Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (20 page)

“Why do you ask? What did she say?” Harryet says, following me through the solar, past the fire pit in the centre of the room and into my bedchamber. I toss aside the pile of soft down pillows and furs—there is no need for them in this sticky heat—and sit on the edge of the gently swinging bed to remove my sandals.

“I have spent so much time thinking about the people of Tibuta and my duty to do right by them. I have never given any thought to what it must be like to be queen. It is such a terrible responsibility. Sometimes I think it would be easier to be a peasant working the fields, far from all this worry of war and succession.”

Harryet sits on the kline opposite and narrows her eyes at me, wondering at this change in direction. “A peasant is affected by the worry of war and succession. She fears what a change in monarch will mean to her taxes, whether she ought to worry about her enlisted daughters.”

“And yet she does not have to make the final decision. She is simply subject to a higher power that will determine how she lives.”

“We are all subject to a higher power,” Harryet says.

“We are. The merchant is subject to the margin between his profit and loss, the teacher is subject to the whims of her students and their disposition to learn, the miner to the stone’s willingness to break…” I know this is not what she meant.

“And every woman of Tibuta is subject to the gods’ will. Let me attest to the fact that it is harder for the peasant because she is powerless when it comes to things like war. She must rely on mighty rulers such as your mother to lead accordingly and if they fail, she becomes their victim. All a peasant can do is have faith.”

“You are right, Harry. And yet sometimes I wonder whether the gods have abandoned me. Gnosis give me wisdom. My atrama is not clean, I fear.”

“What did the high priestess say?”

Without offering an answer I move to the alabaster dressing table, sit on the three-legged stool in front of the obsidian mirror and look at my reflection. I am acutely aware of my appearance: lips that I wish were fuller, black hair that I wish was lighter, my pale skin that I wish was darker. I look too much like my mother.

Harryet stands behind me, picks up a hairbrush made from manatee whiskers and runs it through my hair. “You must trust in your judgement and know that the gods are with you.”

“And what if I wanted to leave Tibuta?”

“You mustn’t.”

“Why not?”

“We need you.”

“Would you go?” I say. “There are hundreds of people leaving for the mainland. Would you join them?”

“I belong here with you,” she says, her hands resting on my shoulders.

I look at her in the mirror. “But what if you didn’t have me to worry about?”

She shifts uncomfortably, knowing that to answer is like admitting she does not enjoy my company. She takes her time placing the brush between a broken arrow flint and my old bronze dagger with the ivory handle.

“I know you would never leave me, Harry. But just
suppose
it came to revolution? Would you leave?” She sits on the edge of the kline, looks up at the ceiling and wraps that long strand of blond hair around her finger.

“I suppose I would. If it was no longer safe to stay. I would go somewhere where there is plenty of food and trees, where the weather is mild. I would find a daroon and I would have children. I would like six, ideally, three boys and three girls, may Heritia bless me. I want a garden with herbs, all sorts like marjoram and pineapple-scented sage. Something simple, away from the palace.” She blushes, realising she has revealed much about her private ambition.

“It would be nice, wouldn’t it, to have a place of your own, to live a simple life? I think you and the rebels have a lot in common.” She looks aghast and I jump in to add: “I do not mean to suggest you support the Shark’s Teeth. Far from it. Only that I think they riot because they have had enough of hunger. They long for the same things as you do: a small plot of land to call their own, the ability to sustain themselves, their family, acknowledgement, freedom from fear,
faith
in those who lead them. They want to know that their monarch is in control and can stop the Tempest.”

“I do not want all those things.”

“But some of them, surely?”

“Some,” she says, unwilling to admit she can relate to the Shark’s Teeth. “But I would not take it by force. Liberty is a state of mind achieved through prayer and commitment to something higher than yourself.” She twirls a piece of hair. “Why all this talk of leaving, Verne? Why torment yourself with trying to think like a Shark’s Tooth? They are barbarians, murderers. Won’t you tell me what Maud said?”

The sound of Bolt’s spear against the floor out in the hallway indicates that my dinner has arrived. Harryet leaves for a moment and returns with a tray. On it is a single bread roll and a cup of water. I roll my eyes, scoff down the bread roll and take long gulps of water. With mouth full I say, “Will you pray with me?” and kneel by the shrine to the First Mother, a nude statue of the goddess with smoke billowing from her mouth and a snake coiled around her thigh. I light an incense stick and place it in a gold urn. I close my eyes and focus my mind on my atrama by looking at the space between my eyes. Harryet hoists her skirt and kneels beside me. I take the wooden club and strike the gong. As the noise reverberates around the room, I whisper to my friend, “What I am about to tell you—it could get a lot of people in trouble so you must not speak of it to anyone, do you understand?”

She nods. I strike the gong and tell her all I have learnt recently, about my mother and about the high priestess’s relationship to the Shark’s Teeth. “While it comes as a surprise to me I cannot ignore it.” I strike the gong. “Maud suggests I accept the Shark’s Teeth’s support to take the throne that way. Harry—” I strike the gong “—I am tempted. It is as if a terrible force has entered my body.”

“You must not.”

I hit the gong again. “My mother has been stealing my gift, Harry. She has no intention of giving up the throne. I could put an end to the violence and focus our attention on the Tempest. You know my mother does not believe in Typhon or his last creation though the high priestess has proclaimed it true.” As I stack reason upon reason, unable or unwilling to see any alternative, my pride swells and I float higher and higher into the air. “It makes sense for me to take the throne.”

“You must not…It is upsetting that she will not acknowledge the Tempest and it is true, there are some who say she has lost the faith—” I hit the gong “—but the First Mother’s blood runs through her veins and she is family. You owe her your loyalty. She is your
mother
, for Heritia’s sake, and you her
daughter
!”

“Harry, I know but—”

“She is holy, Verne. Do not forget it. She is a descendent of Shea.”

“Yes, but—”

“With all due respect, your highness, you must not.”

I think for a while, sitting with my hands clasped in front of me. “While she lives I will not have my gift,” I say.

“Do you hunger for power?”

“No.” I hit the gong in anger. “I care only for Tibuta.”

“Then you must pay your dues. The throne will come to you if you are worthy. You must not overthrow your mother. You are not a monster, not like Ligeia.”

It is like she has struck me with a pin. I burst and come crashing to the ground, my selfishness revealed. “You urge me to do and say nothing?” I say in disbelief. I am hurt, and embarrassed that she has revealed my weakness.

“Not nothing. But not this.”

“You are right.” I say slowly, my mind milling over her opinion. “And yet the high priestess is right too.”

“So what will you do?”

“I am sorry, Harry,” I say, getting to my feet. I offer her my hand. “I must do it. There is no other way.” A tear runs down her rosy cheek despite her smile. She nods again and again. I wrap my friend in my arms and hold her to me. “This is my decision. The guilt lies with me.”

“Whatever your decision you have my support. I have faith you know what you are doing.”

But do I know what I am doing? This thought plagues me as she puts me to bed and blows out the lamps. If not, then poor Harryet will suffer with me.

Drayk stands with one foot resting on an aerial root in the filigree shade of a fig tree. He has his back to me and yet I can picture his face as though it were a portrait hanging on my wall. I know each brush stroke, each daub of paint: his grey eyes are serious, a thoughtful frown creating two crevices between them, his skin like honey from hours in the sun.

He is with his friends Carmyl and Alexis, who sit with their legs crossed looking up at the immortal with adoration in their eyes. Not love—no, there is no need for me to be envious—but respect.

Their conversation comes to me on the impatient wind, caressing my cheek before flying down the Walk, through the cloisters and colonnades and out of the palace. “The queen has demanded we double our efforts in readiness. We will need women on every aspect of the visitors’ apartments. The emissary from Whyte is anticipated any day now, depending on the weather. Petra will send a convoy to meet him at the Seawall with a score of her best women, who will ensure his safe passage through the districts. Carmyl, you and your hoplites will take the first watch along the south terrace. Alexis will take the royal and state apartments.”

Alexis sees me first. “Your highness.”

Drayk turns, his eyes lighting up. He quickly dismisses his friends and I watch them stride towards the barracks.

“Will you walk with me?” I say and he nods, keeping his eyes on the earth.

For me, time seems to move more slowly when I am with Drayk. I ignore the hoplites standing off to the side, watching us, and relish every moment. I examine the marble of his chin, the delicate line of his mouth. We speak together:

“Verne, there is something I want to tell you—”

“I have to—”

We laugh.

“You go first,” Drayk says, face flushed.

“I’m sorry I missed training yesterday. I was in the Seawall.” It seems like as good a place to start as any.

“What on earth for?”

“I snuck out to the temple during the riots.” Before he can say anything, I push on, “Maud and I discovered something…it really worries me and yet…I don’t know what to do…” I chew my thumbnail and spit it out on the ground. The hoplites are still watching us so I take his arm and lead him out of earshot before saying, “I am concerned, Drayk: the high priestess talks of treason.”

“What? What did she say? Start at the beginning.”

So I do. I take my time going over every detail. I start with my first visit to the high priestess when I was five and my mother’s insistence that I lie to my father. I tell him about Callirhoe—to my relief he accepts my assumption that she is the bird from the holy texts with a stern silence—and explain how I was suspicious that my disqualification from the tournament pointed to my mother. I tell him of my determination to speak to Maud Lias and my mother’s equal determination to stop me. I describe the sense of dread I experienced upon reaching the temple, the way the gate was so heavily guarded. The storm with no rain, an omen. Finally I reach the part that I cannot avoid. “Maud tested me to see if my mother is taking my gift and she is.” I glance at him, fearing his reprisal, but say it anyway. “She wants me to accept support from the Shark’s Teeth and overthrow the queen.”

Drayk simply runs his hand through the sandy stubble on his chin. “I feared this day would come. The threads are starting to come undone.”

“What?” I gesture for him to continue. Leaving the main path, we pass through a narrow passageway that forces us close together. I am aware of Drayk beside me: large, burning with heat and life. He sighs heavily.

“I am not surprised the high priestess wants you to depose your mother. You would make a valuable ally for the Temple and if you were to succeed in taking the throne—I imagine Maud wants you to restore her power to what it once was or, better still, give her certain concessions that would extend her reach.”

“She said she wants to stop the Tempest.”

“That too,” he says, glancing at me then quickly looking away. “Your mother’s unwillingness to acknowledge the Tempest is destroying Tibuta. I believe she is using ancient remedies in an attempt to prolong her life and has no intention of relinquishing the throne.” We pass beneath a footbridge connecting two buildings. “The fact that the queen’s enemies believe in the old monster Typhon and his fifth storm is reason enough for you to do the same.”

“Well if you believe it, it
must
be true,” I say sarcastically. “You are an all-powerful, all-knowing immortal after all.”

“Not all-powerful,” he says with a grin that does not reach his eyes. I pull him out of the way as another two soldiers march towards the kitchen. We huddle beneath an awning and wait for them to pass. A thousand thoughts flash across his face as he struggles with his decision. “You know I live to serve you,” he says, taking my hands. “I act for the good of Tibuta and for the good of Longfield. You know that.”

“I know.”

“And you know I care a lot about your family and it breaks my heart that it has come to this. Your mother took me in when I was a child. She taught me many things for which I am grateful. Surely you realise I would never do her any harm unless I thought it was entirely necessary.” He drops my hands. “I care about the people, Verne. All of them: slaves, helots, freewomen…Your mother hasn’t the strength…” His voice trails off and he runs his hand through his hair. “Please, Verne, you must realise that treason is so far from what I had ever imagined for myself but I see that you are a far better choice for Tibuta. I want to follow you even if that means betrayal.”