The Iron Flower

by Laurie Forest

  “No,” Valasca says with a grim shake of her head. “Sala did something Alcippe never expected. She fell to her knees before the head of her dead husband and grieved for him.”

  Shock jabs through me. “What did Alcippe do?”

  “Something snapped inside her that day. She completely fell apart. She actually tried to take a knife to her own face, to cut away the resemblance to her father.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  Valasca shakes her head. “No. Skyleia managed to convince her otherwise.”

  “Who’s Skyleia?” I ask.

  “Her partner. The queen’s granddaughter. The woman to her right.”

  The beautiful woman with the scarf dress and glowing-orb-decorated hair is sitting next to Alcippe, laughing and leaning over every so often to touch her on the shoulder or hand. Every time she does this, Alcippe’s expression momentarily softens.

  “Skyleia,” Valasca goes on, “stayed with Alcippe day and night, never wavering in her devotion. They’d been friends ever since Alcippe arrived, but after that, they became inseparable lovers. Skyleia was the one who convinced Alcippe to tattoo her face so dramatically instead of disfiguring it. Skyleia herself applied the rune markings.”

  I think of Ariel and her terrible struggles, and of Wynter’s understanding. Ariel often seems completely unlovable as well, but Wynter’s friendship and devotion never flags.

  “I can imagine what you’re thinking,” Valasca says, smiling slightly. “How can two people who seem so different be together? I often wonder the same thing myself. But Skyleia sees something different than you and I see when she looks at Alcippe. She sees the twelve-year-old who carried her own mother for miles to safety. She sees the warrior with the heart of a mountain lion who would go through fire for her adopted people. She sees the person who, despite the fact that I have never once seen her smile, is a favorite of the children here.”

  I give a disbelieving laugh. “That’s surprising. I’d have thought they’d run in fear from her.”

  Valasca grins and shakes her head. “The children wrestle with her, cling to her arms. They bring her gifts, and Alcippe’s a patient weapons teacher with them. It’s like I said before—sometimes you have to look beneath the surface.” She gives me a sly smile.

  It dawns on me that I have something in common with this huge, rune-scaled warrior woman who hates me on sight. Alcippe and I both look like cruel family members who wreaked havoc and destruction.

  “What happened when the Urisk figured out that Alcippe killed one of their leaders?” I wonder.

  Valasca shrugs, picking up her food bowl again. “They sent more than a few soldiers after us, but we killed them all. Their dragons, too.”

  I wince, thinking of Naga. But those military dragons weren’t like Naga. They’d been broken.

  But they were like her once.

  “I can’t believe I’m actually feeling sympathy for Alcippe now,” I admit.

  Valasca coughs out a laugh and throws me a look of caution. “Don’t let sympathy lead you to let down your guard around her,” she warns “She wants you dead.”

  Fear needles at me. “But...the queen accepted me...”

  Valasca shrugs as she eats. “That won’t deter Alcippe.” Seeing my aghast expression, she adds, “Did you honestly think it would be safe for you here?”

  I’ve probably gone a shade paler, because Valasca cocks one eyebrow as she studies me. “Don’t worry,” she says reassuringly. “If you stay close to me, she’ll leave you alone.”

  “What exactly do you do here?” I ask, casting about for some semblance of a reason why I should take comfort in this.

  “Mostly goat herding,” she says, scooping up some more food.

  I eye her dubiously, remembering how she unflinchingly faced down Alcippe. “Goat herding.”

  Valasca smirks as she takes a long drink from her earthenware mug. “I like goats.”

  “And Alcippe. What about her?”

  Valasca motions toward Alcippe with her mug, as if she’s toasting her. “She’s a member of the Queen’s Guard.”

  “The Queen’s Guard?”

  “Our most elite fighting force.”

  “And you think you can protect me from her?”

  Valasca nods and takes another sip from her mug, smiling, as if she’s enjoying my discomfiture.

  “I don’t want to offend you,” I say, gesturing with my chin toward Alcippe, “but she looks a great deal stronger than you.”

  “She is.”

  “Then how could you possibly protect me from her?”

  The side of Valasca’s mouth curls up, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “You may find, Gardnerian, that I have a large number of hidden talents.” She laughs and glances down at the full bowl that’s in front of me. “You should eat something. You’ll need all the fortification you can get.”

  I look down at the food, as if noticing it for the first time, and tentatively pick up a piece of the herb-flecked flatbread. The food is rich with unfamiliar spices and vegetables, but very good—some type of chicken stew in a rich, reddish curry mixed with dried berries topped with roasted squash and goat cheese, along with a cup of warm, spiced mare’s milk, which is sweeter than the cow’s and goat’s milk I’m accustomed to.

  I look around the room as I eat, and my eyes fall on a group of teenage Uuril girls, all bunched together against the far wall. Unlike most of the women here, they’re unmarked by tattoos and hunched down, their expressions stressed. Three older Urisk women with Amaz rune-tattoos on their faces hover maternally around them.

  “Recent arrivals,” Valasca says, noticing my stare. “Refugees. More every day.”

  “I’m surprised there aren’t a flood of Urisk women here,” I say, looking around the room and finding only a scattering of tattoo-free Urisk women who seem like recent arrivals.

  “Well, Queen Alkaia only lets in a certain number of refugees each month,” Valasca explains. “And the Urisk aren’t allowed to bring their sons.” She frowns. “I think there’d be more of them if they could.” Something about the way she says this leads me to believe that she might not approve of this rigidity.

  I realize what an impossible situation it must be for any Urisk woman with a son in the Western Realm—the Gardnerians and Alfsigr intent on killing all Urisk boys because of their potentially powerful geosorcery.

  A black-haired, green-eyed woman dressed in turquoise woven garb catches my eye. Her face is marked with Amaz tattoos, and she has skin that shimmers Gardnerian emerald. She’s gesturing as she speaks to another woman, and her hands are covered in bloody slash marks.

  “That woman there,” I say. “She must have broken her fasting.” I turn to Valasca. “My friend, Sage Gaffney...her hands are like that.”

  Valasca eyes me speculatively. “That woman,” she tells me, glancing toward her, “she’s in pain all the time, but she says it’s nothing compared to the pain she endured being with the man they fasted her to—the abuse, the insults, watching her three children being beaten. She left her baby son in Gardneria and escaped with her daughters. That’s them, over there.”

  Valasca gestures across the room with her chin, and I follow her gaze toward two raven-haired girls with skin that shimmers emerald, Amaz tattoos on their faces. They look to be around six and fourteen. The younger girl is sitting on the lap of an elderly woman with long, snow-white hair, giggling as the woman bounces her on her knees, a large rune-axe strapped to the old woman’s back. The older girl has a confident stance and is deep in conversation with three other girls around her own age, all of them dressed in the scarlet rune-marked garb of Amaz soldiers, bows and quivers strapped to their backs.

  “When they first came here,” Valasca tells me, “the younger one wouldn’t even speak. The two of them wouldn’t make eye contact. They would only c
ower and tremble, waiting for blows. Now look at them. The eldest is a talented archer and has the makings of a fine soldier. And the younger girl is full of life and joy.”

  “And the son?” I ask.

  Valasca’s face darkens and she shrugs, watching the two girls. “Their mother made a sacrifice.”

  My mind is instantly cast into conflict. Not allowing the woman to bring her baby son—it’s too cruel. What if Trystan or Rafe were in a situation like that and left behind with a violent monster? It’s unthinkable.

  “And you think this is right?” I challenge. “Not letting the son come with them?”

  Valasca hesitates before answering. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “My friend Andras,” I say to her, “he’s one of your rare male infants grown up.”

  “He was with you today,” she says, remembering. “I know of him. He was Sorcha’s lover for a time. That’s her over there.” Valasca points at two young women who stand off to the side, engaged in private conversation. “The one with the blue hair. That’s Sorcha.”

  I watch as Sorcha laughs at something her companion says. She’s wearing the scarlet uniform of the Amaz soldier, her face rune-tattooed, black metallic hoops lining her pointed ears. Her skin is a deep lake blue and her hair a deeper, rippling sapphire, but her eyes shimmer gold like sunlight. I remember how Andras described her beauty, lost in the memory of her.

  “Do you think she would talk to me?” I wonder.

  Valasca lets out a jaded laugh. “Go on, Gardnerian. Why don’t you find out?”

  I can’t decide if Valasca is serious or not. “She should know what happened to her son,” I insist.

  Valasca smirks and goes about finishing her bowl of stew.

  I glance back at Sorcha and make a split-second decision to be reckless. I get up and step around the groupings of women, their conversations dying down as I pass, quickly replaced by contentious stares and murmuring.

  Sorcha visibly stiffens at my approach, and so does the blonde soldier she’s speaking with. The two of them pull themselves up to their full, intimidating heights.

  “Sorcha Xanthippe,” I greet her, dipping my head respectfully, “I’m Elloren Gardner—”

  “I know who you are,” she snaps.

  I hesitate for a moment. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

  She stares hard at me, golden eyes ablaze. She says something in another language to her companion, and the woman spits out a contemptuous sound as she looks me over. Sorcha walks a few steps toward the edge of the hall, then motions sharply for me to follow.

  She leads me to a semiprivate, heavily curtained alcove at the edge of the large room and turns to me with an impatient, hostile expression.

  “I’ve news of your son,” I tell her.

  Now she’s looking at me with the same expression that was on Alcippe’s face—like she flat-out wants to kill me.

  “I have no son,” she grinds out through her teeth.

  “No, you do...”

  “The Lupines,” she spits out venomously, “they have a son. I have no use for him.”

  “Andras Volya is a friend of mine,” I explain, thinking that if I put it all into the right words, she’ll soften a bit. “He’s just met your little boy. He didn’t even know he existed until a couple weeks ago. So now he’s joining the Lupines this summer and...”

  “I. Don’t. Care.” Her golden eyes are murderous.

  Confusion takes hold and I bristle on Andras’s behalf. “Andras cares for you still, you know.”

  “Then he is a fool,” she sneers. “I went to him for one reason, and one reason only. To conceive a daughter. And he failed me.”

  “It’s not right,” I blurt out, rapidly growing incensed, “the way you treat boys here.”

  Sorcha’s face fills with incredulity as she looks over my black garb. “What would you, a Gardnerian, know about what’s right? You, with your barbaric customs that enslave women.”

  I draw back from her, realizing I’ve made a mistake in trying to reason with her. She’s right about Gardnerians, but she’s definitely not right about Konnor and Andras.

  “He’s a beautiful little boy,” I tell her somberly. “I just thought you might want to know he’s doing well.”

  Her eyes light with fury. “I don’t care if he lives or dies,” she snarls. “He’s a stain on Erthia, like all men. And like all Gardnerians.” She shoulders past me and strides away.

  I watch her go, fuming. How could Andras love someone like her? Where is the woman from his stories? The woman who loved to talk with him about horses and the stars? Who preferred him above all others?

  When I return to my seat next to Valasca, she’s gnawing on a chicken leg. She cocks one eyebrow in my direction. “Went well, then, did it?”

  “She’s hideous,” I spit out, glaring over at Sorcha, but the menacing sound of Diana’s low growl distracts both Valasca and me. Valasca appraises the situation silently, her eyes following Diana’s gaze to Alcippe.

  She sets down her food and springs to her feet, light as a cat. “C’mon,” she says, gesturing for me to follow. “Let’s get your Lupine friend as far away from Alcippe as possible before there’s a brawl.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHITE BIRDS

  Several small, nimble deer shyly follow us as Diana, Marina, Ni Vin and I trail Valasca through the city. I look around in fascination, drinking in the sight of small gardens in full bloom in the dead of winter, lantern-lit homes and shuttered markets. Women are making food in tavern-like alcoves on stoves glowing with heat while others sit quietly talking, eating, playing music, laughing. I breathe in the balmy air, everything around me cast in a reddish glow by the rune-torches illuminating the streets.

  There’s an insistent, provocative pounding of drums just up ahead, along with the sound of women chanting powerfully in unison to interspersed applause. The buildings around us open up to reveal an expansive outdoor theater surrounded by torches flaming in every color. Women dressed in multicolored scarf garb and hair decorated with glowing orbs, like Skyleia, are whirling on the stage, their flowing scarves painting the air with rippling rainbows of fabric. They hold long red scarves in their hands and move them so fast that the scarlet streaks become circles and spirals and waving lines.

  I pause, mesmerized by the sheer artistry of it, swept up in the seductive, pounding rhythm, only half-aware of the women beginning to stare at me, so out of place in my Gardnerian blacks, with my Black Witch face. Something cold tickles my hand and draws my attention from the unfriendly murmuring at the edge of the theater’s crowd. I look down to find one of the deer nuzzling an inquisitive nose against my palm, its twisting black horns festooned with scarlet ribbons and flowers.

  I pat the little deer’s coarse fur, charmed by its gentleness, its snuffling nose and long-lashed eyes. Valasca stops as well, smiling at the tiny animal with delight. She doubles back toward me as Diana, Marina and Ni Vin wait patiently up ahead. I remember Valasca’s affection for her horse and realize she’s enamored of animals in general.

  Diana’s amber eyes light on the deer with obvious predatory interest, her nostrils flaring. I shoot her a quelling look—You cannot eat the deer!—and Diana huffs, giving both me and the tiny animal a look of supreme annoyance. Valasca leans down to pat the deer and murmurs to it affectionately, fishing in her tunic pocket for a small orange fruit that the deer eagerly gobbles up.

  The theater’s drumbeat intensifies as a new group of dancers takes the stage, all of them dressed in scarves of crimson. Other dancers fill in behind them, hoisting huge puppets on beribboned wooden poles—one a twisting silver snake, one a horned deer and one a white bird. Two dancers hold additional poles attached to the bird’s wings so that the bird’s white wings can flap across the stage.

  “I see these little deer everywhere,” I say to Valasca.
>
  “Visay’ihne deer,” she tells me, kneeling down to scratch the neck of the small animal and murmur endearments as it crunches the fruit. She flashes a grin. “Beloved by the Goddess. They’re one of her sacred animals, along with the Visay’ithere snake and the Visay’un.”

  “Visay’un?”

  Valasca angles her head toward the huge bird puppet that’s now flapping through the crowd to the immense delight of the little girls in the audience. “The Goddess’s messenger birds,” she says reverently. “Made of her light.”

  A young, gray-hued Elfhollen girl darts out from the shadows of the small grove of trees beside us. She has Amaz tattoos but wears the traditional stone-colored tunic and pants of the Elfhollen people. The child gives me an anxious look and grabs the ribbon tether that’s loosely tied around the deer’s neck, leading the small animal quickly away. When the girl returns to her gaggle of friends in the trees, I can hear her fearfully whispering something—two words that I heard muttered in the Queenhall and by some of the women here in the streets.

  Ghuul Raith.

  Valasca and I rejoin the rest of our group and continue our trek, winding through the torchlit streets of Cyme.

  I turn to Valasca as we walk, curious. “What does Ghuul Raith mean?”

  Valasca eyes me sidelong. “Black Witch.”

  I let out a long, resigned sigh, and Valasca shrugs, as if this really should not be a surprise.

  We walk out of the city proper, the small residences now more spread out, with gardens and then small farms interspersed between them. The road angles gradually up, and we stroll by crops covered by geometric domed glass structures, lines of runes running along every edge and whirring industriously. The loamy aroma of soil is rich on the air.

  We reach a moonlit grassy meadow bordered by the forest just beyond. There’s a chorus of bleating and the muffled sound of hooves thumping through the dark meadow as a small herd of goats hop toward Valasca. They come to a stop before a fence made of small scarlet runes that are suspended knee-high in the air, the runes whirring and giving off a faint glow.