Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (37 page)

“You did what you had to do,” I say, stroking his hair, his cheeks, his shoulders.

“Sometimes I think it would be better to forget.”

“Shhh…don’t say that. It’s over now,” I say, inspecting every part of him for signs of hurt. His skin is perfectly smooth. There isn’t a scar or a knick. I take his hands and kiss them, cleansing them with salt water. “How much you must suffer, my immortal, my wonderful, wonderful man,” I whisper.

“It might be better to die than have to relive each death. The flesh recovers but seeing and experiencing such violence again and again, it hurts the mind.”

The flesh
, I think, aware of the tingling of my own flesh, the throbbing in my mind.

He pulls me to him and nuzzles into my breasts. I cradle his face and kiss his tears, which he will not acknowledge.

“Get in,” I say, holding the covers up for him to crawl in beside me. For a while we lie beside one another, lost in our lust and our grief.

He moves first, crawling on top of me. His reassuring weight pushes against me and he devours me, starting from my thighs and working his way up to my mouth, which he covers with his lips, obliviously biting and sucking. He is consumed by greed, a ferocious need, which makes him rip my clothing to get at my body. He pushes me back onto the bed. I consider fighting; I consider saying no, but his need is greater than mine. It is a small sacrifice to keep my creation happy, so I consent to this demolishing.

His love is angry and detached. Drayk keeps his eyes shut and punishes me as though I am the orca and he the solider. Or as though I am death and he is life. He forces me into the bed, pounding again and again. The fight flickers across his eyelids; the blood and the screaming bounce off the walls. We are there, with each other, on the battlefield. I can smell the blood. I can hear the screaming.

His resentment is directed inwards, I know, because to him each death is a failure, a sign that he has fallen short of the perfection he so desires. And yet such odium scares me.

Afterwards he lies on his back with one arm draped over me, panting slightly with beads of perspiration on his brow. “I am sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t apologise. I want to share all of you.”

He does not respond and his silence is like an insult hanging in the air, criticising me for my own weakness.

Later, when he falls into a fitful sleep, I lie wondering whether I can repair this broken man or whether I want to. After all, it is his imperfections that make him perfect. It gives me great comfort to know that he kills reluctantly, that he weeps for his victims, wishing to throw down his weapon as he wields it. He must not kill haphazardly. Drayk is a soldier, my soldier, and I will need him to kill for me. He must do so with a conscience.

I am woken by a light tapping on my door. I can hear the caterwauling from outside as more rebels return from the battlefield.
Change is in the air
, I think. I can smell it. Tibuta is waking.

There is another gentle tap. “Who is it?”

A familiar voice reaches me from behind the door, “Highness, I am sorry for the late hour. I really am but…I must speak to you.”

I creep out from beneath the covers without waking Drayk, wrap myself in my peplos and open the door. Petra is a lone soldier parading up and down the hallway. She has removed her helmet and her face is smeared with blood. She stops her pacing and fixes me with eyes wild with murder. “Please excuse me but—”

“Follow me,” I say, gesturing towards the sanctuary. She follows me through the quiet hallways and past the statue which looks far less impressive in the minimal light. I climb into the pit and sit on the cold step in front of Shea’s Fire. The blue flame swims on the black water’s surface. The strategos wrings her hands and mumbles, “You were right.” Her agitation is evidence of the upheaval of her atrama, the internal transformation as her inexorable dedication to my mother transfers to me.

I encourage her to sit and without prompting she spews forth all that is bothering her. “I witnessed Theodora’s miracles. She vomited seawater and killed a man with the ocean in her belly. You were right. The Tempest is coming and the queen—” her voice trembles “—the queen is on the opposite side of truth. Styla knew it but I was blind. My daughter’s conscience told her the law was unjust and she willingly accepted the penalty in order to open our eyes to the injustice.” She buries her face in her hands. “I wish I had seen it earlier. Her death was not cowardice but bravery of the highest degree. She was more devoted than I could ever hope to be, putting Tibuta before all else.”

“Styla did not die in vain if her death aroused your support.”

Petra digs her nails into her knees. “I have so much rage and resentment.”

“Which you have suppressed for a long time.”

“Years,” she says. “I was never willing to speak out against her because I believed in the rules. I was afraid of confrontation. She…she had no right to dismantle the gerousia. She has set us back a thousand years. And to invite Whyte soldiers here, to Tibuta?” She shakes her head.

“She is an apostate,” I say and listened to the older woman weep at the injustice, at the tragedy of her daughter’s execution, and the loss of Tibuta’s honour, at her humiliation.

“I am ashamed to call myself Tibutan,” she says. “This is not the Tibuta I know and love. I cannot support our queen if she betrays us this way. She says the incident at the Seawall was my fault and threatens to strip me of my title. This when I have been nothing but loyal to her. I have dedicated my life to her.”

When she finishes I say, “The gods have a plan for us. They built the foundations for our civilisation, only
she
has bastardised their grand vision. We must return to the righteous path, find a semblance of peace, a way to conquer the final Tempest and live without the constant threat of annihilation.” I feel irreverent.

“Is such a thing possible?” Petra says, pleading with her eyes.

I don’t know.
“Without a doubt.”

“Then I will join you.”

We sit up long into the early hours deciding how it will be done. The plan unfolds like a dusty carpet, shimmering different colours depending on the direction of the weave, the uneven knots rough to the touch, the wool creating friction. I will take the throne and declare myself queen. The high priestess will anoint and crown me. We will expel Whyte’s army. Tibuta will be free from tyranny. Then, reunited, we will face Typhon’s creation.

It all seems so simple.

Drayk traipses across the vast room with a sheet wrapped around his narrow waist to find us drawing on the floor with coal from Shea’s Fire. “Petra,” he says, barely acknowledging her sudden change of allegiance.

“They must aim for her head,” I say. I am possessed by our plan. “The queen wears a bronze cuirass beneath her dress. She has done so ever since I was a little girl.” Then to Drayk I say, “You must return to the palace. Convince my mother of your enduring support. Your absence in easily explained after the battle on the Seawall. Tell the Queen’s Guard to ensure the gate is open when we attack.” I explain our plan.

A quiet resolve fills our hearts. “Once a decision is made it seems the world and all its resources pull you towards it like a lodestone. Our lives are no longer our own,” I say.

“Our only hope is that the gods are not insidious but rather swift and straightforward. We must have courage,” Petra says.

“We cannot fail. There is no forgiveness for what we are about to do,” Drayk says.

His departure is a small tragedy, something that has to be pushed aside and quickly forgotten. For a moment I fear we will be eternally apart and that our delicate and illusory love will not have a chance to grow into something more robust. I push this insecurity aside. His stone, which I have replaced around my neck, presses into the wound where it burnt me. It is a reminder of his commitment to me and the fact that our fates are now irrevocably intertwined. If I fall then all who love me will fall with me.

Petra’s signal is almost imperceptible. It is a nod so slight it could be mistaken for a tick or a twitch but I understand it to mean, “My soldiers are in position.” All I have to do is give the word and…
Can I do it?
Now that the moment is upon me I am not so sure. I can rely only on my ability to give the sign. Then it will be too late for me to change my mind. Events will take on a momentum of their own.

In her arrogance my mother has decided to attend the funeral of the royals and soldiers from Tibuta who fell at the Seawall, including Chase, as I knew she would, believing she can laugh in the face of terror. I imagine her throwing up her arms: “I will not kowtow to those miscreant rebels.” Those miscreant rebels who died on the Seawall have been buried in the killing fields. Satah’s men lie in rows along the edge of the killing fields as is their custom.

I consider the people gathered outside the West Gate who have come to watch the procession. Most are stoic in their grief, leaving the swaying and self-flagellation to those more closely affected by the tragedy. Still, even the bravest of warriors looks uneasy.

Death is nothing new. We see her hanging from the Justice Tree or slumped over in doorways. We see her with her chin resting on her shoulders indistinguishable from sleep. But this fear is foreign to us. It is no longer clear who is Tibutan and who is ‘other’. The enemy could be that baker there with his flour-dusted hair or that woman with the parasol, the hoplite in the whalebone helmet, the foreigner with the blue feather protruding from his helmet, the queen, the bastard daughter, Adelpha, or me. I am the enemy, too. Like the rest of them I am pretending to be more or less than I am: I am in disguise. My head is bent and I hold up a handkerchief to hide my face; my weapons are concealed beneath my grey himation. To an untrained eye I am a harmless pauper.

Our sanity chafes.

Beyond the row of soldiers people from the royal court shuffle uneasily in the blinding sun. Women pick at the hems of their robes or chew their nails. Gelesia’s wailing, the very sound of Icelos, can be heard from up the Walk: “My son. My son.” Those who are merely spectators avert their eyes and block out the sound of grief, glad it is not their son who has been slain, and guilty for thinking such a thing. A few move towards the hysterical Gelesia and offer clichés—“I am sorry for your loss”, “My condolences” and, my favourite, “Chase would want us to be happy.” This is a lie. Chase would not want us to be happy. He would want us to mourn, to shed an entire ocean of tears.

I picture him looking down from above, unable to pass from this world into the next, a mere pinprick of light caught on the sticky backdrop of the sky, snickering. I wonder if he is pleased with the way his perfect, tanned, effeminate body is laid out on the grass, the way he is wrapped in muslin to hide his nudity and the wound that killed him, the way Berenice throws herself on his corpse and weeps, sixteen and pregnant with his child. Some would call it a waste.

The queen and Adelpha stand side-by-side like statues. Slay Satah is a little way off. Thera is there, stony and cold. Odell and Hero huddle together as if collectively they can fight off an early death. I want to get close enough to warn my cousin but there is no way.

My father is on his knees beside Chase’s body reading him poetry.
Poetry, of all things
, I think. Poetry may heal the wounds of the atrama, it may give the emotions wings to fly but it is useless against real wounds of war. Words will not stem the blood or bring life to dead flesh. I want to run to my father, to pull him to his feet and slap him. More than that, I want to bring him with me. But I cannot. My father left me long ago.

Near me, a plain-clothed serving woman cradles a newborn, rocking her gently back and forwards. The child’s mere existence brings hope to those who have come so close to Icelos. She represents new life, the conqueror of the finite, the eternal cycle.

My resolve is wavering.

A shofar sounds, bringing me closer to my destiny. The fleets lift the dead on open litters and together the royal family inches forwards like a huge, overburdened cart groaning towards the city centre.

Death clings to us.

The sound of mourning is a low hum. We pass the larger marble houses along Justice Way then erupt into the marketplace. At the centre are the sacrificial dais and the gold statue of the First Mother. I have to stop myself from glancing up. Petra’s archers perch in the windows of the surrounding buildings: the gymnasium, public bathhouse, library and brothel. They hold their crossbows on their shoulders. Their fingers twitch as they scan the crowd for the queen or any excuse to shoot. I can only hope that they are able to move quickly enough. Reloading means leaning over the weapon while pulling back the bow. It is a slow movement compared to Adelpha’s mind control, Odell’s ice or Thera’s burning eyes.

The fleets arrange the bodies on the dais to the sound of sniffing and whimpering.

The queen addresses the crowd. Her message is relayed to the far end of the crowd, her voice an omnipotent echo. She says death is part of the natural order and fulfils the need for balance. She stresses that comfort can be found in vigilance, in dedicating one’s life to Tibuta. It is when she says, “Such a tragedy speaks of the disunity that exists in Tibuta,” that I sit up and listen. We all do. She continues, her disembodied ubiquitous voice echoing off the surrounding stone buildings, “Our disunity is bred by contempt for a people who have suffered too long, for a people who demand that their fears be heard, their gods be acknowledged and their bellies filled. I hear your complaints. I fear your fears.”

The audience is enraptured. They nervously cheer, glancing from the queen to their neighbours.

“Such tragedy must serve as warning. The threat cannot be ignored. I ask you this morning as you honour our fallen children to remember the many sons and daughters of Tibuta who will fall if we do not unite.”

She does not mean it!
I want to scream.
She is lying. It is a trick. Look around you at the enemy. She has invited him into your homes.

The remainder of the ceremony is conducted with enthusiasm. Once the prayers are finished the queen takes a blade from her white gown and cuts pieces from the dead. “With this offering of flesh I offer you the First Mother’s blood, so her spirit may live on. Her blood is your blood.”

“May the blood of the First Mother live on,” we say in unison.

People are actually smiling as they file past the dais and take a piece of the dead to consume. We recite a prayer for each corpse. I am unable to form the words in my mind. Instead I find myself apologising: “I am sorry, Chase. I should have saved you.”

War-wits dismember the bodies so they cannot be used by sorcerers or inhabited by evil spirits. The heads are taken by the families. The rest is piled beneath the shrine to the First Mother so the birds can carry their atramas into the sky.

The time has come.

I throw back my himation. I search for Petra. When our eyes meet, I nod. I am a terrible god, proclaiming who should live and who should die. Petra glances up at the windows and flicks her finger. It is done.

My eyes interlock with Adelpha’s. She follows my line of sight and sees the tips of the crossbows. Realisation makes her gasp. She shakes the queen’s arm and taps Thera’s shoulder. She points to the assassins and screams, “Look out!”

My nightmare begins.

The archers in the building overhead raise their weapons. Missiles whistle through the air.
Thud. Thud. Thud.

Screaming. So much screaming. People run this way and that.

The woman next to me takes an arrow through the heart. A flower of red grows around the wound.

“Now!” Petra yells. Half her soldiers turn, interlock their shields and as one advance towards the royal party, a sea urchin with long spikes protruding from their armoured bodies. The rest of Petra’s soldiers decide they will not defect after all. They form a large circle to guard the royal family.

A wall of Petra’s hoplites advances towards the queen’s army. People scatter to get out of the way. Spears clatter against bone helmets. Shields crash together. The women at the rear bend low, lending their weight to the charge forwards. Pressure builds in the ruck. The formation breaks. Petra’s players scatter. They discard their spears and draw their swords. A hundred individual battles rage around me.

Crossing my hands over my chest, I unsheathe Eunike and Paideuo. Fear washes over me in waves. I ignore it. I ignore the throbbing in my temples and instead race towards the queen. Snarling faces swim into view. Murderous eyes. Light reflecting off a blade. A baby crying.

People bottleneck between the buildings as they flee. No one can get through. For a moment the arrows stop. The archers reload.

Those with the right blood use their gifts from behind the wall of soldiers. Their full force is directed at the archers. Adelpha works with her hands outstretched. Her victim, one of Petra’s better women, has dropped her crossbow. Her face strains with the effort of fighting Adelpha’s gift. Adelpha lifts her hands and, as she does, the soldier stands and peters on the windowsill. With a swooping gesture Adelpha sends her toppling to her death. People scatter, shrieking.

Odell fires a stream of ice into a window. It hits an archer through the chest. She clings at the cold arrow, hardly comprehending what has happened.

Thera has her hands on her temples. She looks from window to window, burning the archers with her eyes. Women tumble through the air.

Our archers are disarmed. Dead, mostly.

Thera turns her fiery eyes on Petra’s hoplites.

“Use your shields!” I yell. The hoplites closest to me hold their bronze disks up to reflect the red light back at Thera. She doubles over, momentarily blinded. The rest of my family battle the soldiers on the ground. My father and Hero cower behind their more gifted kin. I am glad. There is no need for the innocent—the ignorant—to die.

The queen points towards each of the four entrances to the marketplace and barks orders at her loyal servants. Slay has reluctantly drawn his sword but has no need for it since his orca have formed a defensive circle around him. They sniff the air and gnash their teeth. When someone approaches they thrash with clawed hands. They rip flesh and consume it.

Gelesia pulls at her hair. She wails, “No. My Chase. No. What have they done? Not on his special day.” As she wails she spins faster and faster until she is nothing but a blurred whirlwind. She whips up the air and clears a path from the centre of the marketplace to the safety of a nearby building. The queen and the rest of them follow her to beneath an awning. An arrow whizzes past the queen’s face, close enough to leave the tiniest trail of blood.

I choose the nearest of Satah’s soldiers. The man is gifted with a blade but he is heavy so I am able to match him by remaining fluid. My footwork is quick, light. I hear Drayk’s voice in my head:
Parry, parry, thrust. Good, be light. Force him back; fight defensively.
I am vaguely aware of Petra protecting my back. I thrust and hit flesh. Red splatters on the man’s sandals. A blow ricochets all the way up my short blade and into my bones. I drop one of my swords. Pain. There is so much pain. My jaw is clenched. Sweat stings my eyes. The Whyte hoplite has his xiphos pulled back ready to thrust it through my heart. A dark object whizzes through the air. Petra’s dagger penetrates the hoplite’s forehead. The soldier drops dead. Petra kicks my blade up and I snatch it out of the air. There is no time to thank her. Another hoplite is upon me. Together, Petra and I fight him back.

Too few of Petra’s women stand against the army. And they are falling. Fast. “Look there!” Petra points with her xiphos towards the east entrance to the marketplace. A band of turbaned Shark’s Teeth run this way.

“What are they doing here?” I yell.

The Shark’s Teeth are pursued by members of the Queen’s Guard. The road to the palace is blocked.

“We have failed,” Petra says.

“Get back!” I scream. “Retreat!”

My shout echoes through the crowd: “Retreat! Retreat!”

But there is no way out. All exits are blocked.

Petra kneels and touches the earth like a runner preparing for a sprint. There is a distant rumble. Birds take to the air. The ground sways back and forth and the fighting stops. We are too busy keeping balance to clash swords. Another shockwave rips across the marketplace. Gaps appear in the pavement, pushing it upwards like muslin. The earth rips apart.

The queen and Adelpha duck into a civic building as rubble falls through the sky. Another jolt shudders through the earth. People scream. Both armies are on the ground.

“Go!” Petra yells.

This is the break we need. As everyone struggles to recover, Petra and her soldiers retreat. People debouch through the ravines between the buildings. Many of them stop to help their fallen comrades as they go.

I follow a group into the public library. It is unsettlingly cold inside. In their hurry the retreating rebels pull over shelves. They trample bloody footprints into the scrolls. I push past a cupboard, jump over an upturned urn, clamber through a window and break into the sunlight on the other side, gasping for the fresh air that helps to chase my nightmare away. Around me, my soldiers flee.

How did I get here?
I think. My speech runs through my mind:
For too long have we been treated like outlaws. For too long has our existence been scorned. We are not rebels.