by L M R Clarke
The queen looked to Bomsoi, who stepped forward.
“I need to resurrect your son,” Bomsoi said. “The gods have commanded it. He shouldn’t be dead.”
Phen’s eyes bulged. “What?”
Valentia ignored her and continued. Her serpent wound slowly around her neck. “We cannot permit Bandim to continue on the throne. His father is barely dead, and he’s already cutting a path to us through forest and flesh. The sovereignty of the Queendom of Althemer will not bow to Bandim Tiboli, or to any other Masvam. If we help return Mantos to life and to the throne, he will owe us a great debt. He will stop the destruction and leave us in peace.”
Ears ringing, Phen gripped the edge of the table.
“But what are you going to do with me?” she asked again. “Why did you bring me here, along with my son’s body?”
Bomsoi clasped her talons behind her back. All eyes were on Phen, though only Fonbir’s and Bomsoi’s were friendly.
“This isn’t the first time Mantos has died, is it?” Bomsoi asked.
The question cut at Phen’s throat, and her mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”
“It’s common knowledge,” Fylica said. Her look of disgust made Phen recoil. “The empress meddled with evil magic, and it cost her life.”
“It wasn’t evil,” Phen said, her voice wavering. “There was a novice, in the temple of Nunako. It wasn’t magic, it was prayer. It was the will of the goddess. She...she said she could save Mantos—and she did. Yes, at the cost of my life, for she used my thread to bring back Mantos’ own. But it wasn’t evil magic.” With each word, her tone grew more desperate. She looked to Bomsoi, the stranger in purple and blue. “Was it?”
Bomsoi nodded, a slow and deliberate movement. “It was magic,” she said. “It was an evil power.”
Phen buried her face in her talons, trying to suppress her sobs. Of course it was magic. It couldn’t have been anything else, and deep down, she’d always known it. But magic was wrong. Magic was evil. Dabbling in it damned you to eternal punishment. It meant you were tainted, far from the loving embrace of Nunako and her Light.
“What have I done?” she asked.
Queen Valentia’s voice rang through the torch-lit chamber.
“You have sinned,” she said, “but Ethay and Apago teach us that sin can be forgiven. An evil deed can be outweighed by a good deed.” She gestured to Bomsoi. Her serpent followed her point. “The Stranger walks among us so we can all atone for our sins. If you submit to her, you will be forgiven—by the gods, at least.”
Phen looked up again. Valentia’s eyes were cold and unyielding. But Bomsoi’s were bright, shining with a vehemence that gave her a sliver of hope.
“I can save Mantos,” Bomsoi said, “and I may be able to save Bandim. For the sake of all you believe in, and all those you love, allow me to do what must be done.”
The world weighed on Phen’s shoulders. The maw of the afterlife opened before her. Phen’s throat tightened. What should she do? What could she do? If she didn’t do as the Althemerians asked, they’d kill her. Even if she did what they wanted, what would they do with her afterward? Once she’d been used, in whatever way, to bring Mantos back to life, what further use would she be? Phen had hung between life and death for so long that she knew nothing of the Masvam way. Once upon a moon, she would have known all Braslen’s strategies. He told her everything in the confines of their chamber, his head in her lap, speaking of his hopes and dreams and victories.
She had no such knowledge now. Any of her intelligence was twenty cycles out of date, belonging to the wrong emperor. Why bother to keep a secret when it was no longer needed? They could do away with her in silence, a quick slit of the throat in the darkness.
Memories of Mantos, dead as a youngling, then dead again on his funeral pyre, returned to her. What did it matter if she died? All that mattered was her sons and their lives. Resolve steeling, Phen looked from Bomsoi to the queen. She clasped her hands on her lap. She nodded.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Queen Valentia inclined her head, but she did not smile. She spoke to Bomsoi, but kept her eyes on Phen. “Tonight, Stranger?”
“Tonight, Your Highness,” Bomsoi replied.
Phen swallowed. She should have asked questions. What was tonight? What would she have to do? But her throat was dry, and the words wouldn’t come.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emmy
Shaking her head, Emmy huffed. “No, that’s wrong.”
Charo glanced up, bewildered. The ties of her mella, a Metakalan garment that wrapped around the waist and between the legs, hung like limp straw. She shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m doing!”
“That’s clear,” Emmy replied.
Laughing, Charo thrust the ties into Emmy’s claws. “You do it!”
Emmy gladly acquiesced.
Her chamber was a mess of colored fabric. Clothing was strewn over the bed frame and pooled on the floor, an eruption of memories from a dusty trunk. I haven’t seen most of this in cycles, Emmy thought. I’ve rarely had anything to celebrate.
But this Middlemerish festival was different. It meant something, and Emmy’s determination burned. I’ll make it special. I have to.
Charo wasn’t as impressed by the scenario. “I don’t like these,” she said, plucking at the mella. “They’re not a northern thing.”
Emmy tutted. “Does the north know anything?” she asked, mirth swirling in her eyes. “It sounds like a different world.”
“In a lot of ways, it was,” Charo replied.
Tying elaborate knots to secure the mella, Emmy chuckled. Mella twisted tightly around the waist and left the lower legs exposed, a deliberate design to showcase the intricate ribbons of Metakalan footwear.
“I’m surprised I can remember how to do this,” Emmy said as she worked, pulling the mella’s ties round and round, winding them in looping knots. Done, she picked a bulky package from the bed and pressed it into Charo’s hands. “Here. You’ll need these.”
Unwrapping the cloth, Charo’s jaw fell. “New shoes!” she said. “Just like yours!”
A warm wave of pleasure flowed through Emmy at her friend’s elation. Charo’s arrival had been unexpected, but now was not unwelcome. Since coming to the apothecary, Charo had taken the brunt of Krodge’s vitriol. To her, it meant nothing. To Emmy, it meant everything. To get through the day without the crone screeching in her ear, or hitting her, or belittling her... She ducked her head to hide her smile. It meant more than Charo could know.
Charo set the wooden sandals on the floor and stepped into them. “How do you wear the ribbons?” she asked, eying them warily.
“I’ll show you,” Emmy replied. Gathering the red ties, she arranged them in a graceful crisscross. Satisfied, she stood. “There. You’re done.”
Charo took in the outfit, wiggling her clawed toes. “It looks beautiful.”
Emmy fetched a polished plate and held it up, giving Charo a better look. “It looks beautiful on you.”
The younger female stepped forward, placing tentative claws on the shining brass. “Is that me?”
Emmy nodded. “It is. You look wonderful.”
Charo’s skin had gained a lustrous hue, and her fronds sprouted red and thick. The shine of her green armor made her scars fade away.
“I can’t believe that’s me,” Charo said. “Thank you.”
In the plate, her eyes found Emmy’s. Waving off the thanks, Emmy set it aside. “I’m not done,” she said, “so don’t thank me yet.”
Reaching for a smaller package, a smaller wrapping of soft cloth, Emmy smiled. “I hope you like it.”
Charo accepted the bundle, blinking. She waited, her talons poised.
“Open it,” Emmy said.
Needing no further encouragement, Charo undid the wrapping. The cloth unfurled like a soft flower, revealing the precious surprise inside.
“Oh my,” Charo breathed.
In her hands rested a he
address wrought of spun silver. Its loops and coils were strung with red and yellow stones, polished to a high sparkle. Charo looked up, struggling for words. “Emmy, this is... It’s...”
Saying nothing, Emmy placed the headdress on Charo’s horns, arranging the stones in a gentle flow. She stepped back, surveying her work with a wide smile.
“You can’t go out on Middlemerish without a headdress,” she said, “so there you are.”
She could have said more, but she didn’t. Instead, she slotted her own headdress over her horns, peering in the plate to arrange it.
“I’ve never worn this,” she said. “I bought it a few cycles ago, thinking I’d get the chance to go out once I’d gendered.” Her laugh was cold. “How wrong I was. But now I get to wear it at last.” She turned to Charo. “I’m glad.”
“I am, too,” Charo replied, her claws endlessly plucking at her clothes. “I always wanted to go to a celebration.”
“Today will be a good day,” Emmy declared. “It’ll make up for all those cycles of nothing.” Emmy raised an eyeridge and smirked. “Zecha wants to give you a wonderful first Middlemerish. He has a good heart, if not always a clear head.” Not to mention he’s grown quite fond of you. “Do you remember what to do when we arrive?”
Nodding fervently, Charo grinned. “Yes,” she said. “I have to give the traditional greeting. I remember it.”
“Good, good. Now let’s go,” Emmy said in a tone that brooked no argument. “We don’t want to be late.”
Not sparing Krodge a farewell, they strode into the intense sun.
The Central Circle, a long circular street on which the apothecary sat, was a hive, full of colorful revelry. Every patch of grass and cobble was covered. There were food and drink stalls, jugglers, bards, and even a few rolling stages, from which companies of travelling actors plied their trade.
Vaemar, huge feline creatures used as mounts or to pull carts, languished in the sunshine, suffering under their heavy coats. Krodge had owned a vaemar once upon a moon, but Emmy tried not to think about Zesi. His loss was still too painful, though he’d died and been burned cycles before. Apart from Zecha, he’d been her only friend. She’d spent many nights in the rear yard, curled into his long fur. A gentle thing, his dark eyes only ever looked at her with love.
Pushing away the thoughts to stop tears welling, Emmy shaded her eyes and glanced up at the clear blue sky. Now wasn’t the time to focus on loss, but was a time of celebration. She was determined it would be, for once, a good day.
Flocks of gargons flew overhead, leathery creatures that carried messages of celebration to and fro across the town, and from even further afield. They hooted out hoarse cries, the sound mingling with the cacophony of music and merrymaking.
However, all the noise and color and action of the Central Circle still wasn’t enough to camouflage the strangeness of Emmy and Charo. Passersby stopped to stare as they passed.
Emmy kept her chin up and her back straight, trying to let the words wash over her. Still, anxiety at being among the townsfolk gnawed in the pit of her stomach. She could feel their gazes biting into her. Their words were loud and cruel.
“It’s the Moon Rogue.”
“And she’s with that slave.”
“Filthy, the both of them.”
“They’re tainted for certain.”
Truthfully, Emmy would gladly have spent Middlemerish inside, as she always did, for this very reason. Folk were worse than cruel. But Charo had lit with excitement the moment Zecha suggested a celebration, and Emmy had no intention of taking that joy away from her.
As they strode forward, they passed through the sea of scowling faces. Charo glanced around, nervous, a little behind Emmy but close to her shoulder. Many of the looks were directed at her. Infamous enough in the town as the stranger who almost died, her status as a former slave turned nearly as many heads as Emmy did.
“Don’t worry about them,” Emmy muttered, even though worry flowed through her. “They’re not worth your notice.”
Charo nodded, but the fear on her face didn’t abate. For good reason, Emmy thought. A mob of revelers could turn violent at the click of a talon.
They passed the tree without attaching a prayer. Even so, Emmy found herself making a wish.
Please let us have a free life, she thought. Me, Charo, and Zecha. Let us be free.
It seemed a foolish thing, wishing when she knew it wouldn’t be granted. Regardless, she’d done it, and she supposed it couldn’t do any harm.
The walk to Zecha’s rented rooms was short and, thankfully, apart from stares and comments, uneventful. The house was a lopsided wooden structure that looked like it was held together by prayer alone. Zecha waited for them at the ramshackle gate, an easy smile on his face. Beside him was a smaller male, who Emmy recognized as Zecha’s landlord Mr. Charber. He looked at Zecha with indulgent eyes. Zecha beckoned them towards the house and gripped their forearms in turn. Charber did the same.
“Welcome, welcome!” Zecha said, as if the house was his own.
Emmy accepted their embraces. Charber was pleasant enough: had never insulted her, was quiet, and kept to himself, so his touch was tolerable.
There was a pause as they waited. Emmy tapped Charo’s shoulder.
“Oh, yes!” Charo said. She composed herself to recite the traditional greeting. “Thank you for inviting us to your home on this most joyous occasion.”
Emmy patted her arm. “Well done,” she whispered.
Zecha grinned all the wider. “The pleasure of your company makes this day great,” he replied.
His eyes lingered longer on Charo than on Emmy. It didn’t go unnoticed, and Charo grinned. Emmy watched the interplay, the flirtation as strange to her as the feel of the headdress on her horns. She didn’t understand physical attraction, and had no desire to puzzle it out.
With the formalities over, Charber ushered them to a long grassy area at the rear of the house, which was well-cultivated with vegetables and bustling with folk celebrating. The smell of roasting meat floated through the air long before they saw the fire pit in the middle of the yard. A thin male shimmered through the smoke, turning a glistening animal on a spit. With a splutter, Mr. Charber scuttled to him, lecturing about the appropriate speed for handle-turning. The male didn’t seem concerned.
Zecha led Emmy and Charo to an area away from the crackling fire. Several plump cushions were spread on the ground, nestling in the shade of a thick-trunked Daxo tree. Some folk sat there already, other tenants and neighbors. Though Emmy settled apart from them, a few still threw her filthy looks. Younglings of mixed ages stopped their game of chase to stare, slack-jawed, as the Moon Rogue sat among them. Emmy kept her gaze on her friends, trying her best to ignore their ignorance.
The smell of meat drifted on the warm breeze. Emmy wiped sweat from her brow. The Merish day was stifling, and the fire didn’t help. Even the meager shade from the Daxo tree did little to comfort them. Emmy watched as the cook labored in the heat, using a rusty hook to fish a large pot from a nook in the flames.
Glancing upwards, she peered through her claws at the blueness beyond the leaves. At the gargons as they passed, free as the wind. At the wisps of clouds floating slowly overhead. Emmy was often jealous of clouds and gargons and anything that had its autonomy. If only she could have the same. If only.
Zecha appeared with three cups of sweet wine, breaking her musing. “When was the last time you went to a Middlemerish Festival?” he asked Emmy as he passed them around. “You’ve never come to one of mine before.”
He fell onto a cushion, arranging his legs and tail underneath him.
“I don’t know if I ever went to one,” Emmy replied. She swirled the wine. Sunlight edged the ripples. “If I ever did, it was with Krodge when I was no older than a hatchling.” She drank. “Anyway, I didn’t much want to go to festivals, considering how folk treated me,” she added, casting a sidelong glance at the other guests. “I knew I’d be stared at more than
the actors and clowns.”
Zecha’s face puckered with anger and sorrow. “That’s the past,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He raised his cup to the small gathering. “To peace in our time, to friendship, and to keeping the Masvams at bay.”
The toast was meekly met, though Charo and Emmy joined in with pleasure.
A tinkling bell sounded, declaring the feast ready. Zecha was up and back with three servings before Emmy could blink. He gave each of them a thin wooden plate, heaped high with carved slices of meat, vegetables, bread, cheese—everything that made a feast great.
Zecha gladly explained this, and the traditions of Middlemerish and the moons, to Charo when she asked.
“At the beginning of everything, Nunako claimed the moons in the Arc of the Sky,” he said. His smile was one of pleasure, though Emmy suspected it had more to do with Charo’s proximity than the lore of the moons. “When they come together on the Lunar Awakening, Nunako, the Lady of Light, walks among us again, like she did so many cycles ago. Each of the moons has a different meaning,” he went on. “Dato is the yellow moon, which Nunako placed closest. The smallest and slowest, it reminds us that in times of trouble, you don’t need to be the largest or strongest to survive. You just need to be brave. Dato isn’t as swift in the sky as the others, but it never fails to rise and fall.
“Rafa, the Middlemoon,” he continued, “is the Heart. The heart is in the middle, because everything we do should come from love. It’s fast, because sometimes we act by our hearts without consulting our heads.
“So the last moon is fastest of all. Akata is behind the others because it’s the seat of wisdom, and it’s the fastest because we need to be reminded to use our heads. It encircles everything, as all actions should be taken not just with heart, but with knowledge.”
Good food and good drink flowed freely, and as the sun sank below the horizon, the little group turned their attention to the skies. Nunako’s three faces were upon one another, and it was time to spread the Light and welcome the Lady of Light back to the world.
As was tradition, Metakalans bought fireworks from the Belfoni for an elaborate Middlemerish display. The brighter the celebrations were, the happier the Goddess’ faces would be. The more they talked to one another, the stronger their power, and the more likely they would answer the folks’ prayers.
