Braid of Sand

by Alicia Gaile

  Anger and shock had kept her from thinking too hard about the day’s events. With nothing but the distant, steady crash of the waves on the shore and the soft ripples she made any time she moved, there was no blocking out the terrible clawing truth. She had failed to protect the Temple. The Tower and gardens were in ruins and it was all her fault.

  The first choking sob came so fast she didn’t have time to muffle the sound. She was ready for the second though, and she jammed her knuckle into her mouth.

  “Priestess?” Thamar stood on the other side of the screen. “I’ve left some clothes out for you. Take as long as you need.” Then came the scuff and rustle of the others moving. The door creaked and then closed with a soft click. That still left Castien. Raziela glared at her knees poking above the surface of the bath water. Now would be the perfect opportunity to pay him back for destroying everything. He was all but incapacitated already anyway. She had never felt so hurt and betrayed. She’d shared her home with him and offered him her trust and he’d thrown it away as if it was worthless.

  Raziela stayed in the bath water long after her skin wrinkled and pruned.

  When she emerged from behind the screen in a long white gown that brushed the top of her toes, Castien was asleep. He slept on his back, hands twisted in the sheets, no doubt still suffering the after effects of the findolaprin.

  “It wasn’t his fault, you know.”

  Raziela whirled, fists raised. Thamar sat in a chair in the corner. How she’d missed her, Raziela didn’t know, but the other woman moved with the same eerie silence Castien sometimes did. She kept her fists raised a moment longer in a clear message for Thamar not to sneak up on her again. The other woman grinned and came to join her in looking at the bed.

  “He was there the first time the Temple fell too, did you know?”

  A fist closed around Raziela’s heart and squeezed. Of course he was.

  “Get that look off your face, Priestess. He’s not the monster you think he is, and if you try to hurt him you’ll have to get past me first.”

  Raziela arched a brow and studied Thamar out of the corner of her eye. While she had no doubt the other woman was formidable, she felt confident that she wouldn’t be much of an issue. Still, her protectiveness gave Raziela pause.

  “He destroyed my home. Twice. Why shouldn’t I despise him?”

  “Because both times it fell he was there trying to protect you.” Thamar took a step back as if she’d just had a revelation, then she gave a small laugh and shook her head in Castien’s direction.

  “Herodes ordered the raid on the Temple. He sent the boys from the Academy because they were only going up against a few unarmed priestesses. It was meant to be a training exercise. Some of the older boys saw it differently.”

  Raziela rubbed her arms as goosebumps whispered across her skin. She didn’t want to hear this, and yet a part of her needed to know.

  “He was only fifteen. I doubt he would have been there at all if he weren’t Herodes son. Their mission was to just confiscate the food from the gardens—that’s all—and Cas never loses sight of the mission. So while the others got distracted by what was happening inside, he went out to the gardens to do what he’d been sent there to do.”

  Raziela went very still.

  “He doesn’t talk about it much, but he said when he went outside he found one of the priestesses. She ran from him and knocked into a candleholder that pinned her to the ground. He tried to pull it off her...”

  With just a few words, Raziela was eight years old again and trapped beneath the candle holder while the raider stood over her, one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other reaching toward her. Behind him, the sky exploded in a blinding flash. The heat was terrifying. So was finding herself weightless and hurtling through the air. Then everything stopped and she was lying on the flagstones in the Great Mother’s Garden and Naiara was there welcoming her with open arms.

  “That’s how he got his scar.” Thamar dropped her voice to little more than a whisper.

  Raziela’s heart cowered in shame behind her spine. How many times had she admired the delicate, branching markings and wondered how they were caused?

  “No one knows how he survived. The blast was so powerful it nearly brought down the entire hill. What with rockslides and all the dust in the air it was hours before they found him wedged into a crevice behind some bushes with that hideous mark burned into his arm.” Thamar’s nose wrinkled, and Raziela stirred. Even knowing where it came from, she couldn’t help but find a strange beauty in the flowing lines. She glowered at Thamar and stepped away from her.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “She marked him, Priestess, and ever since that day his life’s been hell.”

  The look on the old woman’s face outside when she’d seen the scar flashed through Raziela’s memory.

  “What did they do?”

  “No one knew whether Naiara had spared him out of favor or marked him as her enemy. In the days that followed, she called down every disaster you can imagine. Earthquakes, mudslides, blistering heat. She even unleashed one of her monsters into the harbor to destroy every ship that tried to sail in or out. Do you remember the Firuze Forest? Gone. Burnt to a crisp in a fire that destroyed everything south of Temple Hill except for a cluster of trees that up until a few days ago was the known refuge of thieves and traitors to the crown.”

  “And him?”

  “The worst part of all that wasn’t the disasters themselves but the fear that came after. There was no place for reason or compassion. Everyone just wanted an end to Naiara’s reign of destruction. Enough people got together and demanded that Cas needed to be sacrificed to Naiara to win back her favor—the son of the King for the lives of all her Daughters of Light. Either she’d show him favor again, or she’d finish what she’d started. Lady Pomona refused, but Herodes couldn’t bear to appear weak by being afraid to do what needed to be done, so he had his men take Cas from his bed in the middle of the night and abandon him in the Scorching Wastes. When Lady Pomona found out the next morning, she walked out of the palace and refused to go back.” Thamar gave a small nod of approval. Raziela sighed.

  “Well, he’s still here, so I guess she forgave him.”

  “Oh no. Naiara never found him. Itzal did.”

  “Itzal?”

  “Cas will deny it if you ask him outright, but if you know enough of the old stories you’ll recognize the signs. An old man found him, pulled him to shelter, gave him enough food to survive, and sent him back after making him promise he’d never stop fighting.”

  “And people were still afraid of him?”

  “He came back changed. After a betrayal like that, how could he not be? Even Lady Pomona couldn’t convince him to trust her after that. Eventually, he went north into the mountains and even though most seasoned trappers don’t dare brave those lands anymore, he survived up there on his own for three years. When he came back, he’d put a leash on his demons, but he was even more dangerous than he’d been before.”

  “Apparently, he didn’t learn his lesson because he just brought down the Temple a second time, and this time for real.” Raziela shuddered, more from Castien’s past than the loss of her tower.

  Thamar regarded her with a level stare that dared Raziela to argue a point she knew wasn’t true.

  “He raced back there to stop Kephas from hurting you. If you don’t believe that then you aren’t as smart as I think you are.” With that, Thamar turned on her heel and went back to her seat against the wall. Raziela remained where she was, oddly deflated.

  Somehow, the idea that Castien hadn’t betrayed her on purpose left her with a strange sense of disappointment. It gave her no real target to vent her fury at. She didn’t know Kephas, and while he was the one responsible, as well as King Herodes, she had no personal connection to either of them. She might as well rant and rave at the weeds for growing in her garden.

  “Lady Pomona said you could stay in apartment ten. It�
��s two rooms down and has a nice view of the coastline.” Thamar grabbed a large, black bag, which Raziela knew held the rest of her hair.

  “Where are you going?” She couldn’t keep the accusation out of her voice. Thamar grimaced, but she tossed her braids over her shoulder and met Raziela’s stare without flinching.

  “I’m going to see what price I can get for all this. You can come with me if you like.” Her tone didn’t encourage Raziela to tag along, but the opportunity to leave the house was preferable to being alone under a strange roof with people she didn’t know whether she should trust.

  “I’ll come.”

  THEY DIDN’T ENCOUNTER anyone else on their way out of Waverly Hall. Raziela breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure how she would have handled the situation if Lady Pomona had tried to prevent her from leaving before Castien woke up.

  Outside, the stench of the ocean was overwhelming. Raziela covered her nose with her hand and blinked back tears.

  Thamar walked with sure, purposeful strides. She drew attention with her striking features and confident demeanor. Raziela tried to ignore the looks that followed her as well. The white gown was not the best choice to blend in, as everyone else on the streets wore bright colors in thick, heavy fabrics that were at odds with the pounding rays of sun that beat down. Raziela formed a visor with her hand and looked up. Was the Great Mother looking down on her?

  Thamar turned down a side street and approached a striped curtain strung up to mask a hole in a concrete wall.

  “Evening, girls. Is Mama Dayo in?”

  When Raziela followed her through the opening, she had to stoop because the ceiling was so low. Inside, seated cross-legged on mats woven from palm fronds were girls and women of various ages combing one another’s hair. Most of them had shoulder-length braids or longer, but two had severely-cut, chin-length hair. They stared glassy-eyed into space while the others ran brushes through their shorn locks, clucking sympathetically.

  “Mama Dayo can’t feed another mouth,” snapped a girl with brown, curling hair that fell past her shoulders. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, but she glared at Raziela as if she was willing to back up her statement with her fists.

  “I’m not bringing another mouth to feed. Relax. I’m here to sell.” Thamar waved her away.

  The girl’s face filled with even more disdain, if that was possible.

  Her hair isn’t long enough,” she said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Bring her back when she’s got another two inches or so.”

  “Funny, I wasn’t aware Mama Dayo took you on to be her secretary, Sirin. Does she know how eager you are to run off her potential donors just so you can keep your place as her current favorite? You may have pretty curls, but that’s about all that head of yours seems to be good for. Now, where’s Mama Dayo?”

  “I’m here.” A woman in her mid-forties appeared with her head wrapped in a bright purple turban. Her features were so slathered with makeup that if it weren’t for the changing comically exaggerated expressions, Raziela might have thought she wore a mask.

  “Thamar! Always a pleasure to see you, dear. I trust none of my girls was giving you any trouble. I assure you I will deal with them accordingly if so.” She stared hard at Sirin.

  “Mama Dayo, once you see what I’ve brought you, you’re going to want to build a shrine in my honor,” Thamar said. With a flourish, she opened her bag and drew out a section of Raziela’s immense braid.

  Mama Dayo took the end with an appreciative murmur about the thickness and texture, but her painted face grew into a clownish parody of shock as the braid kept coming.

  “By the Goddess! This is extraordinary!”

  “It’s impossible!” Sirin jumped up. Raziela eyed her with dislike, but the girl brushed past her to snatch a handful of the braid.

  “Mama Dayo, you know it’s impossible anyone grew all this! It would take a lifetime and there’s not a single gray strand. It must be synthetic, or another experiment from SIAR Labs.”

  “I assure you, it’s all very real.” Thamar didn’t elaborate. She just waited for Mama Dayo to rub the strands between her fingers.

  “Do you mind?” the woman asked, withdrawing a silver lighter from her pocket. Before Thamar or Raziela could answer, she plucked a few hairs from the end of the braid and lit them on fire. Raziela swallowed a protest, but Mama Dayo gave it a sniff and then sighed with astonishment.

  “If it’s synthetic, then it’s the most convincing counterfeit I’ve ever seen. If I can’t tell the difference, no client of mine ever will. But I’d stake my reputation that this is the real thing.”

  “That’s over twenty-seven feet of untreated human hair. The finest quality you’ll find on any head in Phalyra.” Thamar sent a pointed look at the teenager, who stuck her nose in the air and folded her arms.

  “I came to you first because we’re such old friends. And because we’re such good friends I know you’ll give me a fair price and won’t dream of trying to shortchange me. We all know Russo’s a pig, but he pays top dollar, so...”

  “Now, now, now, there’s no need for threats. I’m sure we can work something out that will be satisfactory for both of us. After all, you’ve just brought me close to thirty feet of spun gold. Please, sit down.” She ushered Thamar to a seat at a low, round wooden table. Thamar clasped her hands behind her head and rested her ankles on the table with a catlike smile.

  “So, talk to me...”

  The first amount Mama Dayo suggested made Raziela sway with shock, but Thamar arched an eyebrow.

  “I treat my enemies with more respect than that.”

  Unnoticed, Raziela edged around the wall toward the doorway through which Mama Dayo had emerged. It was covered with another set of curtains. She tugged it aside to see a workroom filled with a dozen worktables where men and women sat squinting at the heads of hair they were painstakingly recreating with hooks, needles, and innumerable strands of hair.

  “Mama Dayo runs the best factory in the wig makers guild. She came up with the idea of taking in orphans to harvest their hair in exchange for food. I thought you’d appreciate that,” Thamar explained as they walked back to Waverly Hall.

  “I didn’t believe it would be worth so much.”

  “I know. It’s obscene.” She sounded gleeful for a moment before sobering. “You aren’t still angry, are you?”

  “They will get more use out of it than I will, and I suppose if you get the satisfaction of lining your purse, it’s better than leaving it behind where no one can benefit from it.”

  “Priestess, it’s your hair. If you want the money it’s yours.”

  “No. It would be wrong to profit from the breaking of my vow.”

  “I understand.” Thamar nodded, but she couldn’t disguise her relief.

  Lady Pomona was seated in her rocking chair waiting for them when they got back. The sun was beginning to set, bathing her in an amber glow. Her lips pursed when she saw them and they drew together under her gimlet eye.

  “Is something wrong, My Lady?” Thamar asked, executing a quick bow.

  “My son was not pleased when he woke to find out the two of you were gone. When I informed him that you were both free to come and go—and endanger yourselves—as you saw fit, he let his concern for you override his common sense. It was only my maternal concern for his well being that prevented me from giving him another crack on the skull to remind him who he was speaking to.”

  Thamar tried and failed to hide her smile.

  “That being said,” Lady Pomona rose with slow dignity, “I trust you had a good reason for risking exposure.”

  “We had some business to attend to, but it’s nothing that would give anyone any cause for concern.”

  “See that you remember it’s not just your own lives you risk while you hide out here.”

  Lady Pomona ushered them back upstairs. Castien lay propped against the pillows. His eyes raked Thamar and Raziela the moment they walked in, but whatever worry
his mother had spoken of was long gone from his stare.

  His mother went to the foot of the large four-poster bed where a chest sat beneath a purple velvet pillow. She set that aside and began rummaging around through the chests’ contents until she lifted out a lavender garment and laid it with care across the foot of the bed.

  “Now, when you go before the King tomorrow, I suggest you wear this. It will help remind him—and yourself—who he’s dealing with.”

  Seeing as it was meant to be for her, Raziela edged closer to see that it was a pale purple festival gown of a high priestess.

  Memories of her temple sisters came flooding back. Dancing by the fires and the feasts they held to celebrate the Great Mother at the turning of the seasons. She whirled to look at Lady Pomona, still hugging the robes against her.

  “You were an initiate of the Goddess?”

  “Yes. It is easy to have faith when things are going well and there were many of us in those days. It was at the Feast of Naiara where I met Castien’s father. I was leading the fire dance, and he was one of the champions from the games held in her honor.” Her eyes went a little out of focus as she looked within to find the memories. “That was the gown I was wearing for the ritual.” She sent Castien a searching look, but he just folded his arms and said nothing. From the set of his mouth, Raziela guessed that his headache still troubled him.

  The skirt was parted into long panels that were meant to drape the ground. Several inches taller than Lady Pomona, on Raziela, they would fall to just above her ankles. There was a gold belt of interlocking loops that went around the waist. Lady Pomona removed a matching headdress and Raziela grimaced, wishing she could have worn the rose pearl headdress Gursel had given to her. If that didn’t impress the King, then nothing would.

  “Mother, do you still have the knives father gave you at your wedding?”

  She frowned at him.

  “You seem determined to flaunt her as if she were my daughter.”

  “I’m sending a message. He knows your views regarding the Goddess. He also knows that she is the last remaining priestess of Naiara’s Temple. If you stand behind her, it could make him reconsider his options.”