A tiny, almost imperceptible smile of anticipation flickers on Cimari’s lips, then disappears as quickly and completely as if it were never there.
“You’re right, of course,” Cimari replies tearfully. “I suppose…yes, I think we must.”
She covers her face with a trembling hand, as if she can’t bear to watch what will happen next. But I know she’s likely hiding a smirk as she whispers, “Guardsman, fetch a whip.”
Fouetté
My knees hit the gravel hard.
Though I know the sickening crunch is nothing but the loose stone shifting beneath me, I can’t help imagining my kneecaps crumbling to dust. Pain radiates through my bones, making my breath come fast and my muscles contract. Cimari grips me by the hair as she rips my dress right off my back. The tattered rags hang from my waist, exposing my torso to the guard’s speculative gaze.
Tears of shame spring to my eyes but don’t fall as I fight against the instinct to cover myself with my hands. A thrall has no modesty. A thrall doesn’t care. A thrall has no sense of ownership over its own body, and so it can’t be violated.
“Strike,” Cimari says.
A line of fire snakes down my back. The urge to cry out is—almost—overwhelming. I grit my teeth, letting my head fall forward between my elbows. Cimari jerks it back up, her hand twisted in my braids. Sweat beads along my hairline, on my lip, the small of my back. I want to fall forward, onto the ground, but Cimari still has hold of my hair; if I don’t support my own weight, she’ll tear it out.
“Strike.”
My breath whistles through airways constricted by fear and pain; my head swims. No sound. No sound. No struggle. Nothing. Do nothing.
“Strike.”
I don’t know how long it goes on. I thought I knew pain. And I do—every dancer does. But this is something else, something infinitely more debilitating. No one has ever hurt me before. It’s the intention, the desire to cause pain, that makes it so disturbing. I’ve never encountered such malice. It makes so little sense to me that I start to believe that there must be some reason, some purpose behind it.
I must deserve this, somehow, because why else would it be happening?
“Strike.”
Bile rises in my throat and forces its way into my mouth. No. I clamp my lips and teeth tighter together. I can’t let it out. Vomit surges upward into my sinuses and drips from my nose instead, blocking my airways.
I can’t breathe—I can’t see.
Sweat streams down my face and gets in my eyes, making them water and sting. The guard continues his work, oblivious to my internal struggle—a struggle I lose with the next fall of the lash. I choke as the contents of my stomach bubble out of my mouth and over my chin. And still, Cimari doesn’t let go.
“Str—”
“Stop.”
Gasping for breath, I turn my head ever so slightly and peek behind me. The guard lowers his whip. His face is flecked with blood—my blood.
Ismeni stands in the doorway of the garden, white-faced with rage. She stalks forward and grabs the whip out of the guard’s hand. For a moment, I think she’s going to attack him with it. But she throws the whip aside and rounds instead on Cimari, eyes blazing.
“How dare you.” Ismeni’s hand lands with a sharp crack, leaving a lurid red print on Cimari’s cheek. “How dare you lay hands on Cygnet?”
Cimari holds a hand to her face once more, her eyes wide with what I think might actually be real shock. “Isi—"
“What reason could you possibly have to interfere with my thrall?” Ismeni demands.
“I—it—look at my dress!” Cimari wails, tears leaking from her eyes. “It’s so wild, Isi, I was only trying to help—”
“Help!” Ismeni cries. “Look at what you’ve done!”
“I’m sorry, Isi,” Cimari says. “I am, I just—”
“Leave me,” Ismeni snaps disgustedly, then turns to the guard. “You as well. You should know better than to indulge a foolish girl’s whim. My husband will hear of this, I assure you.”
“Isi, I—”
“Just go, Cimari. We will speak of this later.”
I’ve never seen Ismeni so angry, not even when Orean brought Sadra home. Her whole body shakes, as if physically struggling to contain her fury. Despite myself, I find comfort in her anger and the tenderness with which she wipes my face clean. For a moment I let myself believe that she cares for me, that she’s outraged by the abuse of an innocent rather than the damage of her property.
Once Cimari is out of earshot, Ismeni turns and calls, “Help me.”
“Oh, my stars…”
Sadra appears at Ismeni’s side. I blink, wondering if the pain is making me see things.
With no more than a wary glance at each other, they help me to my feet and tow me inside, not to my room, I notice, but to Ismeni’s.
Every step is agony. Even the slight impact of my footstep makes my back burn and throb. They hold me upright by my arms, trying to avoid the bleeding gashes on my back and ribs.
Ismeni lays me face-down on her bed. I watch Sadra out of the corner of my eye as she sets a jug of water on a nearby table and then flits from the room. Ismeni dabs at my back with a soft cloth. Though her touch is gentle, I can’t help cringing away, my eyes squeezed shut against the sting.
The door opens, and I hear Sadra’s voice: “Here—and I brought more cloths.”
“That will be all,” Ismeni says curtly.
Sadra’s footsteps retreat; the door opens once more.
“Wait…Sadra.” Ismeni pauses in her ministrations. “Thank you.”
I crack open one eye and see Sadra nod, then close the door quietly behind her. Ismeni sits beside me, tears dripping from her lashes. Her mouth quivers as she dips a new cloth into the water and applies it to my back. I twitch, closing my eye again.
“I’m sorry,” Ismeni murmurs. “I know it hurts. Sleep now, sweet girl. Everything’s going to be alright.
“Hush, sleep little one
The moon is on her way
Sailing for the morning
To meet the golden sun.”
I’ve never been able to resist Ismeni’s voice for long, even at my best—and I’m definitely not at my best now. Something feels different, though. There’s a strange pulsing in the air, a glow, a shining that I feel more than see. Confusion breaks through a wave of nausea. I can’t be seeing anything at all; my eyes are closed. Or are they? I can’t tell. But how do you feel something shining without heat?
I don’t know. But it seems like only moments before I hear Ismeni’s voice again, this time ringing with authority but no longer singing.
“Enter.”
I stir at the sharp tone in Ismeni’s voice, automatically moving to do her bidding, whatever it might be. The swollen, lacerated flesh on my back burns and aches, sharp and dull at the same time. I clutch at the sheets; blood falls from my bitten lip, smearing the pristine sheets with red. I squint at the stain and try to imagine that it’s only ink, that I haven’t shed even more blood for Cimari’s malice.
“You sent for me, Isi?”
Cimari’s voice. Cimari is here. I writhe once against the sheets, then force myself into stillness. Ismeni is at my side in an instant. I want to close my eyes, but I’m too afraid. I watch them both through my lashes, hardly daring to breathe.
“Easy,” Ismeni whispers, then turns to Cimari with a face of stone. “I would like to know why you saw fit to flog Cygnet for something that was, by all accounts, your own fault. You were just looking for an excuse, weren’t you? Cimari, this spiritwalker nonsense must stop.”
“But, Isi, I really thought—”
“You really thought your last thrall was compromised as well,” Ismeni snaps. “And you were wrong. I thought the experience might have taught you some humility, but evidently I was mistaken.”
“But it’s been acting so strangely,” Cimari insists, wide-eyed. “I didn’t tell you —I found it wandering about the other night. It was
in the kitchens! Why would it go there?”
Ismeni throws up her hands. “Obviously, she was looking for food! How many times has that puppy of yours done the same thing?”
“But the evidence—”
“The evidence suggests I need to give Cygnet a bigger meal before bed, nothing more,” Ismeni says. “I’m sorry, Cimari, I must ask my husband to speak to your betrothed. This is getting out of hand.”
“No!” Cimari cries. “No—Isi, please. I’m sorry, I made a mistake.”
“I’m sorry isn’t good enough,” Ismeni says sternly. “Not this time. Cygnet is not a toy. She is a living, breathing creature under my care and entitled to my protection. Leave me, Cimari, and don’t let me see you anywhere near Cygnet or Dove.”
“That girl needs something else to occupy her time,” Ismeni mutters when Cimari is safely gone. With a sigh, she adds, “I worry about her. If only she would take an interest in something other than Light! There are plenty of other suitable pastimes for a girl of her age and station.
“She could serve in the Temple or with the House sanctuaries in the City, if she prefers. She could certainly stand to improve her dancing. How many times have I offered to find her a tutor? Or I would tutor her myself if she would rather sing. But no! She wants to be a High Lightcrafter. She chooses the one path that is closed to her, the poor dear…”
Yes, I think darkly. Things must be so difficult for her.
The poor dear.
* * *
“What do you mean, Master Doran isn’t coming?”
I lift my head weakly from the bedclothes, straining to hear what’s going on outside the door. Orean rarely ever enters the women’s wing. I hope Ismeni doesn’t let him in here. It doesn’t look like she will; I can see her through the partially open door, her posture stiff and forbidding. She won’t let him in. She can’t. Sweat breaks out on my forehead as I recall with awful clarity the feeling of Orean’s hands on my shoulders and my clothes slipping to the floor.
“I told him his services were not required,” Orean says. “It’s a completely frivolous expense and an embarrassment to us all. Calling a Lighthealer to attend a thrall—we’d be a laughingstock.”
“How can you be so cruel?” Ismeni cries. “Cygnet is in pain, she’s suffering—”
“Don’t be so dramatic, my dear,” Orean says, his tone dismissive. “It’s just a few cuts. Besides, you have a spare. Use your other thrall—the old one.”
I wish I could see Ismeni’s face. Her shoulders are rigid, her back stiff and straight. But her voice, when she speaks again, is studiously calm.
“Her name is Dove,” Ismeni says. “And she’s too frail to accompany me outside the Terrace. Even more so since she saw what happened to Cygnet.”
“Ismeni, you must abandon these ridiculous fancies,” Orean snaps. “You and Cimari both. It’s a thrall, for beauty’s sake. While I highly doubt it’s a spiritwalker waiting to murder us in our beds, I doubt even more that it suffers as you or I might.
“I have taken Cimari to task for her presumption, and she has expressed her regret and contrition. Let that be the end of it.” A beat of silence, then, “Very good. Now, Sadra would like a word.”
Sadra? Perking up hopefully, I wait with bated breath until Ismeni steps back to let Sadra into the room.
“Do sit down,” Ismeni says stiffly. “How can I help you?”
“When I heard what happened with Cimari, I thought I might be able to help,” Sadra says.
I shift slightly to get a better view and see that she’s cradling something in her arms. When she holds it out to Ismeni, I see that it’s the puppy Cimari received as her betrothal gift.
“I thought you might want her. Poor thing, I really don’t have the time to do right by her, though I’ve been doing my best,” Sadra says. “I was going to ask Lucoran to take her and raise her with his foxes, but maybe she’ll do better here. I’ve heard that sick animals can benefit from company. Perhaps it’s the same for thralls.”
“Oh!” Ismeni blinks in surprise. “I—what a kind thought.”
What is Sadra playing at? I need a doctor, not a puppy… It’ll probably drool on me.
I narrow my eyes at the puppy as Sadra places her carefully at my side. I’ve never had any pets of my own—Baba Nadia firmly believed that animals belong outside, working for their keep.
But I have to admit, it—she—looks sweet with her fluffy ears and silky pale fur. Even her weirdly long legs and pointy nose are cute in a gangly, dorky sort of way. When she snuggles against my side, I do actually feel a tiny bit better. She’s so warm—it’s like having a little heated pillow, if that pillow were to snuffle around the hollow of my neck and lick my ear. But it’s not as gross as I imagined. In fact, it’s kind of nice to be shown some genuine affection, even if it’s from a dog.
But I can’t let the puppy distract me. My gaze drifts up to Ismeni’s face, soft and unfocused. I hate it, but it’s my own—my only—kind of magic. I can see her, but she can’t, or maybe just won’t, see me.
“She’s precious,” Ismeni says with a reluctant smile. But when she turns her gaze toward Sadra, her eyes grow sharp and suspicious. “However, I do hope you had something more in mind for Cygnet.”
“I think I can get you a healer,” Sadra says. “Not a Lighthealer—but a Gifted one.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Mother Wenla.”
“The Temple Mother!” Ismeni’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “She would do that for you?”
“I think so. She all but raised me,” Sadra says, and grins. “But it wouldn’t hurt if you promised to spend some time teaching at the Temple. Songs Mistress recently retired to the cloister and her replacement hasn’t arrived yet. I know Mother Wenla would appreciate the help.”
“Of course,” Ismeni says dismissively. “But Cygnet—I don’t want to leave her alone more than I have to. Cimari said she would behave, but…”
“I could take her,” Sadra offers. “Perhaps we’ll explore the markets. I wouldn’t mind spending a few hours every week spending Orean’s money.”
I glance at Ismeni, worried that Sadra has gone too far, but Ismeni merely smirks. After a moment, however, her smile fades.
“Why are you doing this?”
Sadra doesn’t answer right away. What can she say to that? Surely not the truth?
“Because I know the feel of a whip on my back,” Sadra says softly. “No one should have to endure that, not even a thrall.” At Ismeni’s questioning look, she continues, “I was born in a tavern. My mother died, and my father left. The tavern keeper let me sleep in the cellar in exchange for what small labor a child could perform. Mother Wenla brought me to Temple when I was six.”
“I see,” Ismeni says. “And Orean—”
Sadra shrugs. “You need fear nothing from me. My vows prohibit me from marrying or bearing children. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”
“Then why are you here?” Surprisingly, Ismeni seems merely cautious and curious rather than angry. “Any household on the King’s Terrace would be wild to host a Temple initiate of your caliber.”
“I have my reasons,” Sadra says. “And love is not one of them, I assure you. I may share Orean’s bed on occasion, but my heart is given elsewhere.”
Ismeni looks her over with sharp eyes. “Are you a spy, then?”
“Nothing so official,” Sadra replies. “My only allegiance is to the Temple. If your husband’s opponents on the Council know his secrets, they didn’t get them from me.”
“In truth, I don’t know that I would care if they did,” Ismeni says. “I must assume your presence here has something to do with these ‘Council meetings’ that seem to take place so frequently of late. Council meetings that are most certainly not sanctioned by the king.
“My husband believes I am silly and soft and completely oblivious, that I can’t tell when he’s planting ‘evidence’ against this or that lord. He is a fool, and it is my fervent hope that you are her
e to cause trouble for him.”
Sadra smiles.
“I suppose you can’t say one way or the other. No matter.” A chair scrapes as Ismeni gets to her feet. “I haven’t been to prayer since Cimari…I don’t suppose you would stay with Cygnet for a little while?”
“Certainly,” Sadra says. “I’ll speak with Mother Wenla this evening if you like.”
“I thank you,” Ismeni says, inclining her head in a formal-looking gesture. “I won’t forget your kindness.”
Sadra smiles again. “That, as I’m sure you realize, is the idea.”
Ismeni smiles too, wryly. “Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it? Very well, I acknowledge the debt.”
Sadra and Ismeni share a nod of guarded respect as Ismeni leaves for prayer. As soon as she’s gone, I allow myself a whimper of pain.
“Where were you?” I whisper, my voice raspy. “Ismeni keeps making me sleep. How long has it been?”
“Two days.” Sadra comes to sit by my side, scratching the now sleeping puppy behind its ears. “How do you feel?”
“Bad.”
“Not as bad as you look, I hope,” Sadra says.
“Worse,” I grunt. “This Mother Wenla—she will help?”
“She will.” Sadra brushes a lock of hair from my cheek. “I promise. She’ll heal you as best she can, and she’ll help you get out of here. She’s one of the Bird’s Path elders.”
“Is it true, what you told Ismeni?”
“It is.”
“Is that why you help me?”
“Partly.” Sadra smiles. “But also because it’s the right thing to do, and because you’re my friend.”
“I can’t be,” I tell her, and blink away tears. “I’m not really here. I’m…I don’t know the word. My head is sick.”
“You’re not crazy,” Sadra says firmly. “And you’re as real as I am. Imaginary people don’t hurt as much as you do, I’ll wager.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how you did it, Sasha. You were amazing.”
I frown. The idea of being admired for submitting to a beating makes me feel dirty.
“You brought Ismeni,” I say instead. “How did you know?”
The Chalice and the Crown Page 11
