Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (26 page)

“The fire is evil. It lives under the earth. To be of the air, light, omnipotent, flying above, that would be a true blessing. But we have no gift at all, so we can only assume that our atrama is blank, that we will never receive our water. Or moonsblood, in your case. We are flawed.”

I feel guilty for being so cruel and I want to make it up to him. I know I must make some gesture to demonstrate that he is forgiven.

“Speak for yourself.”

Hero’s eyes go wide. “What? Have you had a sign?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“You know I can.”

We hesitate. Our wounds are too recent to be so easily forgotten. “I have had some sign of it.”

“Truly?”

“The high priestess tested me and…under the right circumstances, I got my gift.” I want to tell him that my mother is responsible for these “circumstances” but I hold my tongue.

“No,” he says in disbelief.

“Yes. You should try it. Now, are you ready?”

“Is it the Fire?” he says and I laugh.

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Hero nods, fighting with his desire to interrogate me further. Perhaps he realises I will not tell him the truth or maybe he accepts there are some things he is better off not knowing. Whatever the case, he does not push. We circle one another like sharks but he is distracted, thinking, perhaps, of the many ways I might be lying to him.

The stadium gate opens and we look up, a flock of flamingos turning their pink necks as one. The immortal stands in the stadium’s entrance. His combat uniform is immaculate; he is ready for battle. He scans the crowd, sees me and crosses the white sand that separates us. I am aware of my peers’ upturned eyes, their ears straining and Odell’s whooping. From the corner of my eye I observe Bolt leaving his position in the bleachers.

I am unable to control my delight.

Odell’s previous comment taunts me—“No doubt you were thinking about Drayk”—and I feel an odd sensation: heat, embarrassment, lust. True, I have loved the immortal for as long as I can remember but I gave up on that long ago. Anyway, Drayk has become such a good friend I’m not sure I can risk what we have.

When Drayk’s face comes into focus I am surprised by what I witness: intense concern, fear even. “Your highness,” he says in a voice too serious to ignore.

“Drayk. What is it?” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. Realising what I have done, I snatch back my hand. Drayk smiles for the crowd’s benefit and speaks through gritted teeth.

“Your mother wants to speak to you at once.” His words are formal, curt, loud enough for my cousins to hear. “Someone has arrived from Bidwell Heights. A woman.”

“Who?”

“She did not say.”

I examine his stormy eyes for a hint of joy but find none. I tell him to wait a moment, excuse myself from training, and ask him to escort me out of the stadium. Bolt takes up the rear.

We do not speak until we reach the safety of the Lower Ward. A row of date palms wave at the sun. “Hero didn’t tell my mother,” I say then recount my conversation with my cousin.

“Who then?” Drayk says when I come to the end.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

The afternoon air is pregnant with rain that will not fall. Drayk removes his helmet and puts it under his arm. His eyes rest on my face, which is encrusted with salt and grime. He sighs.

“What is it?”

“It’s this woman. Arriving out of the blue. Verne I have a terrible feeling…” There is an uninterrupted silence, the sort that creates a thick, impregnable wall.

“You have a feeling…?”

“Nothing. At least I hope it is nothing. Forgive me,” he says, bowing.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. At least I think it is. I fear you will have worse things to worry about than someone spying on you. You better not keep your mother waiting.”

I am hurt though I cannot be sure why

Early on, my parents walked on equal footing. My father had no reason to doubt his position. He was loved and that was all that mattered. But it is apparent to me now that my father’s time is of little importance. Unlike my mother whose time can be measured in terms of the number of soldiers she has armed and the weapons she has commissioned, my father is a daroon, nothing more. His service—running around after the queen, grovelling, soothing—goes unseen and is therefore inconsequential. It disgusts me to see a person so degraded. He sits on a stool below my mother. He is her silent defender, crouching low on his haunches and growling at anyone who gets too close. And as I sit beside him I promise it will be different with my daroon.

“Hello, angelfish,” my father says, nudging me affectionately as I take the stool beside him.

“What is all that about?” I say, pointing my chin towards the door. Thera’s war-wits stand outside it. They have no weapons—other armies are not permitted to be armed inside the palace Wall—but war-wits do not need them. They can kill with their hands.

“Thera likes to show her might to remind us that the districts still hold power in Tibuta,” he says, grinning.

I glance at my mother. She is positioned at the centre of the Chamber of Petitions on a low timber throne beneath a carved timber canopy and thick drapery encrusted with diamonds. She wears a simple gold crown—she means to convey to her guests that their visit is trivial, their presence not worth the effort of adorning herself with jewels.

There are no windows in the Chamber of Petitions but a narrow canal runs around its perimeter and cools the air as it flows through tiny holes in the base of each wall. Gelesia has taken a spot on the floor. She sits with her spindly legs splayed out in front of her and fans herself with her shawl. She has leaves in her hair. She turns and smiles at me, “Hello, Verne.”

“Gelesia,” I say, nodding. I have always liked the mad Gelesia though, in my opinion, the world is divided into two types of people: leaders and followers. She is the latter.

“Are you well?” she says.

My response is distracted. I say “yes” with my mouth but my eyes travel across the room to a woman I do not recognise. I am familiar with the colours she wears: black and gold, Tibutan colours. She is beautiful but in a terrible way. She holds her head high, a smirk masking whatever depth she might have. Her mean eyes are lined in thick kohl. She wears a gold band in her long curly hair, not quite a crown but almost. I run my dirt-encrusted hands over my own short hair to smooth it. “Who is she?”

My father shrugs and is about to speak when my mother calls for silence. “Thera, you have requested a royal audience,” she says, gesturing towards her cousin. The grey-haired Thera stands, asks one of her war-wits to shut the door and we are sealed inside the Chamber of Petitions.

One of Drayk’s adages comes to me then:
Beware the insignificant enemy. Sometimes the biggest threat is not the woman who sends an army but she who you welcome to your dinner table.

I look at the stranger again and think,
Who are you?

Thera’s movements are slow, graceful, like a swan’s. Her height is accentuated by the long peplos, which falls to the ground in sensuous ripples. She clears her throat. “Dear cousin,” she says, addressing my mother. She curtsies almost imperceptibly. “I come before you to present a very special guest, someone who is dear to me and who, I hope, will be dear to you also.”

My mother looks at the stranger. “Who is she?”

“I am surprised you do not recognise her. You may remember many years ago, not long after you took the throne, I expressed a desire to have a child of my own. I was disappointed with my daroon, as you know, for giving me only sons, so I had him sacrificed and, when others too failed to give me daughters, contented myself that Heritia did not intend for me to have an heir. At a similar time Gelesia and I had decided that you must take a daroon of your own. You remember, you refused?”

“Yes, yes. Get to the point.”

Thera walks behind us so we have to turn to watch her. “When you first took the throne there were those of us who feared you would never marry. Though we asked and suggested, cajoled and bullied, it was no use. You were adamant you needed no one. You said they would compete for your time. Nine years you were on the throne with no sign of yielding. But you needed a successor. Yes?”

“Yes. I was reluctant to take a daroon. What of it?”

“You had a child.” Thera’s eyes lock on my mother. “Long before Verne was born. Another girl, an heir to the Tibutan throne born to a consort.”

“Of course there was a child.”

“What? What child?” I say, but everyone ignores me. They know. Thera knows. Gelesia knows. Even my father knows. He wears the truth on his still, wrinkled face.

My mother glances at my father. There is a secret there, a dark blotch on their otherwise clean relationship. Inside my head there is a plague of whispering and gentle nudging as my many selves point and laugh at this omission from my family’s history. I watch from the side line, a spectator able to judge and condemn my parents for decisions they made long ago. My head is alive with vicious speculation. Accusations fly from one side to the other:
liars, cheats.

Thera speaks to the queen. “You had a child and you asked for her to be executed because you did not love her father. But we could not.” She says this to include Gelesia. “We were cautious, fearful that you would become like your mother. So rather than kill her we took her to Bidwell Heights, and I raised her with the help of an old crone—”

My father and I speak at the same time:

“You honestly don’t expect us to believe—”

“You are suggesting this woman here is that child—”

Thera speaks over the top of us. “We could not kill a child born of the First Mother’s blood. It was sacrilege. We kept her as a spare, if you like, as a precaution in case you never had a daughter. We were right to do it. Even once married you had only one child and she is ungifted.” Thera looks straight at me, not even bothering to hide her spite. She turns back to my mother and with one arm outstretched, says, “I would like to present Adelpha Nathos, or perhaps she should be more rightfully called Adelpha Golding, as there is no doubt she is your daughter.”

I sit hypnotised by disbelief. The arrogance! I want to tell them that they are wrong, that I do have my gift, that my mother has been holding me back, meddling with my development in order to keep the throne for herself. I say none of this. I trust neither Thera nor Gelesia—Thera because of her ambition; Gelesia because of her stupidity.

My mother, I notice, seems confused, as if she has only just understood what has been laid out before her. The stranger, who has been still until now, stands and crosses the room like a supercilious comet with her golden tail flowing behind her. “Your majesty, I come to you in peace. I am a faultless victim in a wider plan to save Tibuta. I was set on this course long before Verne was born.” Her voice is deep and rich. She has been trained well. “I do not hope to challenge my sister or take her place—” she looks at me “—only to learn from her and to serve you. If I can be of
any
use to you then I will feel my life’s purpose has been fulfilled. I am here only to give you a choice so that you might pick the most suitable queen for Tibuta.”

Her words make me want to scream.

My mother ignores the woman, casts her aside like refuse, and speaks directly to Thera. “You gave me a tendra to get me pregnant. You sent all those men, one after the other, because Tibuta needed an heir. This whole time I thought…it was unnatural to want so many men but you…this was
your
doing.”

Thera smiles. “Yes, it was.”

My mother takes a deep breath and I am reminded of one of the goldfish gulping at the surface of the pool outside. “This woman is not my daughter,” my mother says.

Thera and Adelpha smile as if they expected this. “She has the gift. Show her, Adelpha.”

“Perhaps you would come forwards,” Adelpha says, offering me her hand. Her words are smooth, persuasive. I am powerless to resist. I push myself to my feet and come to stand beside her. “Take your finger and place it…in your ear,” the woman says. My cheeks burn. The last thing I want to do is put my finger in my ear and yet my hand lifts of its own accord. My finger goes in my ear. Thera laughs.

“Now put your finger—”

“Enough!” my mother says, standing. Adelpha and I are blasted with her power. The spell is broken. I feel confused, dazed, as if I had momentarily left my body and now find myself centre stage, completely naked.

“She is no Golding.”

“You cannot deny we share the same blood. She has our eyes, dear cousin. And our dark features.”

I consider the three women: the tall Thera, my slender mother and the imposter. There is a likeness there that cannot be ignored.

“This child is yours. I saw you give birth to her myself,” Thera says.

“It is true,” Gelesia whispers.

My mother takes a deep breath and I know the storm is coming. Wind thrashes around my ears, howling and blocking out the thunderous words that are hurtling across the room. Percussion instruments like the krotala clatter around my head, too, while my many selves laugh and skip, like pixies around a tree in some sort of spiritual romp.
Verne Golding the Third. Second eldest daughter of Tibuta. No throne. No throne!

I am on my feet. How I got here I do not remember. My mother, Thera and Adelpha stand. Gelesia and my father sit looking up at us, waiting for my mother’s outpouring. My mother yells, “You! You! You have been planning this all along, haven’t you? You saw it as your opportunity to undermine me. Ever since Kratos returned… She has no claim to the throne…How dare you?”

My father’s voice is calm, reassuring. He tries to pull my mother into a seat. “Of course she has no right to the throne,” he says. “Only you can choose your successor.”

“You
will
acknowledge her.” This is Thera. I try to focus my attention on her. “And in time you will see she is the best heir for Tibuta. And with her gift you can convince the people she is the chosen one.” We all look at her toes. “There is no mark on her but the people would never need to know.”

There is a wild cackling in my head.
Not Ligeia’s madness
, I think.
Not that.

With Adelpha on the throne, Thera would gain power and Thera does not believe in Typhon or his creation.

If only my ears could unhear and my eyes unsee.

My family whirls before me, my mother the thunder and lightning, my cousin Thera the sleet. She speaks with a cold detachment that is disarming. “If you will not acknowledge her as your daughter, I believe the Shark’s Teeth will find her of great value.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I say but no one is listening to me.

“It has occurred to me that
if
we were to lend our support to the Shark’s Teeth, the palace would be theirs in days. We control the districts and have the support of our people. I must remind you of where your loyalties lie: to us, to Tibuta, not to your sense of pride or your daughter’s sensitivity.”

Why is my mother listening to her? Doesn’t she know Thera abhors the Shark’s Teeth?

“You dare threaten me?” my mother roars.

My father is on his feet. “Ashaylah.” Guards pummel the door.

“You cannot hurt me,” Thera says, flicking her hand and unleashing her gift on my father. Red lights shoot through the air. He turns to protect his eyes and falls back. He misses his seat and hits the floor. My mother stands abruptly and with her palms together sends her own gift out to suppress the older woman’s power. Thera is quick. She shoots at my mother and hits her mid-flight, blinding her as she lunges across the room. My father moves to strike Thera but she turns her power on him, forcing him to hide his head in his hands. This breaks the spell on my mother, who turns on Thera but before my mother can send out her gift, a force hits her from behind and she is lifeless.

“Adelpha!” I say. I stand and push the girl in the chest so she falls backwards, her stool tipping. As her head hits the floor my mother is released. Slicing her hand through the air, my mother sends her own power out at Thera. Thera’s arms fall by her side and my father is free. He falls to his knees.

Gelesia has crossed the room to open the door and ten war-wits spill in with their spears levelled at us. The fighting stops and we look up, shamefaced.

“Thank you, Adamon, I can manage,” my mother says.

“A family spat, nothing more,” Thera says. Their gifts remain dormant, throbbing beneath their skin.

As the war-wits exit the room Adelpha looks at me with an expression of mild humour, her mouth bent slightly upwards in a sort-of smile. “That was an interesting introduction to the Golding family.”

Thera smoothes her peplos. “Your majesty, we fear that Verne is not strong enough to face the challenges of leadership. Admittedly she is committed and she certainly tries her best. But Adelpha has a powerful gift.”

I want to yell, to kick and scream. Better still, I want a gift of my own to unleash on my uncaring family.

“I see,” my mother says very quietly.

“Adelpha’s gift could be used against us by our enemies,” Thera says. “But she could also use it to rally our supporters. The choice is yours.”