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

by Susie Mander

  My mother is caught in a tableau passing the prince a two-handed cup of mulled wine. She has aged since I last saw her—she has clearly had little time for quicksilver—and her face is mapped with the weary lines of someone on the brink of defeat.

  Where are her attendants? I think and in that same moment I know from my mother’s bitterly defiant expression and the way Slay rests his hands on his crotch that the prince has dismissed my mother’s attendants and insisted she serve him herself.

  With my sword held over my head as it was in the dream I…I…I…The dream and reality diverge. I am not a monster like my grandmother. “Mother,” I gasp and she turns.

  “Verne?”

  The prince shrieks.

  Adelpha is quick. I feel her probing my brain. I drop the sword. Drayk attacks. Satah calls his guards and draws his own weapon. If Slay fights like the winter storm then Drayk fights like the summer sky. He is a pillar of confidence in comparison to the prince, who is stiff and formal. My mother screams at the Prince, “Don’t you dare hurt him.” She has dropped the cup of wine and runs for her staff.

  Adelpha picks up my sword and points it at me. “I’ll kill you.”

  I try to take the warrior’s stance but my muscles shudder to a halt. My mind is filled with liquid warmth. I hear a gurgling and thudding in my ears. Pain shoots into my right temple and continues in an irregular throbbing.

  Get out!

  Without touching me, she forces me to my knees. I can neither raise my head nor move my hands to shield my face. I am lead. She brings the tip of the sword so close I go cross-eyed but I cannot move. This close to death there is nothing I can do but let it wash over me.

  “Adelpha, stop!” my mother says and I fall to the ground just as my sister’s blade slices through air. With closed eyes my mother holds out her hands. Pressure builds and blood oozes from her eyes. Veins like gossamer appear on her neck. She pulses her energy at Adelpha again and again, stealing her gift. “Stop now or I will throw you in the Seawall myself.”

  Adelpha curses and I feel her leaving my body. I get to my knees and look around for a weapon. Adelpha is still holding Paideuo.

  My mother’s voice is gentle, “Stop, Verne. It is over.”

  The orca and the war-wits have flung back the curtains at opposite ends of the tent. Drayk and I make a run for it. But the orca stand in our way. “Get them!” the prince calls, pointing at me. They scoop us into their arms.

  “Majesty, the Shark’s Teeth are retreating,” a Whyte soldier says, his head poking through the tent flap.

  “Round up the defectors for execution and—”

  Prince Satah cuts my mother off. “Thank you, Damon. We will leave them for the moment, regroup and attack in daylight. Burn the high priestess’s corpse. She must never returns to it. And tear down the statues. Tear it all down. Destroy every expression of the temple’s power. The people must know there is a new king in Tibuta.”

  Adelpha looks chuffed. My mother? A few words come close to an accurate description: abject, conquered, pathetic.

  “Deal with these two, will you?” the prince says, and sweeps out between the tent curtains. The orca toss us to the war-wits and follow their master. The war-wits push us to our knees in front of the queen. Our foreheads rest on the dirt floor. There is a long silence filled only by our heavy breathing.

  “Verne,” my mother says after a moment’s respite, shaking her head. “Such a failure.”

  To say I knew I was destined for failure would be a lie. My arrogance led me to believe there were two types of people in the world: those who dreamt of grandeur and excellence but could not help themselves—they never started down the path towards it so had no choice but to fail—and those who rose above doubt, fought for an ideal, something intangible like success, and, through the simple act of differentiating themselves, won. I had fought. The tides, I had fought. And yet…

  And yet here I am. A failure.

  I feel as if I have been hurtling towards this moment like an arrow shot by a marksman.

  “You stupid girl. What were you thinking?”

  “You are stealing my gift.”

  My mother laughs. “Who told you that? Maud? Drayk? They were manipulating you.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “No I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Drayk says.

  I glance up to see Adelpha’s smug smile and her sly, beautiful eyes made more sinister by the dark lines drawn around them in kohl. The madness, I realise, has hold of her too. I say nothing. I am not the volatile, explosive girl that I once was. I keep my emotions in check, building a strong wall to keep out my mother’s accusations.

  Her voice rises. “Silly girl. You are no better than Ligeia.” She breathes heavily, wincing as if walking causes her pain. “And you,” she motions to Drayk, “you set her up.”

  “Ashaylah, please,” Drayk says and I am surprised to hear him address the queen so informally. He tries to get up but with a dismissive swish of her hand Adelpha pushes him to the ground. He speaks to his groin: “Majesty, it is not too late to make amends. In these times of trouble we must consider the bigger picture. We must stop now before the whole thing unravels.”

  I know the signs of my mother’s anger: the tenseness in her back and clenched jaw. “Don’t play games with me, Drayk.”

  “Games?” he says.

  My stomach is tight. There is something about this interaction—the way they speak so freely—that fills me with trepidation.

  “Don’t try to use our past to win my favour.”

  “Your past?” I say, unable to help myself.

  My mother laughs cruelly. “Yes his past. He was my lover, you foolish girl. In fact, he was my favourite consort until he failed me. I sent him away because he couldn’t control himself and gave me a child. He is Adelpha’s father.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I say but the truth thunders at the door of my mind. I remember Drayk’s expression when we spoke of Adelpha at the ball. I remember his attempted confession.

  I touch the serpent stone and wonder if my mother once wore it. “Is it true?” I whisper.

  His eyes are big and pleading. He nods.

  “I see.” His admission does not register on any emotional level. It is both fact and lie, reality and dream.

  He reaches out to me. “You have to understand. I was barely a man when your mother took me from the slavers’ pits. I wasn’t the only one. We were forced to do things and we were punished if we couldn’t perform. We weren’t supposed to…I should not have shared my water but I was just a boy. She banished me.” Tears well in his eyes. “It was just once. Once. Please, Verne, I did not love your mother.”

  The hurt is so intense there is no space for tears. But worse than the hurt is the fear. “Drayk, did you set me up?”

  “Of course not. You must not listen to her poison.”

  “Of course he did. He pursued you and turned you against me. I would put him to death if I could.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he says, looking up and such certainty scares me.

  My mother paces in front of us. “It was never enough to be a soldier, was it? Not for you, no. Not when you felt I owed you something. You have always wanted more: more power, more influence, more of me.” She laughs bitterly and speaks to me. “He was such an eager boy. I had to get rid of him.”

  “And I am thankful you did. The barracks were a far better place for me than your tendra.”

  “And yet you wept,” the queen says, so cruelly. “Because you longed to be my daroon.”

  “That is not true,” he turns to me, “Verne, you know me. You know I am not motivated by power.”

  “Do I?” I whisper.

  “Verne, surely you realise he was using you? I thought he loved you, I really did. I saw how happy he made you and I thought, Why not give her something if she cannot have the throne? But I underestimated him. Though he is an immortal he is not immune to greed. He thirsts for power. All men do.�
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  “No,” Drayk says, pushing against the war-wit that holds him down. “Lies!”

  “Is it true? Have you been using me to become daroon?” I say.

  “Of course not. I love you.”

  “Don’t believe him. He has wanted to be daroon ever since I denied him that right—”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  And there it is, her words spoken through his mouth.

  “I love you, Verne.”

  “You love my daughter?” The queen’s laughter is cold, cruel. “What about our daughter?”

  Their silence is drowned out by the roaring in my ears as blood flows too quickly around my body.

  “Adelpha has nothing to do with this,” Drayk says. His words are a knife cutting through my spine. I feel a chasm opening up in front of me and in it I see…only madness.

  “I think you will find I have everything to do with this,” Adelpha says, kneeling in front of Drayk. She takes his face in her hands and peers into his eyes. I strain to hear what she says.

  “It was so much easier before I arrived, wasn’t it, Father? You knew you could seduce Verne and your appointment as daroon was guaranteed.” She lets go of his face. “She loved you. She would have done anything for you. But you were impatient and when I arrived you saw your chances diminishing further. And you could not marry me, no no—” she laughs “—so you encouraged Verne to revolt.”

  Her argument reeks of truth. But no, I see nothing in our past to suggest he would betray me.

  “It was not like that. Verne, you know I love you.”

  I grip his serpent stone. It is hot and beating fast.

  My mother whispers, “You seduced my daughter and used her in an attempt to take the throne. You, her friend and confidant, her life’s companion.” The soft sound is more potent than the loudest scream. “The head of my Queen’s Guard. Our family’s most loyal servant. You turned my daughter against me—”

  “No.”

  “He is lying!” Adelpha says, pointing at Drayk, “You plotted with Verne, didn’t you? The attack on the palace? Petra defecting? All your idea.”

  Drayk fights her voice in his head. “No!”

  “It was you who planted the seed for revolt. If not, then it was you who cultivated it.”

  “No!”

  “You spiteful little dog!” Adelpha makes a motion as though she were slapping his face. Though she does not touch him, his head jerks to the side. A red mark appears on his cheek in the shape of her dainty little hand.

  “I only wanted to stop the Tempest,” he whispers.

  The queen sighs. “The Tempest, the Tempest, the Tempest. You seem like such an intelligent man, Drayk. Such wisdom in those eyes and yet you are false. Like the rest of them.” She addresses me. “Verne, is there anything more you would like to say before we take him away?”

  My stomach is a mill grinding rocks to dust. It is possible to be so hurt, so angry you become mute. But I am determined to speak. I lick my lips. “I will not have you use him as a scapegoat.”

  “What?” My mother’s voice is staccato.

  I no longer want to be a part of this world. To me, Tibuta is dead.

  “I do not believe your accusations against him. You intend to use him and I will not be a part of it. I will take responsibility for my actions. I turned against you because I knew you were taking my gift.”

  Anger makes my mother’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall. “So be it,” she says in a deep, threatening voice. “I offered him as sacrifice so you could go free but if you insist…” She turns to the war-wits. “This man has acted with the assumption of his impunity. True, I cannot kill him, but no enemy of Tibuta, no one who defies his queen or threatens the stability of this nation will go unpunished. I will execute him and when he regenerates I will execute him again. Drayk, give me your serpent stone.”

  Drayk does not respond. Instead, he looks at me and then, pointedly, at the stone around my neck.

  The queen holds out her hand. “Drayk.”

  Drayk shakes the war-wit off him, “Let go of me and I will get it.”

  The queen nods. “Let him go.”

  The war-wit momentarily releases him. He lunges at my mother. “Now, Verne. Go!”

  I bring my head up to smash into the war-wit’s face. He howls, gripping his bloody nose. I plough into my sister, throwing her down. Then I run.

  Chapter twenty-three

  The dark and the wind are my allies and yet my dream has not prepare me for escape. I consider the corpses as I vault over them. Each is a tribute to my failure. Two orca bar my route to the water. They have their faces buried in flesh. They look up as I come closer, mouths grinning with blood. I freeze, hold out my hands to calm them, and retreat without taking my eyes off their fangs. Sensing I am no threat they return to their feast. I run in the opposite direction.

  Soldiers tear the heads from the statues and roll them along the ground like boulders. They rip off their limbs and piss at their feet. They are oblivious of me.

  The remnants of war wages in the wasteland beyond the bridge. All but the most determined Shark’s Teeth have disappeared within the darker alleys of Minesend and Veraura or taken refuge in the abandoned mine pits.

  Lightning in the west illuminates an unnaturally violent storm growing in vertical towers in the dark. It slowly consumes the accusatory stars as it creeps across the sky, drawing air from the ground, fuelling its rage. A distant screech tells me Callirhoe is overhead.

  An argutan wanders aimlessly through the charcoal, sniffing at the corpses in search of its master, its reins dragging along the ground. I mount him and kick him into a canter. Its powerful body moves beneath me as we race over the blood-sodden earth, jumping the trench and clattering through the gate. I glance back. The marquee is a mere spot of light in the dark. The war-wit is searching for a mount.

  I race along the Holy Way weaving in and out of the dead, all the way to the water’s edge in Elea Bay. I keep wide of the palace at Bidwell Heights and head into Gelesia’s territory. Here, I let my argutan slow to a walk. Heat radiates from its skin.

  The houses in Veraura are unplanned, their roofs uneven, and their doors askew. The ground is unpaved and littered with waste. A filthy tributary has formed on people’s very doorsteps. People are escaping the queen’s inevitable retaliation. A boy wearing nothing but a loincloth jumps nimbly across stepping stones and joins his mother where she waits by the side of the road, their possessions in piles around her. His eyes are empty, his gaze disturbing. His gut is swollen. Hunger whispers in his ear. Hunger is on the faces of the people who overtake me. I have failed them. There is nowhere else for them to go except beyond the Seawall and across the sea to the lesser islands or even the mainland.

  I avert my eyes and mouth a silent apology. I think of Drayk. Is it possible he seduced me with his spells, with his traitorous wit, with false promises? His words were like rich chocolate… Did you disguise your thorny heart, your garden of rotting weeds?

  Surely no one else has felt this pain, right here in the chest? Surly none have felt this panic? They have, I realise. So much so that to describe it is banal.

  Ahead the caravan of refugees condenses: women with baskets on their heads push to get ahead of men dragging overladen carts and children carrying babies on their hips. A gentle icy wind blows through the streets. I try to pretend those poor wretches aren’t scrutinising my argutan, contemplating whether or not to steal it and ride it to the Seawall. A movement catches my eye and I glance up to see a boy scuttle behind a barrow.

  The first raindrop falls heavy. The sky opens. I wipe the water from my eyes. It is mixed with my tears. Spectres of my mother and lover appear. There she is propped up among her silk pillows, her breasts bare, calling for him. There he is coming to her. She runs her hands over his thigh. And does he enjoy it? He must. A man cannot help himself. And does he love her? He does. The way a slave comes to love his master.

  But worse than the visions is the g
angrenous growing doubt. Did Drayk set me up? He told my mother nothing directly—she didn’t know anything for sure about my betrayal—but was he driving me towards a coup while doing things to subtly undermine me? When he was supposed to ensure the gate was open at the funeral did he double-cross me? The gate was shut. Did he pretend to love me because he wants to sit beside me on the throne?

  “No, he loves me,” I whisper, remembering his concern for me as a child, the hours spent training during my teenage years, his promise to return to me after his rebirth, the tournament, the stone, all of it. At no point did I ever think…There was never any indication that he wanted to be daroon; he just wanted to be mine.

  “Drayk,” I say, my voice cracking. “I don’t want to doubt you but I do.”

  A clamour behind me makes me turn. The evacuees scream, sweeping their children into their arms and racing forwards to get out of the way. Five soldiers thunder towards us on argutans. As they pass me they strike with their single-edged swords. I avoid them but in doing so hit an argutan’s flank, rebound and am tossed like tumbleweed through the mud. The argutans come to a stop just short of the fleeing crowd. I push myself onto hands and knees and stand in time to see the soldiers dismounting. One breaks away from the others and runs forwards. “Highness, quick,” she says, throwing me Eunike, the blade of victory. The grip fits neatly into my hands, the pommel is cool against my wrists and yet the xiphos seems heavier than I remember. I am tired.

  “Ried, is that really you?”

  “Both of us,” the woman says with Maud’s voice. The red priestess beheads a Whyte soldier and spins around to face another. A Tibutan hoplite lunges at me and I block. Everything is a blur. I blink to clear my eyes of rainwater and tears. I see the hoplite’s sword now, long and pointy. She strikes again. I am used to fighting with two swords and I hold my left hand up instinctively. The tip of her blade slices through my palm. There is no time to acknowledge the pain. I move swiftly, defending myself high, coming low, ducking beneath her blade, jumping another and then slicing from left to right. The rain drums on the ground. I stare deep into the soldier’s eyes, lunge and misstep, giving her the chance to grab my left arm and pull me towards her. She turns me around and brings her sword to my throat.