my tongue. My body thrummed with this unseen force, inviting me forward. My un-magic wasn’t undoing it or un-sensing it. It just was, and I was part of it.

  Three guards stood at attention by the sanctuary’s vast, carved doorway. The one in the middle was Valeo. He must’ve found or borrowed armor from someone, but I recognized his angry, black stare from beneath the battered brass helmet. His eyes focused on some point over my head and into the distance, as though I weren’t headed straight for him. I turned to see that the two guards from the sick ward had followed me at a slow gait. They snapped to attention in front of Valeo, giving their chest-thump salute. He thumped back.

  I gave him a long look over, wondering if he’d speak to me, give me some wink or hint. He continued to stare beyond me. It was nothing personal, I told myself. Whether he noticed me gazing up at him or not, his expression didn’t change.

  What would Amaniel say to all these stiff guards with their sharp weapons and sharper eyes? She’d know the right words. What were they? I took a deep breath and held it.

  “Pious guardian of Nihil’s person,” I began. Valeo’s gaze shifted to my face. “Would you please let me pass?”

  Valeo edged to one side and I paused. The only things left to say all felt wrong.

  I said it anyway, as softly as I could, hoping he, and only he, would hear.

  “I know you don’t understand why I did what I did,” I said. “But I think I love you. Whatever else happens, please remember that.”

  And then I brushed past without another word. The two guards by the doors made no move to open them for me. I stopped, waiting to see if they would. I found myself staring at the intricate woodcarvings, taking in details I’d scarcely ever noticed. These had always been two vast doors to me. Maybe it was the tinkling music that made me pause and read the wooden panels. I could understand them without Amaniel’s help. They portrayed the Six Hesitations, the very foundation of the Temple and all its tenets.

  There was Doubt itself, a giant beast that gnawed at the mighty trunk of the Eternal Tree. Uncertainty was a blind and crippled man, stumbling along a rocky path. I ran my fingertips across Ambiguity, a thick bush of thistle rose, beautiful but deadly, perfumed and poisonous, its good and evil entwined together.

  Incredulity was the beautiful wife who threw her jewels at her pleading husband, unsatisfied even with the best he could offer. I fingered one of the beaded creations around my neck, silently thanking S’ami again. Discord was at eye level on my right, the largest and most ornate of the panels, with warring s
erpents wrapped around a long sword stabbed through a pile of skulls.

  Last would be Irreverence, the one I joked I understood the best. I’d never really paid much attention to the panel at the bottom of the door. I stole a long look at that last panel. It showed a woman smiling—or maybe she was smirking. At her back was a group of starving, skeletal people, their arms reaching toward her, palms outstretched, begging. The woman’s hair flowed immodestly down her back, coursing and curling in sensual waves. In her upraised palms was a giant moonbloom.

  This, then, was my grandmother, the other Hadara, the one who turned her back. Almost every day of my life I had walked past her and not noticed, not truly seen her, until I was walking in her footsteps.

  I took a deep breath, chastened by what I’d finally had the sense to see. I opened the vast doors and was surprised to notice the shoe racks filled to overflowing. Sabbath had been before the battle, but perhaps it was being celebrated again today. I didn’t think there were allowances made for wars though. We were many six-days from Winter Solstice, so it couldn’t be a holiday. The racks should be empty, and so should the prayer mats within the sanctuary.

  I left my new slippers in the racks, the guards following behind again. The inner doors slid open and I entered the sanctuary with its streaming light. The cavernous room was full, men to the left, women to the right, everyone kneeling in supplication on the many rugs, hands over their hearts, heads bowed and eyes closed. I stole forward, step by careful step, until the altar came into view.

  I froze, hatred and horror creeping into my heart.

  Two things I saw: Amaniel, lying naked on the altar, eyes closed.

  And a wiry, white-haired figure seated on the high priest’s throne beside her, thumbing through a careworn ledger.