Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (6 page)

“They were demons?” I said.

“Not demons but not good either. Their atrama was certainly grey and their appetite was insatiable. These beasts, good or bad, were hunted ruthlessly because inside each one of them the Ooruk monks had hidden a stone that gave immortality.”

“And you hunted one and killed it? Did your wife Kali help?”

“She remained at the base of the mountain but I hunted the serpent and I killed it. I am not proud of it, now that I know better. There was no valour in it. The tales would have you believe it is almost impossible to kill a serpent. But why would the creatures be extinct if they were so difficult to kill?” Drayk’s gaze was fixed on his shoes. He shook his head, as if clearing it. “It was winter and the beast Nemea was hibernating. I snuck up behind it and put my spear through its eye.” He jabbed on the ground with his spear. “Then I slit its throat. The serpent lay beside me in a pool of its own blood, its tongue lolling from its great mouth and its nostrils still smoking. I ripped each of its scales off one by one to get at its chest. I held its heart in my fist, bigger than a man’s head. It was still warm and pumping but I sliced it open and removed the stone embedded in the flesh.”

I shuddered. “So now you cannot die?”

“Now every time I die, I regenerate through the stone. I will regenerate again and again no matter how many times I am killed, but only until I reach my fortieth year and then I am reborn elsewhere. Now enough of that: it is time you learnt to fight, little miss.”

“But why are you on this earth for so long?” I said, not ready to end the conversation.

“Those of us who capture the stone are bound to the life that chooses us. We live and we die, and we are reborn. Our purpose,
I
believe, is to serve as best we can, to ensure past mistakes are not revisited. We see deep into the past and it informs our understanding of the future. We use our collective knowledge to guide people who can make a difference in this world.”

“Like my mother?”

“Like your mother. I have served her since I was fourteen.”

“Really?’

“Yes. I was reborn in Gregaria in this life. When I was fourteen, the King invaded Caspius so I joined his ranks but was captured and sold into slavery. I was bought by a Tibutan and chosen for your mother’s personal household. I was your mother’s…assistant…until my twentieth Name Day, when she discovered I was an immortal and realised my full potential. I did not have to serve as a mere hoplite. She made me chiliarch. Only one rank beneath strategos and a great honour considering I am a man. I hope to serve you too when the time comes.”

I jumped down from the wall and looked up at the immortal. “I wish I was immortal. Then I would never have to be afraid.”

“Promise me you will not wish too earnestly for what I have. It is a heavy burden to bear.”

“I cannot promise that. It seems a wonderful gift.”

“Your highness, people saw the serpent stone as you do. When I took the stone from Nemea’s heart I thought I was the luckiest man on earth. But I quickly realised that immortality came at a great price. Over the centuries I was reborn again and again. What a shock to grow up and discover you had lived before! With each new life I had to relearn all that I knew. It came back to me in pieces, like a dream, bit by bit in blurry fragments. Each time they named me Drayk or Philander or Ambrosios and as I grew I came to realise that Drayk was more than one person: he was many. I shared the consciousness and memories of my previous incarnations.

“With the serpent stone I escaped death, in a way. But each time I reached my fortieth year I had to say goodbye to the ones I loved.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yes, but it is the fate of all men to have to relive the lives of those who came before them. In a perfect world, like the Elysian Fields, we would start where our ancestors left off. We would add to their knowledge without having to waste time learning what they knew. We would live collectively, with one consciousness, one body of knowledge. But this is prohibited to us until the gates are open, when my immortality will be over and I can rest. It is our suffering. Only the immortal who lives to see the end of the world will understand everything that has come before him, but by then it will be too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“It would be like standing in front of a great tapestry. When you are too close you can only see each thread, each minuscule stitch. But when you step back you can finally see the detail.”

“I see,” I said, though I didn’t. Not really.

“One day you will.” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed that he had spoken so candidly. “Now we must start or your mother will have my skin.”

“But what about Kali? And your mother? I thought you sold the stone?”

“After I slayed the serpent, I descended the mountain to sell the stone to a gem merchant in Alaira. He weighed it, turned it over and peered at its swirling core. ‘This is a serpent stone,’ he said, throwing it back to me. I asked him why he would not take it. ‘Everybody knows you cannot use another person’s serpent stone. His immortality is gained in the taking of the serpent’s life, not in the wearing of the talisman.’ All I had done—leaving home, working as a salt miner, crossing the desert and killing the serpent—had been for nothing. Now we must start.”

I reluctantly climbed down from the wall, picked up the spear and accepted the shield. I wanted to know the entire story now, to see the big picture that he spoke of, but it was his story to tell and already he had shown me much kindness, more kindness than anyone had shown me before. I wanted to return the favour by being patient, by being the best student he had ever had.

Drayk stood behind me and I was disturbed by his proximity. I was unaccustomed to being so close to anyone except Nanny Blan and my father. He wrapped his hand over mine, adjusting my grip and put his feet between mine to kick my legs apart. “The correct stance is wide, knees bent, always in readiness with your stomach braced.”

I flexed my weak muscles.

“Now imagine there is someone coming towards you. He is going to kill you if you don’t get him first. Go!”

I wiped my shoulder-length hair out of my face with sweaty hands, repositioned the spear and jabbed at my invisible opponent; my face was creased in concentration. I did not want to disappoint him and I thought I would, inevitably.

“Keep the tip down and put all your momentum into it. Again!”

I jabbed as best I could.

“Well done!”

Drayk’s praise ignited a tiny flame inside me. Over the years, it grew into a raging furnace.

I had climbed the wall around the arena to watch Drayk the immortal training new recruits for the Queen’s Guard. I was nine and my knees were scratched. I had dirt under my nails. The boys’ faces were hollow, their arms so thin they shook from the weight of their weapons. Each carried a Tibutan spear, a long, thin piece of reinforced wood painted black and gold, with a fierce iron tip. One of the boys was more nervous than the others. His hair fell in front of his eyes and he had to keep stopping to wipe it away. He kept looking to Drayk for approval, as so many of us do.

“Again,” Drayk said and the boys began a routine of thrusting forwards with an underhand grip, parrying, retreating and attacking once more. “Good. Your footwork should keep you balanced. No, Antoine, the butt of the spear should not be braced against your back hand. Grip it like this. Again!”

I coughed and Drayk turned. “Little miss.” Then to the boys, “Keep going.” He walked through the gate and waited while I jumped down from the wall. I followed him into the shade of the cloister that ran along the outside of the Barracks. The boys continued to fight, grunting as their feet shuffled and danced. They broke into pairs, the tips of their spears aiming for the centre of the whalebone chest plates. The
tap-tap
of iron against ivory provided accompaniment to our conversation.

“Your Highness?” Drayk said patiently. It was not the first time I had come to watch him train. When I was not using cutlery and writing thank-yous with Arkantha, or examining shifting maps with Galen, I was at the arena studying various battle moves.

“Who are these men?” I asked.

Drayk glanced over his shoulder. “These men are the best hoplites in Tibuta.”

“Yes but where do they come from? And why are they scarred like that?”

“They are destined to be members of the Queen’s Guard if they pass their final trial.”

“Be frank with me, Drayk.” I stamped my foot. Thankfully I grew out of that habit.

He stood looking down at me, a smile barely hidden. “I suppose you will learn soon enough. These are the few who survived. They were taken from their homes when they were boys. They have been training ever since.”

“Survived?”

“A boy must go through a number of tests to join Tibuta’s army. To prove he is as steadfast as any woman. He must slaughter a baby seal with only his hands to prove his loyalty. And he must endure months of solitude on the islands, where he has to steal to survive. If he is caught he is flogged—not because he was stealing but because he was sloppy enough to be caught. A man must learn a woman’s discipline and stealth. Anyone who fails leaves in shame. Those who do particularly well are chosen for the Queen’s Guard though none of the boys you see here will rise above hoplite. That privilege is, of course, reserved for the women of Tibuta.” He looked back at his men. “These ones arrived half-starved. It will be weeks before they are in any condition to fight. Some of them have been outside the Seawall for over a year. But they are good. That one”—he nodded at the nervous boy called Antoine—“killed a man with his bare hands rather than be caught stealing.”

“And you had to do these things?”

It was like a cloud descended over his eyes. He looked away. “Yes. I did. I have had to do many things in service of the queen.”

“But how did you endure it? It seems so…unfair.”

“The way I have endured twenty-five lives. By reminding myself that it is for the common good, and that I was put on this earth to serve.”

I wanted to ask him more, to enquire about the fear, about how his hands must have trembled as he held the seal. Had the snap been loud when he wrung its neck? Instead I thanked him and let him return to his work. I promised myself that when I was queen, no man would ever have to kill a baby seal.

That evening, long after the moon had risen in the autumn sky, I was woken by chanting outside my window like the low hum of a bee. I put my pillow over my head. When the noise did not dissipate I crept into my solar. The room was dim. Embers glowed in the fire pit in the centre of the room. I climbed onto the bench beneath the window and flung back the thick silk curtains. Beneath my window was a crowd wearing hoods: black swimming on black.

I left my apartment. Bolt, startled by my sudden appearance, tried to turn me around and direct me back to bed, but I pushed him off. “I want to see,” I said in a voice he knew would turn to screaming and tears if I did not get my way.

Bolt’s eyes glowed like two rubies in the dark. He sighed in submission.

“Thank you, Bolt,” I said, hugging him around the legs.

At the top of the double staircase I jumped onto the polished timber railing and rode it side-saddle, sliding and wobbling until I landed with a gentle plod at the bottom. I waited for Bolt who took two steps at a time to catch up.

Outside, we snuck along the portico that ran the length of the apartments and watched the crowd from behind a column. Bolt reminded me of a boy who feared his mother’s reprimand. He glanced anxiously over one shoulder and turned to me, pressing his finger to his lips to indicate that we should be quiet.

I nodded in acknowledgement.

The group of hooded figures moved out into the gardens, where they were obscured by boxwood dolphins and turtles. Their voices drowned out the sound of running water from the fountains. The light from their whale-oil torches danced like a thousand fireflies above the pittosporum hedge.

Bolt and I were swept up in a sea of people. As one, we flowed out of the palace and through the dark streets of Elea Bay. The conversation around me was excited, celebratory. I recognised my teacher Galen and Edric, the stableboy. They walked hand in hand. I kept my head down so they did not see me but I heard much of what they said.

“Do you think they will pass the test?” Edric said in his gentle, soothing voice.

“Only the gods can tell,” Galen said.

“I hope so. I imagine the pain is great and it would be an injustice to fail after all that training.”

I saw John the Fowler, who always had feathers in his hair and Cook, who carried a lavender posy near his nose.

Outside the Wall they fell silent, huddling close together. “Best to travel in a group,” John said, glancing around uneasily. I followed his gaze. The streets were haunted by shadows.

We continued along the Holy Way. I swam up the canal past the marble figures of my ancestors to the Sacred Precinct while Bolt walked along the path beside me watching for Shark’s Teeth. He took my hand and helped me out of the canal. There were war-wits positioned outside the precinct, patrolling. Their bare arms slick with oil. Their eyes searched the dark for a sign of trouble.

I heard the tympanums. The gates to the Sacred Precinct were flung open and we entered the arena as gladiators. People roared. Hundreds of tattooed fleets pummelled their instruments, their big almond eyes glistening black in the firelight, their four thin arms, too thin to be so strong, blurred into an aura around them and their naked bodies, always painted white, writhed to the beat. Behind them a row of war-wits, a good head taller than the general populace, kept the roaring crowd under control.

Bolt looked uneasy, guilty.

“Just a few moments, then I promise I will return,” I said.

The drummers stopped. A cloaked figure ascended the pyramid temple via the steep stairs. At the top she was greeted by another. She turned to the crowd and removed her hood. I saw her face: white in the moonlight, a gold band around her head. It was my mother. Her accomplice was the high priestess. I was surprised to see them together after the years of estrangement Mum had insisted on.

The queen raised her hand and slowly the people in the front row fell quiet. “Death,” she called to silence the rest, “is the realm of darkness. It is a towering flood, the hand that chokes. It covers all it finds in mud. It knows no master and is no slave. Yet it conquers all.” She paused. The only sound was of someone clearing her throat. “But life, life is given to us by the First Mother so that we may fight the darkness.” She threw up her hands and there was a roar so loud I thought I would be swept away.

Bolt glanced down at me as if to say, “Young highness, this is not for your eyes.”

I turned my back on him. “I’m nine,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. During this exchange I missed much of my mother’s speech.

“…life must be protected by the soldiers who dedicate themselves so we may prosper. Bring me the first!” the queen roared.

The crowd parted to let a young man through. The drummers drummed as he climbed the stairs—to me he seemed lonely, afraid—and at the top he turned to us and discarded his cloak. He was naked from the waist up. It was the boy from earlier that day. It was he who had struggled to keep his hair out of his face, the one who had been so keen to please Drayk.

Antoine
.

I held my breath, my heart thundering in my chest.

Antoine climbed onto the altar and lay on his back. The high priestess handed my mother something—it caught the light—and she raised it over her head. “Do you intend to kill me as you have killed others?” she called loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Loyalty guides my hand,” the boy responded. “I kill for you, to give you life.”

“From now you will serve the First Mother and your queen. It is a great honour to join the Queen’s Guard. Endure this final trial and receive this distinction.” My mother drove the knife into the boy’s chest.

“No!” My scream was drowned by the thunderous uproar from the crowd. As blood oozed from the wound, the crowd cheered like a forest of shaking branches. My mother wrenched the knife through his flesh to leave the mark of the trefoil knot. I felt the impact in my own chest. I brought my hand to my heart to check it was still whole.

The queen held the bloody knife up for all to see.

Another roar.

“What is she doing here? Bolt, you should know better,” a voice said above me. Drayk’s face swum into view. It was creased with concern. He wore a black cape flung over one arm and looked magnificent, like Rai the god of war and king of all the gods in the old religion of the mainland. “Highness, we better get you home.”

“Is that Princess Verne?” someone said behind me their voice incredulous. I turned to see a balding head and a gut like a wine barrel. Stained brown breeches were held up by leather suspenders.

“That’s what he said,” said a dumpling of a woman with a missing tooth. Her grey hair hung limp around a face scarred from the pox.

Drayk looked uncomfortable. “No, no…” he said, shuffling between us. I peered around his legs to get a better view.

“It
is
,” the man insisted. He was joined by a reedy friend with a black moustache who looked like he was ready to break up a fight.

“What’s this now?” said the second man.

“She’s the heir apparent,” said the first man, nodding to me.

“Really?” said the second.

“What’s she doing here? Don’t you know the Shark’s Teeth are out there,” said the woman, nodding to the darkness beyond the gate.

Drayk’s hand inadvertently slipped to the hilt of his sword. He spoke with a hint of irritation, guiding me around them. “Thank you yes. I was aware of it. If you’ll excuse me, I must get her home—”

“Wait,” said the woman, making Drayk stiffen. She flashed him a gummy grin. “We can help you.” She pulled back a flap in her peplos to reveal an old dagger secured to her hip with a leather belt.

Drayk took a step back. “I would prefer the army accompany her.”

The woman stuck her chin in the air in indignation. “Suit yourself.”

There was a scream somewhere near the temple. The crowd, which had been flat like sheet metal, rippled and corrugated. Voices stopped abruptly and formed pools of silence. Useless questions were muttered to dazed companions. There was another scream as a hooded figure fought his way through to the temple steps. He drew a sword and was quickly joined by more hooded figures. Hesitation. And then panic. A thousand people turned to flee.

“Heritia’s blood,” Drayk swore.

“Quick, follow me,” said the woman, taking my hand and yanking me to the left. Drayk and Bolt had no choice but to follow.

I remember shuffling feet, shoving, screaming, and an elbow to the back of my head. The portly man went ahead, pushing people out of the way. We exited through a side gate and circled around to the Holy Way where there was space for Drayk to lift me onto his back. All I could do was hold on as he ran. The moustached man and the woman guarded my flanks. Bolt took up the rear.

We were half way along the Holy Way when we slowed to a walk. The canal was empty, its water like glass. Drayk’s breath was laboured. He burned beneath me.

“The guards must have killed them,” the woman said but no one responded. We were too busy listening. Behind us was the sound of the heaving crowd and the war-wits who fought to keep them under control. I was vaguely aware of a shearwater circling overhead but in hindsight she was always there, my silent companion. Silence folded in around us as each of us contemplated every dark shadow.

After a time I became bored with fear. A child’s mind is like that; easily distracted, never truly appreciative of danger. “I can walk,” I said, climbing off Drayk’s back. The immortal glanced down at me, concern obvious on his face. “I am unharmed. It just frightened me,” I said as we passed beneath the defaced statue of Kratos.