Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (21 page)

My voice is barely audible. “It breaks both our hearts. But I can see no other way. She is not the woman we once knew. She has become…unpredictable. Irrational. I do not trust her, Drayk. Not when she has hurt me like this. How could she so harm her own daughter?” Despite my determination to be brave, a tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it violently away.

He looks at me in earnest. “We act against your mother because we see the error in her ways, not because we thirst for power or seek revenge. Tibuta needs a leader who will acknowledge the Tempest and fight for the people.”

“It is not a betrayal to destroy one woman to save thousands,” I say though I am not so sure. I am dismayed because Drayk is a man of integrity. I am a woman of integrity and yet I have taken up the blade that will cut the ties holding my mother and me in a sacred bond. What else am I capable of? I fear I am capable of terrible things. I fear I am capable of destroying everything I know and love.

For once my little self is silent. She hides in the far recesses of my mind.

“Maud is right. The Shark’s Teeth are a formidable enemy and the fact that my mother is stealing my gift is only further proof that she has lost sight of what is best for Tibuta. When you think of those who will die when the Tempest reaches our shores, now is the time to take the throne.”

He nods, glancing back at a hoplite marching towards us. We wait until he has passed. “With the army behind you as well as the Queen’s Guard your mother will have to step aside. I can give you the Queen’s Guard.”

“And Petra?”

“She has her price. Her daughter was executed and buried in the killing fields. She would do anything to have the body returned to her so she can dispose of her remains appropriately. Though she would never admit it.”

“Petra’s loyalty is to the institution of Tibuta and the queen.”

“So prove that the queen herself is antithetical to Tibuta, offer her redemption, offer her Styla’s remains and you will have the army.”

“I will try,” I say, pushing off from the wall. We are both silent for a long time as we contemplate our ruthlessness. “Will you excuse me?” I say and when he nods, I leave him in that shaded place, wanting to be far from talk of treason. My love for Drayk has taken on a new face. He is no longer simply trainer and friend. He is co-conspirator. He is damned.

I envision myself wielding a sword dripping with blood. My mother lies before me on the grass in a pool of crimson. Behind me all of Tibuta cheers.

Reaching my apartment I remember that Drayk had wanted to tell me something too. Whatever it was goes unsaid.

Strategos Petra Golding stands beneath the Tibutan flag outside the barracks. Her soldiers seem to go on forever, a sea of them in tusked helmets and pointed spear surging into the palace grounds from Minesend. Their sandals
thud, thud, thud
and they turn, approach, and click their heels. “Attention!” The hoplites salute and wait to be dismissed. Dust fills my lungs and nostrils. A crowd has formed along the parapets to watch the soldiers’ return but they do not cheer. Not when it is possible that these soldiers have killed their brothers, sisters, or neighbours who are, ashamedly—perhaps unavoidably—members of the Shark’s Teeth.

Petra’s expression is fierce and I almost lose my nerve. She is my mother’s cousin and the captain of the army, having bypassed the rank of chiliarch to become strategos thanks to her ties to the royal family. A dark and stern woman, she is known as Petra the Loyal, a stickler for the rules, She-Who-Puts-the-Law-Above-All-Else. She is so named, feared and loved because her own daughter, Styla, joined the Shark’s Teeth aged fifteen and it was Petra who ordered her arrest. It was Petra’s women who dragged Styla kicking and screaming in front of my mother. It was Petra who stood by dispassionately when her daughter faced the Queen’s Justice. It was Petra who said all Tibutans must live and die by Tibuta’s law. To show favour to any man or woman, especially those who join the traitorous rebels, is to undermine the very foundation of our society. She did not flinch when her own flesh and blood—her
heir
—was shoved into the Seawall to be immured then hanged.

It was also Petra who was most vocal when my mother disbanded the gerousia and expelled the ephors. It took great effort on my mother’s part to convince her that she was acting
for
Tibuta, that the elder-women were no longer Tibuta’s champions but parasites.

I shuffle closer and clear my throat. “An impressive force. You must be proud.”

Petra glances at me but says nothing. She smooths down her stiff uniform and turns back to her army.

I watch the remainder of the parade in silence beside my war-wit. Unit after unit files past, sixteen women abreast. Their faces are blank. Some look close to tears. There is no pride in fighting their countrymen.

When the last woman is through the gate, Petra addresses them. I listen as words of encouragement and praise carry across the Lower Ward and through the colonnades: “Go, put the strains of battle behind you. Have a bath; find a consort; you’ve earned it.” There is a spattering of laughter. “And let us pray that this day is never repeated.” I wait until she has turned away then join her as she marches up the tree-lined Walk. Bolt pursues at a distance.

“They did well to supress the Shark’s Teeth, considering we expect them to kill their own brothers and sisters, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed,” she says, striding more purposefully towards her destination. I have to skip to keep up.

“It must be difficult sending your women against their countrymen.”

“What are you getting at?” Petra says, turning to me. People mill around us, slowly returning to their duties or hesitating beneath the shade of the date palms to discuss the state of the army.

I shrug. “I imagine it is hard to send your army to slaughter their own just as it was hard for you to give up your daughter.”

Petra’s eyes are piercing. “It’s my job.”

“As it was my mother’s job to have your daughter assassinated…I supposed.”

Petra’s face is taut with anger. “It was the Shark’s Teeth who killed my daughter when they seduced her with their lies and turned her against the monarchy.”

I cock my head, glad that her discipline means she will be constrained. “And yet it was the queen who called for her execution, was it not? It was she who buried Styla in the killing fields?”

Petra’s nod is almost imperceptible. “Yes, but—”

“I heard she refused to return your daughter’s remains so you could conduct the flight ceremony? Should the gate to the Elysian Fields open, Styla will remain buried in the earth. I wonder if she has made arrangements to have the Shark’s Teeth returned to their families or if they, too, will end up in a mass grave?” I straighten, crossing my arms. “It seems a shame when they were Tibutan citizens. Rebels, yes, but citizens all the same. I can’t help but think that the queen simply slaughters those who dare speak against her, those who speak in Ayfra’s name. She is sending her own army against people who love Tibuta.”

Petra crosses her arms over her chest. “The Shark’s Teeth don’t love Tibuta.”

“Don’t they? Is it not possible that Styla, like the Shark’s Teeth, saw the truth and was punished for having the courage to speak it?” I am impressed by Petra’s self-control. Her fury fights to break free like a wild argutan and yet she reins it in.

“The Shark’s Teeth are treasonous dogs.” She spits on the ground. “It was the Shark’s Teeth who corrupted my Styla. I was lucky to keep my position considering—”

I raise my finger, forcing her to bite off the rest of her sentence. “Explain to me how it is good fortune to serve a queen who murders her own people? It was the queen, your cousin, who punished Styla, who humiliated you. It was she who showed no mercy but instead, chose the harshest of punishments, immurement, for an insignificant, unsubstantiated crime, not the Shark’s Teeth.”

Petra steps back from me. “I will not dignify that with an answer.”

I wait until a pair of soldiers has passed. “This is an unnatural war. Tibuta is a nation built on divine doctrines. Her foundation is the teachings of the First Mother. She relies on our loyalty, on our adherence to those doctrines. The queen threatens to destabilise us, to undermine that balance. If we don’t do something, the queen will destroy us.” I pause. “Am I right, you love Tibuta?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Of course I do. I have dedicated my entire life to protecting her.” I can see she wants to hit me and if I wasn’t the heir apparent she probably would.

“Then surely you see it is possible that the queen has lost her way?”

“What you suggest is treason.”

“The truth can be treasonous, and subversion can set us free. Think on what I have said. We will talk again.” I turn abruptly like a player leaving the stage and march away, heart pounding. I am proud of myself. I am proud that I did not stutter or mutter, that I did not um or ah. I spoke truthfully, from the heart. My only fear is that Petra will go straight to my mother.

From that moment on worry is my companion. Or, more precisely, paranoia. It sets my jaw on edge and makes my heart beat unusually fast, makes me cringe whenever the Queen’s Guard marches past. The limestone and marble walls of the palace close in. My world becomes narrower and narrower. I am constantly afraid that Petra will turn me in.

On one occasion I am walking through the palace when a hoplite calls out to me.
They know
, I think and ignore them, walking faster and faster towards the apartments. My fear comes at me from every side.

“Highness!” the hoplite calls and I increase my pace. I glance back. The hoplite has her hand outstretched. She is a monster dripping with blood. She has no face. She is the very darkness that children are afraid of. She is going to get me and then…and then everything will be over.

I break into a run.

The hoplite does the same. I can hear her footsteps getting closer and closer. A hand closes around my wrist and I wheel on my enemy, ready to claw her eyes out.

“Highness, you dropped this,” the hoplite says, breathing heavily. She holds out my scarf.

Face burning, I take it and squeak my thanks before running to the safety of the apartments. I tear up the double staircase, reach my solar and collapse in the corner of my room. Only then do I appreciate the irrationality of my fear and begin to laugh.

Towards mid-afternoon a fortnight or so after my night at the temple I am heading towards the apartments when I see a score of Petra’s soldiers escorting a bedraggled woman towards the Throne Room. Behind them come members of the Queen’s Guard, who are distinguishable from the army by their close-fitting gold tunic. The familiar foreboding hammers in my head and gets louder the closer they get.

The prisoner claws at the shackles around her wrists. Her tattered clothes catch in the chains between her legs, and her dark curly hair, which is encrusted with salt, falls in front of her face. Though I know it is not me they are after I feel sick with dread. I imagine it is me they have arrested, that it is me they drag towards the Throne Room.

I follow the soldiers at a distance and diverge from them to enter the Throne Room through the public entrance, where I will be hidden by the general rabble. Bolt waits by the door.

My mother sits on a throne of pure gold. On her head is a simple gold crown. She runs her hands over a magnificent silk peplos that falls to the ground in black waves. Diamonds decorate the bodice and the Tibutan snake is embroidered in gold along the hem. Heavy black serendibite gems hang from her earlobes. Such ornamentation and silken idleness is a recent phenomenon. The mother I knew as a child said a queen should not spend the nation’s spoils on ornament, but rather put them to use for the common good.

The prisoner sprawls on the mirror-like marble floor beneath my mother’s feet, her head resting on its cool surface. Her skin, I notice, is the colour of burnt toast and there are vicious red marks down her calves. She weeps gently, muttering to herself as if possessed.

Petra stands beside my mother, smiling to reveal perfect teeth. Our eyes meet and I squirm with discomfort. Her expression gives no hint of her intentions.

I keep my head down as I push past some of the younger women who have babies on their hips and little ones running around their skirts to join the crowd that has gathered to watch the Queen’s Justice. I am sure they can read the guilt on my face.

Drayk has removed his helmet so he can discuss the prisoner with the strategos. The smallest of wrinkles surround his eyes, indicate that he is quick to smile. Flecks of salt speckle golden hair that falls around his shoulders in perfect ringlets. His face is covered in white stubble and hides a seething erudition which can make him appear, to people of low confidence, arrogant or cold.

Drayk’s eyes scan the room and come to rest on me. I do not look away. Instead, I offer him the slightest smile, an accomplice’s smile. I want him to see that
I
am confident. That I am no longer the silly girl he once knew. Eventually he looks away, heat rising to his cheeks.

“I bet she executes her,” a loud voice says over the general din and for a moment I think they mean me. I look around expecting to see soldiers pushing through the crowd to reach me. Blood pumps to my extremities, preparing me for flight.

Then I remember the prisoner.

“She deserves it,” Odell continues with his sinister expression and cruel features. He is always on display, that boy. Or man. I suppose one must call him a man since he is in his nineteenth year. To me he seems like a child. It comes from being a boy who, despite his impressive gift, will never get to rule but will be married off to a district leader or local dignitary.

Odell grins then points one long, slender finger at Hero. He sends a stream of ice shooting from his finger straight towards his brother’s face. Hero curses and swats the ice away. He sees me and waves. I move to stand beside him, hiding from my mother. Odell sneers.

“Who is she?” I whisper to Hero, gesturing towards the prisoner. I hope he does not hear the quaver in my voice.

“She was pulled out of the water off the Seawall. She is from Taveni Island,” Hero says, straightening his stiff peplos. He is renowned for wearing the most impractical, formal attire. “The volcano island, where they speak of the legend of the snake god and his hawk-friend who laid two eggs to give birth to humanity. A truly bizarre people. She came all this way on a raft,” Hero says in awe.

I glance up and see my cousin Berenice who makes the sign of the ungifted. Like most of my cousins she sees Hero and me as some sort of abomination.

Towards most of my cousins I feel indifferent. For Berenice, on the other hand, I feel contempt. She is painfully pale, sickly with bulging body parts and weeping eyes. Worse than that—because what does form matter over function?—she has an extraordinary gift, the ability to move water, and yet she does not have the energy or impetus to use it. She never acts of her own initiative, is uninterested in developing her potential and is trapped in a pattern of anti-conformity, as if determined to prove that women ought
not
to be in power and their only real use is as bed cushions. She has a preoccupation with boys that I find unnatural and for the most part she is slovenly of attitude as well as appearance.

Thera Brunt, polemarch of Bidwell Heights, a hard woman known for her ruthlessness, stands off to one side. It is said that Thera can read if a man means her harm long before he knows it himself, though many suspect this is an excuse for the high execution rate in Bidwell Heights. She has hated men since each of her daroons failed to give her an heir. Her real gift is her ability to see into people’s atrama. She senses their lust and reflects it back at them, blinding them with her eyes.

There is sign of neither the fair Chase nor of his mother Gelesia. They survived the attack on their home in Minesend and have been cowering in the visitors’ apartments ever since.

The captive begins to rock back and forth and the crowd does what crowds do and leans forwards to get a better look.

“What is she doing?” I whisper.

Hero shrugs. “I think she is crazed.”

The woman stands. Petra’s women take a step in. She turns to the crowd, her eyes glistening like a wild beast. She licks at the sores in the corner of her mouth. “Doomed!” she cries. At least I think that is what she says. The crowd falls silent. “Doomed,” the woman says again then pours forth a torrent of unintelligible words.

“Who here speaks this language?” my mother calls.

There is some disorder and a little muttering but no one steps forward. For some, to be born anywhere outside Tibuta is tantamount to being a barbarian.

“Xeno can translate,” Odell calls.

“Xeno? Come forward!” my mother says.

The girl pushes her way through the crowd, giving Odell a deadly look as she passes. “Your majesty, how may I serve you?” she says, gripping the edge of her apron and curtsying. She is a petite little creature, a laundress whose hands are always red and swollen, who, like all outsiders, has been relegated to a position not much higher than slave. Her face is marked with the pox.

“You speak this language?”

“Well enough. My grandmother was—”

“Then translate for me. She seems upset. Ask her why,” my mother says. She reminds me of an electrum mirror: hard and shiny.

Xeno curtsies and crouches beside the woman, who has thrown herself on the floor again. The woman grasps at Xeno’s hands like a desperate beggar and babbles hurriedly in her own tongue.

Xeno addresses my mother, tucking her dusty blond hair behind her ears, “She saw her countrymen murdered,” she says.

The crowd inhales.

“Ask her what happened.”

The woman’s response is frantic. Xeno talks over the top of her so everyone can hear, “They were runnin’ and screamin’, so much screamin’, and we tried to get away but the water came. It was higher than the highest tree and it crashed down on the land and enveloped it. They died. All of them people. Drowned. So many people. Dead. My family, dead.” The woman weeps. The crowd is enraptured. The only sound is the slight shuffling of feet as people crane to get closer.

“Tell her to calm down. She must start at the beginning. None of that makes any sense,” my mother says.

“I will try.” Xeno takes the woman’s hands in her own and speaks to her in comforting tones. Though I do not understand the words they exchange, I can tell Xeno is pleading with the woman to remain calm, to speak for her own sake. I imagine she is warning her of my mother’s wrath. Whatever she says, it convinces the woman to stop weeping. She nods at Xeno, wipes her eyes with the back of her wrinkled hand and addresses my mother.

Xeno translates: “My hut was so close to the water’s edge I could lie on my straw mat and watch the sea lappin’ at my feet. The sound was—” Xeno thinks of the word “—it was hypnotic. It kept the rhythm of our lives in Taveni Island.” The woman’s breath mimics the ocean: in and out, pause, in and out. “Our…our tribe lived in a glade where the grass was short and green and the coconut trees reached their…necks over the sand and dropped fruit for us. But…I…” The islander struggles to form the words. She looks around, grasping for a distraction, something to keep her mind from reliving the trauma. “The volcano beyond the trees was always smokin’. At night you could see sparks burstin’ from the top. The mountainous forest was full of banana trees.”

“Will you tell her to get to the point?” my mother snaps.

Xeno nods and continues to speak. “I…I was talkin’ to my uncle, the chief, when the earth beneath us trembled. It was only the slightest of movements. ‘Taveni is wakin’,’ my uncle said. The earth shook more violently. Coconuts fell from the sky and into the sand:
plop, plop, plop
.” With each sound the woman punches her fist into her thigh in a violent gesture that is both entertaining and disturbing.

Xeno says, “The tremors lasted much longer the second time. A tree fell, its roots breakin’ through the surface. Branches and debris came down. Birds screeched and flew into the sky. Then it stopped.” The woman looks up. Her big brown eyes are glistening. “Someone screamed: ‘Look!’” Her sudden outburst makes us jump. “The sea was recedin’ like the gods had pulled out the stopper in the navel of the ocean what keeps the water in. We were drawn to it. All of us, we ran. We couldn’t help ourselves. Like children. We were curious. I wish…I cannot explain how…or why…but we…we ran down to the beach.” She looks disoriented, frantic.

“The coral was revealed, shiny and blinkin’. Crabs tried to escape. Pipis burrowed out of sight. There were bubbles along the sand like baby’s spit. In the distance there was a line of white. It grew into a wall.” She gestures with her hands. Xeno does the same, her eyes fixed on the woman. “Waves ten metres high were coming at us. And in front of the wall marched an army and above it all flew the bird.”

“What bird?” my mother says.

“A sea bird with grey and white wings.”

I stiffen.

My mother nods for her to continue. “She must mean an emblem. Flying on a flag. Continue.” My mother waves her hand.

Not an emblem
, I think.

“We realised the danger too late. Or not late enough. Destruction is better unseen, I think. Yes better. For those who perish. It was…too terrible…I…I ran from the army, for higher ground. We all did. But they reached the shore and crashed over the huts, sweepin’ them up in its embrace. Their kiss was death. They killed without spears, without any weapons.

“Then came the water. Everythin’ what I knew and loved was swallowed up. It exploded over the hills, wipin’ everythin’ out, topplin’ the trees, unstoppable, inky black, a beast alive and growin’ like a snake slitherin’ through the valleys. A fire broke out and flames rode the water belching smoke into the sky—magic, I am sure of it, the work a’some terrible demon.” People gasped. “It was terrible, in…indiscriminate in its destruction.” The islander buried her head in her hands and sobbed. The remainder of her story was muffled. Xeno had to lean close to catch it.

“I climbed a tall and sturdy coconut tree. I…I was so afraid. I couldn’t see my uncle or brothers. I watched the black snake pick up people and trees and drag them along as if they weighed nothin’.”

People looked at each other with raised eyebrows. The snake was the symbol of Tibuta after all.