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

by Susie Mander

  I want to yell, to kick and scream. Better still, I want a gift of my own to unleash on my uncaring family.

  “I see,” my mother says very quietly.

  “Adelpha’s gift could be used against us by our enemies,” Thera says. “But she could also use it to rally our supporters. The choice is yours.”

  There is a moment of quiet and I am disgusted by my mother, who actually considers their proposal.

  “And if I do not acknowledge her, you will give her to the Shark’s Teeth?”

  Gelesia looks at Thera. Thera nods almost imperceptibly. I hold my breath.

  “Then it seems I have no choice,” my mother says. And my fate is sealed.

  As I trudge out of the Chamber of Petitions under the watchful eye of my mother’s guards, the sound of spades scraping against rock turning my stomach, I experience the disconcerting sensation of having been duped. By withholding my gift my mother has opened the door to our enemies. I would like to be surprised but sadly I am not.

  Towards Adelpha I feel only pity. We are not so dissimilar, she and I. Both shunned by our mother. Both determined to prove her wrong.

  I wonder if my mother ever tried to have me killed too. I wonder if my father was the only thing stopping her. In the beginning their love was strong and it was enough to protect me but as time went by…The truth is too hard to face and I push it from my mind.

  I glance left and see my cousin crouching by the vents in the Chamber of Petitions. His blond hair is tussled. His scowl is securely in place. He gets up, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting to be caught at any moment. There is guilt in his gate.

  “Chase?” He looks up like a startled gazelle, turns and walks away from me. So I follow him.

  My cousin leads me down the stairs, past fountain, past topiary, and past garden beds of wilting flowers. I hurry to keep up. It is like we are connected by an invisible thread. I will not let go.

  Our shadows move along the glowing white marble which is hot beneath our feet. The sky is startlingly bright. A bead of sweat drips into my eye and I wipe it violently away. Rounding a corner, my cousin breaks into a run. I pick up my peplos and pursue him. He darts into a garden maze and all I can see is his head bobbing above the hedges.

  “Chase, stop!”

  We are nearing the visitor’s’ quarters when he disappears. Just like that. I come to a screeching halt and look around. All of him is gone, including his shadow. There is no sound, not even a hint of his heavy breathing.

  My new sister stands at the top of the stairs like an effigy of perfection overseeing the fleets as they carry her possessions above their heads and into her new room. She looks down her nose, occasionally tisking in disapproval. I admire her black-and-gold gowns studded with black diamonds and gold beads, her boxes of jewels and crates of ointments. A fleet carries a snake in three hands and passes it to Adelpha, who coils it around her arm. I cough in surprise. “Is that a Tibutan viper?”

  “Oh it’s you,” she says, finally noticing me.

  “Are you moving in?”

  “Obviously.” She turns her attention back to the fleet. “Hurry up. Don’t drop that. You! Be careful.”

  “Adelpha, I…” My words catch in my throat as I join her at the top of the stairs. She does not turn around but rather strokes the viper’s head and continues to bark orders at the fleet. A transparent black shawl falls to reveal creamy arms spotted with sneering spotty scars.

  Where? I wonder, knowing I have seen those scars before. I gasp. I have come face to face with a ghost. The girl I remember was tall and sickly thin, her skin pallid, and her long dark hair falling in greasy lank curls. She lurched through a hallway as if drunk and on her arms were tiny burn marks, like insect bites, festering and raw. Behind her was a ghoulish figure—her nanny?—all in rags with a tangle of wiry grey hair who, like any vagabond serious about her role, smelt of urine.

  We were in the Palace of Bidwell Heights. Bidwell Heights, that draughty collection of gneiss-and-slate buildings on the edge of a quarry, sprouting into the air like rotting teeth. Bidwell Heights, where there were no gardens, only the impinging district houses, barely kept back by a high barbed wall. I was there with my mother and Nanny Blan, but why, I do not know. Perhaps in an attempt to strengthen relations between Bidwell Heights and the palace, or perhaps because Thera had overstretched her reach and my mother had come to put her in her place. Whatever the reason, I found myself alone, exploring the dank hallways of the palace.

  It was towards the end of eiar. The skies had opened and dumped moisture on an unsuspecting Tibuta and the atmosphere was rich with the smell of the washed earth. My teeth chattered, I remember that much. I saw the girl and the ghoulish woman and I flattened myself against the wall. My fear was inconsistent—one moment it was dread the next it was curiosity—so I followed them.

  The crone and the girl climbed a narrow and fragile staircase to a claustrophobic room bathed in warm light. Excrement or mud had been ground into the floor. There were plates of half-eaten mouldy food stacked in the corner where roaches and mice feasted, their greedy eyes glancing this way and that. The air was thick and it tried to push its way into my lungs. With my finger clamped on my nose I watched the witch push the girl to her knees and pour a mug of bright purple liquid down her throat. The girl spluttered and cried, begging, “Please, enough. No more.” But though she was unrestrained she did not run. She swallowed the poison that was offered her, accepting more and more as if it were her mother’s milk, until it ran through her veins and filled her head. She accepted it the way most of us accept whatever is fed us.

  Adelpha Nathos. The poor child.

  “I think we have met before. I…I think I saw you in Bidwell Heights. You were with an old woman…” My voice trails off when I sense Adelpha’s anger.

  “So you saw a child. What of it?”

  “Was it you?”

  A shadow crosses her face. “It was,” she says, somehow making even this simple admission sound dangerous. “But do not pity me, princess. It would be a reckless mistake.”

  “What happened to you?” I say, curious despite myself. She turns to inspect me now, running her condescending eyes over my diminutive body.

  “I did what any self-respecting Tibutan would do. I killed her.”

  “No,” I gasp.

  “Yes. I was thirteen and discovered I had a powerful gift so I made the old chimera walk off the top of the wall to her death. Everyone thought it was suicide but I killed her. Thera was delighted. She gave me a proper room and teachers of my own and I, of course, was thrilled to learn I was the queen’s daughter. I have been in training ever since.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She shrugs and looks down her long, slender nose. “I don’t care what you believe but know this: I will have the throne.”

  I laugh. “I can assure you, my mother has no intention of giving up the throne. She will put a spell on you before she names you her successor. Or worse. Trust me.”

  “We’ll see,” she says and walks away.

  I find myself groping for something to say. As I retreat to my rooms I contemplate her situation. She hungers for what? I wonder. Not power. No, relevance. Power is the disguise worn by relevance. Those who seek power do so because they fear insignificance; they fear becoming some faceless worker whose departure will make barely a ripple. They fear being forgotten. Adelpha’s mother—our mother—has forgotten her and Adelpha is here to make sure she remembers. That Tibuta will suffer makes little difference. My sister has no love for Tibuta.

  Reaching my solar I call to Harryet and she enters, wiping her hands on the front of her yellow peplos. She has ribbons in her hair. “Highness?”

  “I need to speak to the high priestess. Can you find a way to send her a message?”

  “I will go myself.”

  “Tell her I accept her proposal.”

  Waiting is the hardest thing. Whichever way I let my mind wander it inevitably chooses the path o
f disaster. I picture Harryet being arrested by my mother’s thugs. I picture her being turned away by the war-wits on the temple gate. I picture her being accosted by rebels or falling beneath the wheel of a speeding cart.

  She returns late afternoon, slumps into the kline in my room and sighs heavily. “Thank the tides that’s over.” She unwraps her travelling cloak, slips off her sandals and rubs her feet. “The temple is like nothing you’ve seen before. It took me an age to get in to see the high priestess. It’s like a military base. The rebels have moved in. They’ve killed all your mother’s guards and put their heads on stakes outside the temple wall. It’s—” She shakes her head, making her blond curls dance around her face. “It’s chaos. Gnosis would weep.”

  “But you got in? You saw her?”

  “Yes but only after the Shark’s Teeth tested me. I am now officially a member of the rebellion. And lucky I passed, too. If not, they would have killed me.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry. I had no idea.”

  She brushes my comment aside. “The important thing is I got in.”

  I have to smile. For all her self-claimed simplicity, she is an incredibly brave woman. “And what did the high priestess say? Was she pleased?”

  “I’ll be honest, I couldn’t really tell. Her message was simple. She said she’ll be in touch.”

  “Is that all?”

  Harryet purses her lips apologetically. “She was a little distracted. They had just received a shipment of arms and—I’m sorry. I should have asked for more information but I hardly got a minute alone with her. There was a whole line of people waiting to speak to her.”

  I think for a moment, chewing absently at the cuticle on my thumb. “They are definitely planning something.” After a moment I looked up and call for my war-wit.

  Chase was predicted to be one of the most effective spies in the palace but has proven to be a disappointment mostly because he is unwilling to practise his gift but also because of roguish attitude and a propensity for dramatics. He is like an uncharted sea: full of rocks and reefs lurking just beneath the surface ready to rip through the hull of an unsuspecting boat.

  I hear him in the hallway, twisting and turning in Bolt’s iron grip. The list of profanities pouring from his mouth is enlightening, to say the least, and I lie on a leather kline like some sort of Isbian goddess, a thin shawl covering my shoulders, considering each one with a raised eyebrow.

  Bolt holds my cousin at arm’s length in my doorway.

  Chase’s blue eyes are defiant. Energy ripples from quivering muscles. His chest heaves up and down. I consider the blond curls that fall in his face, his slight, muscular build. He would be an attractive young man if it wasn’t for his scowl.

  “Chase, why did you run?” I say, forcing a stern expression though in truth I want to laugh.

  “The tides take you,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and straining, his eyebrows meeting in the middle. He turns incandescent. The tips of his fingers and part of his scalp go invisible. Then he is gone. He tries to wriggle free.

  Bolt struggled with feet and fists he cannot see, brings back his huge hand and slaps my cousin across the face, forcing him to return to his natural state. My cousin curses again, bringing his hand up to touch his cheek. “You devil, look what you’ve done,” he says. His perfect white cheek is imprinted in red.

  The war-wit simply wags his finger in remonstration as if dealing with an insolent child.

  I laugh. “Thank you Bolt. Leave him with me.”

  With a hand on each of his shoulders, Bolt forces Chase into the kline opposite me then crosses the room, scowling at him. Only at the last minute does he tear his eyes away to glance at me doubtfully.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Bolt nods and reluctantly returns to his position outside.

  Chase will not look at me and I wonder if he is afraid I will put him to death. If so, he hides it well. He sits erect, his fists clenched on his knees as if making a point of his perfect posture, feigning indifference like I have invited him here to discuss the weather.

  I have absolutely no proof that he is guilty of anything so I bluff. “I know you were spying on us in the kitchen and I know you were spying on our family today in the Chamber of Petitions, too.”

  He says nothing.

  “All I want to know is why. If you tell me this I might overlook your indiscretion.”

  Still nothing.

  “Are you in my mother’s service?”

  “No!” he says in disgust, finally looking at me.

  “Whose then?”

  “My own.” His eyes return to the spot over my shoulder.

  “But why tell my mother I didn’t agree with the execution if you’re not working for her?”

  “I hate you.”

  I know this already but I am surprised by his vehemence. “Yes but what could you possibly hope to achieve?”

  “Nothing. I hate all of you. I don’t care what happens.”

  Revenge or power-lust I can understand. Pure, unjustified hate makes no sense to me. I don’t believe it. “But why?” I say, tilting my head to try and make him look at me.

  Chase settles his eyes on me and I have to fight the desire to look away. He radiates hate. “I couldn’t care less, that’s why. I get bored when people tell me how to act. I’m bored of all of this.” His hand sweeps across the room. “It’s a farce. It is not fair for one person to be held above all others. It would be all right if they saved innocent people or helped the poor but they don’t. All they do is collect taxes, grow wealthy and fat, compete in tournaments and attend balls. They go around in palanquins while everyone else has to walk. They drink tank while everyone else has to make do with water. They have nothing to fear. No, no one will sacrifice them.”

  “I want to change all that.”

  “I don’t believe you. And even if you did change Tibuta, once it’s all said and done people will slap you on the back and tell you how clever you were so how will you know you didn’t do it out of selfishness? For their congratulation? You’re all fakes.”

  I am surprised by his earnestness and I lean forward. “What does it matter? Someone has to take responsibility and responsibility is a burden. Shouldn’t an individual be rewarded for carrying it? As long as their intentions are good. As long as others benefit from their hard work.”

  “Yes but what makes you so special? Why is it your burden?”

  “I…” I can’t think of anything to say. I look around the room: at the heavy mauve drapes, at the distant ceiling and the detailed mosaic at my feet. “Luck, I suppose. And hard work. I was chosen.”

  “Why would the gods choose you? Why not me or Odell or even Hero?”

  I finally understand his anger. “So you are angry because men aren’t allowed to rule?”

  He laughs bitterly. “That’s not it.”

  I know it is. “What then?”

  “What I am talking about is the hypocrisy of this entire system. But you couldn’t possible understand.”

  “So explain it to me.”

  “I am just as entitled to lead as you. So is the common house slave.”

  “Not entirely. I don’t believe someone is entitled to anything. I believe a woman—or even a man—must prove themselves worthy.”

  “Yes but we aren’t given the opportunity to prove ourselves. The rest of you, you hoard what you have while we…we covet what is out of reach. We live in fear.”

  I lean back and interlace my fingers, contemplating my cousin. I choose each word the way a woman chooses what to wear, picking over each dress, each jewel because of its power to convey a message. “We are not so different you and I. We both see the inequality of the Tibutan way. We are both frustrated by it and want to change it.” I lower my voice. “I understand what you want. I really do. But, honestly Chase, what do you hope to prove by using your gift to spy on the very people who could grant you what you want?”

  Chase’s eyes flare in anger.

  “What am I
supposed to think?”

  He speaks to his feet. “I don’t care what you think.”

  I extend the olive branch knowing he is within my grasp. “Chase, you have put me in a very difficult position. You already know too much. I can’t risk you running to my mother. I also can’t have you skulking around the palace spying on us. Alive, you are very dangerous.” I let the threat hang in the air. “Is there nothing I can offer to convince you to leave me and my friends alone?”

  He contemplates this, turning it over and over. “There is something.”

  I smile internally. I know what he wants but realise that to win him, he must articulate it himself. I raise my eyebrows as if to say, “Go on.”

  “I’m not saying you’re right. Because you’re not. You’re all a bunch of posers. And I still think this is a joke. The whole system is…is unfair. But I have often wanted…You see, it isn’t right that I can’t inherit though there’s no one to contest me. Just because I am a man. I am as good as any woman. I know I am. So, after my mother’s death I want you to make me polemarch.”

  I smile. Pure, unjustified hate does not exist. All emotions have their source. “All right Chase. Stop spying on me and my friends and instead report to me on my mother’s movements and I will name you the first male polemarch of Veraura and Minesend.”

  He scowls.

  “Betray me and there will be consequences.”

  The morning of the ball to present Adelpha to the court dawns reluctant, a dark smear on my tormented thoughts. Though the weather is sticky and warm, an emotional coolness has descended over the palace. Tibuta groans under the weight of the preparations. Invitations have been sent and food has been shipped in from the outer islands: Tibutan vipers whose beating hearts will be served in clear liquid of fermented seaweed; artichokes and apricots; chickpeas and choco. Fleets have hauled whole whales over the Seawall, carrying them over their heads then butchering them in the Lower Ward, throwing scraps to the circling kylons. Barrels of honey mead and mulled wine have been brought up from the cellars. The bakers and fowlers and brewers have been working day in, day out since the ball was announced, all under Cook’s direction.