Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (29 page)

Whatever anger I felt melts away. “You were right. There is no way forward with my mother alive. I wanted to come myself so you could instruct me but she has practically locked me in the palace. I despair when I think what I might have achieved had we spent hours training my gift the way Drayk trained my body.”

Maud wheezes, “You are more than your gift. Tibuta is more than her army. A woman must rule with her mind. In time your gift will come and you will learn to wield it.” She inhales. “But if you must fight for it, then so be it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hush, child. Have faith.”

But faith is what draws us to the water when we hear of a tsunami
, I think.

“
It is our nature to thumb our nose at terror, to believe good will prevail. And so we must. What other choice do we have?”

“So we fight.”

She nods, making her cobweb hair waft around her bony face. “And soon. Time is running out. Since the massacre at Minesend and the execution of Theodora the Shark’s Teeth have become restless and I fear they are losing sight of their purpose.”

“I am trying to win Petra. With the army’s support, victory is guaranteed.”

Maud leans against the balustrade and peers out into the dark, ignoring the sound of people thrashing in the mud. “It will be difficult to convince the Shark’s Teeth to fight alongside the army. They have been enemies for so long.” She turns back to me. “Our goal, though, has always been to unify Tibuta in preparation for the Tempest. I will do my best to convince them but you must hurry. If you don’t win Petra, I fear Tibuta will descend into a bitter civil war and innocent people will die. We need the army to make a swift strike against your mother.”

“I am close.”

“The minute you have her, leave the temple.”

I indicate my compliance.

“Now, tell me, I have heard rumours of a new princess. A woman claiming a right to the throne. Is it true?”

I nod and tell her about Adelpha. “My mother has no intention of giving up the throne. Not to me; not to Adelpha. This evening she publically humiliated her so everyone thought she was giftless.”

“Interesting,” Maud says, running her hand over her chin. “If she splits her mind in three, her body will suffer.”

“Enough to kill her?” I say but Maud shakes her head and laughs.

“I am afraid it won’t be that easy. Not if your mother is taking measures to prolong her life.” A crowd exits the ballroom. “I should go. I will leave Ried for you.”

“One last thing,” I say, watching a man peel away from the group. “Before she was killed the woman from Taveni Island mentioned seeing a bird flying above the Tempest and I think it was Callirhoe. Do you know what it means?”

Maud thinks for a moment. “Birds are mentioned in the old religion from the mainland but I must check the Holy Texts. We will speak again once you have the army. Hurry,” she says, glancing at the man.

When I look back the old woman’s eyes have cleared. Her skin is taut. Her hair is vibrant. Her voice is Ried’s: deep and melodic. “Your highness, Maud has offered me as a means of communication. If you could find an inconspicuous position for me in the palace, I can remain in hiding so you can call on me should you need to contact the temple.”

“I know the perfect place.”

Cook shouts obscenities at the serving boys who decorate tiny chocolate cakes with gold leaf. His face is smeared with brown and his apron is filthy. The crowded room throbs with heat and sweat.

“Highness, not again,” Cook says, then points at one of the serving boys. “Friance, have that one sent to the high table.” The boy nods as he swerves past carrying a tower of desserts, ignoring me completely. His face is bright crimson. I cringe at the memory of our brief interlude. “And Amos, take the truffle meringue now. Don’t trip.”

Cook approaches, wiping his brow with the edge of his apron. He takes me by the arm and pulls me into a quiet corner. “What is it this time?”

“I need you to find a job for Ried.”

“Bad timing.”

“Please, it is important.”

Cook looks the red priestess up and down. “Oh yeah?”

“I need you to give her a job and a place to stay with the other serving women. Please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. And no it can’t wait until morning.”

Cook raises his eyebrows then turns his attention to the boys working along the table. “Get a move on. Odell is still waiting for his seconds.” He turns his attention back to me. “Who is she?”

“She is a red priestess from the high temple. Maud sent her. She is very important to me. She must be made available at all times.”

Cook’s laughter is from the gut. “If the queen finds out I’ll only be hung from the Justice Tree. But what do I care? The gods damn my soul. What’s your name?”

“Ried,” says the red priestess, scrunching her nose in distaste at his blasphemy.

Cook swings around and takes an apron from a peg on the wall. “Well, Ried,” he says and throws it to her. “You’ll have to work hard. There are no slackers in my kitchen.”

Ried’s expression is one of blank indifference.

“And you ought to know, I don’t take kindly to those who bang on about their religious views. You would do well to keep your opinions to yourself. Do that and we’re bound to get along.”

The woman nods, her face deadpan.

“She’s a real joker, isn’t she?” Cook says to me.

“Thank you, Cook,” I say and squeeze his arm as I pass.

“Anything for you, my dear,” he says and grins before turning back to his staff. I exit into the cool relief of the night to the sound of Cook’s jocular profanities directed at poor Amos who has tripped again as he inevitably would.

I stare at the heaving tide of guests and imagine myself with Drayk admiring our unruly vegetable garden. Tomato vines slither across the earth sprouting red fruit, carrots push through the mulch, and kale and cauliflower compete for space. There are chickens rooting nearby. Such a simple life, like the one Harryet painted for me, a life free of sin, free of intrigue, free of betrayal. A life given over to physical labour, which purges the mind of visions of grandeur. An ignorant life. A good life.

Drayk enters through the main door furthest from the high table. Though he is not vain and takes no pleasure in his appearance he knows a chiliarch is more than just flesh and blood. A chiliarch is bronze buckles, medals and shiny boots. He sees me and I nod in acknowledgement. I look up as he draws nearer. We stand side by side against the cool white marble. I am aware of Adelpha watching us. I scrutinise my mother, who leans across my empty spot to converse with the imposter. She laughs at something Adelpha has said but it is a false laugh for a doting audience.

Around us men and woman link arms and whirl about, barely in control, while those around them stomp to the beat or clap their hands. It is a wonderful sight, like watching children play, but Drayk does not smile. A bleak mood sits on his shoulders. “What do you think of your new sister?” he says.

“My whole life I dreamt of having a brother or sister, someone to look out for me.”

“She came just in time,” he says with irony and I smile.

“Thankfully I had you,” I say and squeeze his arm affectionately. A dancer whirls dangerously close and Drayk and I move to get out of his way. “She is nothing like I imagined a sister might be. No more my sister than that chair or that table.”

“Why call her sister, then, if she does not fulfil the responsibilities of the title?”

“Precisely. She falls so short of my expectations and speaks openly of her intention to take the throne. But what am I to call her? Person? Thing? Nathos? If I cannot call her ‘sister’ then can I really call my mother ‘mother’ or my father ‘father’? They have hardly fulfilled their roles.”

“If you take that line of thought then what claim do you have to the title ‘daughter’?” he says.

“Or ‘queen’,” I say.

“Or ‘friend’.” He will not look at me.

“I did not realise you doubted my friendship,” I say. He finally turns to me and I notice the dark circles under his eyes, the deep frown which extracts all light from his face.

“You are more than simply a friend,” he says then quickly changes the course of the conversation. “What of this woman’s claim to the throne? Could she be queen?”

I wait for a moment before responding, deciding whether or not to let him divert our conversation. I choose to wrestle it back on course. Two hands wrap around my chest and squeeze. “You are more than just a friend to me too,” I whisper.

Drayk looks at me, blinking wildly. “Excuse me,” he says and marches towards the exit.

I peer along the colonnade. There is no sign of the immortal so I turn to my war-wit. “I’ll meet you back at the apartment.” I pull my dress up, leap over a puddle and run through the mud towards the barracks. Behind me the ball is a distant glow of noise, the pulsing of debauchery. In the distance the Throne Room is black against a grey sky, the full moon hidden behind rolling thunderclouds. The guards are a silent threat, menacing like the remnants of a bad dream. I ignore them.

The sky starts to rain with a sigh of release, and I quicken my pace. The wet grass pulls on the hem of my dress.

Drayk’s voice reaches me through the dark: “Verne.” He jogs to catch up and we stand in the open beneath the flagpole. The barracks are dark. Most of the soldiers are still in the mess hall enjoying the celebrations. Water drips from our hair. I can feel the warmth of his wet body reaching out for me. If I stepped forwards I could touch him.

He takes my hand and pulls me along the side of the barracks away from prying eyes. “You shouldn’t be out here without Bolt.”

“After all our training, I think I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

He chuckles. “You’re right.” Barely able to keep eye contact, he squeezes out an apology. “I shouldn’t have walked away. Not in front of everyone.”

“Why did you?” I say, my voice catching.

“I’m not from Tibuta. Not originally, though I have lived long enough to appreciate that there are different ways of doing things. You are a woman grown. People talk. They think—” Drayk runs his hand through his beard “—they think I take advantage of our friendship.”

“They think
you
take advantage of
me
?” I laugh. “More likely they think I have taken you as my consort.”

He does not say anything but instead grinds his toe into the ground. I can sense his anger.

“Let them think what they will. What does it matter even if you were my consort? What difference would it make? You are my friend, Drayk. I have told you I cannot live without you. I rely on you for your good counsel as my mother did. Do they say you lie with her too?”

“Don’t speak to me of your mother,” he says with more contempt than seems appropriate. “Anyway their rumours matter to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to think I am using you.”

“How on earth could you use me?”

He shakes his head.

Frustrated, I clench my fists. “Drayk, I have often thought about making you my consort. But I cannot. The title is demeaning. And yet I cannot stay away from you either. I have tried, Drayk. I told myself I would maintain my pride. I stopped going to the barracks so poor Alexis and Carmyl wouldn’t have to make excuses for why you could not see me.”

“I am not permitted to feel anything for you, not openly,” he says, wiping the rain from his eyes. “You are heir to the Tibutan throne and I am…I am a humble servant. Anyway, I promised myself I would feel nothing after my first wife. And yet…”

“
You
may not be permitted to feel anything but there can be no punishment for me. I search the inside of my skull and find no opposition and yet I know that it would be unwise to profess my feelings for you. What about our friendship? Still, I cannot continue without knowing. Even if you choose to deny me, I must know, Drayk. My feelings for you have developed beyond friendship. You said I am more than a friend. Do you really feel the same?” I hold my breath.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I have held my tongue because it is not the Tibutan way but I have wanted you for a long time.”

My words catch in my throat as I try to articulate my relief, my joy. Tears come freely now and mingle with the rain.

He folds his arms around me and with my ear pressed against his chest I can hear his heartbeat. “I am afraid,” he whispers and kisses the top of my head.

I pull away and plant my lips against his. The sensation is light, like feathers, and warm.

“I am sorry,” he says, and kisses me, harder this time. “I am so, so sorry.”

It is as though he apologises for something yet to come.

With my body entangled with Drayk’s, my lips pressed against his, I feel only fear: the fear of persevering—I am not ready to take him as my daroon—and the fear of turning him away. Both paths are black tunnels. Rather than face the fear I fall into it. I allow myself to melt into Drayk, my mind evaporating, my inhibitions ignored. I do not know where my small self has gone. Wherever she is, she is not speaking.

Our first kiss seems to last an eternity. Drayk lifts me onto my tiptoes, I thread my fingers through his hair and am anchored to him while we soar through the air, weightless.

“Come on,” Drayk says, taking my hand. We run through rain past the Throne Room, laughing. I am aware only of the rivulets of mud, the soggy ground and the sensation of his big hand holding mine. The rain is like curtains enclosing us, hiding us. Above, mountains of clouds rumble as if the gods are shaking their fists.

We hide between two tall hedges in the garden where the light is dim and no one will recognise us. When Drayk pushes his body against mine I can feel him through my soaked dress. His skin burns. He puts his hands around my waist and leans down, his breath a lover’s touch.

My lips stroke against his. A flame ignites inside me, an old, familiar yearning. I am afraid it will take control of me…My kiss is deep, wet. I drink of the rainwater that runs down his face and over his lips. I grope for something to hold onto, something firm to reassure me that he is real. I move from his waist, fondling the hem of his tunic and running my hand up the rough material to his chest. I run my hands along his shoulders, which are hard beneath the wet fabric. I explore the contours of his face with the tips of my fingers: his lips, his chin, and his eyes. I want to imprint the shape of him in my memory.

He brushes my hand aside and kisses me with a sudden hunger that startles and excites me.

Laughter reaches us from beyond the garden. Our lips part. Our eyes interlock. Though I cannot see the detail of his face—it is in shadow—I know his eyes. I know the grey and blue specs in his irises, I know the expression of mild amusement.

The sound of drunken conversation gets closer.

“You should go,” I say and step away. He will not release my hand and he pulls me to him.

“Promise me you will come tomorrow,” he says.

“I promise,” I say and kiss him again.

We turn from one another and I hurry towards the apartments, my heart racing. The taste of him lingers in my mouth. The heat lingers between my legs. I walk on light feet, feeling as if a gentle breeze could toss me off the edge of the world. My senses have been blown open. I’ve stepped into an adult’s world. I hunger for full knowledge, a complete picture of the balancing elements: pleasure and pain.

When I return to my room, Piebald is waiting. I wipe the rain from my face and take a deep breath. “What do you want?”

The little man pushes off the wall. “What are you up to, highness? I know you are up to something.”

“Stay out of my way,” I say, shoving past him.

“Your mother wants to see you.”

“Now?” I say, whirling around. It is long past midnight. The ball is well and truly under way.

“Your family is waiting in the War Room.”

To get to the War Room one must first descend a narrow set of slate stairs through a trapdoor in the grass of the Upper Ward. The bunker is oppressive. For my mother it provides a sanctuary where she can comfortably ignore difficult questions. Down here my mother could slit my throat and no one would even hear me scream.

I walk quietly, holding one arm out to steady myself. With the other, I hold the drapery out from my feet. I hesitate in the doorway. I can hear my father’s voice. He sounds cheerful, which is unusual. I can also hear Adelpha.

I know my father is capable of happiness. I remember the joy in his eyes as he lifted me from my cot, the cooing and gurgling as he tried to communicate with me as a baby, our shared secrets when I was a little girl. There was no sudden change, no abrupt moment I can point to, except the moment with the tavli board—but even that was one of a collection of moments. My father lost himself slowly, imperceptibly so that where there was once a creature of light with a wide smile and bright eyes now stands an old man.

I step into the room. Smoke hovers like a storm cloud against the ceiling. There are no windows, only air vents emitting the slightest whisper of fresh air. The stench of burnt whale oil is overpowering.

My mother and father sit opposite one another, hunched over a map of Longfield, a small candle burning between them. It is rare to see them without the insects of the royal court buzzing around their heads. I am mesmerised. My father almost looks…I have always seen my father as the runt of the litter, skirting around the heels of the bigger, more aggressive pup, my mother. Not today, though. Today they are almost equal.

Adelpha is leaning against the wall in shadow.

“You wanted to see me?” My voice shatters the peace, which falls like a thousand shards of glass. My father’s light is extinguished. He is himself: old, worn out.

“Angelfish,” he says, gesturing for me to sit. I slump into a heavy wooden chair.

“I have summoned you here because this evening I received some news that is relevant to you both,” my mother says.

“They explained the situation to me while Piebald was looking for you,” Adelpha says.

I find her smugness infuriating. “What situation?”

“For some time I have been hoping to form an alliance between Whyte and Tibuta. Caspius has abandoned us and we need soldiers—not our own, who we cannot trust, but men of Whyte who will squash the uprising.”

“But Caspius is our long-time ally and has always supplied aid. Surely Jace has not abandoned us. He is married to aunt Aria,” I say.

“He can and he has.”

Standing over the map, I examine the nations of Longfield. The mainland is like two hands cupped around the Vestige Sea. Tibuta is at the centre of those hands, a few specks of black dust. “Why have they abandoned us? Is our marble worth nothing?”

“Marble is irrelevant during times of war, when kings and queens are more concerned with timber to build ships, grain to feed soldiers and iron to forge weapons. We cannot let old blood ties lead us to destruction. Your uncle is too busy with his north western border to help us,” my mother says. She points to the line between Caspius and the Dual Kingdom. “He fears attack from the west from King Aaron and rightly so. Since Aaron secured the Gregarian coast by marrying Queen Zellina he has put significant pressure on your uncle. He has outposts on the entire border. The fighting, which was once contained to the Black Strip,” she runs her long finger nail along the border between Whyte and Caspius, “spills over into Caspius. King Aaron will have your uncle bending the knee soon enough.”