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

by Susie Mander

  “In fact, it is her blood that means she is destined to lead us,” Maud says quietly.

  “She is a…a craven royal. You expect me to believe she will turn on her own?”

  “I am willing to die for our cause,” I say.

  “Yes but what is your cause?” Before I can speak, she addresses Maud again. “This rebellion has been years in the making and she only comes now? We have risked life and limb buying arms from Whyte—”

  “What?” I interrupt.

  Maud speaks with patience. “After your uncle left he went to the Dual Kingdom and established a trade route with our neighbours. They ship in weapons disguised as food in unmarked trading vessels. They have been doing it for years.”

  “My uncle?”

  “Your mother assumed he was dead, yes.”

  I take a moment to recover from the shock of learning Kratos is alive. “But Whyte pledged to stop the uprising.”

  Maud nods. “Their deception has been sophisticated. I doubt your mother even realises.”

  “So house Satah has been fuelling the very rebellion it claims to want to stop?”

  “Yes, dear. So they can establish a seat of power here in Tibuta. And now they will throw their full force against us and I can assure you they will have given us just enough weapons to keep us happy but not enough to stop them. Not on our own.”

  Cub, Lamb and the others nod solemnly in agreement.

  “Which is all the more reason why we need the army and the Queen’s Guard,” I say.

  “We have been stockpiling weapons and supplies, we have been hiding in the abandoned mineshafts, and we have been training new recruits and feeding them. You arrive well fed, green and eager and we’re supposed to have faith that you can bring us extra soldiers? I think not,” Demostrate says.

  Maud’s voice has a sharp edge. “We have been stockpiling weapons and we have been training new recruits and feeding them for this very moment. She is the chosen one.”

  “She’s no rebel.”

  “No one is born a rebel. Each of you had to find rebellion in your own way. Lamb, you found it in your twenty-sixth year. If I am right, you worked two decades on a pulley in Katherine’s Mine and only joined the Shark’s Teeth when your crew leader couldn’t feed you anymore.”

  The chiliarch nods.

  “Cub, the rebellion found you when your mother and father were killed in the flood in the mines in the sixteenth year of the queen’s rule. You were lucky they took you in but you can hardly claim you sought them out.”

  “Still, she has proven her loyalty,” Demostrate says.

  “And Demostrate, you joined the Shark’s Teeth when the earthquake of the tenth year of the queen’s rule destroyed your home.”

  “It put me on the streets.”

  Maud sucks her teeth. “Yes but like the rest of you Verne has had to find rebellion her own way. Remember, the Shark’s Teeth exists to serve the woman of sophrosyne. Do not lose sight of our goal.” She glares at each of them in turn.

  Demostrate bangs her fist on the table. “She is a damn royal. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust any of them. We should strip the nobility of their power and take it for ourselves.”

  The others looks at her blankly. Finally, Ried speaks. “You mean to overthrow the Golding family?”

  “Why not?”

  “We are fighting to stop the Tempest, not topple the monarchy.”

  “And what better way than to make ourselves the decision-makers?”

  The others talk nervously among themselves. Ried interrupts them. “What you propose is blasphemy. Our goal has always been to unify Tibuta under a Golding queen who will lead us against Typhon’s creation. Kratos states that in his manifesto. He knew the ancient prophecies and it was he who said that when the chosen one came, she would need an army. We must be guided by prophecy, not a hunger for power. If you seek to dismantle the monarchy then you will lose the temple’s support.” Ried rarely speaks, I realise, but when she does she speaks on behalf of the high priestess.

  I wait for silence then look at each of them. Some, like Lamb and Cub, are quick to look away. Others hold my gaze defiantly. “It is true I come to you late but it was through the prophecy that I realised the importance of facing my destiny. I do not join you in the hope of impressing my mother or wrestling her power for myself.” I stand and take up my position beneath the golden statue. Demostrate shakes her head and mutters something about a mummer’s farce. The chiliarches and the priestesses clasp their hands in front of them and eagerly anticipate my every word.

  My stomach churns. My palms are damp.

  Nanny Blan once said royalty was a gift. As someone in a privileged position it was my duty to surpass people’s expectations, to succeed where others failed. She said I was destined for something greater. This sustains me.

  My mind and my voice split from each other. The former, my mind, drifts over and above my small audience, listening to their murmurs of recognition, judging their responses. The latter, my voice, reaches out to them, imploring them to follow me. “Please, listen,” I say. My words are shaky at first. “I know many of you doubt my right to the throne. I know you think I am ungifted and therefore have no claim to rule. However, I can assure you that I am the chosen one.” I glance at Maud, who nods in encouragement. “It is my belief that my mother, the thief, has been stealing my gift. Once we stop her my true power will come.” I pause, swallow and continue. “There comes a time in every nation’s history…when she must wake from stupor, throw off her shackles and…and demand freedom. Freedom from tyranny, freedom to speak and think freely and freedom to defend herself. A nation, a monarch, must not enter a fight with her hands tied behind her back. Rather, she must draw her weapon and run towards the enemy, emboldened by the knowledge that her people love her and fight beside her. She must be brave enough to write history as she wants it to be remembered.”

  As I speak, my confidence grows. “She must never doubt herself. Tibuta the throne, and Tibuta the nation must both be assured of reaching their full potential.”

  Soon I forget my fear. I modulate my tone so my voice is like the rolling waves. “By trying to squash you—some of Tibuta’s most loyal warriors—our queen has disabled us just when we must defend ourselves. She has turned away from the gods. She has opened our gates to our enemy and they have set up camp in territory that was given to us by the First Mother. Worst of all”—I lower my voice—“she denies the Tempest.” I pound my palm with a clenched fist. “For too long have we been treated like outlaws. For too long has our existence been scorned. We are not rebels.” They look at each other, confused. “We are Tibutans who dare to have faith in the prophecies, who dare to question our circumstances and demand more. We dare to demand delivery from evil.”

  Later, when the clamour of excitement dies down, the rebels and the red priestesses listen to Maud’s proof. They nod like puppets when she makes me hold out my toes and show them the mark. My testing with the tooth was not pure chance, but further evidence that I will lead them to victory.

  When the meal is over only Cub has the courage to ask if she can see the bird and Maud laughs, herds her past Shea’s Fire and down the temple steps. All but Demostrate kiss my ring. As she departs I call, “Demostrate, a word.”

  The huge woman crosses her arms over her chest. I can sense her lustful hate and I flounder. “Maud has given me her blessing and I…I have passed your test. I mean to depose the queen and I…I intend to lead the Shark’s Teeth to victory. Please. I had hoped we might work together.”

  “There can be only one leader of the Shark’s Teeth and I have Kratos’s amulet,” she says, holding the shark’s tooth out on its golden chain.

  “Yes but I am the leader of all Tibuta. You are just—” I cut myself off. I must be diplomatic. “You are an exceptional strategos and I need your support if we are to overthrow the queen.”

  “I am the leader of the Shark’s Teeth.” She steps forwards, forcing me back. Her voice is a lo
w rumble. “I don’t care what Maud says. She can bring us up here and ply us with mead. She can promise us peace and prosperity. But I know the truth. You are nothing but a traitor intent on matricide.”

  “I…I am sorry, Demostrate. I do not mean to offend and I…I can see how you might think—but I am the one the texts speak of. I will end the Tempest and when I do, I will offer those who have been loyal to me a position within the new Tibuta. There will be a new army, a new gerousia and new ephors. I am giving you this opportunity to swear your allegiance to me. Do so and you will be rewarded. Stand in my way and—”

  “Are you threatening me?” She takes another step forwards and when I step back, I bump against the golden statue, crushing offering bowls beneath my feet. She places her hands next to my head and leans in to create a cage with her body. When she whispers close to my ear I can smell mead on her breath. “You call yourself the chosen one? Chosen for what? My bed? I have despoiled princesses like you.”

  “I don’t doubt you have,” I say, my voice trembling. And then I hear my defiant self pleading, You have to fight, Verne. You must. I feel for my weapons but Demostrate confiscated them earlier that day. I look around me. Bolt is with Harryet. Drayk is…I have not seen him since the battle on the Seawall.

  I draw my leg back and thrust my knee into Demostrate’s groin. She recoils. Her face scrunches into an expression of agony. Eyes watering, she gropes at her womanhood, howling like a banshee. She straightens long enough to slap me across the face. My head snaps back and slams against the golden statue. The spot where her hand connected with my flesh stings red. Through the bright lights and spinning stars I hear voices. When my vision clears I see Ried and some of the other red priestesses running in from the rear of the sanctuary. Cub, Lamb and another chiliarch enter from the main doorway.

  “Stop!” Ried calls and Maud enters behind her.

  I speak loud enough for them to hear. “Do you have a problem with authority, Demostrate? Do I intimidate you?” I shake my head and force a laugh. “How can you claim to be a woman of Tibuta and worship the First Mother? Look at yourself. Shea would be ashamed. I offer you a sanctioned leader and the best you can do is beat me?”

  I feel terrible for shaming her in front of her soldiers but I know it is the only way.

  “Shut your ugly mouth you hideous chimera. Sanctioned leader. Legitimacy. Your words… your tone makes me…The way you speak. Your voice…” She is too angry to find the right words.

  “Demostrate, you discredit me not because of my substance but because of my delivery. I cannot help if you do not understand or appreciate my way of communicating. Though we are of different blood we fight the same battle. I want what you want. I love Tibuta.”

  “You are giftless. You have the enemy’s accent.”

  “Demostrate!” Maud says, slamming her staff against the ground. “You have tested her and there is no doubt. Stop. You are making a fool of yourself. By calling her giftless you only serve to demonstrate how truly craven you are. You fear her. You attempt to suppress her. This, despite being stronger than her. She is the chosen one and rightful heir to the Tibutan throne. Do not abandon Ayfra’s way.”

  A few of the red priestesses mutter in agreement. The rebels wait. Demostrate does not speak. Anger had stolen her tongue.

  “Demostrate, please,” I whisper.

  She looks around and finds only adversaries. She turns, elbowing my aside, pushes past Cub and Lamb and escapes into the night.

  Afterwards, when I am alone in my room, I hear someone dragging themselves along the hallway, banging and swearing as they go. There is a loud “thud” then silence. I pull the covers back and tiptoe to my door, which is ajar.

  Demostrate, wearing only her underclothes, is slumped against the wall like a disgraced gladiator. “Highness,” she says, having difficulty focusing on me as she pushes herself up. “Ayfra you are beautiful.” She leans in my doorway, barely able to stand.

  I cringe at her turbulence. She is physically strong, emotional feeble. “Get some rest, Demostrate.”

  Wine and mead have addled her brain and with half-shut eyes she slurs, “Highness, please.” To my surprise, Demostrate drops to her knees. “I am sorry,” she sobs. “Forgive me. I want to be strategos of your army one day.”

  Her genuflection complete, I try to pull her to her knees. “Get up, Demostrate. Go to bed.” She will not stand. Instead, she kisses my toes and washes my feet with her tears. “From the moment I saw you I knew. Please. Please,” she cries.

  “Reward will be given when the war is won and I am on the throne. In the meantime we must put desire from our minds and fight together.”

  Demostrate claws up my body, weeping as she goes. She takes my face in her big hands and though I push her away she forcibly kisses me. Her lips are moist and salty against mine. Her hands are rough through my hair. I duck beneath her arms. “Demostrate, enough,” I say, pushing her away. She falls to the floor, the drink making her unsteady.

  “I am sorry. Please forgive me. Please. I must have you. Please. I love you.”

  For Demostrate, I fear, being with me will mean validation, emancipation; it’s nothing to do with real love or even sex. The thought makes me feel dirty. I call for Ried and ask her to find others to help her take the strategos away. “And would you put a guard on my door?” I say and the red priestess nods.

  “I will do it myself.”

  As I crawl into my small cot in my windowless room I am haunted by the day. I feel terrible for Demostrate—I know I am the cause of her disgrace—and I discover that grief is self-centred. My sense of mourning is equalled by my sense of shame. It is me the rebels blame when they say Chase died for Tibuta. It is me they looked at with hollow eyes when they wrapped his corpse and sent it back to the palace. When I cry it is for myself, for my loss of innocence, for the tarnish on my mind, the blood and rust that I will never be able to wash away. Part of me hates Chase for forcing me to see such gore, for making me face my mortality. Part of me hates Demostrate for making me destroy her. Part of me hates the man for making me kill him. Part of me already hates myself for what I am about to do.

  Another thought plagues me: Where is Drayk? I know his warm, loving touch would push these thoughts from my mind. It would allow me to sink back into ignorant oblivion. But where is he? The last time I saw him he was running into the mob with his sword above his head. I have heard nothing since.

  Chapter seventeen

  I am burning. The thought penetrates my sleep, dragging me through the thick silt of dreams and up to the surface gasping for air. Not a nightmare, but reality: I am burning. I blink awake, pushing my short dark hair out of my face, rubbing my hazel eyes with my fists. The pain is real. It is there, on my chest, biting into me with the intensity of a wobbegong’s teeth clamped around an unsuspecting swimmer’s foot. I blink again, trying to focus my eyes, my attention on my surroundings: the tangle of sheets, my hands held out in front of my face and a warm glow of red light on my chest: the serpent stone. Sitting up, throwing my bedding aside, I clutch the leather thong—my fingers suddenly too large, my actions too clumsy—fumbling to untie the gem before it buries any further into my flesh. The pain makes its way through layer after layer of skin, singeing and bubbling, sniggering as it goes.

  Shea’s pain, it burns!

  I finally get the knot undone. As I pull the stone off, skin tears away. A loud curse escapes my lips and I sink back into the eiderdown pillows, blinking back tears.

  What relief, what glorious relief!

  Breathing more steadily now and holding the gem by the leather tie so it dangles in front of my face, I peer into Drayk’s bright light, wondering how such a small pebble could cause so much discomfort. It is like looking into another world. Inside, at its core, is a cyclone in a red sky. A tiny tremor, a ripple across a pond, works its way up the cord. The gem lurches. The red serpent stone expands before my very eyes. Now it swells more quickly, like a womb filling with blood, its membrane
thick, glassy and translucent as it stretches. It grows until it is the size of a small child and as heavy too.

  There is something inside it: a foetus swimming in amniotic fluid.

  I heave it gently onto the marble floor and stand watching it the way a god might stand watching us, his hands on his hips as he leans forwards, peering down his nose, through the clouds, over the tops of the trees to where we plough the fields, play in the icy brooks or sharpen our swords for war.

  Still the thing grows. A crack forms. I half expect to see the entire world tumble out and slosh onto the floor. A tendril of smoke seeps through, smelling of blood and sulphur. The wound seeps red.

  More cracks appear and the egg hatches. Drayk uncurls from the shattered pieces, naked, his smooth skin covered in sinewy mucous. His skin is sun-kissed and blemished, his hair is flecked with grey, and his eyes are framed with wrinkles and heavy, leaded with memories. His abiogenesis over, he sits in the centre of the egg looking bewildered, blinking with sticky eyelashes, bloody goo dripping from his long hair. Like a foal he tries to stand on legs that seem too long. He slips and falls before trying again and then giving up.

  Like the gods I am both delighted and appalled at this creation. I reach out, my hand hovering but not quite touching. Awestruck, I mumble something nonsensical about him having had a safe journey to which he does not respond.

  “I thought I had lost you,” I say but he makes no reply.

  Suddenly remembering my dedication to my offspring—remember, I am the god—I spring up, cross the room to find a discarded himation, which I wrap around his shoulders. I am oblivious to his nakedness, which has become sterile, his genitals no more interesting than a foot or an elbow. I fetch a bowl of cold water from a red priestess and place it carefully by his side, not wanting to frighten him. If he is the foal then I am the mother licking her disoriented and helpless newborn; I brusquely clean his arms, his legs and his torso with the rough himation.