Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse

by Susie Mander

  “I haven’t told your mother about our discussion, have I?”

  “So you are loyal to me?”

  “Not necessarily. I want to hear what you have to say first.”

  I shake my head. “This is bigger than you and me. I will not reveal the names of those involved until I know I can trust you. But I can tell you this: my mother’s time on the throne is limited. There is a powerful force building against her. With your support their victory is guaranteed. We must take the throne and unify Tibuta, put an end to rebellion, avoid a civil war. Only then will we be prepared to face the Tempest.”

  “You would negotiate with the Shark’s Teeth?”

  “I would do more than that. I would fight beside them.”

  Her face is disfigured by disgust. “Absolutely not. I love Tibuta, yes but that…they…” She throws up her arms. “I have killed a thousand Shark’s Teeth.”

  I remain silent.

  “Highness, honestly. I appreciate the difficult position we are in but…I cannot.” Her voice lacks absolute certainty. Her conviction is eroding. A good sign.

  “Come back to me when you have decided who you love more: my mother or Tibuta.” I do an about-face and leave the strategos standing beside the garden wall. As I trot down the pyramid stairs I imagine the sun bursting out of my chest. Everything is good in the world. A clear path lies before me like a carpet unrolling. All I have to do is follow it. Petra will not betray me to my mother. Her doubt is too strong. No, eventually she will be mine.

  Chapter ten

  In contemplating my predicament with my mother, I realise I am in the vortex of a life-long argument I cannot win without feigning loyalty. And then I must strike. To hide my guilt—and suppress my sense of dread—I must appear normal.

  Normal was Verne the kylon, a beast whose life, thoughts and surreptitious dreams were domesticated. Normal was when I feared and loved my master. I was predictable and immobilised by dependency. If she flung the gates wide and said, “Get out!” I would sit and whine. I would allow her to kick me again and again. I would seek my revenge by lifting my leg on her favourite piece of furniture but I would never leave. I would never bite. Normal was begging for forgiveness. Normal was defeated.

  If my former self is “normal” then what is this new self? I wonder. She is a usurper. She has conquered my former self.

  It reminds me of something Drayk once told me, “To realise you are different is both a blessing and a curse. To see the world from on high, like a bird, understanding the intricate patterns, seeing the relationships, the threads, this is a true gift. Ignorance, too, is a gift.” I am unsure which category I fall into: enlightened or ignorant. I certainly desire enlightenment and yet I fear my vision is limited. Could this new self be more reprobate than the former me? It is certainly possible.

  I prepare myself the way a soldier prepares for battle: clearing my mind, steadying my breathing and praying that the gods fight beside me. With this thought I enter my mother’s private bathhouse. The façade is a flat wall of paired columns two storeys high. Between each pair is a marble statue: Elef, god of freedom, Gnosis, god of wisdom, and Beatrice, goddess of truth. A spacious entrance gives way to two winding staircases, one going off to the right, the other to the left like an opening flower. Beneath these is a yawning mouth leading into an open-air courtyard.

  Down a flight of cavernous stairs, through a creaking door and I wade through the steam to find my mother in a pool sunk into the tiled floor. It is as Drayk said. She is up to her chin in quicksilver, which is believed to increase one’s life expectancy. She opens her eyes and in that instant I know my former self is dead. “Mother, I am sorry,” I lie.

  “Verne, Verne, Verne,” she says, shaking her head. “I am so glad you have come to set things right.” Redemption is dangled in front of my face like a bone to tempt a kylon. Stronger than my temptation is my resolve, my determination.

  “I should not have questioned you. You were right about the Tempest. I was…seduced by the high priestess, but my time in the Seawall has given me the opportunity to reflect and…You were right.”

  When she points towards the ewer, beads of liquid metal drop heavy from her skin into the pool of mercury. I jump to do her bidding and poor water onto the hot coals. The heat intensifies. Hot odourless vapour fills my eyes and nostrils. It drips from my lungs. I want to fling the door open for relief but I will not admit such weakness. I close my eyes and will myself to endure it.

  “It’s about time you came to your senses,” she says. She is the harsh piece of cinnabar I know too well: all sharp edges and rough surfaces. She speaks to me with the clipped, infuriating superiority that replaced the warmth and humour of my childhood. “You should not have disobeyed me the way you did, especially not in such a public manner. I am your mother. More importantly I am your queen.”

  My hackles rise but I soothe myself, running my hand down my spine to flatten the fur while whispering pacifying words in my ear. “I am sorry,” I repeat, standing in the corner of the humid room. She holds out her hand to me. I kneel on the edge of the pool and kiss her ring. “I am dutifully yours,” I say because I must appease her if I am to destroy her.

  She looks at her feet, which she raises and lowers in and out of the quicksilver. “Then it is settled. You are not to visit the high priestess again.”

  I nod in assent then cross the damp room on silent feet. When I reach the door my mother calls to me, “If you ever think of defying me again, Verne, just remember who I am.”

  In the morning I am on my way to the dungeon with Bolt and Xeno, the laundress and translator, when my thoughts are interrupted by distant chanting—a hymn, it seems to me—coming from up ahead. “Odd,” I say to my war-wit. It isn’t a feast day.

  As we get closer, the chanting gets louder until it has risen to an unpleasant pitch. A crowd has formed outside the dungeon. Arkantha, my etiquette teacher, is like a spider stalking its prey, her hairy hands raised in the air ready to strike, her scopular hair pulled up in a severe bun. The others sway together, their faces eager, their voices raised to the heavens.

  Xeno waits while Bolt and I push our way through to the front of the crowd, where a tall hoplite guards the dungeon’s entrance. The hoplite’s eyes are fixed on the horizon; her face is set in stone. When she sees us tension melts from her shoulders. “Highness, thank the tides you are here. They have been singing all morning and refuse to leave. They say it is their right to worship the prophetess. But the so-called prophetess refuses to eat. She demands human flesh and these people—” she gestures at the mob “—are willing to offer themselves as sacrifice. I fear they will start slitting each other’s throats if we don’t do something.”

  I nod then turn to my people and demand silence. They face me like oxen worshiping the farmer, their eyes glazed with the madness of religious fervour, eager to receive their blessing…or hay. “Have you seen the prophetess?” someone shouts. “Have you heard her speak?”

  “Our visitor does not speak our tongue,” I say.

  “She speaks the tongue of angels.” There is much clapping and jubilation. The soldier and I lock eyes.

  “She speaks the tongue of her people. The queen has sent this woman to the dungeon, which makes her an enemy of Tibuta. You risk facing the Justice Tree if you stay. You must go back to your work,” I say.

  “We care not if we die.”

  “She has demanded our flesh. We want to sacrifice ourselves so she might prosper.”

  “She will save us from the Tempest!”

  I falter. “She…There is no reason…” I take a deep breath. “If you are willing to sacrifice yourself then…” I search for inspiration “…submit your name to the guard as you leave. One of you will be chosen for this righteous task. After all, the woman must eat. In the meantime, you must return to your duties. Anyone who stays will not be chosen.”

  This seems to placate them and they form an orderly line in front of the guard. I whisper to her, “Take th
eir names but know that I will not sacrifice anyone to this monster. After I am done here, I will send backup. Now, please let me in. I must speak to the woman.” The hoplite fumbles for her keys.

  “Be careful. The woman is crazed, I tell you, utterly mad. Since she arrived she has not stopped screaming.”

  I thank her and motion for Xeno. She and Bolt follow me into the cave.

  Wailing draws us along a dark and musty corridor that descends deeper and deeper into the side of the pyramid. Grand, another war-wit, stands outside the woman’s cell, his arms like knotted rope crossed over his massive chest. “Wait outside,” I say and Bolt resumes his position in the hallway. Grand inserts his key and removes the bolt.

  I step tentatively into the stone tomb. There are no windows and the only light comes from a tiny flame flickering in the hallway. Xeno hovers just inside the door, reluctant to get any closer. The air is stagnant like a scummy pond. A bed of hard planks hangs from the ceiling at the far end of the room and on it is a pile of furs. There is a puddle of clear liquid beneath the bed. “Hello?”

  Receiving no response, I tiptoe to the head of the bed. The woman’s mop of damp tangled hair is visible over the covers. She is tucked up like a foetus and she shivers uncontrollably.

  Xeno whispers, “What is wrong with her? Is she going to die?”

  “I hope not. Get water and a basin.” I wait until I hear her exit.

  Alone with the woman, I perch on the edge of the wet bed and peel the sodden brown covers back. The woman sweats profusely. I gently push her hair out of her face. Her almond eyes snap open and she screams. I jump back, recover myself, place my hand on her forearm and say, “You are safe. I am not going to hurt you.”

  The woman’s green eyes are distant, vague, as if the shut gates between this world and the next are no barrier to her sight. She drools and only stops occasionally to gnash her teeth. She is hardly aware of me, if she is aware of anything at all. I focus my attention on a spot above her head and wait for Xeno.

  An ewerer arrives carrying a pitcher in front of him like a pregnant belly, grunting from the weight of it. Behind him, Xeno carries a basin and a cloth. The ewerer pours the water then leaves, bowing as he goes.

  I dunk the cloth into the warm water. The woman’s gaze centres on the dripping cloth. I move to wipe her brow but her hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. Though she is starved she is strong and her nails dig into my skin. Words gush from her mouth in a violent wind but they mean nothing to me. Again, I try to wipe her brow. Droplets of water fall from the towel and when they hit the woman’s skin, thudding like bricks, her eyes go wide. She claws at her chest, screaming and writhing as if trying to escape an invisible demon that threatens to possess her.

  “What is it? What is wrong with you?” I say, taking the woman’s wrists in my hands and trying to calm her. She fights me, biting my hand. I jump away, dropping the cloth on the floor. Her body goes limp.

  “Ask her why she is afraid of the water,” I say.

  Xeno bows then speaks to the woman in her low, guttural tongue. To me it sounds as if she is clearing phlegm from her throat. Words tumble from the woman’s mouth. Her head rolls back and forth on the pillow. Tears stream down her face.

  Xeno’s eyes flick from the woman to me. “She says the water hurts her skin. She says since the Tempest came, the ocean has lived inside her. Now she is sick.”

  “Sick how?”

  “The oceans and the air are inside her.”

  “She said there was a bird. Ask her about it. What did it look like?”

  As the words tumble from her mouth, Xeno speaks. “It was a waterbird soaring over the Tempest. It flew a foot from the sea, skating along the surface.”

  “What sort of water bird?”

  “She says she does not know. It was just a bird. Its head was capped in brown and its underside was white. Its wings were tipped in grey-brown. She noticed it because all the…the normal birds had flown away.”

  Callirhoe. What could it mean?

  “Do you think the bird is important?” Xeno says, ringing her hands.

  “No,” I lie, shaking my head.

  “But what if—?”

  “It was just a bird,” I say, silencing her. I want to rid myself of this uneasy feeling.

  The woman sits up and clenches the bedding beneath her, bracing herself. She gags. Xeno fumbles for the basin, but it is too late. Warm salt water sprays from the woman’s mouth into my lap. Repulsed, I stand, shaking myself while Xeno scrambles for something, anything, to wipe me down. The woman slumps against the bed and begins to sob. Dripping, I cross to the other side of the cell. “She’s not a prophetess. She’s been turned into an anemoi,” I say, remembering the story Maud told me of those demons who rode ahead of the storm. “Come.”

  I want to put as much distance between me and the cursed woman as I can.

  The sun has set and we sit in the quiet of my solar, Harryet with her knitting, and me with my nail-biting. A single candle casts long shadows on the highly decorated walls.

  “The woman is to be executed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nods. “Heard it from Xeno who heard it from Grand. They are moving her morning after next. Hero is due this evening. Everyone is coming to watch.”

  I rip off a nail and flick it into the fire pit. “That’s no good. The people think she is a prophetess—We have to talk to Drayk and Cook.”

  Harryet winds her yarn into a neat ball, threads her needles into her work and places the bundle on a side table. “I’ll send for Drayk. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  I walk the long corridor around to the visitors’ apartments and find Hero following his mother up the stairs. A team of war-wits carry their belongings behind them.

  Thera looks taller and thinner than ever, her lithe body draped in purple and white. Hero is wrapped in a matching purple silk travelling cloak that makes him look like his mother’s doll. His eyes are on his feet. His shoulder droops.

  “Hero.”

  He looks up and his face brightens.

  “Verne!”

  “Verne,” Thera says, barely acknowledging me as she sweeps past into their rooms.

  Hero rolls his eyes. “Sorry about her.”

  “Don’t worry. Are you free? We’re meeting in the kitchen.”

  Adamon and Nike grin as Bolt, Hero and I exit the apartments. They are my mother’s war-wits and members of the Queen’s Guard, yes, but their loyalty is to me.

  On the Walk we are stopped by a bored-looking hoplite who asks where we are going. When I say, “To the kitchen,” she seems disappointed. The soldiers are growing tired of guarding a prisoner who makes no attempt at escape but is cooperative, even cheerful.

  Bolt waits beneath the awning outside the kitchen. He will warn us if any of my mother’s soldiers try to enter, by tapping his spear on the ground. A team of attendants push through the kitchen door, which has been wedged open with a brick, only to be hit in the face by a wave of heat.

  Cook is surrounded by trays of suckling pigs and roast vegetables. “Now is not a good time,” he says before barking orders at a waiting boy. He turns back to us. “We’re almost done in the dining room. Mess hall next. Come back after or go eat with the rest of them.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  Cook doesn’t bother with a response. He is too busy piling trays with potatoes. Hero and I sit at the far end of the room and try to keep out of the way.

  A moment later Drayk and Harryet appear through the front door and I wave to them. They ignore Cook’s admonitions and join us. Drayk climbs into the bench beside me, resting one hand on my shoulder for balance. His touch, as innocent as it is, sends a shiver down my spine. He sits so close I can feel the energy between our legs. I keep my eyes on the table, not trusting myself to look at him.

  “Worst possible timing as always but what does it matter. Won’t mean a darned thing once we’re dead,” Cook says, coming to stand behind Harryet. He wipes his hands
on his apron. “Master Hero. Drayk. Harryet,” he says, tipping his head to them. “What can I do for you?”

  “We are after a meal and a quiet place to talk,” I say.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” he says then looks around at his serving boys. “Though I’d wait a while longer to start nattering. Help yourself to some food.” He glances up and shouts over our heads, “Amos, you idiot! Watch what you’re doing. You’re about to spill that entire cauldron on the floor.” He turns back. “Excuse me.”

  We help ourselves to a succulent piece of pig and a large chunk of fresh bread. Our conversation is aimless, mundane, just in case one of Cook’s attendants is a spy. We talk about the weather while the mess hall is fed. We talk about Edric’s new argutan stallion while the attendants mop around our feet, sloshing water out the door. We talk about the upcoming tournament in Veraura, which will be cancelled if the Shark’s Teeth can’t be subdued, while they scrub down the benches, working carefully around our elbows. The attendants hang their aprons along the wall and exit. Only then does Cook pull up a seat at the head of the table. The room has taken on an eerie silence, like an empty theatre, and the sound of his chair grating on stone punctuates the quiet.

  “So what is this all about?”

  “I need your help.”

  “So it is conspiracy,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

  I grin at him. “Please don’t kick us out. Your kitchen is ideal. If we’re caught we can simply claim we were sharing a meal.”

  Cook crosses his arms, looks at me over his nose and says in a serious tone, “I might not care about much, your royal highness—” he uses the term condescendingly “—but I do care about you and I care who sits on the throne. So if it’s true what they say, if revolution is inevitable, I want in.”