The Sisters of the Crescent Empress

by Leena Likitalo

  Though both of these dreams are better than the nightmares I keep on having about the gagargi.

  “Follow me,” Celestia says.

  I hear Merile’s hem swish and sabots clack as she hurries toward Celestia’s voice. I tiptoe after her. All the planks in this house make a different sound, but now I mustn’t make any. I’m lucky that I’m light and know how to move quietly. Merile . . .

  My sister steps on a plank that shrieks like a goat stuck between two fence posts. Not that I’ve ever seen or heard a goat do such.

  “You lost,” Celestia says.

  I open my eyes, just in time to see Merile sniff and stick her tongue out at Celestia. She got only as far as the mirror. I think I could have made it the whole way.

  We start again maybe a thousand times. That is, I’m not sure. I don’t know how much that really is. But it’s not easy to remember the way Celestia goes, even after she shows it to us many, many times, for we must step on the exact same spots as she did or the planks will betray us. Sibilia and Elise watch us from their sofa chair before the fireplace. They’re done with their gossip and braiding and first cup of tea.

  “May we join as well?” Sibilia’s tone is pointed as Merile’s sometimes is when she wants to prove that she’s right. Though most often she’s not. My sister’s face is pale, the thick, blue circles around her eyes like bruises, and when she continues, her voice wavers. “Or is the Silent Path only for the youngest daughters?”

  “Please do.” Celestia reaches her hands out for them, a gesture to join her on the dance floor. “Sibilia, dear, please start from our room. Elise, you from yours.”

  Sibilia gets up from amidst the cushions almost hesitantly, as if she wanted nothing more than to play with us, but was sure the invitation would be called off at any moment. As if that had happened to her again and again in the past, though of course nothing like that can have possibly come to pass!

  At first it’s fun, playing with all my sisters. We compare the sounds the different planks make. Some purr like happy cats, some grunt like old men. There are planks that are angry for no longer being trees, some so old that they’ve forgotten where they came from. Though this I don’t tell to my sisters. Neither do I tell them that their shadows act out of order. Elise’s sways as if the lamps were lit and swinging, though they’re neither. Sibilia’s is pierced by tiny holes.

  “Fun,” Merile says as she finally reaches the pale blue door without making a sound. I managed to do so way before her, as did Elise. “This was not as fun as you promised.”

  Celestia stares past her at Elise and Sibilia. There’s something in that look, a word of advice left unsaid. Elise nods back at her. Sibilia looks somehow hurt. Did she accidentally walk into the furniture at some point? “I don’t recall promising fun.”

  Merile sulks off back to the sofa by the window. Rafa and Mufu remain with me. I don’t know if I should follow Merile with her companions or stay with Celestia. It doesn’t matter, for it’s then that Irina and Olesia reappear. They slip into the room through the mirror on the wall.

  “The door is ajar,” Olesia whispers.

  “But it is the front door,” Irina adds. “Someone is coming. He doesn’t wear red gloves.”

  * * *

  Rafa and Mufu race down the flight of stairs so fast that Merile and I can barely keep up with them. A whole forest of creaks follows us, sounds high and low and all the hushed tones in between, too. If it weren’t for my excitement, I would run back up and then down, just to hear them again. But now we’re already at the hall. And . . .

  “The front door is open,” I gasp as much to Merile as to the ghosts. It’s only then that we realize to check for the guards. The door of the library is closed, thanks Papa! The guards must not know that we’re about to be rescued at last!

  Though I hear our older sisters descending the stairs behind us, I rush to the front door. Rafa and Mufu beat me to it. Merile is just a step behind, the hand mirror lifted before her. We push the door fully open together, only to stagger to a halt on the wide stone steps beyond.

  The spring day is so bright that I must blink again and again to see what awaits us. We’re not alone. Rafa and Mufu bark and bounce next to Boy, who stands at the front yard, a hand raised to shield his eyes. He cranes into the distance, down the hillside of brown grass dotted with tiny yellow flowers, toward the forest where the birches are still too shy to show their new leaves.

  “Well?” Merile turns around slowly, to catch the ghosts’ reply. They can’t leave the house, but they aren’t often wrong.

  “There,” Irina replies, backing away from the daylight as if it hurt her.

  “I can’t . . .” Olesia trails off, and with that, both ghosts fade away.

  I’d call them back, I would, but just then, the most beautiful black horse I’ve ever seen bursts out from between the trees. Its long mane flutters in the wind, and the oiled hooves glint in the sunlight. The rider stands on the golden stirrups, dressed in the reddest of red coats. His white grin is wide, and his skin is akin to Merile’s. No, darker. The rider is . . .

  “The Poet,” Merile chimes, and runs to the yard, past Boy, who’s spotted the rider too, and is struggling with his rifle’s strap to unloop it from around his shoulder. “Don’t shoot! It’s my seed!”

  I hurry after my sister as the Poet gallops the long, even stretch of the road, past the fields like starry skies. I bless his name! At last, Papa has sent someone to our rescue! I can’t wait to see my sisters’ expressions!

  But then another rider emerges from between the bare trees, one on a leaner, meaner pony. His leather coat flaps hurting-sharply against his sides. Great, gray-black dogs leap barking behind him. This second rider . . .

  “Get back inside!”

  I swirl around just in time to see Captain Janlav and Belly and Beard striding down the stone steps. They look startled and . . . even furious to find me and Merile in the yard. Our older sisters, they didn’t follow us out! I know it then, I’m definitely somewhere where I shouldn’t be, but also that I can’t leave even if I should.

  “Will you get them inside now,” Captain Janlav snaps at Boy as he leads Belly and Beard past us, to the closed gate. He’s angry, but also excited, as if something he’d awaited for a long time were finally about to come true.

  Boy flounders to me and Merile, but we repeatedly ignore him pointing toward the house. Then Belly and Beard are already leaning their elbows against the gate, rifles unslung, aimed toward the riders. As the Poet reaches the slope, he glances over his shoulder, at the rider behind him, and he’s so close now that I recognize him.

  “It’s Captain Ansalov,” I whisper.

  Boy stops waving. His mouth gapes, but no words come out. This is no rescue. This is something else, and it feels as if the very ground were giving in under my sabots.

  “Drat,” Merile curses as the Poet digs his spurs against his horse’s sides. His grin widens as he leans forward. He buries his head against the fluttering black mane. The horse speeds up, hooves scattering gravel. “They’re racing.”

  “Lower the rifles!” Captain Janlav orders. He must have realized the same thing. “And move aside, unless you want to get trampled.”

  He has just enough time to swing the gate open and dodge aside before the Poet canters to the yard, past the dazzled Boy and Merile’s companions. He draws his horse to a halt so sharp that it ends up sitting on its hind legs. He pats the horse on its foaming neck and then swings down from the saddle. “My sweet, little Merile!”

  Merile dashes to her seed, even as Captain Ansalov enters the yard at a trot, his hunting dogs leaping behind him. I don’t dare to look at him, and so I run after Merile. Rafa and Mufu follow me, barking over their shoulders. I’m happy that they have my back.

  The Poet’s oiled hair is twisted into a dozen braids with silver crescents tangling at the ends. He wears a fine red coat with golden epaulets that toss and turn as he lifts Merile up in the air. His black, soft trousers a
re tucked into shiny boots. He doesn’t wear any gloves. The ghosts were right about that, at least. But there’s still more questions than there are answers.

  “I do apologize for taking so long to find you.” The Poet swings Merile around. My sister laughs, her head bent back, her black curls bobbing. Rafa and Mufu yap around them, running small circles. I stand there, hands tucked into my dress’s pockets. I don’t know what to do. I’m confused and excited and a bit afraid, if it’s possible to be all of that at the same time. “No doubt my visit is long overdue!”

  “Captain Janlav.” Captain Ansalov’s call is more like a jeer. His hounds sniff the air and growl, maybe at me. I shuffle closer to the Poet’s magnificent horse. Its tack is splattered with mud and the leopard skin under the saddle is soaked through. “It seems like these days your prisoners run around rather freely.”

  It’s the first time someone calls us that, but it might just be the truth. For Captain Janlav grits his teeth, glances at me and Merile, as if thinking what he can say when we’re within earshot. But before he can make up his mind, Merile’s seed lowers her. He hooks his thumbs on his wide belt and speaks in a loud, booming voice. “And are we not all prisoners of our body, minds knotted inside skin and bone shell? Do we not deserve to run when we can, before the empress rings the last bell? Those young of age, those unconcerned, let them remain that way. For rather sooner than later, I’m sure of it, darker will be the day.”

  Everyone, including the two captains, turns to stare at the Poet. Merile beams at her seed’s words, though I bet that she didn’t understand either what they were about. Captain Ansalov’s frown turns smug. I realize he likes this sort of thing, operas and poetry.

  “Captain Ansalov! We meet again.” Captain Janlav strides to Captain Ansalov, Belly and Beard in tow. Their rifles are strapped against their backs once more, though their elbows bear wet stains from aiming the guns earlier. “What brings you here on a fine day like this!”

  “Come, Bopol!” The Poet reaches out for the reins and pats his horse on its sweaty neck. He grimaces and wipes his hand clean on his trousers. “Daughters, let us walk. For soon, I think, adults must talk.”

  Adults . . . Celestia must be disappointed and upset with me and Merile slipping out on our own. Maybe we should return inside.

  But Merile couldn’t seem less concerned about that. She slips her arm around the Poet’s, and though she reaches only up to his chest, her smile is like the rising sun. It dimples her cheeks, and her teeth flash white. Seeing her so happy is almost enough to make me forget the awful Captain Ansalov and his hounds and everything else that’s broken or wrong in this world. Almost. For the captain’s shadow is very dark, and it almost seems as if . . . as if it were reaching out toward us.

  I hurry to keep up with my older sister and her seed. I’ll tell Celestia this outing was Merile’s idea.

  Poet’s horse—Bopol, and that’s a fine name for a fine horse—follows us like a tame giant, neck arched and ears bent forward. I bet he’s as gentle as a lapdog. Though unlike some lapdogs, like Rafa and Mufu, he doesn’t bounce after his master but walks majestically. I wait for either the Poet or Merile to speak, but neither does, not until we reach the wooden rail before the stables.

  As Bopol extends his teeth to gnaw at the rail, the Poet reaches out for the saddlebags and unclips the closest one. He rummages through the content. Merile’s big brown eyes sparkle. “Did you bring me something? Did you?”

  I’m getting curious, too. Or I want to get curious. I only glance at the two captains, who talk in voices so low they don’t carry this far. But there, beyond the gates, I see more soldiers arriving, some of them riding ponies, others sitting on a horse-drawn cart. There’s one, two, three . . . five of them, I think.

  “Indeed I brought you a fitting present.” The Poet pulls out from the bag a red silk scarf. He flourishes it before Merile so that the sun shines through it and I can see the shape of his face, now colored red, behind it. “The very thing is Moon-sent!”

  “White.” Merile’s forehead wrinkles. She taps her sabot against the gravel. “But it’s not white!”

  “Ah yes, it’s not the color of snow, that is something we should know. But wear it about your person at all times, and there might come a day that you’ll be all smiles.”

  Merile gingerly accepts the scarf. She must be as puzzled as I am. Why would her seed give a Daughter of the Moon something we’re not supposed to wear! Though, since we left the Summer Palace, we’ve worn the gray blankets that Elise turned into coats quite a few times. Celestia says Papa doesn’t mind that, as otherwise we would have frozen or at least gotten sick during the winter.

  “I also brought chocolates with me, but I confess that I couldn’t resist the temptation. While I was crossing the nation, I did sample a few. But worry not, my sweet Merile, I know the selection varies. With great care I picked only the bitter ones, leaving you the ones filled with berries.”

  Merile accepts also the chocolate box that, having traveled through the empire, is rather dented. “Alina, hold this, will you?”

  And so I become the guardian of the treat that Sibilia has been longing for for months. Maybe she’ll finally cheer up.

  “Poet . . .” Merile pulls him with her toward the flowerbed flanking the stone steps. I quickly peek inside, through the open doorway. Boots and Tabard guard the main stairs. Celestia argues with them, Elise and Sibilia behind her on the higher steps. I turn my gaze aside before they notice me noticing them. They’ll be so mad at us! “I want to show you something Elise taught me.”

  “But of course,” the Poet says, and then he calls over his shoulder at Bopol. “You may rest now, my steed. You kept up a decent speed.”

  Merile snaps the longest coltsfoots from the flowerbed that no one has tended in a while. I’d help her, but I can’t, not without lowering the box of chocolates. Rafa and Mufu settle behind us. They’ll watch over the two captains and the hounds and let us know if anything of importance happens in the yard.

  “Crown. I learned how to braid a crown! And as you’re a prince, I want to make you one!” Merile beams at the Poet as she struggles to weave the stems together. “Short. These are a bit short. Elise says it’ll be easier to braid from dandelions . . .”

  “Ah, dandelions,” the Poet sighs. And now that I look at him closer, he looks very tired. When Merile concentrates on the weaving, his smile tightens. His clothes, though sewn of velvet and silk, are stained and wrinkled. He also stinks quite a bit. “Yours is not the glory of the first summer days. Yours is the whiteness that disperses in the wind. There is nothing a single man can change, no matter how he prays. Sometimes, in the end, ignorance is more kind.”

  The way he speaks . . . So sadly, as if he’d lost something he much liked. Though it might be that I’m just imagining this, for as Merile braids the crown, his smile broadens.

  Rafa growls. Mufu barks. I turn around to see the soldiers on their ponies and the cart enter the yard. The day fills with their harsh laughter and . . . clucking. Yes, there, on the cart, is a cage that holds speckled brown chickens and a redheaded rooster. And behind the cart, with a rope around its neck, oinks a real pink and black pig!

  “Look!” I point at the chickens and then at the pig and then again at the chickens. Now I know what sort of sounds they really make!

  The Poet bends down on one knee before Merile. “Do not look. Do not look back. Do not think of what you may now lack. Keep those you love hidden, deep in your chest. Cherish that which you love the best.”

  She embraces him, the unfinished coltsfoot crown swaying in one hand. I want to embrace this dejected man, too. He can no longer hide it. But he’s my sister’s seed, not mine. My seed is far, far away. I don’t know exactly where.

  “Poet Granizol.” Captain Ansalov’s voice cuts through the day like a dull knife. When we turn toward him, he smiles at us. If I’d never met Gagargi Prataslav, I would call it the most terrible smile I’ve ever seen. Captain Ansalov’s ch
eer, with the wind tugging at his curly hair, flapping his dirty coattails, ranks only second compared to that. “Join us inside.”

  “It seems that I must go.” The Poet squeezes Merile’s shoulders. He presses a kiss on her forehead. “Please let me depart with the deepest bow.”

  He gets up and does just so, flourishing his left arm, the sleeve so very red. As he turns to leave, Merile reaches out for his hand. “Talk. We will talk again, won’t we?”

  Maybe he didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did but doesn’t dare to answer. He gently shakes himself free, and as he strides to the two waiting captains, I can only guess.

  * * *

  “I’d be very curious to know what they’re talking about,” Sibilia says once we’re back in the drawing room, her tone more bitter than any potion Nurse Nookes ever tricked me into swallowing. My sister paces to the arching window closest to her room and glances out. Though, no matter how many times she’ll do so, she will see only the garden and the lake. None of the windows on this floor open to the front yard.

  “Yes, what could they possibly discuss in the absence of their younger sisters,” Olesia agrees, though Sibilia can’t hear her.

  Rafa scratches the door leading to the hallway beyond. I press my ear more firmly against the panel, but I can’t hear a thing. In the drawing room, the ghosts sit on the white sofa nearest to the windows, a spot from which they can easily watch everyone in the room. But as Merile can see the ghosts only through a reflection, she stands before the tall mirror and stares fixedly beyond the gleaming surface. Mufu leans against her legs, ears pressed back. She’s still shy about the ghosts.

  “Adult things,” I reply to both my sisters and the ghosts as I straighten up. I’m pretty sure that no one stands guard on the other side, but I’ll stay by the door and check again in a few moments.