The Hidden Queen

by Alma Alexander

  Already ai’Jihaar had spoken to Anghara of these age-old feuds and squabbles between the Kheldrin clans—and new ones were springing up almost every day. Anghara had just set the Hariff against the Sayyed—subtly enough, with no more than a few words spoken in the spirit of the occasion—and for a moment she felt a pang of uncertainty. Was she doing the right thing, involving herself as directly as this? Sen’en’thari were traditionally neutral, clanless, although in practice it was hardly ever thus—but in practice none of them could help being of the clan in which they had been born. As a solitary stranger, Anghara had been more exposed than she would have wanted, despite ai’Jihaar’s standing—but now she had become a part of an extended “family” which would be expected to rally behind its newest member, despite her strangeness, at the first sign of any slight or attack. And there could be any number of those, simply because of that strangeness. A whole new hornet’s nest of trouble could be stirred up. But it was done, and al’Tamar at least thought it was a good idea. For now, that would have to do.

  The Confirmation was now imminent, and Anghara hurried back to the sen’thar tower to look for ai’Jihaar—it was custom for the confirmation candidates to enter the temple and, later, the Great Hall together with the senior sen’thar who had raised them to their new status. She found ai’Jihaar waiting patiently in Anghara’s own room. Once again ai’Jihaar did not ask where Anghara had been; she seemed, with that unnerving facility of hers, to already know exactly what had passed. All except for the dream itself. This Anghara related to her as ai’Jihaar helped her prepare herself—taming her unruly hair, finding the correct sandals—and ai’Jihaar listened in silence, merely nodding at the end.

  “You did the right thing,” was all she said, and it was no longer delivered as teacher to pupil, but rather as one an’sen’thar, albeit a senior one, to a younger colleague. She no longer gave lessons, only advice. From today, from the moment al’Jezraal repeated in the hearing of his people the words he had first uttered in the silence of a desert hai’r, Anghara would become, for all of her inexperience and youth, ai’Jihaar’s fully fledged equal.

  But before the hall, before al’Jezraal and the people, there would be the temple, there would be the gathered sen’en’thari…and their Gods. And there would be ai’Farra.

  Running delicate fingers over Anghara’s face and hair as a final check, ai’Jihaar reached to pull the golden cowl over the younger girl’s head.

  “You are ready,” she pronounced. “Come, child of my heart. There are four who serve for the first time today—two whites and a gray of ai’Farra’s, and you. Come; they will be waiting at the temple. It is time.”

  The temple was a great ziggurat in the center of Al’haria, its stone a shade redder than the rest of the city, as though in acknowledgment of all the blood that had been spilled here before Kheldrin’s Gods. It had been built to house thousands with ease; the few sen’en’thari who now walked its corridors could, if they had wanted, stake their claims to entire suites of rooms—and they could have done so even had every single sen’thar in Kheldrin been living here. But they weren’t—this was the largest sen’thar tower in the land, but still it held less than half the professed sen’en’thari—just under a hundred whites, a handful of grays, two (now three, if one counted Anghara) golds.

  All of these were gathered on the flat, open roof of the ziggurat that morning, waiting for the Confirmation Service. There was room enough for half the city to be present as well, and frequently the people did attend, especially if they had a special interest in the offered sacrifices. But those were ordinary services. This one was one of confirmation, new hands taking up the burdens of ministry and sacrifice, new minds offered to the Gods. This service was between the Gods and their initiates; some mysteries were not for profane eyes.

  Two white-robed girls and the one clad in gray, who were all being accepted into their respective circles, waited with ai’Farra on the broad landing at the top of the staircase. A stone doorway opened onto the roof; quick glimpses of the hushed, monochromatic gathering of cowled figures dressed in white and gray could be seen on the pyramid top, which was paved in huge slabs of pale stone. But ai’Farra’s back was to the doorway, and her eyes, hot and brooding, watched as ai’Jihaar and Anghara ascended the last few steps to join the Keeper of Records and her clutch of new initiates upon the landing.

  When ai’Farra opened her mouth to speak, ai’Jihaar lifted a hand.

  “The sun moves, ai’Farra. Let us begin.”

  Biting back whatever it was she had been about to say, ai’Farra flicked her eyes over Anghara like a lash—her features melted into what might have been a smile, but it was not a pleasant smile. It was as though she was anticipating something dreadful, and glorying in it.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let us begin.”

  They walked out together, side by side, the two women of Kheldrin robed in gold. Behind them, cowled and muffled, came their candidates for this Confirmation Service. Around them was silence; the roof was not walled or fenced in any way, and beyond the ranks of the assembled sen’en’thari it simply dropped away into a chasm at whose foot lay the city. The early morning sun poured across the rooftop, except where a carved altar-stone stood in the shadow of a small squat structure, a windowless cube about the height of a man. As the only human-sized thing in this entire building, it looked small and insignificant. It was as if its entire purpose was devoted to reminding the worshippers just how they compared to the Gods they had come to venerate. There was a door in this building, facing the altar; a gray-robed sen’thar stood beside it, belted with a massive silver girdle bearing a long stabbing dagger with a dull black handle, a large key in her hand.

  Anghara had been drilled in the ceremonial procedures. Together with the other three candidates, still cowled, still silent, she moved away to the right of the altar while the two an’sen’en’thari went up to the carved plinth, bowed and touched their foreheads to the red stone.

  “We bring you life, al’Zaan, Sa’id-ma’sihai; al’Khur; ai’Lan; ai’Dhya. We bring you life,” said ai’Farra, her voice ringing with authority as the lady of this tower.

  She and ai’Jihaar both unsheathed the thin daggers they wore about their waist, the same which Anghara had once seen ai’Jihaar use to draw her own blood in absence of other sacrifice, and laid them upon the altar. Then ai’Farra nodded to the doorkeeper, and the gray unlocked the door of the stone cube and plunged into the shadowed darkness inside, to emerge almost immediately with a white ki’thar lamb. Its legs were hobbled about the knees; it let out one pitiful bleat as it was carried out, a pathetic parody of the endless complaining grunts its elders never ceased uttering, and was then miraculously silent as it was lifted and laid on its side upon the altar. The gray sen’thar took her black-handled knife and offered it to ai’Farra, hilt first. The an’sen’thar took it, and lifted it so that its wickedly sharp edge glinted in the sun.

  “We call your eyes down upon us, your blessing upon our works; we bring you life!”

  Anghara made herself watch as the knife plunged downward, a clean slash across the lamb’s jugular; only now did she notice the blood pooling into a shallow bowl scooped into the one end of the altar. The god-presence, the same one she once felt in a desert hai’r was back, surrounding her, as though all the Kheldrin Gods were reaching for her soul—and yet her eyes were full of unbidden tears.

  There was a God’s hand in these sacrifices, because no matter how the blood leapt from the cut the sacrificing priestess remained pristine, with not a mark on her. Once again ai’Farra nodded to the gray, and she came to the altar bearing a scarlet silk shroud which she cast over the lamb. Wrapping it around the small corpse she lifted it very gently, as if it were a sleeping child, and, bowing to both priestesses, bore it away, back into the cube.

  The two young white circle initiates now stepped forward, with their own invocations—an oath to their Gods, and the gray sen’thar, the cube guardian, produced two y
oung chicks whose blood was to seal it. One of the young priestesses performed the feat flawlessly, as ai’Farra had done, effortlessly avoiding the spurting blood; the other, who from her size and build was really little more than a child, was not so lucky. When her dagger was withdrawn, it was seen that the edge of her sleeve was bespattered with three scarlet drops. A swift sigh like a sudden wind ran along the silent ranks of the assembled sen’en’thari.

  Her face set in an expression that was both sorrow and cold anger at once, ai’Farra stepped forward and took the dagger; from the hunch of the young one’s shoulders, it looked as though she was crying quietly.

  “You are not yet ready,” ai’Farra said. “Return to the novice chambers. You will not serve the Gods again until you are a year older than this day.”

  The girl withdrew through the stone doorway; gathering what scraps of dignity she could, she walked while in the sight of her sisters, but Anghara could hear the swift patter of her feet as she broke into a run as soon as she stepped onto the landing. The disaster was swift, the tragedy ruthless, and Anghara was left breathless. The other white, now proved into her circle, stood with her mouth open and her fingers clenched tightly around her dagger. Gently ai’Farra pried her hand open and removed her sacrificial blade, leaning forward to give her a ceremonial kiss on the brow.

  “Welcome, sister,” she said. “Go, take your place.”

  The white gathered her wits, and, bowing, withdrew into the waiting ranks which opened to receive her.

  The gray now stepped forward, with her own oath, and was presented with her sacrificial beast by her sister at the cube door. Anghara could sense her aura—blue and cold, effortless, ruthless. No blood touched this one. The sacrifice was perfect, and yet…Anghara felt the Gods turning from this servant just consecrated to them. She had power, unleavened by pity. She was proud, but she would never gain the gold. The Gods would not let her.

  And then it was her turn.

  It was ai’Jihaar who called her up to the altar, her teacher and guide.

  Courage, child, she said beneath the ritual words. Remember, you have healed, you have raised from the dead…

  But not killed, Anghara returned as she stepped up to the bloody altar. Not willingly. Not willingly, ever. Not for death, ai’Jihaar, remember? Not for death.

  Suddenly ai’Jihaar woke to an odd note of determination in Anghara’s voice. Bow to tradition, at least here! Anghara, what are you thinking?

  The animal keeper had made her foray into the animal house, and emerged with a bird. Its back and wings were burnished gold, its breast soft white, its feet coral like the Kadun sand. Silkseeker. One of the most precious living things in Kheldrin, leading men to lairs where wild jin’aaz spiders endlessly spun their soft, strong silk. Wild silkseekers had long, thin beaks with which they dug the spiders’ silk-cocooned larvae from their lairs; tame birds had their beaks docked, so they could find the spiders but not reach them to feed. Tame ones were sometimes offered to the temple, usually when they were wounded, crippled or old. But the one which was handed to Anghara had the terrified eyes and the long beak of a wild silkseeker. This was no sacrificial animal.

  Anghara heard ai’Jihaar, who suddenly seemed to have picked up the threads of some malevolent plan from ai’Farra’s mind, draw in her breath sharply; looking up, she saw the tense, expectant expression on ai’Farra’s face. Her own jaw set.

  Holding the bird very gently, Anghara lifted her arm and bared it to her elbow; with her free hand she picked up ai’Jihaar’s own slim sacrificial dagger.

  “This is not the Gods’ blood,” she said, her voice low but carrying. “This is captive sacrifice. I give blood to the Gods, but if they wish to take this bird it is for them to call its hour, not I.”

  With a swift, sure motion she drew the dagger up along her forearm from the elbow toward the wrist in a long, shallow cut. The blood welled out even as she opened her hand and threw the bird up into the hot, high sky. The assembled sen’en’thari gasped, and then the sound rose into a murmur, into a cry. Above their heads the small bird had vanished into the blue but high above it, where nothing had been a moment before, they could suddenly see the massive open wings of a circling desert vulture, and the God-presence thickened around them on the roof. One white sen’thar—Anghara thought it might be the one newly initiated that morning—collapsed into a dead faint at her sisters’ feet; ai’Farra’s face was cold and set.

  The door-warder gray came hurrying up with another scarlet cloth, and Anghara took it and laid it on her arm. When she took it away, there was no sign of a scratch or a scar on the white skin; there was no blood on her golden robe.

  While ai’Jihaar could not see these things, she felt the power Anghara had drawn down.

  “The sacrifice has been accepted,” she said, stepping around the altar to Anghara, who suddenly felt drained, weak. With her own hands ai’Jihaar bound a narrow scabbard on Anghara’s belt, and slid her own dagger into it.

  But this is…

  Mine no longer. Do you think I could have done with it what you did? “Welcome, sister,” she said. “Come, take your place.”

  In stony silence ai’Farra came to stand on her other side—a new gold had been called to serve. But her face was closed.

  “She broke tradition, ai’Jihaar,” was all ai’Farra said as the three of them walked from that place side by side.

  But ai’Jihaar did not even turn her head, and her voice, if anything, was even more implacable than ai’Farra’s own. “And you set a trap in a holy ceremony, ai’Farra; you mocked the Gods themselves today. She broke tradition?” ai’Jihaar paused, a pause which lasted less than a heartbeat and an eternity all at once. “So did you, my sister. So did you.”

  21

  Clearly ai’Jihaar had been right in her prediction of the night before—the Great Hall of Al’haria was packed to the rafters as Anghara entered. Perhaps for the last time she walked at ai’Jihaar’s heels, much as ai’Farra’s new gray and the surviving white trailed their own an’sen’thar sponsor into the hall. The cowl of her robe was still raised over her hair.

  Al’haria was a city of scholars, where the Records were kept, where the biggest sen’thar tower and the oldest temple were. It was also a city of artisans and craftsmen, a center for the production of artifacts and jewellery, both secular and sacred, from sea-amber gathered on Kadun Khajir’i’id’s coastline and silver from the northern mines. It was easy to tell the two castes apart in the Great Hall that morning, even closing one’s eyes. The bulk of the sen’en’thari, fresh from the roof of the temple, had come into the hall well in advance of their two an’sen’en’thari to take up their positions in the sen’thar galleries. They fixed their attention as one on the slight girl who walked behind an’sen’thar ai’Jihaar, making Anghara the center of a widening circle of spreading silence. The rest, those Al’hariani who came here to work with their hands, had their attention fixed on much the same spot, but for different reasons. From the stories that had filtered down to them, they knew a different Anghara to the one the sen’en’thari had just seen in the Confirmation Service; they gazed and murmured to their neighbors behind concealing hands, leaving a wash of whispering which lapped at the edges of the pool of sen’thar silence.

  There were others there, too, not of the city—nomads who lived in tents in the desert hai’r’en tending their livestock, hardly ever venturing into the cities. Unused to these gatherings, they alternated between awed silence at their surroundings, the red stone pillars of the Great Hall so very different from their tents, and being the loudest of all, excited by the atmosphere, the crowd, the occasion. It was these people who, by means that were almost magical, obtained news of everything that went on in the desert—it was as though they could listen to the sand, and hear conversations taking place a thousand miles away. They were the ones who had picked up and blazed Anghara’s story across Kheldrin; it was the nomads to whom ai’Jihaar had been referring when she told Anghara her name was “
known in the desert.” They knew of her, and what she was supposed to have done, and in their hands the story had already gained momentum—Anghara was already larger than life in many a campfire tale. They believed every word, utterly; to them, the Gods were real beings who walked the land, and the desert tribes were ready to fall at the feet of one who was said to have spoken with one, demanded something, and won it. If anyone had roused to speak against Anghara in that hour, they would quite possibly have revolted—and, by the set face of ai’Farra as she walked beside ai’Jihaar, she was aware of it.

  Except for the fact that Anghara had not envisaged so many of the colorfully clad nomads, the scene was not entirely unexpected—ai’Jihaar had described many times, in great detail, what this morning would be like. She looked for the confirmation seat, a long stone bench apart from the galleries set aside for the sen’en’thari; ai’Jihaar and ai’Farra walked up to it, leading their three new initiates, leaving them seated there as the two older women turned away smoothly to make their way toward the galleries and their own seats.

  For you, this is a formality, ai’Jihaar’s caressing thought lingered. Especially now. Especially after the temple.

  As though the arrival of the confirmation candidates had been the signal for the ceremonies to begin, a conch shell was blown invisibly somewhere above them, followed by the deeper, brassier note of a ram’s horn. There was a rustle of silk and homespun as the assembled people rose to their feet. Even the chattering craftsmen had fallen silent, and into this silence, resplendent and almost unrecognizable as the man who had sat across from Anghara at a desert campfire, walked al’Jezraal, Lord of Al’haria. He wore scarlet, robes of jin’aaz silk under a flowing cloak, his pale gold hair held back with a wide circlet of beaten silver set with a yellow stone at his brow. The belt around his waist, which occasionally gleamed free through the scarlet billows, and the handle of the dagger it held, looked as though they had been wrought from solid gold.