Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  ‘No.’

  Jocaste’s voice rang out from across the tent. She strode forward and snatched the circlet from Tymon’s head, ripping it from the fingers of the surprised Doctor. The humming of the orah abruptly ceased. Her action dragged the two remaining rings from her father’s head, attached to Tymon’s by their length of orah. Despite the Doctor’s best efforts to catch them, they fell to the floor at Jocaste’s feet. She picked them up and backed away.

  ‘What are you doing, sweetheart?’ he asked her anxiously. ‘Bring those here now, dear girl.’

  He stepped toward her, but she kept her distance, moving toward the doorway where Anise stood, silently eyeing father and daughter. Tymon sat still, hope pounding in his heart.

  ‘I’m helping you,’ said Jocaste. ‘I’m taking these poisonous things away.’

  ‘Nonsense. Sweet bean-flower, that’s my medicine.’ He answered her condescendingly, as if she were a young child. ‘Without those rings I’ll be sick. Do you want Father to be sick?’

  ‘They are what’s making you sick. You need to stop using them.’

  ‘Anise, talk some sense into our little lady, here,’ said the Doctor with a forced laugh. ‘She’s overwrought. Perhaps these foreign devils have cast a spell on her.’

  He lunged forward to snatch the rings but Jocaste slipped out of the pavilion door, escaping him. He strode after her with an exclamation of anger, only to come up short against Anise. The young Jay was immovable, his arms folded over his chest.

  ‘Don’t just wait there: catch her!’ cried the Doctor furiously. ‘I command you, get those rings back!’

  But Anise did not budge. ‘She’s right, beloved master,’ he said. ‘You’ve not been yourself lately. We think you may be the one under the spell.’

  ‘Of all the ignorant, fool things—’ spluttered the Doctor. He did not wait for Anise to say more, but dodged swiftly past him onto the deck. The young man leapt after him.

  As soon as they were gone, Tymon hastened to Pallas’ side. He tore off the straps and headpiece from his friend, his fingers trembling with impatience. Pallas was out cold, as limp and heavy as a corpse, his face a ghastly shade of grey. Tymon hoisted him up with difficulty, half lifting, half dragging the young Nurian to the door of the pavilion, to emerge cautiously into the last rays of the evening sun.

  He stopped in his tracks as a blood-curdling scream echoed from the far side of the deck. Jocaste stood by the barge’s rounded prow. It was not she who had cried out, however. She hovered beside the gaunt figure of her father bent over the deck-rail. The Doctor’s knuckles were white where he clutched the bar. Anise waited nearby, tense and alert.

  ‘What have you done, Jocaste?’ gasped the Doctor, his face drawn. ‘You’ve killed me!’

  ‘You’ll miss them for a while and then you’ll feel better,’ she assured him. ‘You’ll be fine again, I promise.’

  ‘My dear, stupid, well-intentioned child,’ muttered her father. ‘This is not some addiction to Nurian som, or a drunkard’s obsession with wine. Those Sap-rings were my life. You’ve taken away my life.’

  He seemed lost, despairing as he leaned against the deck-rail, his thin shoulders bowed. The sun slipped behind the leaf-forests as Tymon stood in the door of the pavilion. Pallas was a dead weight on his back: he could not drag his friend across the deck toward the gangplank without attracting attention.

  ‘What about us, Father?’ asked Jocaste, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘Weren’t we something to you?’

  ‘You?’ The Doctor’s face twisted as he lashed out at her in blank hatred. ‘You? You useless creature, damaged replica of your damaged mother! You are nothing. You never were anything. None of you were worth the air you breathed before I found you!’

  He glanced about him at the figures who had gathered, shadow-like, on the deck of the neighbouring barge and in the rigging above, to watch the altercation. ‘When I came to this company it was a drifting collection of thieves and whores!’ he shouted at them, hoarsely. ‘I gave you pride. I gave you purpose. You didn’t exist just to serve the hypocrite lechers of Argos city. If you want to give all that up, fine. I don’t need you!’

  He leapt nimbly onto the barrier, catching hold of one of the barge ropes, and stood for an instant balanced precariously on the rail. Jocaste sprang forward with a cry, but she was not quick enough to catch the Doctor.

  ‘Farewell, fools,’ he called, letting go of the rope to fumble backwards into the void.

  Jocaste threw herself against the rail with a strangled shriek, then sank down on the deck. Anise caught and cradled her. Silent and sombre, the other Jays left their posts to gather about them. Tymon turned sadly away. This was his one chance to leave unnoticed. He hooked his arms around Pallas’ waist and attempted to drag his friend toward the gangplank but did not get far.

  ‘Wait, stranger,’ called a voice from behind, causing him to halt in his tracks.

  Jocaste had stood up. Her face was streaked with tears but her expression was tranquil, or perhaps resigned as she spoke to Tymon.

  ‘We have done you a great disservice,’ she said. ‘Allow us to make amends. The Jays are a hospitable people, or once were. Please, stay with us, as our guests. Let us nurse your friend back to health. We will take you wherever you need to go.’

  There was no mistaking the sincerity of the offer. Tymon slowly nodded, laying Pallas gently down on the boards of the deck.

  25

  We are all exiles, thought Samiha, gazing steadily at the priest seated opposite her. Banished from our true home.

  A candle’s glow lit the prison cell, framed by darkness. Her interviewer was sweating; the was burnt low and sputtering in a hardwood dish by his feet. Father Rede perched stubbornly on the stool he had brought into the cell although she was obliged to crouch on the floor. The little man, she thought, possessed the heavy-lidded eyes and stooped shoulders of a perpetual flunky. His flattened vowels spoke of his shameful origins, the childhood spent in the colonies and the daily bigotry he endured as a result, from high and low alike, in Argos city. He did not want to be there, talking to her. He had been sent because no one else would do the job.

  ‘Sameeya of the House of Sayman,’ drawled Rede, deliberately mispronouncing her name. ‘I am here to inform you that the Council has reviewed your case and sees no prospect of reforming your character. You will consequently go on trial in a week’s time, on charges of heresy and conspiracy against the state.’

  ‘The Council?’ she echoed mildly. ‘I thought that the Saint had been reborn in Argos. Doesn’t that mean the Council is disbanded, or soon will be?’

  ‘That is no concern of yours.’

  ‘You’re from Hatha, in the East Domains. Am I right?’ She smiled at him. Rede recoiled from her courtesy as if it possessed a sting.

  ‘Full of questions, aren’t you, Nurry whore?’ he snapped. ‘Perhaps they should cut your tongue out before the trial, then at least we’d hear the truth.’

  ‘I’m not trying to trick you,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just that I grew up in Hatha, too. Or maybe I should say, I spent some time there, with my father. It was one of the more welcoming places we stayed. I remember springtime was particularly pleasant because of all the flowering melata.’

  The little priest seemed at a loss for words. He gazed at her askance.

  ‘What a convenient time for the Dean to announce his Sainthood,’ she mused. ‘Just when the administration of the Domains is proving complex—’

  ‘I’m not here to listen to your opinion of what is or isn’t complex,’ grated Rede, collecting himself. ‘You are to sign a confession prepared by the Council. I understand you can write your own name.’

  He withdrew a section of leaf from his belt and handed it to her. She read the first few lines of script, the corner of her mouth twitching with dry mirth.

  ‘I can’t sign this,’ she said, laying the sheet down with a shake of her head. ‘I didn’t do any of the things it says.’ She picked up
the bundle of close-written paper from the floor beside her. ‘I already prepared my own confession for Father Fallow. You’re welcome to it.’

  Rede made no move to take the bundle. ‘You will sign the confession provided,’ he stated. ‘Or face the consequences.’

  ‘What use is a trial, if you’ve already decided what I’ve done and ignore all other testimony?’

  The priest stood up with a brisk movement. ‘You have three days to change your mind,’ he said. ‘I strongly recommend that you sign the confession. It won’t save you, but will spare you a great deal of pain.’

  ‘Go home, Alaster Rede,’ she returned softly. ‘Go home to Hatha where the bean-flower blooms, and your old mother waits in the blue courtyard, shelling peas for market. Last spring she lost the use of her right leg. Go home.’

  The priest’s eyes grew wide. The colour drained from his face as he stared in horror at the witch who saw so clearly into his soul using his own memories against him. He rained a volley of knocks on the cell door until a guard unlocked it and let him out. Behind him, the object of his fear sat motionless in the candlelight, her head bowed.

  A miniature replica of the scene in the prison cell hovered like a smoke cloud above the Dean’s orah-clock. A tiny Father Rede hurried out of the door; a diminutive Samiha remained behind, her face lost in shadow. The pinpoint of the candle guttered beside her.

  Four people had gathered in Fallow’s sumptuous new office to watch the altercation between priest and prisoner. The orah-clock lay between them on the large hardwood desk, cradled loosely in the Saint’s hands. He frowned at the wavering image that shook and shone in his grasp. The impassive Lace stood at his back. Jedda and Wick were seated on the other side of the table, watching the disc closely. The Tree-design etched on its surface glowed like fiery embers.

  ‘It’s useless,’ muttered the Dean in frustration. ‘I can’t touch her. I can’t look into her future, let alone penetrate her mind.’

  ‘We could always torture her to get the confession,’ suggested Wick. Jedda’s eyes slid toward him, a flash of disdain.

  ‘Physical pain will have little effect on our prisoner from that point of view,’ rumbled the Envoy from his post behind Fallow’s chair. ‘I’m afraid the Kion has Awoken.’

  The Dean craned over his shoulder at him, a nervous jerk. ‘You mean, she’s aware of her powers?’ he gasped. ‘She’s become like you?’

  ‘Yes. She will no longer serve us.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ put in Jedda, respectfully. She had edged her seat away from Wick, as if the other acolyte repelled her. ‘I’d like to have a go, if I may.’

  ‘Would you now?’ Lace smiled at her. Even his indulgence was sharp, toothy. ‘You’d care to measure yourself against the Born? Very well then.’

  He came to stand behind her chair and laid his slab-like hands on her shoulders. The Dean reluctantly withdrew his fingers from the bright orah and Jedda stretched out her own in their place. The image over the disc, which had begun to fade, leapt suddenly to life and blazed with colour. Jedda closed her eyes; a slight crease appeared between her brows. Wick watched the complicity between master and student from the sidelines, his lips pressed together in fury.

  The figure of the Kion moved. She glanced directly up at those watching her.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said in a terse dry whisper.

  At these words Jedda’s eyes flew open. She flinched and snatched back her hands, as if slapped. Blood rose in her pale cheeks. Wick’s fury gave way to a small, mean smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Yes,’ chuckled the Envoy. ‘She has Awoken. Consider yourself lucky, acolyte: many would not even have managed to provoke a reaction.’

  ‘This is bad,’ exclaimed the Dean. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘Do?’ Lace shrugged. ‘There is no cause for alarm, Holiness. She won’t use her powers against us. She has bound herself to her own silly laws in this world. She’ll go meekly to her death without revealing her true nature. She thinks it’ll help her. It won’t.’

  ‘What about the confession?’ pressed the Dean.

  ‘We’ll do without it.’ The Envoy left Jedda’s side. The Nurian girl seemed shaken, cradling her fingers as if they had been burnt. ‘We’ll concentrate on the crowd. There is no need for a confession when guilt is pre-established in the minds of the onlookers.’

  ‘There’s a whole week left till the trial,’ remarked Wick. ‘If she’s being so stubborn, why not make her pay? A visit by the Chief Inquisitor is all it would take. It doesn’t matter if she won’t confess. It’s about showing her who’s in charge.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what our master said?’ Jedda almost growled at him. ‘She doesn’t feel pain. There’s no point.’

  ‘Oh, she’d feel it,’ murmured Lace, smiling coolly. ‘She was delivered into this world in the ordinary way. She feels everything quite thoroughly, I assure you.’

  Jedda gazed at him with frightened eyes. ‘What’s the point?’ she whispered. ‘Why hurt her if you don’t want something in return?’

  The Envoy shrugged once more, his tone harder. ‘Tell me, acolyte. What is the point of your being here? I thought you had taken certain steps when you agreed to be my acolyte. But you don’t seem to be able to bring yourself to break fully with your past.’

  ‘I … I don’t like hurting people for no reason,’ stammered the girl. ‘Whoever, or whatever they are.’

  ‘You must let go of the lies you were brought up with. I thought you had grown beyond such petty notions of right and wrong. They are the mindset of a slave. You don’t want to go on being a slave, do you?’

  Slowly, Jedda shook her head. Wick smirked, gloating over her discomfort.

  ‘Understand that the Born have enslaved your people for millennia,’ rasped Lace. ‘They are the parasites of humankind. They use agents like the Oracle and the Kion to foster a mindset that promotes their interests, not yours. They teach you to give up your personal judgment in favour of their own. They want you to be powerless beasts — fodder, so they will have no trouble harvesting you when the time comes. You are one of the select few who dares oppose them. Let go of your inherited reverence for the Kion. It was planted in you for a single, cynical purpose: control. You should hate her. You should want to see her suffer. She has used you and your forebears for centuries.’

  Silence fell over the little gathering. Somewhere outside the glittering, sap-paned windows the bells struck a faraway noon.

  ‘Well,’ observed Fallow, ‘I suppose we all have our jobs to do.’ He gathered up the disc and wrapped it carefully in its black cloth.

  Jedda said no more but clenched her hands in her lap, the shame bright in her face.

  No natural light filtered into the cell beneath the seminary. The darkness in the room was complete, as hermetically sealed as the theological case for its existence. Leniency toward a disease only helped spread the infection, the Fathers claimed. So it was with contagions of the mind. Often the corruption had to be removed by force lest it endanger innocent members of the social body.

  To that end, the priests employed talented practitioners of the best coercive techniques, leaving little to be seen in the way of telltale marks or abrasions. All sessions with the holy inquisitors were carried out in the bright light of several lanterns. Light meant pain in the room under the seminary. Darkness was a release. The prisoner shackled to the wall had no way of knowing if the periods of alternating pain and relief corresponded to night and day, or other, shorter intervals. When merciful obscurity came, Samiha sagged against her manacles, or slept. Sometimes she spoke to another person, though all the inquisitors had left the room. In these moments there were two distinct voices inhabiting the gloom of the torture chamber.

  ‘Why do you hurt?’ asked Ashekiel.

  ‘Because of what they do to me.’ Samiha’s tone was one of weary patience.

  ‘Why do you fear?’ persisted her companion.

  ‘Because I don’t want to be hurt again.’

/>   ‘How will you escape that feeling?’

  Samiha might have shrugged, if the darkness had not rendered the exercise pointless. ‘I suppose it’ll go away when I die.’

  ‘Do you want to die, Kion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That seems inconsistent.’

  She was silent a moment before answering. ‘It’s human,’ she told her invisible questioner.

  Outside, high above, Jedda paced about the temple buttress, feeling the wind on her hot cheeks. She stopped briefly at the top of the main stairs and gazed out over the city and air-harbour, as if wishing she had wings and could soar out into the Void. Then she strode on, padding restlessly about the empty Hall like a trapped animal. When she had made a complete tour, she turned around and began her circuit again.

  There was a knot of panic in the girl-acolyte’s stomach, a seed of misgiving. Where she had once been confident and indivisible she was now conflicted, split into warring parts. She was no longer sure if she had made the right choices. What had once seemed simple had proven to be complex. She had heard that same uneasy state described by Grafters before. She guessed, had she had the courage to peer at herself in the trance, what Letter she would find growing within her now. The Oracle had told her she lacked it during their first Reading, a comment she had misinterpreted as spitefulness when it was simply a statement of fact.

  At the time she had lacked Knowledge. And it was now burgeoning rapidly and uncomfortably in her soul.

  The Chief Inquisitor was a slow, heavy-jowled man, with a habit of dropping the last half of his sentences, as if the effort required to move that weighty jaw and finish them were too great. His gaze was annoyingly unfocused, drifting about the Saint’s new office to hover on bookshelves, portraits, drapes, anything rather than the person he was addressing. His hands, however, were precise, unwavering instruments, lying folded in his lap. The man was usually good at his job, thought Fallow. This latest request was unprecedented.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said to his employee, a little flustered. ‘You were told that tangible results on this job were less important than a general softening-up. So, she won’t talk. What’s the problem?’