Misery's Child

by J Belinda Yandell

  That annoys me, too. You’re always apologizing for everything. Stop it.

  All right.

  That’s better. I can see why I’d be angry in your place, but you? I thought you loved the idea of being cadia.

  “Oh, I do.... and yet I don’t... I don’t know anything any more. Why do you say that you’d be angry in my place?”

  “By the beard, Lilli!” Marta’s voice was a whisper now, her eyes sneaking glances at the flap of the tent, anxious lest Ersala return unexpectedly. “They’ve taken your whole life away from you, don’t you know that? I never understood why you let them do this to you.”

  Lillitha’s face took on an expression of coldness that Marta had never seen—or expected to see—on her sister’s face. Strangely, it reminded her of Yannamarie.

  “And just how do you suppose I should have stopped them? Do you think I ever had a choice in any of this?”

  “You went through with the dedication ceremony, didn’t you? You seemed pretty happy about it then.”

  “I was twelve summers old—what did I know about any of this?” Marta watched in amazement as Lillitha climbed from the bed and paced about the tent as if it were a cage. Her face was bright red against the white of her wimple and veils, and her hands clenching and unclenching by her sides. “And you, who spend so much of your precious time whining and puling about the wretchedness of our lives in Kirrisian, do you think you’re the only one who feels the weight of poverty? Sweet Mother, I thought I could make things better by becoming consecratia! Now all I’ve done is make a mess of things.”

  “Is it just Yanna,” Marta asked softly, “or is it Scearce? Or both?”

  Lillitha burst into tears and sank into a puddle on the dirt floor.

  Don’t even mention his name! Someone might hear you— What could you possibly know about him? Why do you say that?

  I know that you’ve dreamed about him, and when you do, the longing in your heart is as sweet and as heavy as darma petal perfume. Besides, you’ve had a fancy for him ever since that summer in Jeptalla.

  “You mustn’t ever breath a word about him, not in front of Muma or Da or anyone. Especially not Lendenican. Please, promise me, Marta! Promise.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I wouldn’t do that. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

  Lillitha nodded, tears still coursing silently down her cheeks. “I’m so afraid that he hates me now, after all the trouble I’ve caused him. I’ll never see him again and he hates me.”

  “You don’t know that.” Marta was ashamed of the satisfaction it gave her to know that darling, perfect Lillitha wanted something she couldn’t have. Her conscience made few appearances, but when it did, Marta hated its power over her. “What if I went to him and explained?”

  The eagerness that shone on her sister’s face made her feel even smaller. “Would you? Would you really do that for me? Just see him and tell him that I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean to make trouble for him—”

  “Yes, yes. I will tell him. But you’ve got to get hold of yourself before Muma comes back or she’ll take one look at you and know something’s wrong. At the very least she’ll whack me over the head for upsetting you.”

  “You’re right, absolutely right.” Lillitha wiped at her face roughly, then surprised Marta with a sudden fierce hug. “Thank you, little sister. I owe you a great debt—”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Marta said gruffly, shrugging off her sister’s arms. “Just try to cheer up, will you? You don’t even know if you’ll be chosen or not.”

  “Yes, this may all yet come to nothing. I just.... I keep feeling this panic growing inside me. Every day it gets bigger and bigger—”

  “I know. Believe me, Lilli, I know.”

  Lillitha’s face puckered with shame. “I’ll try to guard my thoughts more carefully.”

  “You do that.” Marta stood up and brushed the dust from her skirts. “I’ll go see Scearce as soon as I can get away from Muma again.”

  “Wait, I have something I want you to give to him.” Lillitha hurried over to her small trunk, casting things aside until she held up a small pair of scissors from her sewing kit. She brought the scissors near the curls that escaped from underneath her wimple.

  “Don’t take it from the front, you dolt!” Marta crossed the tent in two great strides and took the scissors. “If you cut a lock from the front, Muma or the hag might notice and then you’d be in for it. I’ll cut a piece for you from under the back where no one will see.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Well, I’ve had more practice trying to outsmart Muma than you have.” Marta handed her a small lock of golden hair, about three inches long. “Is that all right?”

  “Yes, it’s perfect.” From her sewing kit, Lillitha extracted a small scrap of thin ribbon, which she used to tie the hair in a circlet. “Give him this. To remember me by.”

  Marta slipped the circlet into her pocket as Lillitha opened her mouth to say something else.

  “Don’t thank me again,” Marta warned. “I’m doing this as much for myself as for you. Now wash your face or something. You look awful.”

  Lillitha nodded as Marta slipped through the tent flap. Knowing that Marta would see Scearce brought a small measure of peace to her mind. She heard her mother’s voice outside raised in a questioning tone.

  “Oh, Muma, she’s fast asleep! What do you want me to do, just sit there and watch her snore?”

  Lillitha scurried back to her cot. She curled into a tight ball and within moments, she was deeply asleep in the first dreamless doze since Yanna disappeared.

  ***

  As soon as she was far enough away from Lillitha for the sadness to fade, Marta cursed herself for offering to go on this fool’s errand. She had only the vaguest idea where to find Prince Scearce and no idea at all how she might get him alone. She even considering forgetting the whole thing and lying to Lilli, saying she had seen him and all was well, but she dismissed that idea almost as soon as it formed. She could no more lie to Lillitha than she could lie to herself. And as soon as she returned to the campsite, that horrible, unmitigated sadness would find her again and she’d regret not having kept her word. Marta had so few regrets that those she did have plagued her mightily.

  Then she saw him sitting at a table on the verandah of the White City Hostelry. He leaned far back in the wrought iron chair, one long, booted leg stretched before him, the other cocked at a ridiculous angle in order to fit under the table. It didn’t take any magic for Marta to know that he wasn’t listening to a word being said.

  He was good looking enough, she supposed, if you liked that sort of moony calf-eyed look. He was far too pretty to suit her, though. She spared a moment to think on Tomack’s rough mouth and heavy-lidded eyes, the callous twist of his lips beneath his beard.

  “Marta, child!” King Tullus was on his feet, waving to her. “What are you doing so far from camp and all alone?”

  “Muma sent me to look for Paul,” she lied quickly. “Have you seen him, sire?”

  Scearce barely looked up at her approach, though the other man at the table rose and bowed with a toothy grin showing through the bush of his gray beard. What was it about very old men, she thought with annoyance, that made them leer so blatantly at her? Did they think her blind?

  She picked her way through the crowded tables until she stood beside Scearce. The smell of wine was strong and she wondered if he were drunk.

  “No, I haven’t seen Paul since the archery tournament this morning,” Tullus said. “Fine soldier he’ll make. He took second prize, I’ll be bound. Didn’t know the little devil had it in him.”

  “And you, my lord Scearce? Did you take a prize as well?” Everyone had wagered on Scearce to take the cup and laurel in archery this year. His fame as a marksman with the bow was well known even beyond Jeptalla.

  “I’m afraid not.” Scearce lifted his goblet and drank a deep draught. “Tis a silly game and best left to boys Paul’s
age.”

  “Aye,” the older man spoke up with a laugh. “I lost a whole purse full of coin on his account.”

  “You must forgive my son,” Tullus said with a thunderous brow. Marta sensed not only his anger but embarrassment. “This is his first acquaintance with Shallanie wine. He has been overzealous in its enjoyment.”

  The young prince said nothing, only glowered into his cup.

  She nodded politely as the king asked after her family and how she was enjoying her first festival.

  “Might I beg a favor of you, sire? I have to find Paul, but I’m a bit frightened of wandering through all these people by myself. Do you think Scearce could come with me? Just until I find that brother of mine?”

  Tullus agreed readily, commenting sagely about the disreputable-looking thugs who always hung about any festival or market fair.

  The young man rose without protest. She could have sworn there was an insolent gleam in his eyes as offered her his arm.

  “You don’t have to be so nasty about it,” she said haughtily as soon as they were out of earshot. “I’ve a good mind not to give it you now.”

  “Give me what?” His words were crisp. He towered over her, sidestepping a ragtag swarm of children.

  “I thought you were drunk. You’re not, are you?”

  “You’re terribly rude. But no, I am not yet drunk. Though I hope to be by nightfall.”

  Marta felt him looking at her and knew he was comparing her to Lillitha. What did her sister see in this scrawny, arrogant, wine-sodden boy? Sorrow, like a slow contagious fever, seeped into her hand as it rested in the crook of his elbow. She jerked her hand away, doubly angry that she found herself feeling sorry for him. He was a miserable as Lillitha, and being a man, even more pathetic. She was angrier still to realize that Tomack would never pine for her like this.

  So this is love, then? Sweet Mother Leah, spare me.

  But neither would Tomack try to drown his love in a bottle. That was a coward’s choice. Beneath his gentleman’s exterior, she thought, Scearce was deeply flawed.

  “What are you going to give me? Or not give me? No matter. Suit yourself. I thought we were looking for Paul.”

  “I have a something for you. From Lillitha. Though at the moment, I can’t for the life of me figure out why I should give it to you.”

  The change in his features and demeanor was astounding. He seemed to pale and flush at the same time. He grabbed her arm, more roughly than he’d intended, perhaps, but she cried out just the same.

  “What is it? Give it to me!”

  She pulled away and rubbed the bruise on her forearm, frowning petulantly at him until he remembered himself.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He swept sweat-dampened hair back from his brow and licked his lips. “But please, for the love of Oman, tell me—”

  She put a hand into her pocket and drew out the locket of hair tied with a ribbon. She thrust it at him.

  “There. She wanted me to give you this and bid you forgive her for the trouble she has caused you.”

  “Trouble? What—” His features cleared and he seemed on the edge of laughing with relief. “You mean all those questions from the cadia? Oh, that was nothing! Tell her I would suffer a thousand such interviews with the Shallan himself for another moment in her company!”

  He pressed the severed curl to his lips, then put it to his nose and inhaled deeply. Marta thought she might be sick.

  “So you love her, too?”

  He did not even hear the weary disgust in her words.

  “I can think of nothing but her, it’s driving me mad— do you mean to say, she loves me as well?”

  Marta nodded, her lips pursed tightly.

  “I had never hoped— oh, Marta, you’ve made me so happy!” To her surprise, he swept her into his arms and swung her around as if she were made of straw, planting a kiss on her forehead before he let her go once more.

  “You’re a mad man, that’s what you are.” Marta straightened her skirts as she glanced around to see if anyone had observed his strange display. “Stark raving bonkers.”

  “Why?” He grinned, white teeth catching the slanting sunlight. “Because I love your sister, calla Marta? Or because she loves me?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter one whit whether you love each other or not. Don’t be a dolt. She’s still consecratia and you’re still betrothed to someone else.”

  “How did you know—”

  “Oh, never mind. It’s in the back of your mind, plain as day. Someone named Toyva that you’re supposed to meet tomorrow.”

  “It’s not settled, not yet,” he murmured. “That was something arranged before. It doesn’t matter now. I’ll have no wife if I cannot have Lillitha.”

  He tugged at his left hand and pulled off a thick ring of gold.

  “Give this to her. Along with my love.”

  “Aye, I’ll give it her. For all the good it will do either of you.”

  Chapter 14: The Sisters of the Shadows

  Excerpt from The Secret Histories of the Cadia by Thorie Lugay, Ph.D.R.

  Modern readers have shown an insatiable interest in the Cadia Nicte, or the Sisters of the Shadows, but records about this secret sect are few. The Nicte’s history was purely oral, never written down, and has died with them.

  We do find scattered bits of information in the personal journals of the dedres; to no other person or persons did the Nicte answer, and even then it appears that their original charter allowed them to function nearly autonomously. Cadia-dedre Kara, who served from the 45th Bear until the 53rd Dove, was responsible for the origin of the secret branch after an attempted assassination on both Kara herself and the shallana breda.

  “The bene priests have their spies and warriors, while we have only ourselves,” Kara wrote. “It is time we sharpened our own blades rather than wait patiently for others to defend us. That womanhood has become synonymous with frailty and victimization is an abomination not to be borne.”

  Kara hand-picked seventeen women of sharp intelligence and superior physical strength. Among them were several guilty of murder. Though these women had only killed in battle or self-defense, their families or sovereigns exiled them to the order. The dedre was an outspoken opponent of the Omani custom of casting out women who took a life, even if the consequence of not doing so would have resulted in their own rape or murder.

  The first leader of these sisters—the Prima-Nicte—was Nelwyn of Sealles. The cadia literally saved Nelwyn from being staked as a witch. Having been violated by her stepbrother when she was but fourteen, Nelwyn spent the next three summers studying folklore and herbs to find an excruciatingly lethal poison with which to exact her revenge. When it looked as if her violator would miraculously recover from the poisoning, she took up a sword and ripped him open from neck to groin while he still lay in his sickbed. She also killed the two men who tried to stop her, one of them her stepfather.

  Nelwyn’s mother handed her over to the Vidor of Sealles. The records of Nelwyn’s trial include her mother’s testimony that her daughter must have been bewitched to do such treacherous violence. The cadia persuaded the vidor to place the young woman in their charge, with the understanding that she would never set foot in that province again.

  Under Nelwyn’s leadership, the Nicte studied the physical differences in strength between men and women. Eventually they developed the now-familiar jaharal techniques of hand-to-hand combat, which are today taught to all girls beginning in their first summer of grammar school. In its infancy, however, jaharal was practiced in great secrecy; the very idea that these techniques enabled a woman to stand against all but the most powerful man would have been viewed as some kind of sorcery by the general population.

  The Nicte studied poisons as thoroughly as the apothecas studied healing herbs, though there is little to suggest they ever made much use of this knowledge. The purpose of the Nicte seemed to lie in preparedness rather than overt action. They forged a network of sp
ies throughout the realm, siphoning information back to the cadia in Omana Teret. They studied military campaigns and battle strategies, weapons and their construction, geography and languages. In short, they studied all the things men had studied over the centuries. Only they did it in secrecy.

  Eleven members of the cadialana, including Osane, sat in chairs and on couches scattered around the dedre’s study. The twelfth, Berene, sat behind the dedre’s desk; as secretarie to the assembly, she was bent over her papers, recording the minutes carefully, and rarely spoke. Koesta, too, was present, as the Prima Nicte was always privy to the meetings of the cadialana. The twelve women in this room were the only ones who understood her real purpose.

  The informality of the gathering was deliberately misleading. A formal announcement had been posted stating that the cadialana’s caucus would be held tomorrow evening in the Great Hall, a ploy that Osane hoped would keep the chancellor’s spies and even the bene from snooping around this too-small meeting place on this night. Such games wearied her, but they were necessary if truth were to be spoken.

  “So will we meet again tomorrow night?” Neska of Tira asked; she did not see the rolling of eyes from those seated behind her. The young cadia was a philosophe, after all; everyone knew the philos could debate the meaning of human consciousness for a thousand hours in ten languages, but they couldn’t navigate their way across the Bridge of Omana Teret without a map. “Otherwise, they’ll know we tricked them—”

  “By tomorrow night it won’t matter,” Koesta said patiently. The cadia-nicte appeared crow-like in her black robes, perched upon the edge of a straight-backed chair that had been dragged in from another room just for this meeting. “Our business will be done. And they can hardly accuse us openly of tricking them when the only way they’d know whether or not the announced meeting actually occurred is if they were spying on us, now can they?”

  Osane, comfortably slumped in her favorite armchair beside the fire, smiled. This particular misinformation had been Koesta’s idea. She had a fine mind for subterfuge and no love for the bene or the chancellor, so it gave her great satisfaction to play such pranks on both.