by A. G. Henley
I smile sadly. Poor Conda. It might be too late for him to have a chance. Worry shivers through me again, this time for Peree, Bear, and the others. They could have their hands as full out there as we will in here.
Crying—releasing some of the tension I’ve been holding close the last few weeks—felt really good, cleansing. But now we have work to do. It’s time to learn as much as we can about the Cloister and the Fire Sisters, so we can get the children and get out of here.
Chapter Nineteen
With Frost’s direction, we wash up and change into the new clothes we picked up at the laundry—a fitted tunic over leggings with sturdy boots made of treated leather. They're the most sumptuous things I’ve ever worn.
When Grimma comes for us, we’re ready.
The sky has darkened, although it’s more difficult to tell the time with the smoke from the Eternal Flames filtering the light. How do the Sisters stand it day after day? Then again, someone might have asked how we bore living under the watchful eyes of the Lofties or spending weeks in the bone-chilling caves avoiding the Scourge. We all do what we have to, I guess.
“When may we see our daughters, Grimma?” Amarina asks as we walk.
“Tomorrow, I expect.” She sounds distracted.
Good. I’ll feel a lot better when I can hear Kora, talk to her, be sure she and the other children are all right. I don’t know how it will affect them to know we’re here but they can’t be with us. I suppose it will be one more confusing, frightening day in a long line of confusing, frightening days for them.
We pass the wasps’ enclosure as we follow our trainer along the flat, high ground that seems to lead from our quarters to the great hall. The buzzing has died down. Wasps are nocturnal, I remember our teacher, Bream, telling us. They’ll be back at it at first light. I shiver. That enclosure is an armory.
While we talked this afternoon, Amarina described the layout of the Cloister in more detail. She told me our quarters are closest to the corner where the Eternal Flames join the wall that runs parallel to the Shivering Sea. The eastern wall, she decided it was. Which means the Flames burn at the southernmost end of the Cloister. She said there isn’t much near the wall of fire except a small, abandoned stone shelter with no roof. Makes sense—anything but stone will burn.
The wall with the gate and the forest beside it, where we left the men, is the western wall. The great hall and the kitchens sit closer to it. Most of the other buildings within the Cloister—the laundry, the Sisters homes, the gardens, and presumably the children’s compound—nestle in the trees and under the protective shadow of the mountain to the north. She said the place was about twice the size of Koolkuna, not including the Myuna. The map of the Cloister grows in my head.
Amarina and Frost also told me a little more about the Sisters. They said they aren’t painted white, like those who came to Koolkuna. Maybe they only paint themselves when they leave the Cloister? They said the women's hair and skin color is the same mix as might be found among the anuna. They do all have the colorful feathers at their waist, which we decided is the mark of a fully initiated Fire Sister. Otherwise, they wear tunics, leggings, and boots similar to ours. They are of all shapes, sizes, and ages, although there doesn’t seem to be any Sister younger than about eighteen.
And the Sisters are armed: spears in their hands, knives at their waists, staffs in a special pouch across their backs. At all times. Bad news.
We walk up the stone steps of the great hall. The doors seem to be open, as the clatter of dishes and the soft din of women’s voices tumble out. It sounds crowded. Amarina said the hall is impressive: roughly round in shape with a ceiling that soars up to a smallish opening at the top to let indoor smoke out and discourage the Eternal Flames’ toxic fumes from coming in. As I suspected, she said all the shelters are made of stone.
I listen to the voices filling the room as we enter, but my attention shrinks to the size of a point—one that’s jabbing painfully into my chest. I yelp, and the room goes silent.
Someone steps so close I can smell her particular scent: the caustic fumes of the Eternal Flames and greenheart sap. What I’d guess is a spear tip taps against my chest bone.
“Who are you?” the woman asks. Her words are a challenge; they tie my tongue.
“F… Fennel,” I finally spit out.
“You’re a weed?” she says. The great hall breaks out in laughter, which discombobulates me even more.
“No, an herb.”
“Oh, an herb,” the woman says. “My mistake.” More laughter.
I manage to slow my heart and untangle my tongue. “I mean Fennel is an herb. And it’s my name.”
“She is one of the new Initiates, Basia,” Grimma says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Were you not in the Cloister this morning when they arrived?”
“No. Enya and I were in the forest, hunting,” the woman answers. She steps away from me, and my heart begins to slow. “We provided the meat you’re about to enjoy.”
My stomach rejoices at the thought of dinner—and that we didn’t encounter her and her partner this morning. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Basia sounds surprised. “At least she has good manners, Grimma.”
I’m handed a plate of succulent-smelling food, and I follow the others, carefully, to a sturdy wood table. Frost takes my arm and leads me past rows and rows of tables; I run my hand along them and find their edges with my hip once or twice. We must be seated toward the back, because no voices come from behind us.
I don’t worry about the Sisters or anything else for a good ten minutes, not until I devour the thick slab of moist boar, the fresh-cooked vegetables, and every grain of a generous slice of bread. I even savor the grease on my lips.
Grimma sits somewhere in front of us; I hear her speaking with a few other women. I thought the Sisters might be silent and secretive around us, but I was wrong. Their conversation seems not much different from one I might hear back home or in Koolkuna: challenges with their work, how the fall weather seems to be hanging on, crumbs of gossip. What’s strange is that the voices are all female.
I don’t know if all the Sisters are here taking a meal, but a lot of voices echo around the room. Frost guessed there were somewhere between seventy and one-hundred Sisters, which is a smaller group than in Koolkuna or back home. The Cloister is twice as big as the village, with not as many people to defend it. Can that work to our advantage?
I have to admit that between the security of the compound, the solid stone structures, the fine clothes and linens, plentiful water, and the bounty and quality of the meal, the Sisters seem to live very well. It’s easy to understand why they would want to protect what they have. The problem is that what riches they don’t have, they steal.
After dinner, the Sisters quiet… except for the sounds of throat clearing. Many of them have rough voices and dry coughs, probably thanks to the Eternal Flames.
“Come, Fia, tell us a new story tonight,” a Sister calls from somewhere ahead and to the left.
“I’m too tired, and my belly’s too full,” a woman near Grimma says. She groans to make her point.
Story? What kinds of tales do the Sisters like?
Other Sisters are called on, but they each have an excuse for why they can’t or won’t tonight. No one volunteers.
I’m on my feet before I think much about it. The room quiets again. Women shift around on their benches, probably to stare at me. Heat flames across my face. I press my suddenly sweaty hands against my tunic.
“I… I have a story.”
“By all means. Come forward, Initiate.” Adar sounds amused.
I grope my way to the wall and follow it around the circular room to where I heard her voice. My own elders told us many tales around the fire growing up, and I’ve learned others from Kadee, Wirrim, Nerang, and even Kora. Peree’s told me dozens since I met him. I’m nowhere near as talented a storyteller as he is, but I can do this. Only… what if I tell a story that offends t
hem or that they hate? Our position here is already precarious.
“What did you say your name was again?” Adar asks when I stop and face the group. Her voice is smooth, toneless. Not flat like someone who is downtrodden, but more like someone who feels emotion but works hard to show little of it.
“Fennel,” Alev says. “Like the herb.” She sounds as if she’s sitting at the same table as Adar. I smile briefly toward her.
“And what is this story about?” Adar asks.
Indecision strangles me, sending my thoughts flying.
“I’m… not sure.”
A few Sisters snort. My cheeks flare again. If only I knew what kind of story they’d enjoy. Why can’t I think of a thing?
The Sisters start to mutter.
Think, Fennel.
Then—I have it.
“It’s, um, about a hunter and seven sisters he meets in the forest. It was told to me by my mother, an accomplished storyteller.”
I’m fibbing. Peree told me this story; he heard it from Kadee. I thought it might be best not to mention men in here.
“Fine, fine,” Adar says. “You may begin.”
I close my eyes and imagine Peree starting a story. He always takes a moment to ease out of himself and into the tale. I’ve teased him about it before. He usually pretends to be insulted, saying he won’t tell me at all if I’m going to mock him. Only a kiss will persuade him to begin—which was his goal all along. I wish I could give him that kiss now.
When I speak, I try channeling his storytelling voice: full and clear, commanding. I do my best to honor him.
“One day a man was hunting in the forest. He came across a group of seven young women who were gathered by a fire, warming themselves. He was hungry, having had no success in the hunt that day, and the women welcomed him to their fire, offering food and a warm place to sleep for the night. He accepted politely.
“‘Where do you come from?’ the man asked the young women. ‘And why are you in the forest by yourselves?’
‘We are from a faraway country,’ the young women answered. ‘We are looking around, and then we will go back home.’ The man puzzled at this, but he was too tired to puzzle for long.”
When Peree told this story one night around the fire at the allawah, the beginning reminded me of the tale of the cassowary woman, one of my favorites. Peree told it to me in the trees, after I was bitten by a sick one. I think that was the moment I first began to fall in love with him.
“In the morning, the hunter ate the breakfast the young women offered to him, and then took his leave. But as he traveled into the empty forest alone, dark desires crept into his heart. I will wait, he said to himself, and watch these women. Then I will take one of them for my own, for I have no partner, and I am lonely. They must not mind, he thought, or they would not be out in the forest, without protection, young as they are.”
I pause, as the Sisters grumble. Is it the story or the way I tell it? I swallow and press on, my voice a little less confident.
“The man circled back to the camp and hid behind a tree, waiting and watching. Eventually, one of the young women left the others to gather more firewood. She was a particular beauty, with smooth, brown skin and long, straight, black hair that shone in the sun as if there were a light hidden deep in its depths. The man wanted her for his own.
“He waited until she had wandered far enough from her sisters, and then he ran to her, covering her mouth so she could not scream. He carried her off quickly, moving this way and that to be sure he was not followed. The young woman kicked at him and bit his hand, but he was much bigger, and he easily controlled her.”
Disapproval seeps around me from the Sisters, but it’s too late to stop. My words come faster.
“On the edge of the thick forest, far from where he found her, the hunter finally set the young woman down. ‘You will stay with me now,’ he said. ‘Go and fetch us wood for our fire while I hunt for our dinner.’
‘If I leave,’ the girl said defiantly, ‘you will never see me again.’
‘Then I will go, too,’ he said. ‘Because you are mine now, mine alone, and I will not let you leave me.’ The hunter gripped her arm, forcing her to bend and pick up the wood.”
A few Sisters shout out in anger. I speak louder to recapture their attention.
“The young woman was enraged, but she did as the hunter asked. She stopped beside a towering tree to collect kindling that had fallen around it. As she crouched, she wrapped one arm around the trunk and waited. And the tree began to grow. It rose higher and higher, shooting up into the sky, pulling the young woman out of the hunter’s grasp. With a cry, he leapt on to the trunk below her, so that it brought him into the sky, too. When the young woman reached the clouds, her sisters were there, calling to her. Just in time, she scrambled into the clouds to join them.
“The hunter raised his fist,” —I raise mine, too— “calling to her to come back to him. The young woman laughed at that, and she leaned over to give the tree a great shake.” I shake an imaginary tree.
“The man lost his grip and fell. He fell so far and so fast that none heard him hit the ground. The seven sisters stayed in the sky, where they remain to this day."
I pause.
"You can see them at night. They are called the Pleiades, and the hunter is known as Orion. Some say he follows the sisters still.”
I shift from foot to foot and braid my fingers together, waiting for the Sisters’ reaction. It's too quiet.
Then, mugs pound on the table amid appreciative voices. I wipe my brow dramatically, drawing laughter from the room, and say my own silent thanks to Peree and Kadee.
“An entertaining tale indeed,” Alev says. “Very good.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“We know of the Pleiades.” This is Golnar; her voice also comes from near where I heard Adar and Alev. She sounds less impressed. “There are only six stars among them.”
“Ah.” Slyness creeps into my voice. “Well, I’ve heard the young woman sometimes sneaks off to find the handsome Orion.” I pause. “Only to give him a good kick, of course.”
The Sisters laugh again.
“Well done,” a woman says from the audience. “Perhaps you can tell us another tomorrow night?”
I beam. “I’d be happy to.”
I’d be happy to do anything to gain the Sisters’ confidence and get them to let their guard down—anything that might help us when it’s time to escape.
Chapter Twenty
Grimma wakes us early the next morning, her voice a sudden explosion in the room. I practically fall out of bed, struggling to remember where I am. The uncommonly comfortable shift I wore to sleep reminds me.
The Cloister. The Fire Sisters. Training. My spirits slip.
We dress and eat a simple breakfast of bread with a tart fruit spread. The hunk of roast I ate last night still rumbles in my stomach, so I take only a few bites before Grimma leads us outside.
Acrid smoke from the Eternal Flames irritates my nose, throat, and eyes as always, but the morning air manages to feel fresh and crisp, as if droplets of ice are suspended in it. A fine, salty-tasting mist covers my face. As my fingers and nose slowly freeze, I’m glad for the warm leggings and stout boots.
We pass the growing hum of the waking wasps, head down the hill to the forested area, past the soapy-smelling laundry, and up to the training grounds. I feel in front of me as we come to a stop and find slats of wood running about waist high, a fence that I’d guess demarcates the area.
It sounds like every last Sister is already hard at work—a myriad of cracks, grunts, and shouts of simulated combat ring out before us. I’m awed by the sounds of their controlled violence. My people trained with knives, spears, and bows at home so we could protect ourselves from the Lofties and the Scourge, but it never sounded as focused and intense as this. Butterflies pirouette in my stomach. Even Bear’s expert advice and attention couldn’t make me into a fighter. Grimma will soon find out exactly ho
w hopeless I am.
“Come. I’ll take you through the warm-up exercises.” She leads us in.
The training grounds feel like flat, hard-packed dirt, and seemingly clear of any obstacles… except my own two feet.
Grimma has us stretch, and then gives each of us a smooth staff. We perform simple movements with it first, which isn’t so bad if I concentrate on exactly what she tells us to do. She walks among us, giving pointers. She visits me often.
Next, she runs us through a series of rudimentary exercises with a partner. Grimma describes the movements in detail, even standing behind me and moving my arms so I can feel what I’m to do. If she had put me with Amarina, I might have been okay. But she partners me with Kai.
I’m hesitant at first, worried I’ll hurt her. She snickers at my paltry efforts. So I try harder… and clobber her by mistake. After a few rounds of either outright misses or unintentional hits that cause Kai to shout in pain, I throw my staff to the ground with a frustrated cry.
Grimma thrusts it back in my hand. “Again. I will be your partner. I’ve been struck before by stronger than the likes of you. You won’t hurt me.” She pauses. “Amarina, partner with Kaiya. Frost, you rest. Now—Fennel.”
She makes me repeat the sequences over and over with few breaks. It’s not long before I’m breathless, quivering with exertion, and covered in bruises. And, I have to admit, better. Our trainer is a taskmaster, but she’s patient and clear in her instructions. True to her word, she doesn’t seem to mind my misplaced blows. And after a while, I can string together three or four moves against Kai before she knocks the staff out of my hands or hits me hard enough that I drop it. I even disarm her, once, fair and square.
“Good work,” Grimma finally says, thumping me on the back. “Have a break and some water. There are buckets along the fence. We’ll go next with spears.”
My mouth opens, ready to protest. There’s no doubt I’ll kill someone if she makes me use a spear.
“Without heads,” she adds.
