by David Hair
She placed the bowl of water beside the bed into her lap and stared into it, pale light kindling inside it as she sought to scry Olfuss or Solinde. But there was nothing. She replaced the bowl, then hugged her arms about herself and let her grief pour out.
Afterward, she went to the infirmary. Lorenzo was lying there alone. The whole left side of his body was seared red, even his left eye bandaged over, but his right fixed on her as she entered. ‘Ella,’ he croaked.
‘Lori. Did they give you something for the pain?’
He winced. ‘Some. More would be good,’ he admitted unwillingly.
She looked around her but the physicians were busy elsewhere, so she gently removed the bandages and tended him herself with gnosis-healing; performed in a semi-trance. She let her senses enter the wound and cleanse it, dulling his pain and kindling healing energies: a long gentle outpouring of gnostic balm, and as exhausting as any battle-spell. It took some time, and throughout it all, his handsome-sad face watched her, his big eye soft. Finally she peeled back the covering over his face.
‘How bad is it?’ he whispered. ‘Will it scare the girls away?’
‘No more than usual,’ she told him, forcing a smile. ‘You half-turned at the last instant. Give it a few months and no one will even know.’
‘How did you do that? That mirror-trick?’
‘Easy: I projected my reflection out from the mirror into the room and let it draw his fire while I came up behind him.’
‘A miracle.’
‘No, just gnosis. He was a thaumaturge, not good at spotting illusions.’ She shrugged, not really wanting to talk about it.
‘Do your powers really come from your god?’ he asked, his eyes serious.
She shook her head. ‘No. They come from me.’
He lifted his hands to her face, grasped her chin and pulled her mouth down onto his. She could have pulled away, but she didn’t. His mouth was sweet and tangy, his lips both firm and gentle as they moved on hers. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment for a second, and then gently eased away. ‘Then you are an angel.’ He smiled in beatific triumph, the first of the knights to steal a kiss from the witch, and she scowled, regretting the moment already. Then his face clouded. ‘Why did he do it, Ella? Was he acting alone? Or was he under orders?’
Elena shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she lied, ‘not yet – I’m trying to find out.’ He nodded doubtfully and she stood slowly. It was harder than she had thought, to tear herself away. For just an instant, his warm strong arms had felt like a haven, a refuge from the storm that pressed about her. No. I can’t afford this weakness …
‘Get some sleep, Lori.’ She backed out of the room.
*
Cera and Timori sat at the great table, Timori on a cushion. Elena stood behind Cera, her right hand on her sword-hilt. Her lower legs no longer hurt, but they were scarred. She felt haggard and tired and wracked with guilt. The reverence with which they were treating her was just making the guilt worse.
Harshal ali-Assam and Paolo Castellini were there with a dozen others of both races, local nobles and bureaucrats, holy men and chief citizens. She knew most, though not well. She could see Cera trembling slightly, afraid but determined. She was her father’s daughter; he would be proud to see her today. If he were alive. Who knows, maybe he is? But I doubt that very much
A young Amteh scriptualist spoke a blessing, followed by a bushy-bearded Sollan drui, then they prayed together for strength and fortitude, asking for God’s peace on the fallen and his blessing on the prince and princess. Elena looked at Cera and smiled encouragement. They had laid their plans that morning, then cornered a few of the key men, the opinion leaders, and explained how things would be. The men had all assumed that Cera would step aside and let them deal with the situation, but to Elena’s surprise they had readily agreed to Cera taking this stronger role. It was as if they needed someone to plant a banner they could rally to. ‘You were the men Olfuss Nesti, my father, trusted above all,’ Cera had told them, ‘so trust me. I am my father’s daughter.’ Elena had expected more resistance, but perhaps her presence intimidated them.
Cera addressed the meeting as if she had been doing so all her life: ‘My lords, we are gathered here to convene an Emergency Council. I have sent riders to Brochena to ascertain the situation there, but we can expect no word for some time. My champion Elena has used her skills too, but she has been unable to determine whether my father the king is alive. Or my younger sister.’
Several mouths burst open with questions, but she raised a hand to forestall them. How like a queen she already looks, Elena thought. How proud Olfuss would be.
‘I pray the attack here was an isolated act,’ Cera went on, ‘but I fear that will not be the case. There is strong reason to believe this act was planned for some time, to overthrow Nesti rule and precipitate a coup. I also surmise that this blow has been struck in direct response to my father’s decision about the shihad. For now, my hope is that we will soon have word of my father’s safety, but in my heart I fear we are alone here, and that we are already at war.’
9
Enriched
Religion: Omali
And herein is a mystery: that there is but one God and many Gods; but all Gods are Aum and Aum is the sum of all.
THE SAMADHI-SUTRA (THREAD OF ENLIGHTENMENT),
HOLY BOOK OF THE OMALI
Aruna Nagar, Baranasi, Northern Lakh,
on the continent of Antiopia
Shawwal 1381 (Octen 927 in Yuros)
9 months until the Moontide
Despite the death and discord tearing at Ramita’s family, and Meiros showing no sign of fulfilling his traditional role in a Lakh wedding celebration, there was no way Ispal and Tanuva were going to send off their eldest living daughter without making the right offerings, observances and prayers. To do otherwise would be to invite the anger of the gods on a union that already held many risks. Guru Dev was summoned, together with Pandit Arun, a wispy priest looking like he was made of twigs and hair, to devise a plan for Ramita’s spiritual cleansing, for marrying a heathen required special propitiation. Vikash Nooridan ferried messages between Ramita’s betrothed and her family, conveying what would and wouldn’t be permitted. Fortunately the skilled negotiators of the Aruna Nagar marketplace were more than a match for the old ferang: the final outcome was not too much of a departure from tradition, though it would mean a lot of fasting and prayer.
Ramita remained shut in her room, mostly alone, as Huriya was tending her dying father. She fasted between sunrise and sunset like an Amteh in Holy Month, growing weak with hunger as she was given just curd and chapattis to eat before dawn and after dusk, to purify her body, they told her. Finally, she was summoned downstairs for the two wise men to reveal their plan for her wedding preparations: an array of tasks involving offerings to almost every Omali god in Paradise, as far as she could see.
The sanctifying of Ramita began in earnest a week before the ceremony. A bevy of neighbourhood women clad in bright saffron sarees and led by Mother’s best friend, Auntie Pashinta, arrived before dawn to take her to the ghats. They held a makeshift tent made of sheets about her for privacy, and she slipped out of her white shift and immersed herself naked in the cold winter waters of Imuna, repeating it six times: one for Baraman the Creator and the next for his wife Sarisa, goddess of learning and music. Another for Vishnarayan, the Protector, and one for his wife Laksimi, goddess of wealth. One for Sivraman, Lord of Destruction and Rebirth, and the last especially for his dutiful wife Parvasi, who must be her role model for the time ahead. Enter me, Holy Queen: make me a vessel for your patience and virtue. Infuse me with your obedience and loyalty. She prayed with a fervour that shocked her, as if something in all the fasting and fear and loneliness of the past few days had brought out some inner being she had never before been aware of. She wondered at this strange overwrought creature she had become, who prayed aloud so vehemently, her words taken up by the women about her. The crowds
faded from her consciousness as she was consumed with her quest for the courage to endure.
Once she had bathed, they walked along the banks of Imuna, she wrapped only in a sheet, calling aloud for protection from demons, asking for luck and blessings. The women echoed her cries and sang prayers to Aum, the all-God, as she stumbled barefoot through water and mud and rotting garbage and cow muck without even noticing until they reached the burning ghats. There Guru Dev and Pandit Arun were awaiting them, clad in saffron loincloths with their faces marked by white paste patterns, wardings against evil. The two holy men poured handfuls of ash over her wet hair and smeared it on her face, the ash from the wood of the pyres, and called upon Sivraman to protect ‘this benighted girl’. The women twisted her ashy hair into thick knots and rubbed ash over her breasts and belly with their hard callused fingers to aid her fertility. She fell to her knees and bombarded Aum with her prayers, shouted aloud, heedless of the spectacle she made. She felt empty and light-headed, more than a little insane. She shrieked away her fears, purged herself of doubt and sorrow, until she felt some kind of force flow through her, drawing her to her feet and setting her dancing to unheard music. She cared nothing about the filthy sheet that barely covered her, for there was a spirit inside her, moving her limbs. This was real, primal: she felt the eyes of the gods on her.
At last she fell into Pashinta’s waiting arms. The women gathered her in, their eyes wide, concerned. They feel it too, she thought.
When she had calmed down, Guru Dev touched a sacred tilak to her forehead. Pandit Arun declared her dancing an auspicious sign. Demons beware, this girl is strong, he told the gathering. She felt wild and untouchable. Tremble, Antonin Meiros!
The remaining days of the week were spent on a pilgrimage to Baranasi’s seventy-three temples, her entourage growing as other brides-to-be joined her for luck. She became a kind of celebrity, like one of the many crazy people that lived on the ghats – Baranasi drew such people. Pilgrims touched her dirty sheet to their foreheads: holy madness was powerful magic. The temple priests made approving noises, counting the crowds and asking for donations. Street-vendors hovered at the fringes, selling their wares.
At night she ate like a starved tiger and slept like one of the dead, then rose like a zombie the next morning, only finding clarity in the chilly bite of the river-water. She felt hollowed out, like a coconut that had been carved open and all the milk and flesh removed, waiting to be refilled with something stronger. This is strengthening me, I feel it. Kazim didn’t seem real any more.
When they took her home two days before the wedding, wet and shivering in the cooling air, her mother was there to welcome her. ‘Those old men have finished making you holy,’ Tanuva whispered. ‘Now we’re going to make you into a bride – starting with some food and water. Look at you! I can count your ribs!’ She was fed and sent her to bed, and while she slept, the house bustled with labour.
She rose early the next morning and joined in the work. There was so much to do. The courtyard had to be decorated, rangoli patterns of rice-powder dye painted onto the stone work. She helped Jai decorate the piris, the low stools the wedding couple would be seated upon. People came and went, dropping off food, spices and pots of dye. Everyone had a sympathetic word for her, but lost in the work and the bustle and the brittle gaiety, she felt a curious sense of unreality. It was only when she stopped to think that she felt the sting of tears. She would miss all these good people so much!
That morning, Ispal took Jai to bury Raz Makani. They returned with Huriya. Ispal brought the sobbing Keshi girl straight to her and bade her, ‘Give comfort to your sister Huriya.’
Huriya threw a shining glance at Ispal: he had named Huriya Ramita’s sister, offering Huriya a place in his house for ever – it was not unexpected, but it was confirmation of something she had prayed for. ‘Sister,’ Ramita whispered in Huriya’s ear as the girl sobbed in her arms.
Huriya squeezed her shoulders. ‘Take me with you, to the north,’ she whispered.
Ramita’s throat tightened. She had so wanted to ask, but to drag Huriya to such a terrible place as Hebusalim was selfish and cruel. But now the offer was made, and she could not refuse it. ‘Of course! I was afraid to ask.’ They cried together while the entire household bustled around them.
They turned the cramped kitchen into a mandap, where the actual vows would be spoken. They dug and rebuilt the cooking pit into a place suitable for the wedding ritual. The strange weight of expectation flowing through all this work, unlike any other wedding she had been part of – and those were many, weddings being the chief entertainment around here. She had not been told the amount, but she knew lots of money was changing hands. The family would be transformed. The community was rallying about, but in her lowest moments she imagined this was only because of the gold – then she chastised herself. The people of Aruna Nagar always pitched in for weddings, or when someone needed help; they were here because they were all one family, first and foremost.
Jai took the cart of gifts for the groom, donated by the friends of the bride. Mostly these were food, primarily fish, which were auspicious for fertility. Ramita was trying not to think too hard about all this fertility symbolism, but it kept intruding, and the thought made her queasy. Nonetheless, she had to bless the cart as it left. The joke was that the fish of Imuna were so bony, weddings that did not have divine favour would be prevented by the groom choking on fishbones. It had been known to happen.
The cart returned at midday with Jai sitting by the driver and his friends perched all over it. The immense Rondian, Jos Klein, and three of his soldiers led the way. All had suspicious faces. The cart’s contents were covered by a dirty brown canvas. Faces appeared at every window and peered over the fences as they guided it into the courtyard. Jai and his friends took the gifts from her betrothed upstairs, to be opened on the morning of the wedding, then he sat down to sip chai, surrounded by the family, and told them, laughing, how the ferang lord had greeted the cart of food and river-fish. ‘Most puzzled he was! Vikash had to explain them all. Really, how do they get married where he comes from?’
Though she had dozens of girls about her, sisters and cousins and friends, Ramita’s final meal as a maiden was marred by the mystery of the groom’s identity. They were unsure whether to celebrate or commiserate with Ramita, and the evening, which should have been a joyous occasion, was awkward. She felt as if she’d already left them.
Late after the feast, Ispal knocked softly on Ramita’s door. She and Huriya were awake, sitting with arms about each other staring out of the open window at the huge face of the moon, three- quarters full, which filled the northeastern sky. Its face was gouged, its light harsh. Ispal sat on the end of Ramita’s bed. ‘I want to tell you both something,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘It is about what I saw in the north – about my friend Raz Makani, and how we met.’
You’ve told us a hundred times, Father, Ramita thought, but she nodded mutely.
Ispal gazed at the moon, then closed his eyes. His voice was uncertain at first, but as he spoke it took on the resonance of a scholar reciting an epic. ‘Daughters, I have told you before of my journey north, twenty-three years ago. I decided to join the throng of merchants who went every twelve years to trade with the Rondians in Hebusalim. I had a wagonload of Baranasi silks, purchased with all of my savings. The trip north took months, and was a tale all of its own. Eventually though, I reached Hebusalim. The city was full, so I camped outside the walls. Everyone was excited, toasting the Bridge Builders. We dreamt aloud of the fortunes we would make from these foolish white people with purses full of gold.
‘It was a chancy time, though. Not all Keshi welcomed the ferang, and there had been trouble already, with both sides guilty, so there were many soldiers. A squad of Keshi was camped near to my site: white-robed Keshi from Istabad with braided beards and hair. They had drink and girls, and discipline was lax. I kept having to shoo them from my wagon – they wanted to use it to bed their women.’ He s
hook his head. ‘One of them was Raz. He would apologise when he was done and drop me a coin, then leave me to wash the top layer yet again. Dirty prick!’
Huriya pulled her head from Ramita’s shoulder and they exchanged glances. Ispal had never told the tale like this before.
‘Ah, my friend Raz … he was full of life, and a demon with his scimitar. We used to watch the men sparring, and he was the best. He had powerful shoulders, and his belly was taut and muscular, his thighs solid and toned. He could take them on two or three at a time and still win. We would watch and place wagers, and I always bet on him.’ He sighed. ‘His woman Falima had hair to her waist and eyes like full moons. She was the most beautiful of the camp-women, and everyone understood that she belonged to Raz alone.’ He looked at Huriya. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this about your mother, but this is a night for truth. Falima was a girl they picked up on the march, not the daughter of a merchant as you’ve been told. These are facts, but they need not leave this room.’
Huriya nodded tensely.
‘We had such dreams of the wealth to be made fleecing the ferang traders, and we waited for them with bated breath – but instead, the Emperor of Rondelmar unleashed his legions. All that month, while we were gathering in Hebusalim, he had been marching his men along the Great Bridge. They say Antonin Meiros could have stopped them, but he did not. The emperor secured the complicity of the Ordo Costruo. Meiros let that army through, and the world was plunged into war.’
Ispal paused and took Ramita’s hand. ‘That is the man you are to marry, Ramita: the man who opened his Great Bridge to the legions. Some say he had no choice, but most revile him for that.’
She said nothing. This was legend, not something real people did. Huriya’s eye’s were wide. Ispal caught her chin in a firm grip. ‘Yes, Huriya-daughter: Ramita is to marry Antonin Meiros, and you must carry this secret. Do you swear?’
