“Yes.” I shiver. “Some. I was empty before.”
“Yes, empty,” Sadra agrees. “Your mind was being used for something else—for Light. It comes from you, through your brand. It comes from your mind—and your body. If we don’t stop it, it will kill you eventually. We call it the Pall.”
I touch the scar on my hip. “This? This kills? How long?”
“It could take years—twenty, maybe, or thirty. It depends. I don’t know the exact mechanics of it, but the Pall preys on your mind like a leech. Do you know what I mean? It lies on your skin and sucks the blood out.” At my nod and wrinkled nose, she continues. “The Pall siphons your energy out of your mind, and the brand on your hip gathers the energy and focuses it into Light so that it can be used by the people around you. That’s why Lightcrafters take their thralls everywhere they go—or nearly everywhere. Luckily for us, Ismeni is fairly devout.” Seeing my confusion, she adds, “That’s where Ismeni goes every day—to the Temple of Graces. Thralls aren’t allowed there. Mother Wenla says they’re a distraction.”
“But I am alive,” I remind her. “I am aware. How?”
“You have a strong mind,” Sadra says with a smile. “And you made it stronger.”
“By dancing,” I say.
“For you, yes. It’s a matter of focus,” she says. “And discipline, or so they tell me.”
“Dove does something,” I tell her. “She sits at the fountain and stares, every day. She is awake.”
“Is she?” Sadra’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to look her in the eyes. It goes against the grain, these days. “Will you help her, too?”
“I…I don’t know,” Sadra starts uncomfortably, “I was only sent for you.”
“Why only me?”
“Because you were the only one we knew could be saved,” she says. “But now…I don’t know. Even getting just you out will be terribly dangerous. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Cimari knows,” I say. “Or she…what is the word?”
“Suspects,” Sadra supplies. “Yes, I’m sure she does. But she’s been wrong before, and we can use that to our advantage. Still, you’ll need to be very, very careful.”
“Wrong how?”
“She’s betrothed to the House Premier—the head of the House of Light and Shadow,” Sadra explains. “I’m sure he’s fed her the House’s standard and entirely false explanation of awakened thralls: that the ‘empty’ body of a thrall has been inhabited by a spiritwalker, a person who can cast his soul outside his own body. Orean says Cimari sent one of her thralls to the House for ‘inspection’.”
“What happened?” I whisper.
“I couldn’t say.” Avoiding my eyes, she adds softly, “But the thrall didn’t come back.”
Nausea floods my belly. “What will I do?”
“Nothing,” Sadra says, gripping my wrist. “Do nothing—and, above all, say nothing. No matter what happens, don’t make a sound. The House will stop at nothing to keep their secret safe. If they find out about you, they’ll take you away and we won’t be able to get you back.”
She releases me and chews nervously on her lip.
“There’s so much you don’t know, and I can’t explain a lot of it in a way you’ll understand, yet. But I can help you.”
“You put words in my mind,” I say, frowning. I’m not sure how I feel about Sadra messing around in my head, but I can’t deny that it’s a useful trick.
“Yes,” Sadra admits. “I Whispered them to you while you slept. It’s my Gift.”
“What is—”
“Tomorrow,” Sadra says, shaking her head. “You still have to dance, and Ismeni will be back soon.”
Reluctantly, I get up and follow her to the barre. Questions swirl in my mind: What exactly is this Bird’s Path? And who within that organization, if that’s what it is, sent Sadra to find me? And how did they know I could be saved? Come to that, how are they going to save me?
Sadra said something about being healed. What would that entail, exactly? If my mind and body were being used for Light before, am I not producing it anymore? Am I not a source of Light anymore now that my mind is my own? And if I’m not, won’t someone notice?
“Focus,” Sadra reminds me, seeing my stiff, distracted movements. “Let it go, Sasha. I know you must be frightened, but I promise you: There are people who want to help you—and we will. We’re going to get you out of here. But you have to trust me.”
Trust her. It shouldn’t be that simple, but it is.
Baba Nadia’s lecture on trust comes back to me, as clearly as when she first spoke them to me so many weeks ago: In the end, it’s a choice. You need to choose to believe that your partner will catch you, or you will never fly.
Sadra, for better or worse, is my partner now, and I have no choice but to place myself entirely in her hands. I don’t like it. I don’t want to, but I have to. She’s my only hope of salvation in this crazy place, so I will trust her.
It doesn’t feel much like flying…but it will have to do.
Pas du chat
Emily is singing to me, stumbling over the words. She never did have an ear for Russian.
“Bayu bayushki bayu
Seedit kotik na kriyu
On ne bedin ne bahat…
Oo nyevo..oonye vo…”
Emily stops and laughs a little, shaking her head.
I’d laugh too if I could. Her accent is terrible, even after practically living with Baba Nadia and me for over ten years. We always laughed about it, just like we laughed when she helped me learn English so the other preschoolers wouldn’t make fun of me. I would give anything to laugh with her again.
“Sorry, bug,” Emily says. “How about this one? You liked it when you were little, remember?”
“I see the moon, the moon sees me
The moon sees somebody I would like to see
God bless the moon, and God bless me
God bless somebody I would like to see.
God bless somebody I would like to see.”
Emily stops and looks into her lap. Her jaw and throat tighten; she swallows several times and lets out a ragged breath.
I stay quiet. I don’t want to make any sound; I know all that will come out is a sharp grunt or, if I’m lucky, a kind of animal moan. It scares her, so I don’t try anymore.
Emily looks at the ceiling, at the door, anywhere but me. I keep my eyes fixed on her face, as if I can force her to look at me.
“Oh, God, Nadia, I wish you were here,” Emily whispers, wiping the tears from her eyes. She takes several more breaths before finally looking at me. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Ignore me. Where was I?
“Do you believe in lovin’, honey?
Mm, you bet I do.
I believe in lovin’, honey,
When I’m lovin’ you…”
* * *
I wake with tears pooling against my eyelids. I want to go home so badly it’s like a physical ache throughout my whole body.
Emily, poor Emily.
Her name runs after itself through my mind, repeating in an endless loop. I hate myself for putting her through this; I hate Sadra for doing whatever she did to pull me into this world, even if it was to win my freedom and ultimately save my life.
Better that I had died, in this world or at home, or both. Anything to keep Emily from suffering this way.
A cool hand wipes the tears from my cheeks and comes to rest on my forehead; I look up to find Dove standing over me, her eyes full of compassion. I wonder if she had someone to comfort her when she woke to find herself trapped in a nightmare. What kind of strength must it take to face each day alone?
Dove pats my cheek gently and motions for me to get up. With a sigh, I throw back the covers and obey. Whatever I might be feeling right now, there’s work to do—if not for Ismeni, for me. My task for the day remains the same: don’t screw up. Don’t make any noise, don’t draw attention to myself in any way. Trust Sadra
.
It’s been nearly a week now, and it’s getting easier—trusting, at least. I haven’t been killed or dragged away by the House of Light and Shadow, after all. And I find that I like Sadra, that my affection for her before I woke up was real. She’s capable, confident, and wickedly funny. Though she can’t be much older than I am, she reminds me a little of Emily: Some days that similarity eases the ache of missing home; sometimes it makes things worse.
But there are still questions that need answers, and today I plan to insist that Sadra give them to me as best she can, regardless of the language barrier that makes things so difficult. I just need to make it through this morning until I can escape to the garden.
Ismeni isn’t making it easy, though. She mopes, she whines, she sighs. She composes poetry out loud for her “dear Miocostin,” whoever that is. Her lover, I suppose. She puts us through our paces as if we’re trained dogs, for no other reason than boredom. Through it all, I maintain the serene, vacant countenance of a thrall. I keep my bitterness and shame and disgust buried deep inside, where no one can see it or even guess at its presence. But it’s hard. It’s so hard.
At midday, Ismeni leaves for the Temple and Dove and I let ourselves into the garden. Dove takes her usual place at the fountain. Not for the first time, I wonder what she does. Perhaps it’s a kind of meditation, a way to keep her mind strong like Sadra said. But I don’t wonder long; I have many more immediate concerns to address.
“Hello, friend,” Sadra says cheerfully when I reach her. “Shall we dance?”
“Not yet,” I say firmly. “I have questions.”
She shakes her head and unfolds from a deep stretch.
“Sasha, it’s so difficult to explain—”
“Try anyway,” I say. “And I will try to understand.”
Sadra sighs. “Alright. What do you want to know?”
“You say you’re here to help me,” I say, “and I believe you. But why do you—why are you with Orean? He’s…he’s bad. Very bad.”
“Because that was the easiest way to gain access to the house—to you,” Sadra says promptly, looking pleased to be able to answer so easily.
I frown. “No one thought it was strange?”
“What was strange?” Sadra asks, puzzled.
“He’s married,” I point out. “He has a wife—but he has you, too.”
Sadra looks at me, seemingly baffled. “Why should it matter? Temple initiates are forbidden to bear children or inherit property. That’s what marriage is for, after all, and the only reason anyone cares who sleeps with whom. Ismeni does seem a little annoyed, I grant you, but she knows I do his household great honor by accepting Orean’s patronage.”
Seeing my skeptical look, she insists, “It is often done. Households provide initiates of all disciplines with funding and facilities and in return, we add luster to the house’s reputation and standing. We share our talents and also our bodies, if we choose. Occasionally our hearts.”
I trail my hand over the wooden rail as I process what she’s told me. “I don’t understand. Ismeni is not of the Temple, and she has a…I don’t know how to say it.” I purse my lips, groping for the right words. “A man, a—”
“A lover,” Sadra supplies. “You’re right, that is a bit confusing. Ordinarily, Orean would be well within his rights to flog her for her infidelity, but her case is rather different. Her lover is King Miocostin, you see.”
I grit my teeth. Of course “dear Miocostin” is not just some guy but the king of this horrible place. Figures.
Sadra continues, “Orean can’t make a fuss about it, even if he wanted to—and I don’t think he does. I’m almost positive Orean is using Ismeni to feed the king false information, and his marriage to Ismeni is nothing more than a business arrangement, anyway. He has the standing, but she has the money… Had, I should say. Orean gained control of all of it when they wed. And he uses every bit of it to further his own ambitions, the pig.”
She makes a face and adds, “Orean certainly isn’t someone I would choose for my own purposes, but…well, it was the only way to gain the necessary access and mobility within such a high-ranked household. Only the king holds more power than a Councilman like Orean.”
I shoot her a look out of the corner of my eye, my nose wrinkling in distaste even as my brow furrows with unease and guilt. I don’t like the thought that I’ve put her in such a position. But she doesn’t seem to mind it too much, which is itself so strange I don’t know how to respond. I bend into a stretch to hide my confusion, and Sadra chuckles.
“I haven’t had to actually bed him but once or twice,” she says. “Being a Dreamwhisper has its advantages.”
“A what?” I ask, glad to be distracted from her previous revelations.
“A Dreamwhisper,” she repeats. “It’s my Gift. It’s how I’ve been helping you. I put the words into your mind while you sleep. I do the same with Orean—I Whisper to him of all the pleasures he didn’t technically enjoy, though as far as he’s concerned, he enjoyed them very much. It’s only to his benefit, really. I doubt what I have to offer would be as exciting in truth.”
She grins at me, inviting me to share in the joke, but I ignore it in favor of a more pressing question. “Does the Gift come from Light? Are you using me like they do?”
Sadra’s eyes widen. “Stars, no. My Gift is mine and mine alone. Everyone is born with a Gift, and everyone’s is slightly different, though they generally fall within one of several broad categories.
“The Lady Ismeni is a Catchsong, for instance. You’ve heard her sing, haven’t you? It’s hard not to listen—impossible, sometimes. Orean is likely some kind of Truthseer. I’m not positive, but I’ve noticed that he has an uncanny knack for guessing people’s weaknesses.”
“What is Cimari?” I ask, though I have an idea.
“I think she’s a Honeytongue,” Sadra says, frowning. “Or a very weak Heartstouch. It’s odd, because usually your Gift aligns with your personality. You know, Ironarms and Swifts like to exert themselves, Greenloves like to be outside, Beastspeakers love animals, and so on. And most Honeytongues and Heartstouches are friendly, outgoing, warm…but I’ve seen enough of Cimari when she’s not trying to get something from someone to know that she is none of those things. She’s cold, driven…and, I think, very angry.”
Sadra shrugs. “But I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with Orean and Cimari. Not everyone’s Gift is readily definable or well developed, especially among the wealthy, who tend to prefer Light… Cimari certainly does! It takes less effort and energy—of their own, that is. They use yours instead. The Pall takes all the energy that should be going to feed your Gift and your mind, and your brand converts it into Light for others to use. That’s why thralls are so…blank. Empty.”
“But I am not empty.” Relief at this truth shivers through me. “I am awake.”
“Yes,” Sadra agrees, but her face is troubled. “And now that your mind is your own again, the Pall is taking the energy from your body. Which means that we are operating on a much tighter timetable now. I don’t mean to scare you, but I think you have a right to know. What would have taken decades could now use you up in as little two years.”
“Then why?” I ask angrily. “Why did you not just leave me?”
“Because we’re trying to save you,” Sadra cries. “Were you happy, wherever you were? Were you well? If you were, if you want to go back to that, I’ll crave your pardon and leave you to it. Stop dancing, stop fighting the Pall, and all will be as it was.”
I open my mouth, then close it. When I do speak, it’s in a much lower tone. “No. I was not well. I was sick. Very sick. When you heal the Pall, will it make me well? Will I go back?”
“I…I don’t know.” When I take a breath to argue she cuts me off with a gesture and says, “Truly, Sasha, I don’t. There are many things the Path elders haven’t told me.”
She joins me at our makeshift barre and rests her hand over mine. “Let’s dance now. Please.�
�
I stare at her, my jaw set in a mulish expression. I want to ask her about the visions of my other self in the hospital. What do they mean? Are they real? Am I someone else now or am I truly in two places, one soul in two bodies? And, most importantly, what will happen to me if one of those bodies dies?
But I don’t have the words yet to ask her these things. So I bite my tongue and join her at the barre to dance. As terrified and confused as I am here, what waits for me in my old life is even worse, at least until I can be cured of this Pall. Until then I have to fight it, however I can.
My mind settles slightly as I join Sadra at our makeshift barre, and I fall into the calm focus that she tells me keeps my mind strong against the Pall.
For a blessed thirty minutes or so, I let my worries go and think of nothing at all. But when I leave Sadra and make my way back to Dove, even more questions plague me, crowding my mind until there’s room for nothing else.
I’m so preoccupied I don’t see Dove’s penetrating stare of warning until it’s too late.
A voice cries, “Oh!” A foot comes down hard on my foot; a trail of jam drips down the front of my dress and onto the ground, where a broken pastry sticks out of the dirt like a tombstone. I keep my eyes on it, afraid to look up.
Please, no. Don’t let it be her. Please.
“Oh, dear, what have you done?”
Cimari stands before me, her face arranged in an exaggerated expression of outrage. “Guard,” she calls, her voice now rippling with astonished dismay.
Guard? Since when do guards hang around the garden? She must have been waiting for me—she wanted this to happen. She knows—Bozhe, what am I going to do?
I stare at her, my jaw locked shut. I don’t even have to try to hide—I’m frozen.
“My lady?”
A household guard appears, his brow furrowed with concern. Cimari fusses over her stained skirts, twittering like a little bird about how the gown was a special gift from her beloved brother and, oh, how can Ismeni abide such wildness in her thralls.
“They’re beasts, my lady,” the guardsman says, eager to help. “And beasts need discipline. Training, see.”
The Chalice and the Crown Page 10
