The Pattern Scars

by Caitlin Sweet

  Moments passed. Haldrin was next to the tub. His hands were on Zemiya’s shoulders because she was clawing at the metal, trying to rise. She was sobbing words that I did not understand; Jamenda, behind them all, was speaking the same ones. Zemiya sagged back into the water when the midwife folded the cloth over the baby’s face.

  “Give her to me,” the queen said, as firmly as if she had never been sobbing.

  “My Queen,” the midwife began, and Haldrin said her name, but Zemiya snarled, “Give her to me now,” and the midwife did. The baby was a formless bundle until Zemiya unwrapped her and tossed the cloth on the floor. She held her just above the water. All I could see was the head, with its wet black hair, and two curled hands that rested on Zemiya’s breasts.

  “Leave me,” the queen said.

  “No.” The midwife was twisting her hands in her dress, just as Jamenda might have. “There is still the afterbirth; I must attend you until it comes.”

  Zemiya cupped her hand over the baby’s head as if she did not want her to overhear. “I will take care of myself. You have been here long enough.” She looked at everyone in turn. “All of you—leave me.”

  The midwife backed out of the room. The king hesitated by the tub, one hand hovering, as if he could not decide where to put it. He did not notice me when I knelt on the wet floor near him. The queen did not notice me. I picked up the knife. I watched the king’s face, as I did; saw his lips making silent words.

  “Go, love,” Zemiya said.

  Haldrin whirled and walked into the other room and Jamenda went after him.

  I pierced the tip of my own forefinger.

  “You.” The queen sounded weary, disgusted, but I rose up on my knees and leaned close to her.

  “Moabe. Please give me your baby.”

  Another laugh, this one incredulous.

  “My Queen, please. I must look at her—just for a moment, and then I’ll give her back to you.” Zemiya did not move. “The Patt—isparra will show me more than anyone else could see. Your sister would know this. You know it.”

  Zemiya’s hands came up out of the water. They supported the baby’s head and bottom, but the rest of her hung.

  I took the body. It was slippery and smooth and warm, but only from the water. I arranged it on the cloth and crouched over it so that Zemiya could not see. I watched a thread of blood ooze from the stump of the cord that was attached to the baby’s navel. A thin thread, barely pink, but it would be enough. I touched the baby’s palms, which were lying open on either side of her head. I gazed at the bloody smudges my fingertip left on the pale, creased skin. I gazed at the rows of ribs that jutted in the swell of chest.

  Princess, I thought, we must be quick—and then the room melted around me.

  Her Otherworld is small and dim. Not dark or glaringly white, like the dead places I have already been. Just vague, shrouded in red mist that parts every time I breathe, so that I can see the little hills and the low, curved sky. I feel the seeping of my blood, and hers too, and I watch it eddy in the air before me. Two streams, mine and hers; I reach for them and fill myself with metal and wind and I breathe and weave until the mist blows away completely and the bones of the hills are covered with green.

  I opened my eyes. I was kneeling exactly as I had been.

  “Mistress Nola.” The midwife’s voice; her shadow looming, and Haldrin’s behind her. I blinked at them. I looked down and blinked at the blur that was the baby.

  “There is no point, Mistress—nothing can be done. Here, now. Let me take the child. And my Queen, I see that the afterbirth has come; I’ll—”

  The baby gurgled. Perhaps the sound was from her stomach, or perhaps her lungs, but all that mattered was that it was loud enough to silence the midwife and stop everyone moving. Everyone except Zemiya, who pulled herself out of the tub in a surge of water and fell to her knees beside me.

  My vision was already nearly clear. I saw the rise and fall of the baby’s chest. I saw the thick milky froth that poured from her mouth and nose. I saw my fingers wiping at the liquid and then resting on the lips, which twitched and pursed.

  “Pattern protect us,” hissed the midwife.

  The baby’s eyes opened. They were smoky grey beneath a translucent layer of white. They blinked back at me, even though I knew they could not see me.

  “What have you done?” Zemiya murmured. I might have been the only one who heard her. I did not look at her, or at Teldaru when he called my name from the doorway. I did not look at the king, who was kneeling too, and sobbing.

  “Welcome to your place,” I said, steady and strong, as the baby began to cry. “Welcome to the Path that is yours.”

  Only it is not yours, I thought. You were dead and I remade you, and the only Path you have now is mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “You are mine.” He ran his hands down my arms and rested them on my hips. I was in bed, naked; I had bathed, earlier, and had not had any clean shifts to put on afterward. So he stroked my hips and thighs and I murmured—not a word, because I was still mostly asleep. A question-sound.

  “I taught you, Nola. I showed you the Pattern that can only be seen with blood—and you have disobeyed me and obeyed me, but never until today—until that baby’s birth—have you used it on your own. Not like this.” He dipped his head. His hair glinted red in the firelight. I felt him kiss my belly, and lower, lower, and I was awake and fever-flushed.

  When he lifted his head I saw that there were tears on his cheeks.

  “I am glad I have made you proud.” My voice was rough. The neck of his tunic gaped. I could not look away from his collarbone, which was beautiful—gleaming, curved, smooth. I ached with the need to touch it. My mouth tasted of sickness.

  “I wish I could give you something,” he said.

  I swallowed. “You could.” I swallowed again, and tried to think—but not too much, or I would not be able to say anything more. “You could remake me. You could give me my words back—now, not later.”

  I expected him to laugh but he did not. He gazed at me for a moment and I saw no gold in his eyes; maybe the tears had drowned it. Then he eased himself off me. He put his hands on my hips again and pressed; I let him, even when the pressure turned me over and out of bed. I was lying with my cheek against the blanket and my knees on the floor. He pinned my arms straight on either side of me, along the edge of the bed. I kept my hands motionless, somehow. My fingers did not tense when he moved in behind me. His naked flesh was on mine. I felt heat, and muscles bunching; his hands stroking me and himself.

  He took my ear between his teeth and moaned. His breath whooshed and tickled and I could not help it: I wriggled, which made him moan again, and thrust against me (but not in). I went still. I had to be still, no matter what he did.

  He shifted, and cold air rushed over me. He was standing. I was not looking at him, but I saw his shadow on the wall. He put on a shadow-tunic and bent. I felt him one more time, breathing words, now.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Good, sweet Nola. I will think on your request.”

  And then he left me kneeling in the dark.

  I had a few nights of peace after Princess Layibe was born. I did not know why—Teldaru had told me over and over that we would not rest until Ranior too was breathing. But I did rest; I slept, with Borl stretched out beside me, and nothing woke me until Leylen came just after dawn. I taught my lessons with a clearer mind than I had had since the summer. I noticed the taste of food again. I took a long, scalding bath, and when I was out and dry I imagined that the smell of rot had gone away.

  A few nights—and then he was at my door, smiling and holding out his hand.

  Ranior, I thought as we walked with our heads bent against the snow. The War Hound’s time has come—but if this had been the case we would be going to his tomb, and instead we were weaving into the city. To the house.

  “I have been thinking about what you asked for,” Teldaru said as he lit the lanterns in the front hallwa
y. “I promised I would, and I have.”

  “Oh?” I stepped away from Borl, who was shaking the wetness from his fur. I shook my own cloak out and hung it from a hook by the door. When I looked at Teldaru he was on the stairs, bobbing on the balls of his feet. The excited boy, I thought, and my throat went dry.

  Selera was not in my old bed; she was sitting in a chair beside it, and Laedon’s chair was beside hers. I looked past them, and past the rumpled bed, at another chair that had been placed by the windows. A rough wooden one that had not been here before, and a girl in it.

  “I will give you back a little,” Teldaru said to me. “You deserve this.”

  The girl’s wrists were tied to the chair arms. There was a twisted piece of red velvet wedged between her jaws. The bodice of her dirty brown dress was unlaced; dark coils of hair—escaped from braids—were touching her small breasts. My eyes shifted back to the bed, with its strewn pillows and churned bedclothes. To Selera’s eyes, and Laedon’s, which blinked and stared. The girl moaned. Her fingers scrabbled at wood and her feet thrust at the floor and she stared at me too, from behind a sheen of tears.

  “Let her go,” I said.

  Teldaru snorted. “Do you want me to remake your Paths or do you not?” He was by the window now, pulling a second wooden chair to face hers. “I will do this for you. Sit, Nola.”

  I sat.

  He tugged four lengths of golden rope from his belt. He looped one of the strands under the chair arm. I snatched my own arm away. “You don’t need to do that to me,” I said. Borl was beside me, growling and bristling. Teldaru shoved at him with his foot and Borl snapped at his leg, but he fell back, and sat.

  “Do I not?” Teldaru shook his head.

  He bound my wrists to the chair arms. He bound my ankles to the legs. The girl was quiet, and I was quiet; he hummed a Pattern-song. When he was finished with me he went to stand behind her. He ran his thumb down her cheek. Her eyes widened a little more but she did not flinch.

  “She will not bleed,” he said to me, “but you must.” And he walked back to me, holding the dagger—the tiny jewelled one. This time I strained toward it, against bonds and hatred. He rucked my dress up, his hands scrabbling at cloth and then skin. He cut me on my left thigh. I watched my skin open. I watched the line of blood bead and seep, and the hatred was for me—for my hunger and my joy.

  He pricked his forefinger and squeezed so that his blood dripped onto mine. He bent and drew his tongue along my cut. When he lifted his head his smile was wet and smudged.

  I saw the gold vanish from his eyes. I felt tugging—the tight ache that was him within me, drawing my Paths together or apart. The girl gave another groan and a panting sob, and I made a sound too, that was like one of Uja’s little songs. I thought, He is flooding my burned black Paths with silver. He sank to his knees. I gazed at his Othersighted eyes and the space between his bloodied lips. No Selera, no Laedon, no squirming girl or whining dog. Teldaru and I were alone.

  It was a very long time before he blinked. He looked at me blankly, between worlds for one more breath, and then he saw me.

  “What . . . I do for you.” His voice was not as weak as it had been the first time he had changed my Pattern. He was not as weak; he rose slowly, almost immediately, and stretched his arms above his head. He is more powerful all the time, I thought with a shiver. The more he uses Bloodseeing, the more effortless it is.

  “Let’s see, then.” My own voice shook. “Let’s see what you’ve done for me.”

  “No more blood,” he said. “So choose. How will you Othersee for her?”

  I wet my lips. “Wax on water.”

  He chuckled as he walked to the small round table by the door. “I guessed. It has always been your favourite.” He picked up the goblet and the stubby stick of wax that were waiting there. Deep red wax, I saw when he brought these things to me. He wedged the goblet stem between my thighs and held the wax over a candle. One quick, delicate drop, and another, much more sluggish and round, behind it. I wrenched my gaze from it to him.

  I said, clearly enough that she would hear me, “Do not hurt her.”

  He smiled. “Soft-hearted girl. She is a brothel brat, just as you were. We will let her go, and even if she tells someone, it will not matter. Now look, love. Look down.”

  Tiny dark islands joined and parted, congealing on their sea. So simple—the first way Yigranzi had shown me. I thought of her, and I thought of the other girl—Larally—the one who had died after I had told her the vision I thought I had understood. I tipped the goblet with my thighs, just a bit, so that I could see a shadow of this girl, and Teldaru’s shadow moving in close to her. “Say them,” he said, “the words I told you to”—and he must have taken her gag off, for she let out a piercing shriek. I heard him slap her. I saw her shadow-head snap back. I heard words—hers, mumbled and broken, and his, low and angry: “Say them, whore, or I kill you.”

  “Tell me.” She spoke a bit louder, but the words were still broken. “Tell me what will come, for me.”

  Her shadow rippled and the wax scattered and so did the world around me.

  The vision feels the same. The images—spinning rain with coloured facets—faces and forms in each. Time-to-come and Paths already walked. A kitten with snow melting on its fur; an arc of blue sky; a man’s hairy-toed feet sliding into red leather shoes stitched with silver thread. And a wolf, turning its long, dark muzzle to wind I cannot feel. A wolf—the same, or maybe not—hunkered in a doorway spattered with mud and clumps of hair. Flames licking around its paws and up into its eyes, curling the edges of every Path, of the Pattern itself—and yet the wolf’s eyes burn brighter, and do not blink.

  My dress was sodden, clinging to my thighs. The goblet was on the floor. Teldaru was kneeling by me again, his hands on my calves. The after-vision was like a sheet of water, shuddering and silver.

  Silver.

  “What did you see?” he said.

  My mouth opened as it always had, since the curse: almost without my noticing, and certainly without my caring. Why take care, when nothing was true?

  “A rich man’s feet in red leather shoes.”

  As soon as these first words were out, I should have been on my feet. I should have tried to run away from him, with this one, slender Path restored—but I did not. I sat. My body was a dead, leaden thing; only my voice moved. I laughed, but there were tears too, and I choked and gasped until there was room for more words.

  “A wolf in the wind and another in a brothel doorway. Hair from the dead stuck to the brothel’s stones with mud and shit”—I was Uja once more, and every word was a note, a glossy, glorious feather—“and then fire—the Pattern burning Paths to ash.”

  The girl’s face twisted as Larally’s had, years ago. Years ago, and yet I was the same: I was unbound power, and there was no Yigranzi to punish me this time; only Teldaru bending his smooth, shadowed face to kiss me.

  “Thank you,” I said against his lips. “Thank you—oh, thank you . . .” Burning, myself, with desire for what I used to have, and for more. For all he had promised me.

  He eased himself away. I was still gibbering—the vision words, now, over and over, a Pattern-song of spittle and triumph. He walked over to the girl. I noticed that her gag was back on, and that it was soaked dark. I noticed this with my old eyes, which my voice did not care about. These eyes watched him wrench the gag out of her mouth; watched him kiss her, and her thrash her head back and forth. She screamed once, and there was an answering screech—Uja, from beyond this room. Maybe it was this sound that brought me back, even before he set the jewelled dagger against the girl’s throat and cut.

  “The wolf,” I heard myself say. “The wind in its fur. Its ears are flat. It’s brindled and hungry.” I gave one more crow of a laugh.

  “There we are.” He was before me, pricking his finger again. “You see what I will do for you—this and more, when the battle’s done.”

  I shuddered as he slipped back into my Othe
rworld, to unmake what he had so briefly remade. I looked at the open lycus blossom of the brothel girl’s throat and I cried, but not for her.

  When he was done, the windows were filled with a dull grey light and I was not crying any more. “Come,” he said, and held out his hand to me. He finally looked weary; grey himself, except for bruised purple patches under his eyes. Both of our hands were shaking.

  I saw wolves and mud, I tried to say, but what I did say was, “I saw a glade with a dry cracked fountain.” I was too tired for more laughter or tears, though both of these rose in my throat.

  “Hush,” he said. He pulled me to my feet and I sagged against him and he staggered back to balance us. We shuffled to the door. I turned toward the stairs, when we went out into the hallway, but he said, “No—this way,” and we walked to the mirror room instead.

  I thought: I cannot look at Mambura. At any of them—Selera or Laedon or the dead girl—and not at Mambura either. I want to see only my castle bed, and Leylen’s plain, living face. But I did look at him, of course. He was lying where he had been before, dark and blinking. Teldaru stepped around him. He stood by the mirror and drew me up beside him.

  The mirror’s bowl was covered with bones—so many that they shone from every one of the golden facets. They were very old; I knew this immediately because they were smooth and yellow, and because I had seen so many bones, by now. These belonged together. All the ribs, and the hips, and the long legs and knobby hands—they were one man’s.

  “Ranior,” I said.

  He squeezed my hand. “Touch him, Nola. Go on.” But I already was. I vaguely remembered having plucked up Selera’s ribs because they had been slender and small, but this time I pulled away from Teldaru’s grip so that I could use both of my hands, and I picked up the skull.