The Pattern Scars

by Caitlin Sweet

  “It will be difficult,” I said, “if you won’t tell me how.”

  Teldaru threw his head back into the sunlight and laughed.

  Bantayo, moabu of Belakao, arrived at midday. The moment the cry sounded, atop the highest tower, the walls of city and castle filled with people. I stood beside Teldaru on that highest tower. The king and his cousin were with us. I saw Selera and Grasni on the wall below; Selera scowled at me and Grasni gave me a quick wave and an almost-smile.

  There were no clouds at all, and, even so high up, no wind. I wiped sweat from my eyes and squinted at the road, which rippled with heat and distance. I saw glints on the furthest part of the road; flashes of light that, after hours had passed (and I had ducked inside for shade and water), became spear tips and polished drumskins and the jewelled clothing of many people. Zemiya already, I thought, remembering Teldaru’s tale of the moabe’s years-ago arrival here, but it was soon obvious that there were no women at all, this time. Only men—thirty or so of them, wearing flowing garments that were every bright colour imaginable. Their drumbeats shuddered through the air.

  “How did they manage to get the drums here?” Haldrin said. “First on the boats and then overland?”

  Teldaru said, “You asked the same question nearly thirty years ago,” and the king said, “Did I?” and smiled. His curls were dark with sweat, flattened against his neck and forehead, but he looked quite calm, as the sun beat down and the Belakaoans drew nearer. It was Teldaru who paced restlessly to the battlements and back to the others again, humming urgently and tunelessly under his breath.

  “Daru, stop,” Haldrin said. “I’m afraid you’ll fall over.”

  Teldaru glared at him and continued pacing.

  “Master Teldaru,” said Lord Derris in his odd, half-voice. “Please.” Teldaru stopped.

  Moabu Bantayo was a small man. I looked down at the broad-shouldered drummers and the tall, gleaming spear-carriers, and then I looked at the man who walked among them all, and I could not believe that this was he—the new moabu who had already been so harsh and demanding. A few hours later, in the Great Hall, I saw that, although he was short and slight, he was also sleek. The muscles in his arms stood out as he gestured, and he moved with the grace of a hunting cat. His beard was short and pointed at the tip. The cloth of his robe was covered in tiny gems and shells that flashed every time he moved. And he moved a great deal. He stood before the dais where King Haldrin was sitting and he turned and turned again, looking at the room while everyone else looked at him.

  “Welcome, Moabu Bantayo,” the king said in a loud, firm voice that made me blink. I was sitting at the long table that had been placed closest to the dais. I could see all their eyes, from here: Haldrin’s, Teldaru’s and Bantayo’s. Blue, black and brown. I was not sure whose I should watch most closely.

  “King Haldrin,” said Bantayo.

  I remembered how Teldaru had described this moabu’s father’s voice—“poured honey”—and thought that this was not true of Bantayo’s. Just two words, but I heard metal in them, and my heart began to pound.

  “I trust you have had a pleasant journey,” said King Haldrin. He was not smiling. His hands lay loosely on the arms of his throne.

  “Pleasant enough,” Moabu Bantayo said. “Lorselland was a most delightful place. Their roads are better than yours.”

  The king’s brows rose, just a little. “Indeed?” he said, and then he did smile. “But their wine, I happen to know, is worse.” He gestured and a serving boy scuttled forward, clutching a pitcher. “Moabu, we have much to discuss—but first you and your men must sit and rest and drink our wine.”

  More servers arrived, bearing another long table that they placed on the dais in front of the throne. They brought other chairs, too, and Teldaru sat, as did Lord Derris. Bantayo watched this activity, his men standing in a circle behind him (their drums and spears had been left elsewhere). They did not look hot—maybe because this Sarsenayan heat was nothing to them, after their black rock and sand and their own ocean sun. I thought of Yigranzi; I wished, with pain that felt new, that I could run to her room and sit down and say, “Tell me about drums and moabus and polished shells, because now I’ve seen all of these things.”

  The music began as Bantayo took his seat between the king and Lord Derris. The harp and flute sounded too sweet to fill the quiet—but soon there was murmuring as well, at the high table and at the ones around mine. The Belakaoans were led to places among the Sarsenayans. One of the island men sat next to me, and I watched his dark fingers plucking at chicken and bread. I wondered what I would say to him, if he spoke to me, but he only ate and sipped from his goblet and stared at the high table.

  Bantayo, seated, was a full head shorter than both Haldrin and Teldaru. He should have looked like a mere youth, between them, but he did not. Because of the beard, yes—but also because of the smooth, purposeful movements of his hands as he ate and the tilt of his head as he listened to the other men, or spoke himself. I had never seen such power contained, controlled—and it frightened me, excited me, especially when I looked at Teldaru.

  This will be harder than he imagines, I thought. This man will not be led. I also thought, Whatever happens, it must be soon; no one will be able to bear waiting.

  But everyone did wait, for days and days. King Haldrin and Moabu Bantayo met in the study. They ate together (privately, and at yet more feasts, which Selera attended adorned in Belakaoan jewels) and walked together and rode around the city in a closed carriage. The Belakaoan soldiers showed Sarsenayan soldiers how to throw spears into straw-stuffed targets in the main courtyard, amid wagers and much laughter and shouting. Sarsenayan soldiers showed the Belakaoan soldiers how to hold swords—more laughter but no wagers, since the Belakaoans refused to do any actual fighting. I walked about, alone or with some younger students, and I watched, listened and counted the hours until sundown, when Teldaru would come to tell me what had happened that day.

  “Bantayo has now taken issue with our ale, our vegetables, our women and our sunsets. The Lorsellanders have offered Belakao three times more lumber than we currently give them. He is unimpressed with each of our offers; he is losing patience.”

  “And what of the offer?” I asked on one of these nights.

  Teldaru shrugged and said nothing.

  He came to me on the morning of the sixth day. It was early, but already the heat was settling onto skin and cloth and the bowed tops of the trees. I was splashing tepid water on my face; he touched my back and I whirled.

  “Nola.” He seemed very still. “It is happening. Now. I was with them all night and past dawn, and Haldrin asked about Zemiya—about all Bantayo’s family, and her too. He has tried to ask before, but Bantayo did not answer. Until today.”

  I tried to picture it, as he told me the rest.

  “Neluja is a strong ispa, a credit to our blood.”

  “And your other sister? Zemiya?”

  “A proud woman, though she has no reason to be.”

  “But she too is of your blood—royal blood—surely she is revered as the rest of you are?”

  “She shows me little honour.”

  “But the people—”

  “They love her. It is difficult for me to do the same.”

  “I will ask the others here to leave us now, moabu. You and I must talk alone.”

  Teldaru was holding my shoulders—the bare skin beneath my sleeping shift. “It is as I have seen. This is the Pattern that will shape my triumph. Our triumph.” He smiled and dug his fingers in. “And it has been so simple! Will it always be so simple?”

  Please, I thought as I crossed the courtyard with him, let him be wrong. Let this Path twist all of us away from him. Let him be wrong.

  We stood outside Haldrin’s study with Derris and the other lords. No one spoke. The only voices came from behind the closed door: a rising and falling, words blurred, impossible to understand. Then, after a time, silence.

  The people in the corridor s
tood straighter as the door opened. King Haldrin stepped out, and Moabu Bantayo behind him. Now, so close, I saw that Bantayo was even shorter than I had thought he was, and that his eyes (which lit on me briefly) were very beautiful—several shades of brown shot through with green—and very cold.

  Both men were smiling.

  “You, my trusted advisers, shall know first.” There were purplish shadows under Haldrin’s eyes, and a smattering of golden-brown stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his tunic was rumpled. He was like a boy who had just risen from a too-short rest—hungrily, wildly awake.

  “The moabu and I have reached an agreement that will unite our lands forever.”

  I saw Teldaru’s hands clench and thought, He was right.

  “Moabe Zemiya of Belakao will be queen of Sarsenay.”

  No, I thought as the others moved to clasp Haldrin’s hands and bow to Bantayo. Teldaru did not step forward with them. He was still beside me; I felt his gaze and turned toward it because I knew I must, eventually.

  “So simple, love,” he said. “You see?”

  “No,” I whispered, over and over, so that I would not have to hear the voice within me that said “yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Tollic!” Grasni cried. “Dren! Stop immediately before you fall in!”

  We were outside—all of us, nine younger students and Selera and Grasni and I and even Mistress Ket, who was sitting on a bench beneath the shadiest tree. It had been too hot indoors; the students had been sodden and querulous and impossible to teach. So we had all come out to the courtyard, where there was the hint of a hint of a breeze, and Tollic and Dren had discovered enough energy with which to wrestle each other.

  We were not doing much to stop them. Grasni was laughing as she shouted, and some of the other children were cheering. Tollic and Dren were now the oldest boys among the group—eleven and ten—and they were clumsy and graceful, a delight to watch. Selera was the only one protesting; she was waving her arms, trying to stand between the wrestlers and her own small, excited charges.

  Dren, who was shorter than Tollic but also broader, lunged at the other boy, and with a scrabbling, desperate flurry of limbs they both fell into the pool.

  Everyone was silent, very suddenly. The pool was sacred; it had been in this place before the castle had, and Sarsenay’s very first Otherseer had used it for her visions. Also, it was full of those tiny fish that glowed green in darkness. You might dabble a hand in it, on a hot day like this, but nothing more.

  Grasni and I knelt and reached for the boys. They were thrashing, stirring the clear water to murkiness. It was not deep, but they were panicking, choking, slipping away before we could get a grip on them.

  “Nola!” Selera’s voice was shrill.

  “Selera,” I said loudly, “I’m busy—just wait—”

  “Nola,” said a new voice, and I froze. “Move aside, now.” Teldaru leaned out over the pool and hoisted Tollic and Dren up. He deposited them onto the yellow-brown grass, where they hunched, sputtering and coughing, and not looking at any of us.

  I sat back on my heels. Teldaru was standing, brushing dirt from his knees. He was smiling. He should be angry, I thought, and, What now . . .?

  “I tried to make them stop.” Selera was beside him. I wondered yet again how she managed to be simpering and solemn at the same time. “They are incorrigible, all of them.” She glared from Grasni to me, as if we had leapt into the pool ourselves, against her express orders.

  “They are,” Teldaru agreed.

  “I tried—” Selera began, and he held up a hand.

  “Yes, Selera, I’m sure you did. And I’m appreciative of your efforts, as always.”

  Her simper wobbled into something less confident. One of her students (a little girl no more than seven) giggled, and Mistress Ket thumped her stick against the ground and cried, “Quiet while Master Teldaru is speaking!” Master Teldaru himself continued to smile.

  “I have come to give you good tidings,” he said.

  Selera brightened again. “About the wedding?” The students murmured, and another few giggled.

  “No,” he said. “About you—about my three lovely, grown girls.”

  Grasni glanced at me. I shrugged a bit, not caring if he saw. My belly was crawling with dread.

  “Stand with me, Mistress Ket.” She rose slowly; Selera rushed over to her, helped her shuffle across the grass to Teldaru.

  “Selera, Grasni and Nola, you are not students any more. You have known this—we all have—for months and months, but it is time to make the knowledge real. It is time for you to take your places as Mistresses of Otherseeing.”

  Selera gave a gasp that sounded very loud.

  “Nola,” he said. That benevolent smile, those calm black eyes; I swallowed dryness and a taste of bile. “You will stay here.” Hardly a shock—so why did my heart give a great, lurching thump? “Mistress Ket and I need you, for, as you well know, there has not been a full complement of teachers at the castle since Master Parvo and Mistress Mandola left.” They had run away together, Selera told us. “Even if she did look a little like a toad,” she had said, “and he was old, it’s terribly romantic, don’t you think?” Terribly lucky, is what I had thought; they’re free.

  “Grasni,” he went on, and looked down at her. She was sitting quite straight among her dress’ riotous folds. “You will go to Narlenel. It is a fine city, and its lord and lady are fine rulers.”

  “And it is near my own town,” she said. “Thank you, Master Teldaru.”

  He nodded, let his eyes slip from her to Selera. “Selera.”

  “Master?” she said brightly. She looked very beautiful just then: soft green dress, gold at her ears and throat, Belakaoan gems and ribbons in her hair. She glowed with certainty.

  “You will go to Meriden—another city of vital importance to Sarsenay. It is second only to our own in wealth and influence.”

  “But . . .” A dimming of the glow. She twisted her hands in her dress. “Master, I thought . . . I thought you would keep me here?”

  Her voice cracked on the last word. I looked away from her, pitying her even as I exulted.

  “No, my dear,” he said, “Nola is the only one to stay. And you will be grateful when you see your new home. They have silks there that will—”

  “I don’t want silks!” she cried. One of the students whimpered. “I want to stay! I need to be here, Master—you know that.”

  Grasni’s mouth was hanging open. The whimpering student began to sob. Teldaru frowned—in consternation, not anger—and stepped toward Selera, but before he reached her she lifted her skirts and whirled and ran.

  “Do not worry about her,” he said as we watched her go. She stumbled once, where the grass met the path, but she did not fall (and I was surprised to find that I did not want her to). “It is difficult to embrace change right away. She will soon be happy. Especially,” he added, smiling again, “when I tell her about the celebration we will have.”

  A feast, as it turned out. I watched the tables being set up in the seers’ courtyard a few days later, even as the lower courtyard was filling with tents and performers’ stages. Zemiya would be arriving in a matter of weeks; the king had called upon Sarsenayan artists to gather at the castle for a celebratory competition. Singers, poets, sculptors, painters, dancers: they flooded onto the castle grounds and into the inns of Sarsenay City, all of them hoping to win fame at the royal wedding. We could hear their clamour from here. Distant music, clapping and laughter and some shouting. Singing. A hum, beneath everything else, of bodies alive and together.

  “I’d rather be down there tonight,” said Grasni. I started and turned to her. She was gazing at the tables and the benches, and at the lanterns that had been hung in the branches of the trees. I had gone looking for her earlier, rehearsing what I would say to her and trying to anticipate what she might say to me. I had not found her—but now here she was beside me, and I almost did not want to speak and risk the
moment’s end.

  “Ah,” I said (because I had to speak, of course), “but only here, tonight, will you see Selera disguised as a serving girl as she attempts to avoid the Path her true love has set before her.”

  They were hollow words, echoes of ones that might once have made us laugh.

  “It will be hard to leave,” Grasni said. “For Selera and for me.”

  Just as I was noting, with some relief, that she had no tears in her eyes this time, I realized that I did. “Grasni,” I said, “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

  “You’ll teach,” she said, “and you’ll find a friend who knows not to wear purple with red, and who won’t know . . .”

  “What my Otherself looks like?” I said when her voice faltered and faded. “Someone who won’t be disgusted and afraid, as you are?” I did not know if my own voice was trembling because of sadness or anger—for I felt the latter, all of a sudden, thrusting heat outward from my belly.

  “No,” she said, turning to me, her face twisted, “oh, Nola, you know how sorry I am—”

  She did not flee from me again, as I half-expected her to. I fled from her. I dodged among the trees and the tables and the people laying them with silver plates and goblets, and I dashed into my room and slammed the door. I cried for a long time, with my face pressed against one of the toy horses. I had not cried like this in many years. I felt like a child, gulping and sobbing, consumed by something I could not name. Except that I was not a child, and I could have named it—all the layers of it. I could have dried my eyes and washed my face and gone back out into the courtyard to talk to my friend, who was leaving.

  Instead I stayed where I was. I waited, after my tears had stopped—just as I had waited for Chenn, so many years ago, when I had slammed another door and hoped she would come to me anyway. The light in my room turned from gold to bronze to blue-black. I did not touch the lamp on my desk. No: I would sit in darkness, while the courtyard danced with flame and silver. I would be miserable and alone until someone came to fetch me: one of my students, perhaps, or Grasni, or all of them together.