“That is what a real threat should sound like, Wu Song,” Shadow said. He had that defiant, almost nonchalant look he would get in his eyes right before he bit one of his siblings. Showing fear was not encouraged among the Scim.
“Well,” Jason said, very quietly, “I did find you pretty fast. I am better at Hunter and Prey. Obviously.”
The man’s eyes flicked toward the room’s entrance and then back to Jason. “There is room in here for one more,” he said.
“Um,” Jason said, “maybe if we were closer friends.”
The man pushed on the knife again, and Shadow’s eyes widened. Jason’s hands clenched. He wasn’t a warrior. He was terrible at Hunter and Prey. He needed to be protected, and he was useless with any weapon. But he wasn’t about to let someone threaten a child and get away with it. He opened the second door of the wardrobe and stepped into it, Dee scrambling at his feet.
“Close the doors,” the man said.
When the doors were closed, the stranger’s silver eyes shone out with a powerful light. The man spoke, his voice steady and low. “My name is Bezaed. My mother is called Willow, and my grandmother, Abronia. I am here, brother, to kill you before you can marry my sister Baileya.”
2
FIRST DAY
Anger is the seed of violence.
FROM “THE SEED,” AN ALUVOREAN POEM
Shula Bishara woke, panicked and disoriented, clutching her blankets.
The sound of a distant jet engine still echoed from her dream, and she was waiting for the whistling sound, the sound of a falling bomb. She pulled her sister close, but it was not her sister. It was Yenil. Where was Amira? Of course she knew the answer to that, but still a part of her asked because the answer was too terrible.
She put her hand on her chest, felt her heart hammering, tried to calm herself. I am in the United States now, she reminded herself. I do not live in Aleppo anymore. My parents, my sister, my brother, do not live on the seventh floor of a cement building in a tiny apartment. I do not share a small bedroom and a bed with Amira. We do not heat the house with a diesel-powered heater or with the small wood-burning stove Baba found, not anymore.
She took a deep breath and let it out with barely a stutter. She would not cry, not when she had just awoken. She refused to start the day in this way. She continued her litany of remembrances, forcing herself to face reality. I live here now, she reminded herself, in an American house. A small mansion in a suburb, with central heat and a too-large yard and more bedrooms than people.
It was too quiet here in this neighborhood. The neighbors too far. The sounds of life muffled by the thick walls and carpets. But still, the recitation of these remembrances calmed her. She forced her breathing to even out, her shoulders to relax. Morning had come, and it was time to get ready for the day.
Yenil had not stirred. Let her sleep a few minutes more.
Shula still wore her T-shirt and jeans from yesterday. It had been a hard night for falling asleep, with all Yenil’s excitement about starting school today, and Shula had lain beside her until she slept. Shula’s unruly mop of dark hair covered her face. She pulled it into a ponytail.
She stepped quietly down the hall, the plush carpet under her bare feet another reminder that she lived in a luxury home in the United States. Madeline’s door, white and perfect, was closed. For once no coughing or wheezing came from the other side. Shula turned the handle gently, silently, and slipped inside.
Was Madeline breathing? She lay so still, unmoving. Then Madeline gasped, and Shula’s muscles unknotted.
The windows had blackout shades on them, and Madeline’s room remained midnight dark despite the weak sunrise. Except. Something in the bed glowed. Shula thought Madeline must have brought her phone into bed, but instead of blue, the light was a golden green.
Stepping nearer the bed, she could see that the light came from Madeline’s wrist, that it burned from within the network of Elenil scars on her arm. But the light of Elenil magic had always burned silver, not green, and had flowed along her entire tattoo. This light seemed to be centered in her wrist but grew gradually dim, revealing only the tattooed lines closest to its center. Could this be because of the stone flower that had stung Madeline in the marketplace? Shula had never heard of such a response, but then again she didn’t know all the ins and outs of the magics of the Sunlit Lands. The light came from a place near where Madeline had received the wound, and such a coincidence couldn’t be ignored. But speculation seemed unimportant when Shula studied Madeline’s face.
In the greenish-golden glow, Madeline’s sunken eyes appeared more stark, the hollow of her cheeks more pronounced. She had been eating less and sleeping less with every month that passed. Shula put her palm on Madeline’s forehead and swept the hair out of her face. Her skin was cold and clammy.
Shula decided to let her sleep. Yes, it was Yenil’s first day of school, but Madeline rarely slept so deeply or so well these days. Let her rest.
The housekeeper, Sofía, had made an impressive American breakfast. Eggs and toast, pancakes and bacon. The smell of the bacon brought Yenil out, still half asleep, wrapped in a blanket. She settled happily at the table. Madeline’s mother came out as well, already dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. She busied herself filling Yenil’s plate and chirping along with small talk about the coming day that Shula could only half follow. But the happy warmth of it all—Sofía’s loving meal, Mrs. Oliver’s attempt to start Yenil’s day well, Yenil’s affectionate smiles between pouring too much syrup onto her plate—reminded Shula of her own loss. This is not my mother, she reminded herself. No more long breakfasts with my parents and Amira and Boulos. No ful or za’atar, or olives and oil and cheese and makdous and pitas, no table filled to bursting with plates and small bowls and laughter.
And yet . . . this was good. The winter sunlight slanted in and warmed them. The eggs were hot and fluffy, the jam reminded her of her mother’s. Her mother had made the most amazing fresh apricot jam. When they had finished, Yenil scurried away to get dressed. Sofía cleared the table, and Mrs. Oliver set out to make Yenil a lunch. Shula loaded a plate of breakfast food and took it, quietly, in to Madeline.
Madeline’s eyes flickered. “Morning,” she said. Her voice had become so weak. Her breathing was often louder than her words.
Shula put the food on the nightstand, but Madeline didn’t look at it. She gestured at the shades, and Shula opened them, letting in the light. She helped Madeline to the bathroom. Madeline insisted on getting dressed. She planned to drop Yenil at school. Shula helped her get ready. She had learned not to critique, not to suggest Madeline take it slow or rethink her decisions. She must be allowed to make her own choices—she was not a child. Not anymore.
Shula left her resting, sitting on the side of the bed. When Shula brought the wheelchair, Madeline still had not eaten anything. “You must eat,” Shula said. Here she would draw a line. Madeline could make her own decisions, but she had no interest in food. Her body did not tell her to eat anymore.
Madeline looked at her glumly and forced down a few bites of her eggs. She drank a sip of orange juice. “I’ll eat . . . when we get . . . back.”
Shula scowled at her. “Promise.”
“Yes, yes, okay,” Madeline said, and she laughed. The coughing stopped her.
They took pictures in front of the house. Of Yenil in her school uniform—a blue plaid skirt with a crisp white blouse and a navy sweater. Shula thought Yenil could almost fit in. Sofía had styled her hair in a French braid down her back, and the long sleeves of her sweater hid most of the swirling black Scim marks on her skin. Yenil smiled for the pictures. She was nervous but happy. Sofía waved at them as they piled into the car. Shula sat in the back with Yenil, Madeline in front of her. Mrs. Oliver drove.
Yenil’s English was much better than Shula’s already. She latched onto the grammar and pronunciation with ease, while Shula struggled to remember the difference between bed and bad. There were so many vowels in Engli
sh! Keeping them all straight was a chore. Yenil chattered away with Mrs. Oliver, while Shula let the words envelop her, and Madeline interjected a few labored words here or there.
The wide streets of the neighborhood and the perfect lawns reminded Shula of something from an American movie. Every house with its green grass (Madeline said that here the weather was so mild that the grass was actually greener in the winter than in the summer) and one tall tree in the front. The long driveways and the wooden fences. No apartment complexes crowding the roads, no motorcycles squeezing past, no tiny grocery stores wedged beneath and between the apartments. Madeline’s house was at the end of a branching series of cul-de-sacs, and only one road drove through the middle, like the trunk of a tree.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Oliver said, slowing the car.
A heavy truck was parked diagonally, blocking the street. It was the sort of truck that American commercials showed being used for farm work—bales of hay being thrown in the bed (not the bad) of the truck. Here in this neighborhood there was no need for such a vehicle, but Shula saw people driving them from time to time.
A teenage boy, about her age or maybe a bit younger—seventeen or so—stood outside the passenger window, shouting. A teenage girl was in the cab of the truck, the window down. She also was shouting.
Beside Shula, Yenil tensed. Shula put a hand on her arm. When Yenil became upset, she put on her war skin. Her skin thickened, her hair thinned, muscles layered onto her, and thick, tusk-like teeth protruded from her mouth. It was a defense mechanism, and it made her look inhuman. Shula patted her hand. “It is okay,” she said. “I have seen this boy yesterday. Sometimes he is near here.”
“I should call the police,” Mrs. Oliver said, her phone in hand.
“Mom,” Madeline said, shaking her head.
They couldn’t call the police. Madeline always said this. Shula and Yenil did not have green cards, or visas, or any identification. If the police asked for those things, they didn’t know what would happen. Shula could be deported to Syria. And Yenil . . . well, they didn’t know where they would send her. Not to the Sunlit Lands, certainly.
The boy reached in through the window and punched the girl in the face.
Shula flung her door open and strode toward them.
She did not allow this.
Mrs. Oliver honked her horn. Yenil’s door opened. “Stay!” Shula said sternly, and the door shut again.
The boy saw her coming. “This isn’t your business,” he said. His bloodshot eyes darted toward the girl in the truck. She was screaming at him, holding her face. Her lip was split, and blood dripped down through her fingers.
The boy also had a bloody nose. So the girl had managed to hit him at some point too. Now that she was closer, Shula could see bruises on the girl’s neck.
“Move the truck,” Shula said.
“I would love to, but Tiffany there won’t let me back in the cab,” the boy said. He slapped his palms on the window, which the girl had wisely rolled up. He swayed, then turned his attention back to Shula. “What are you, Iraqi?”
She was not afraid of him. She had fought bigger men than him. She had fought Scim. The tattoo on her left wrist tingled. A single thought from her and the magic of the Elenil would course through her. She would feel the familiar bite of the flames as she lit on fire. She knew she could do it. She had tested it in the backyard more than once. She had made sure no one was watching, and she had felt the comforting prickle of heat as she brought the fire through her skin. The magic of the Sunlit Lands still coursed through her, despite being in America. This boy could not hurt her, could not even touch her unless she allowed it.
The honking again.
Shula looked back. Madeline’s door stood open. She leaned against it, standing beside the car.
“Stay!” Shula shouted.
The boy sneered at her. “You think you’re in charge of everyone, don’t you? Telling people to move their trucks. Telling people to stay. I don’t know what it’s like in Iraq, but this is a free country.”
Inside the truck the girl, Tiffany, was screaming, “Shut up, Josh! Just shut up!”
Shula looked in at Tiffany. “You drive away,” she said. Her English was a problem. She hoped the girl understood.
Josh held his hand up and shook his keys. “She can’t. She keeps locking the doors when I try to get in, but she can’t go anywhere either.”
“We are calling police,” Shula said.
“Yeah, right,” Josh said. He sneered. “They gonna believe me or you?” He dropped his keys. Swayed. Bent over carefully to pick them up. He was on drugs, clearly, but Shula had no idea what type. He would not be rational. She did not think she would be able to talk him out of this. They could not call the police. “You go get back in your car and go on home. Me and Tiff will be done here soon, and you can go do whatever it is you got to do.” He slammed his palms against the window again. “Isn’t that right, Tiffany?”
“Don’t leave me with him!” she wailed. “Please, please.”
“What is it you want, anyway?” he shouted. He pushed against the truck, rocking it.
Tiffany screamed, “I just want someone to love me!”
“Oh please,” Josh said. He spit at the window. “You’re high.” He kicked the truck.
“You give her the keys,” Shula said. “We go to school.”
Josh’s eyes refocused on her. She could see it, that moment the rage redirected. She had seen it before in men’s eyes, recognized the way they decided that the person in front of them could be an outlet, that this person might be weak enough to make them feel strong. She planted her feet, ready to beat him.
“I’m calling the police,” Mrs. Oliver yelled from behind her, and then, “Yenil, no!”
Josh swung, vicious and fast, but Shula stepped out of the way.
She heard the sound of small feet running on the pavement behind her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Josh.
He swung again, this time grazing her cheek.
Yenil burst past, leaping onto Josh’s chest, knocking him to the ground. In her war skin she looked more beast than human, and her breath came in ragged, staccato wheezes.
Josh, terrified, tried to scramble away, but Yenil grabbed him by the shirt. She spun, gathering momentum, and threw him across the sidewalk, where he slammed into the wooden post of the neighbor’s fence. Yenil screamed, a primal sound without words. Josh lay unmoving.
Yenil turned toward the truck. The girl inside shrieked, high pitched and terrified, over and over. Yenil struck the truck with her whole body, shoving it out of the middle of the road. The strength in that war skin body astonished Shula and frightened her. The Scim girl seemed more monster than person now, and Shula didn’t know what would happen if she reached out for her, if she took Yenil by the arm and tried to steer her back toward the car or tried to pull her away from the boy’s crumpled body.
Josh groaned. He was still alive, then. Shula exhaled, not realizing until then that she had been holding her breath.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Yenil stared at her, chest heaving, tears in the corners of her eyes. “He hurt you,” she said.
Her uniform was torn. Her braid had come free, and the tusks in her mouth made her words harder to understand.
Shula held out her hand to the Scim girl. War skin or not, this was still the Yenil she knew. At least, she hoped so. Still breathing hard, Yenil looked at Shula’s hand. Shula held it steady until the girl reached for her, and Shula gave her hand a quick squeeze. “First day of school tomorrow,” Shula said. “Not today.”
Yenil nodded, wiping the tears from her face with the back of a thick hand. “Okay.”
“Go to Madeline,” Shula said, and Yenil ran to her.
The girl, Tiffany, was bent over her boyfriend now, sobbing. “You broke his ribs,” she said. “He was just dropping me off at home, and you attacked us.”
“I’m telling the cops,” Josh said. “Pressing charges. You
’ll be back in Iraq soon.”
“Your house?” Shula asked casually, tilting her head toward the house they had been parked in front of. “You live here?”
Tiffany’s eyes widened.
“If you tell police,” Shula said calmly, “I bring my little girl to visit.”
“I’m not afraid,” Josh sneered.
“Maybe,” Shula said quietly, leaning in close, “I bring her father.”
The sirens were close now. She walked to the car, not looking back at them. She could hear Tiffany and Josh again, screaming at one another. She settled into her seat. Yenil was curled in Madeline’s lap.
Shula’s hands were shaking as Mrs. Oliver turned the car around. Who would have thought that she would feel less safe here than in Syria? Or that she would feel like she fit in better in a fantasy world than in the United States?
The sirens grew closer behind them, but Shula did not look back.
3
THE WARDROBE
But the creatures did not harm the boy, perhaps because they saw in his heart a sort of kin.
FROM “THE GOOD GARDENER,” AN ALUVOREAN STORY
“Nice to meet you,” Jason said. It was mostly instinct. He hadn’t thought through the proper response to meeting your future brother-in-law who had come to murder you, had taken a child hostage, and then invited you into a confined space. “Well. Not nice, exactly. To be honest, I was sort of hoping to put the whole thing off until you weren’t trying to kill me.”
“You are not worthy of my sister,” Bezaed said. His silver eyes flashed in the darkness. “She should not have accepted your proposal, knowing you to be so weak. It is no honor for me to kill a mewling child.”
“Mewling? What does that even mean? Like a cat or something?”
The Heartwood Crown Page 3
