“I told the Sovereign that he must make a cautionary example of them. So that nobody would follow in their footsteps. Everyone must show respect for our master, the forefather of all forefathers. The Sovereign prefers not to carry out such dirty work himself, so he delegated it to my father, who passed the task to me. I had them castrated, and all their children, wives and grandchildren slain. Their lineage dies with them, and there shall be no one to honour their spirits when they are dead. They have to live out the rest of their piteous lives in that knowledge.” He shook his head when he saw my expression. “Needs must, Kabira. My appointment is to protect the Sovereign Prince, come what may.”
I wanted to say that they could have been simply stripped of their property and exiled. Yet I dared not displease Iskan. Not when I had such important news to tell him.
“Iskan-che.” My voice must have given me away, because he leant forward and stroked my cheek.
“There there, what is it my little bird?”
“I am with child.”
Iskan leant back on his elbows and studied me. I held my breath, awaiting the explosion.
He smiled. “I have been hoping for this.”
I did not know how to respond. My heart leapt with joy, and, for the first time in a long time, I tasted a hint of cinnamon and honey on my lips again. He loved me! He wanted me, and the child I carried! Our child.
He jumped up brusquely and pulled me to my feet. “Come!”
I followed him through the opening into the chamber. Into Anji. She lay dark and quiet in the faint light from the waning moon. Iskan bent down and picked up the bowl he kept at the edge of the spring. He filled it with water.
“Drink!”
“But the moon is waning! Anji’s water is bad, oaki!”
“Precisely.” He smiled and his teeth gleamed white in the scant light. “Now I can test something I have long wondered about. Drink!”
I could not move. I stood frozen in place and stared at the bowl in Iskan’s hand. He made a sound of impatience and took hold of the back of my head in one of his large hands. He pulled back my head and pressed the bowl to my lips. Liquid spilt against my teeth, seeped into my mouth, ran down my throat. I gave up. I gave in. I drank.
I had never tasted Anji’s dark water before. It felt cool and soothing in my mouth and throat. Perhaps it was not so dangerous. I had only my grandmother’s word for proof that it was filled with death and destruction. I swallowed. Iskan scrutinized me intensely.
“Do you feel anything?”
I slowly shook my head. There was a pulsing, a strange murmur, in my ears. Like blood flowing through my veins, but louder and more forceful. A rush, of a river, of a waterfall. Anji was inside me. I had drunk her water my whole life, her strength was in my body. It mixed with my blood and was a part of me—it was who I was. The figure of Iskan seemed to ripple in the darkness. I saw Iskan as he was standing there, but also all the possible Iskans to come, and those already passed. I saw him as an old man. I saw his death. If I wanted, I could touch it. Move it. Draw it closer. Draw it here.
I stretched out my hand. It was trembling. Iskan was watching; he did not look away from my face for one moment. I brushed my fingers against his death, gently, cautiously. Like playing the cinna. He took a sharp breath.
I let my hand drop and looked him straight in the eye. He knew, right at that moment he knew the power I had over him and what I could have done. He knew what I had refrained from doing.
“I am going home now,” I said, and he was taken aback by the force in my voice. I turned around and left.
Over the course of the next three days the child was lost. I remember little from that time. Fever raged through my body and burned away the last remnants of my love for Iskan. I remember blood, vast amounts of blood. I remember the anguished faces of Mother and Agin. I remember whispering voices, chilled water with mint and petals of burnet bloodwort, I remember warm goldenroot compresses, I remember rushing steps.
On the fourth day the fever subsided. I lay in my bed, surrounded by clean new bolsters. Agin sat at my feet looking down at her hands.
“I thought you were going to die. What have you done?”
I turned my face away. “Does Mother know?”
“She has given birth to four children. What do you think?” Agin’s voice was hard.
“Do you hate me?” I could not look at her.
She sighed. “No, dear sister. But I am angry with you. Why did you not say anything? You should never have done this to yourself! You should have spoken to Father. He could have forced him to marry you.” Yet I could hear in her voice that she did not believe her own words.
“Nobody can force this man. He will never marry me. Ever. I know that now. I am free from him. I will never see him again, I swear.”
She stroked my bedcover. “I am glad to hear you say that. He was here.”
I felt all the air contract from my lungs. I could not breathe.
“He had the gall to visit Father and Mother, as before. He was very concerned for your well-being. He asked questions. Wanted to know all sorts of things. Father suspects nothing, so he and Tihe welcomed him as an honoured guest. Mother did not want to stay longer than necessary, so I had to wait on them. He looked at me…” She shuddered. “I had never noticed it before. It was as though he saw straight through me. As though he could affect things with his gaze alone.” She shook her head. “I am glad that you are rid of him now. No good could come from it. I saw it, right from the start.”
All of a sudden she rose to her feet and came to the head of the bed, bent down and embraced me. I do not know if she had done that since we were little girls and shared a bed. Then, we would often lie with our arms around each other to protect one another from the terrors of the dark. Now she pressed her lips to my hair, which was thick with sweat and dirt.
“Life goes on, you shall see. It will take a while, but one day you will be happy again.”
When she got up to leave I looked at her. “I did not do this to myself.” I made a gesture to indicate my body, the bed, everything that had passed. “It was him.”
Agin shuddered. “Then you are well rid of him.”
I watched her leave the room. I felt grief, but also relief. I had escaped. I was free.
Or so I thought.
The next day I awoke with a murmur in my body. The house was quiet, though the sun was already high in the sky. Spring had almost passed into summer, and I could feel the warmth of the day through the drawn window curtains.
I sat up, my body felt frail and it was difficult to gather the strength to get out of bed. Eventually I stood up, leaning against the wall. The murmur inside me was almost deafening, and I did not know whether it was the house that was deathly silent or I who could not hear. Everything rippled and trembled, as if I could still see into the past and potential futures. The walls did not seem solid. I saw second walls behind them, walls belonging to another house, one much larger and grander than ours. Along those other walls there were people moving about in expensive clothes, their translucent forms gliding soundlessly past in a flash of bloodsnail-red, gold and deepest blue. They were all women. When I reached out to touch a young woman with raven-black hair pinned up with two combs, my fingers passed straight through her arm. For a moment I thought she looked right at me. Then she, and all the others, were gone. The house around me was mine again. I could not breathe evenly and my back was sticky with sweat.
“Agin?” I called cautiously, and my voice thundered in my ears. “Mother?”
No answer came. I waited until my breathing had steadied, then walked slowly over to the door. I had to struggle to stay standing.
The second-floor terrace was empty. The door to Mother and Father’s bedchamber was wide open. I walked towards it, supporting myself against the wall.
On the edge of the bed sat Lehan. She had her back to me and her long, shiny hair tumbled down her slender back in loose curls. The bed was unmade and she was holding somethin
g in her hands. The curtains were still drawn over the window, and the chamber was dark.
I took a few shuffling steps inside. She must have heard me, but did not turn around.
“You ought to let some light in,” I said. My throat felt dry and sore.
Slowly my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and I saw what Lehan was holding. A hand. A slender hand that I knew well. Mother’s hand. And I saw that the bed was not unmade, but occupied. Mother and Father were lying there. Side by side. The air tremored and I saw a final vision from Anji’s water, a vision of Mother as an old woman, and Father as an old man, side by side, surrounded by grandchildren, and with their deaths before them. But that death had been snatched away from them. Drawn nearer by an artful hand. Drawn here. Then the vision was gone.
“They died in the night. All of them.”
Lehan’s voice was thin and sounded nothing like her own. It came from a place far away, a place she had never been before.
I felt everything collapse at that moment. I knew what she meant. I understood. Yet I still heard myself ask. “All of them?”
“Tihe and Agin lie dead in their beds. Most of our servants too. The ones who are not dead have fled this house of death.” There was no sentiment in her voice; it was cold and hard, like steel.
I did not respond. I rushed to Agin’s chamber as quickly as I could get my body to move. I found her lying with eyes closed and hands clasped over her bedcover. She looked exactly as though she were sleeping. I sank down on the bed beside her. Held her body against mine, my arm across her chest.
Agin, my sister. Who had always looked after Lehan and me. Who was always thinking of others. Tihe, our proud, beautiful brother. Father and Mother. Dead. And it was I who had brought death to our house. It was my fault they no longer drew breath. I had taught Iskan the secrets of Anji. I had shown him how to use her oaki, her forbidden water. I could not understand why I was still alive. Did he think I would die naturally, because I lay sick and frail?
I wished I had died along with the child I had lost.
I have wished this for more than forty years.
Our neighbours found us. Many servants had fled the house in panic and spread word of the house of death. My parents’ oldest friends braved their way over to see if any survivors remained from the terrible sickness which had raged through the household. They took us away with them, tended to us, and helped us bury the dead. Our aunt came, and once Mother, Father, Tihe and Agin had been buried on the crown of the hill, she took us home with her. Lehan and I could not do anything. We barely spoke to each other. We dressed in the mornings, ate what was put in front of us, responded when spoken to, and retired to the same bed when darkness came. Yet Lehan was like a stranger to me. I do not know why we could not find solace in one another. Perhaps my guilt was too great. Her grief too severe. Our aunt and our cousins treated us with utmost respect and sympathy, but deep down, through the mists of my sorrow and anguish, I knew we could not stay with them for ever. I simply did not know where we would go.
Lehan, our aunt, our cousin Ekhe and I were sitting in the shaderoom one late-summer morning, engaged in embroidery, when one of my aunt’s servants entered.
“Iskan ak Honta-che,” he announced and held open the door. Ekhe looked up curiously and Lehan set down her needlework. Auntie rose up to greet her guest with bow after bow and offered him iced tea and cakes. I continued sewing. I dared not look up. He had come to slay me now. He could do it without difficulty. Without remorse. My heart was beating so hard that my hand began to tremble. I heard his gentle voice utter the proper condolences. Maybe he would do it quickly. Then I would not suffer any more. Not grieve. Not bear all this guilt. I looked up.
He stood before Lehan, his neck down-bent in sorrow, and my sister looked up at him with shining eyes.
“Your mother and father were the finest people I have ever known, Lehan-cho. They were as dear to me as my own parents. I had come to hope that they would indeed become my parents.” He raised his voice so the whole room could hear, and took hold of Lehan’s hand. “I wished to marry their youngest daughter Lehan. But after the great tragedy that has befallen the house of Cho I can no longer bring myself to do so.”
My cousin Ekhe let out a little shriek and my aunt rose to her feet at once. “Let me fetch my husband. The head of the family must be present.” Iskan nodded, without letting go of Lehan’s hand. He looked at me then, straight at me, and I could see a warning in his eyes. A threat.
My aunt returned with her husband Netomo. They sat down around the low table where the servants had laid out refreshments. I could not move from where I was sitting, and Iskan did not sit down but remained standing with Lehan’s hand in his. I could not take my eyes off him, like a sparrow wary of the hawk’s imminent swoop.
“No agreement was formalized between me and Malik ak Sangui-cho, nor between he and my father. But my intentions have been clear for a year past. I only waited until I might reach such a role in the palace of the Sovereign Prince that I would be in a position to take a wife. However, now I feel that my actions must be guided by a duty greater than my own desires.” He looked tenderly down at Lehan and gave her a sad little smile. “Two girls are the sole survivors of a disease that has struck down their father’s entire household. I feel that my responsibility is to take care of them both, in such a way that disrupts their lives and circumstances as little as possible.” At that moment he let go of Lehan’s hand and turned to me. I could not so much as blink. His gaze bore into me, heavy with the weight of words unsaid. He took a step towards me and I tightened my grip on my embroidery. He must not take my hand. I could not bear to feel his touch.
“Kabira ak Malik-cho. You are your father’s sole heir, given that he has no brothers or other male relatives. Marry me and I shall take care of your beloved sister Lehan. Through the marriage she shall become my sister too. We can reside in your father’s house where I shall maintain his estate and your lives can continue as before. You need never be separated, which I am sure you both appreciate. I shall see to it that you want for nothing and that no danger befalls you—either one of you.”
As he spoke these final words he locked his eyes onto me, his dark, wrathful eyes. He stood with his back to the others so nobody could see the expression on his face. But I saw. And I understood.
If I did not comply I would not be the only one to suffer. He would kill Lehan. He had done all of this for the sake of the spring. For access to Anji’s water. He was willing to do whatever it took to make the spring his own.
I did not make a sound. I knew what my answer must be, but I could not muster the words. My aunt’s husband Netomo went to Iskan’s side. He rubbed his hands together. The son of the Vizier married into the family! It was an opportunity he could not pass up.
“This is all so sudden. You must excuse our young niece’s abashment. I am certain that she understands what a generous offer this is and there can be no doubt of her acceptance. Is that not so, Kabira?”
I bowed my head in resignation. Everybody interpreted it as affirmation, and Netomo patted Iskan on the back and congratulated him, and Auntie called for wine and bowls. Soon we were all standing together toasting the health and wealth of the young couple. Iskan raised his red-lacquered drinking bowl to me and leant forward to whisper in my ear. Everybody giggled and applauded, because it was the most natural thing in the world—a young man whispering secrets to his betrothed.
“You need not fear me, Kabira. Simply do exactly as I say, and both you and your beautiful sister will be safe. Understood?” I nodded. “Good. My first request: speak never more of the spring and its powers to anybody. Never go there again. I will know if you do, Kabira, you know that. Anji is mine now.”
His voice was warm and intimate, a tone befitting of secrets between lovers. Nobody could have known of the threat and venom in his words. He turned to Netomo.
“I want the wedding to take place as soon as possible, so that these young women can be retu
rned to their home without delay.”
“Of course.” My uncle nodded in approval. “Before the next full moon. I have the keys to my late brother-in-law’s estate. You will doubtless want to put your new home in order in the meantime.”
Iskan smiled. He smiled and smiled all afternoon; he smiled at Lehan and he smiled at me, and only I could see everything his smile was concealing.
I have little memory of the lead-up to the wedding. There must have been a great many preparations but I was not expected to be involved in any of them. I spent most of the time in the bedchamber Lehan and I were sharing, pacing around like a wild animal in a cage. I racked my brains for a way out of this trap, but saw none. None without risk of incurring Iskan’s wrath; none that could ensure Lehan’s safety.
I remember one evening when Lehan was readying herself for bed in our chamber. She sat brushing her long hair before the mirror and watched without a word as I paced anxiously. Eventually she sighed and put down the brush.
“What is wrong with you? You are acting as though Netomo married you off to some toothless old man with scabies. Not the handsome young son of the Vizier who only wants the best for both of us. If anybody should be wringing her hands in sorrow it is me.”
I stopped still and stared at her. She tossed her head, and her perfect skin flushed reddish.
“After all, it is actually he and I who should be getting married.”
The words lingered in the space between us like shards of glass.
“But… You always said that you did not care for him.”
“I didn’t.” She looked down at her hands, still considerably pink in the face. “But he is the Vizier’s son. A man with a fantastic future before him. It would have been a good match. And he is very kind to us. A fine man.”
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