by Pearl North
The sound began almost imperceptibly, as a minute vibration in the air. It grew, a low grating sort of whisper at the very limit of her hearing. Haly’s fingertips and the soles of her feet tingled. The tingle spread to her spine and she rubbed at her face, which suddenly felt like it had little bugs crawling all over it.
As the sound grew, the crawling feeling intensified, and then suddenly it was gone. Now the horn was truly audible, a deep bellow like a mountain heaving itself up from a continental rift. The stone slab before it shook. Haly’s breath caught in her throat as she saw a fine mist of sand lifting off of the block like steam from a pot of boiling water. And yes, that was exactly what the horn was doing to the stone: boiling it. The opposite wall of the courtyard became visible through the slab as the force of the horn’s sound wave agitated and dispersed its particles, turning it into a slab-shaped cloud of dust.
Abruptly the horn fell silent and the dust fell, forming a gently sloping pile in the center of the courtyard. Haly’s ears rang in the sudden silence. She stared at the dust pile that moments ago had been a wall as thick as any the Libyrinth had.
Her home, her people, the books that had taught and entertained and comforted her; they would all be reduced to a pile of dust, dispersed by the winds of the plain.
It would be done in her name. And there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.
She was watching them sweep up the powdered debris when the door to her room opened. It was Siblea, a look of happy anticipation on his face. “All is ready for the Redemption, Holy One,” he said, bowing low. “We will depart tomorrow morning.”
Po
The blood in Clauda’s veins felt like it was full of stinging nettles. The pain was everywhere, racing in burning arcs through her arms and legs, her torso, even her face. It had been three days since Selene’s departure, and she’d just this morning recovered the ability to speak. She was desperate to speak to Scio, but she’d had no opportunity.
“Concentrate,” admonished Adept Ykobos, who ran stiff fingers down the inside of Clauda’s left arm while her attendant stretched the limb out to the side. The adept looked haggard. She’d been working with Clauda almost nonstop since her collapse. “Use the visualization I taught you, and keep breathing.”
Clauda did as she was told, picturing in her mind’s eye a network of pathways, like the roots of a tree, branching out throughout her body. But these pathways were tangled and inflamed. As she inhaled, she tried to gently coax cool green energy through them, untangling and soothing as it went. But her energy hit a knot of deep crimson and splintered, forcing a hoarse cry from her throat. “Please,” she whispered. “Can we stop?”
Ykobos sighed. “We might as well. This isn’t doing any good.” She waved off her attendants and sat down wearily on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were bleak as they scanned Clauda’s face. “You have a very fluid energy system, Clauda of Ayor. Normally that’s a good thing, but when it’s been disrupted as badly as yours was, it presents a problem. Any imbalance spreads very rapidly, and when we do equalize one area, it soon goes out of balance again, trying to compensate for the discrepencies in other areas.”
Clauda swallowed. Suddenly she wanted to beg Ykobos to continue the treatment. She couldn’t stay this way. She had to talk to Scio, but she had not seen the chambermaid since her collapse. She needed to somehow get word to Selene, to warn her, but she couldn’t even walk and other than Scio, there was no one she could trust. What was she going to do? The very thought unleashed another seizure, her rigid muscles jerking until she thought the bed would break apart. Ykobos came quickly, holding her down, her attendant Po slipping the padded bit between her teeth so she wouldn’t bite her tongue or crack her teeth. When it passed Clauda lay limp and exhausted, and her caretakers looked little better.
“Adept Ykobos,” came a voice at the door. It was a woman in a soldier’s uniform. “Captain Athene needs you in the barracks; Sergeant Bilos has had a relapse.”
Ymin drew her hand across her brow. “Yes, Bathir, tell her I’ll be there directly.” She looked back at Clauda. “Try to get some rest, and try, please try, to stay calm.”
Clauda managed a nod, and then Ykobos was gone, Helene accompanying her. The boy Po remained behind. He sat beside her bed, holding the bit in readiness should Clauda have another seizure. Clauda looked at him, really noticing him for the first time. He was about fourteen, and still on the childhood side of adolescence, though from the lankiness of his arms and legs, it wouldn’t be long before he came of age. He had lighter hair than most Ilysians and his nose was smaller, the bridge of it flatter than those of most of his people. His eyes were a striking gray-green—though he usually kept them lowered and she seldom got a glimpse of them. “Po,” said Clauda, “can you fetch Scio for me, please?”
He shook his head. “I can’t leave you. The adept said.”
Clauda sighed. “Well, when you see Scio next, tell her I wish her to attend upon me.”
The boy’s eyes were wide. He nodded.
She needed to think about something other than her and Selene’s and Haly’s situations. She looked at Po again. “A relapse?”
The boy nodded. “Sergeant Bilos is very ill. Almost as bad as you.”
“How was she injured?”
The boy blinked. “I’m not supposed to say.”
Oh. A secret. Clauda welcomed the distraction. “Was it a mind-lancet attack?”
He shook his head. “I can’t say.” He stood up, as if putting distance between them would curb her curiosity.
Clauda remembered something from the queen’s conversation with her general. Something about soldiers being injured training on the wing. And both Scio and Selene had mentioned that few people had the ability to control the wing, and that it was dangerous to try. Curiosity was a welcome respite from worry, but she didn’t dare press Po too much. “So, you’re a boy,” said Clauda, wanting to keep him in conversation and blurting the first thing she could think of.
He blushed, then nodded.
“I haven’t seen many boys here,” she observed, “just a few among the bull dancers.”
Po swallowed and stared at his feet. He said nothing.
Clauda realized she had her work cut out for her. “Why are there so few of you?”
Po looked like he wanted to crawl under her bed and die, rather than speak. Still, he didn’t seem to be able to ignore a direct question. “There are more females than males among us, on the whole. And of course it is a great honor to work in the palace. Naturally, the jobs go to women. The adept is my cousin. My mother went to a great deal of trouble to arrange this apprenticeship for me.” He paused. “I apologize if I am doing a bad job.”
Clauda tried to shake her head but decided against it when dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. “No. Not at all. You’re doing a great job, Po. I appreciate how hard you’ve worked to help me. It’s been difficult for everyone.”
Po’s face turned bright red. For a moment Clauda thought he’d collapse from apoplexy. Then he managed to say, “You’re very kind to say that. I’m sorry you’re so ill.”
Clauda took a deep breath. “Me, too. So, what about the bull dancers? Why are there males among them?”
“They are the queen’s consorts.”
“Oh. That’s very interesting. You know, at the Libyrinth, people don’t care so much if you’re a male or a female.”
He said nothing, just stared at the floor at the base of her bed.
“Do you want to become an adept?” she asked.
His shoulders lifted. “I suppose,” he said. His voice was little more than a whisper.
“Is there something else you’d rather do?”
That seemed to startle him and he looked at her, green eyes wide. “I—” He caught himself and looked at the floor again. “I am extremely fortunate to be here and to have the opportunity to study with the adept.”
“You don’t sound particularly thrilled about it.”
He didn�
�t answer.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”
Po bit his lip and cast her a speculative look, and then glanced at the doorway. He seemed to be nerving himself up for something. Clauda waited patiently and focused on her breath.
“I’m no different than other boys,” said Po at last. “I just want to be a good consort and sire daughters.”
Clauda felt the corners of her mouth twitch and she forced herself not to smile. “Why can’t you do that, then?”
Po looked sad. “Because of my appearance.”
“Your appearance?”
He nodded. “My small nose and my light hair. I have a . . . please, I mean no offense . . . a look of the plain about me, is the way my mother puts it. Only a very broad-minded woman would accept me as a sire for her daughters, and my mother feared what would become of me if I became a Billy—an unattached male.”
Clauda sighed and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s funny. Everybody here is fascinated with the way I look, because I’m an Ayorite. But with you they treat it as a bad thing, because you’re Ilysian. And you don’t even look all that much like an Ayorite, frankly. It all seems so stupid.”
Po said nothing, but when Clauda turned her head to look, she saw him smiling. Her eyes strayed to her bedside table, reassuring herself that The Book of the Night was still there, sitting unnoticed in its Theselaides disguise, beneath Volume I of Queen Belrea and the Wing of Tarsus. “Po? Would you read to me?”
Po’s company, the tale of Queen Belrea and the wing, and speculation about what had injured Sergeant Bilos provided Clauda with enough distractions to keep her free from seizures for the rest of that day. After dinner Adept Ykobos returned to her chamber, looking even more haggard. She and Helene and Po worked on Clauda for another hour, with middling results.
“Your mind is more settled this evening, so your body’s response is improved, but I won’t hide this from you; what we’re doing now is palliative. We’re making no real progress with your core.”
The words sent a chill through Clauda, but before she had another fit, she focused on the adept’s phrasing. I won’t hide this from you. With a slight emphasis on the word “this”—which implied that she would, or perhaps already was, hiding something from her. The adept was tired, so there might be an opportunity here. “It is good of the queen to allow you to treat me.”
Ymin could not hide the sour look that crossed her face. “Treat you.” She sighed heavily and stared at her hands. Her muttering was swift and barely audible. Clauda only caught part of it: “If one can call it that . . . could heal . . . as it has the soldiers.”
“Pardon?” said Clauda.
Ymin stood swiftly and straightened her shoulders. “Well. I will see you tomorrow morning. Try to sleep. Helene will stay with you and prepare you some tea to help with that.”
As she and Po headed for the door, Clauda spoke up. “Po,” she said.
He turned, and Ymin raised one eyebrow in surprise.
“Thank you for reading to me, and don’t forget to talk to Scio for me.”
At the mention of the chambermaid’s name, Po startled. He glanced at Ymin and a look passed between them. He didn’t really answer Clauda, just bowed and followed the adept out of the room. The door shut behind them.
Po, Helene, and Adept Ykobos never left her alone. The three of them sat with her in shifts. When next it was Po’s turn, Clauda said to him, “Has something happened to Scio?”
He was just bringing her a cup of tea, and at her words, he dropped it. The cup shattered and sprayed them both with hot water. Po bowed low. “I’m so sorry. I will bring you another cup.”
“Please answer my question instead.” Her stomach was tight. She already knew the answer, if not the specifics. She forced herself to take long, deep breaths. She’d never get anywhere if she kept having fits every time she was upset.
He gave her a stricken look and sank to the floor and began gathering the shards of broken porcelain.
“They’ve forbidden you to discuss it, is that it?”
Po didn’t answer.
“I know they have. And I know something has happened to her.”
Po paused in his cleaning. “Will you promise not to tell anyone I told you?”
“Yes, of course.”
He looked up. “She was transferred to the summer palace.”
She stared at him, taking in his grave, drawn expression. “Transferred? Really?” she asked.
He swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“If she was truly transferred, why all the secrecy?”
The boy shrugged and looked uneasily at the door. “We’re not supposed to tell you anything.”
Clauda breathed. She tried to imagine Selene in the library but the image was blotted out by Scio’s face. Their spying had been discovered. That’s why Clauda was under constant watch and her caretakers were forbidden to tell her anything. Scio was probably dead. Her breath broke into sharp taloned birds that flew away and left her in darkness.
When she awoke again Po was with her, though whether it was his next shift or only a few hours later she couldn’t know. Her body hurt. She feared for a moment that she had lost the ability to speak again, but managed to force out a hoarse whisper. “Read to me?”
Po nodded. He gave her a drink of water, some of which she managed to swallow and some of which dampened the coverlet and her neck. He took Volume I of Queen Belrea and the Wing of Tarsus from the bedside table and began to read: “Belrea and her sisters Talea and Nalea argued over who would fly the wing. Talea was the oldest, and headstrong, and she won the argument. When she took on the mantle of the goddess and became one with the wing, all was well, at first. But when she tried to exert her will and make the wing rise, the flow lines rejected her. They lashed her with fire and threw her from the goddess’s embrace. Talea was ill then with the shaking sickness. Nalea, who was a healer, tried to give her sister relief, but all her arts failed.”
“The shaking sickness?” said Clauda.
Po nodded. “Seizures.”
“Like mine?”
He nodded again, and read on. “At last, in desperation, hoping that what had harmed might also heal, Nalea put Talea back into the wing again. This time, Talea did not attempt to control the wing. The flow lines forgave her, and they healed her.”
Clauda kept very still and quiet. Po did not realize that she knew the wing existed, and she wanted him to keep reading. She was now more certain than ever that Sergeant Bilos had been injured training on the wing. Had the adept’s slip the other day been a reference to using the wing to heal her?
“Belrea next attempted to fly the wing. Her subtle mind was able to invite the flow lines to follow their own inclination, and thus guide them to her will. She flew, and manifested the Sword of the Mother, and smote the enemies of Ilysies.”
Po paused and took a drink of water.
“It’s too bad the wing isn’t real,” said Clauda. “I bet it could heal even me.”
By the light of the glow warmer, Clauda saw ripples appear on the surface of the water in Po’s cup. He set it down. He stared at his hands for a long moment and Clauda got the impression he was making up his mind about something. “If it were real, it might be forbidden to you,” he said at length.
Affection for Po filled her. “Then it’s just as well it’s not. I imagine it would be difficult for the adept to deny a patient a cure.”
Po gave her a piercing look. “Difficult for us all.” He broke off and stood. He came to her bedside, and under the pretext of adjusting her pillow brought his mouth to her ear. “We are not normally jailers, or spies,” he whispered.
Clauda felt tears gathering behind her eyes. Po withdrew and she nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s much more comfortable.”
So Thela was keeping her alive in the hopes that she might reveal something useful, Clauda mused. She’d wondered about that. And Adept Ykobos resented it. And if
Clauda could turn the adept, just enough to try using the wing to heal her . . . Excitement made her heart race and she remembered to breathe deeply, in and out, in and out. She closed her eyes and there was Selene, smiling at her in the palace library. And then she imagined herself in the wing, soaring across the Plain of Ayor, the Ilysian army following behind.
Miracles
Haly stood in the entranceway of the Temple of Yammon, clutching the metal box that contained Anne Frank’s diary. Before leaving she’d had Nod replace the pins in the hinges, sealing the book inside once more. She told Nod of their leaving, told him to try to find a way to come with them, but she had not seen him since.
Siblea stood on her right, Michander on her left, a phalanx of soldiers in a wedge before her, and Gyneth and the rest of Subaltern Chorus Five behind her. Even through the thick steel doors of the temple she could hear the roar of the crowd outside.
That roar became deafening as two subalterns opened the tall, arching doors to reveal a cordon of soldiers holding back a screaming, waving sea of people from the elephant that stood before the steps of the temple. The beast was about six feet tall at the shoulder, with a long jaw, protruding brow bones, and a low, sloping forehead. Above its mouth hung a prehensile snout about four feet long. It had large, fan-shaped ears and a thick gray hide. It was covered in spirals drawn on its hide with white chalk. A barred, covered palanquin sat upon its back. It was an unseasonably mild day, the cloud cover low and the air laden with moisture.
With her mouth dry and her heart pounding, Haly stepped out from the shelter of the archway and allowed Siblea to guide her down the steps with a hand at her elbow.
As she reached the bottom step, a woman broke through the cordon and threw herself at Haly’s feet.
“Thank you, Holy One, thank you!” she cried, reaching a hand out grasp at Haly’s hem. “Your Redemption will heal my child. The Song will heal her, thanks to you!”