by Tara Omar
“Don’t you get it?” squealed Catherine, tapping her pen on the desk. “It was dangerous not to believe the legend! As the Lady said, since the reign of Eli our records have been incomplete. If you did your history homework, you would know that Lady Imaan didn’t find Qoholeth’s memory until after the war, and she also didn’t believe the legend at first. Lady Imaan told people the Nephilim didn’t exist because they weren’t in the Sacred Memories, just as you are saying now with the Leviathan, and her bad guidance almost destroyed the humans. If she had not been wrong about the Nephilim’s existence, we may have been better prepared for a war, and half of Aeroth may not have died. I mean, her negligence was almost akin to murder. It—”
“That’s enough, Catherine,” said Liza.
Catherine’s cheeks flushed as pink as her veil. She stared into her notes as the others stared at her, both shocked and amazed at the model student’s brutal honesty.
“Exactly. She’s supposed to know better as the Divine Mediator, but she was wrong,” said Beatrice.
“Because she was set up by the Leviathan!” shouted Catherine.
“That will be all for today’s lesson, I think,” said Imaan, closing her book. “I shall see you all bright and early for morning prayers. You shan’t be late again, Mary, correct?”
Mary nodded, avoiding her gaze and giggling. The maidens picked up their books and filed out, already buzzing with gossip from the day’s lesson. Beatrice strolled past Catherine as she collected her books, bumping her shoulder as she passed.
“I think I’ll go make us some tea,” said Liza, moving toward the door.
Catherine watched her leave before turning to Imaan, who was busy scribbling notes into the margins of another book.
“I—I am very sorry, my Lady, for what I said today about murder. I didn’t mean—I just—”
“I know,” said Imaan, checking over her notes. “See you tomorrow.”
Catherine nodded, glancing back sheepishly as she left.
Imaan sat alone, staring at the delicate icicle-like muqarnas floating in the dome above her. A tiny voice squeaked to her.
“Excuse me, Lady. Would you please either shut us down or continue the movie, if you don’t mind? I’ve all but run out of things to do here, I have,” said the tiny Norbert, who was still sitting atop the pile of mers. The mer King’s beard was filled with hundreds of braids, into which Norbert had weaved a smattering of shells and blades.
“I won’t mind if you pull the stoppedy-stop here, though,” said Norbert, twisting a braid with his finger as he continued. “The next part gets pretty right painful, it does.”
“Oh, of course,” said Imaan, searching for the remote under a stack of papers. “I’m sorry.”
Imaan went to turn off the film but changed her mind; Norbert and the mers grew to almost life size above her head as she clicked play. The braids in the mer King’s beard untwisted as Norbert jumped onto the broken scaffold and continued surfing, right where she had left him.
Imaan pushed a button. The scene melted and reformed as she scanned through the scenes, stopping as her own, younger self rose out of the air, deathly still atop the baobab in the midst of battle. She watched. The young Imaan hung at the edge of a branch, the hair blowing across her face as she stared into the distance as tense as if she watched her own death. She burst into shouts and tears, reeling back as she flung her arms into the air.
“The King is dead! The King is dead! Praise be Avinoam, the mer King is dead!”
The young Imaan trembled as she blew her horn, barely able to hold it to her mouth. She sounded the notes of victory three times, each one growing in strength as she continued. The ground began to roar with the shouts of a thousand tribesmen across the coastline, signalling the end. The Nephilim shrieked and screamed, shooting long ribbons the same colours as their blades into the air before diving back into the sea. The ribbons hung in bands across the sky, floating peacefully above the land as the waves calmed.
“There’s the rainbow. They’ve surrendered. It’s over,” said Imaan. She collapsed into sobs.
The real Imaan clicked the remote again, watching as the towering baobab sunk into a growing pile of mud. Another scene rose into the air, one that Imaan knew all too well. She swallowed as she looked at, filled the same tense emotion as if it had been yesterday. A lone tear welled in the corner of her eye as she pressed play. This was the moment, she knew, that had changed everything.
C H A P T E R 3
The young Imaan sat deep in a pile of mud, her muscles tense with shock. Bodies of suffering humans were strewn along the coast, so many that they barely had space to lie. The rainbow above them had begun to darken and sag, an ugly cobweb above a sea of death. Cephas lay in front of her with his eyes open too wide, his body dotted with Nephil blades that had darkened to iron. His own sword had been thrust through his stomach; his face was mangled with fear and pain, even in death. A handsome young man sat crumpled on the ground near him, buried deep in Imaan’s arms. He was crying into her chest, gripping her sleeve like an anchor as he trembled. The young Imaan touched his hair, lowering her face to his head.
Imaan felt her cheeks grow hot and her throat tighten as she watched herself with the man. He had been so young then, barely more than a boy, yet the energy that had flowed through him as he mourned his father had felt as timeless as the ages—as though she had held the whole of life between her arms. Imaan longed to be in that moment again with him, to touch again the strength and passion of a man completely vulnerable. From that moment she had never stopped wanting him; the memory defined her days and haunted her nights, and no matter how much she read or prayed or fasted she could not escape the snare of that embrace or soothe the ache that pulsed through her arms. The real Imaan rubbed her elbows as she stared at the image. She heard a noise and flicked the remote, watching as the scene burst into light and disappeared. Liza entered the room with a tray of rusks and a warm stoneware teapot.
“Was my Lady watching more of the war?” asked Liza.
“Just reviewing,” said Imaan, pouring herself a cup of tea. “I cannot seem to win with these people. They hated me for distrusting the legends; now they hate that I believe in them.”
Liza frowned.
“Beatrice is young, my Lady; she does not remember the time of the Great War and is ignorant of its importance.”
“That is the problem with the lot of them,” said Imaan, staring at her cup. “It’s the poison that makes them forgetful. I couldn’t see it when I was younger, but I can see it now. I have become a relic on display.”
“That is not true, my Lady.”
“Do not play the fool with me, Liza; my eyes and ears can observe as well as yours can. I can barely keep the interest of my own maidens these days.”
“Perhaps you are simply tired, Lady.”
“I see the dwindling numbers in the Temple, hear the whispers behind my back. The polite ones label me conservative; the others, outdated or loony. My presence used to be sought and respected, and now—I don’t know.”
Liza grabbed two dense biscuits off the tray, taking one for herself and handing one to Imaan.
“And it’s not like I didn’t fight for it, Liza,” continued Imaan, waving her rusk. “I had to fight hard for my position. As the first woman to the priesthood, I could barely enter the Temple without incident. Then slowly, ever so slowly, I gained their respect—their admiration, even—until that damn war changed everything.”
Imaan swirled the tea around in her cup, brooding.
“Now when they need me most—when they are in the greatest danger—they want nothing to do with me. After all I’ve worked for—all I’ve suffered for—I refuse to die a silly old woman not worth her say.”
“I do not think that possible, Lady; many still respect you. I know the King especially admires your wisdom.”
“The King? Ha.
The King is practically in bed with the Leviathan.”
“Lady!” gasped Liza, clinking her teacup.
“Sorry, I did not mean to be vulgar. Saladin is a great man who cares deeply about Aeroth, but his snake of a friend, Gabe, poisons him. I’m not sure how he did it—how he hid all his merish attributes—but I’m going to get him for mocking me, that murderous mer. I’m going to get him for endangering the humans and for ruining all I’ve worked for. Damn him. I am sure he is the Leviathan.”
“I can understand the King and others’ hesitancy in believing Gabe is the Leviathan,” said Liza carefully. “Gabe is a very nice man who has done so much for Aeroth in recent years, and he shows no signs of being a mer. If you are right, then he is very deceptive indeed.”
“I know he is!” said Imaan, jumping from her seat. “Qoholeth said, ‘Their ultimate end is our extermination.’ Never forget that, Liza. No matter how nice Gabe seems, nor how subdued are the Nephilim, never forget that they are always waiting, watching, looking for a way to destroy us. The Great War was just the beginning—to weaken the High Priest and to get me to appoint a king. I mean I had to do something; the tribes were ready to murder one another. I played right into their hands, giving them a king. Once the humans have forgotten everything, they will sweep in and destroy what is left. All they have to do is get Saladin, and we’re finished. They’re already snaking their way into his confidence with Gabe. One war—one surrender—and it’s over. They will not write as lenient a peace treaty as we wrote for them. They will slaughter us or enslave us. There is no doubting that.”
“It cannot come to that, my Lady. Avinoam is merciful and will surely protect us, as in the past.”
Imaan sighed.
“In many ways I can’t blame the people of Aeroth for doubting me after the horror of what happened. How can I claim to be the Divine Mediator if I make such a grand mistake?”
“The mistake lies with the loss of the Sacred Memories, and no one denies what little remains of them is because of you. You restored so many of them after the generation without the priesthood. We owe much to your guidance,” said Liza.
“Yet there is still too much missing to get rid of doubt,” said Imaan. “I told them the Leviathan was part of a conflated fairy tale, Liza—an imaginary scapegoat—and it made perfect sense. The water snake hadn’t been seen in generations. No one had seen a mer. There was no evidence of them in the Sacred Memories, just legends. And then they rise up from the sea and nearly destroy us.”
Imaan shook her head.
“Catherine is right. If I had counselled the people differently, half of Aeroth may not have died. I cannot make the same mistake again.”
“The Nephilim were very cruel, my Lady. Humans may still have died in numbers even with proper warning. You also forget that if not for your encouragement, none of the humans would have even gone near water, so great was their fear of the legendary water snake. Norbert’s surfing skills were very instrumental in bringing down the mer King.”
Imaan laughed.
“You are very compassionate, Liza; may your reign be filled with far less turmoil than was mine.”
Imaan paused, staring at her empty cup.
“That was quite a telling of the legend today.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, my Lady,” said Liza, smiling.
“Hmm,” said Imaan. “Well, in any event, we should continue with your lessons now. As you will also be Head Member of the Fraternity, you must know everything there is to know about the Leviathan if you are going to lead the brothers. They never quite forgave me for being a woman; I doubt they will show you any more affection. Shall we turn to Qoholeth’s memory or Eliezer’s?”
“Oh, um, I do not mean to interrupt our valuable lesson, but can we perhaps continue tomorrow? I would like to say extra prayers this evening.”
“Oh, yes of course. I shall see you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, my Lady. Thank you for understanding,” said Liza. She adjusted her veil and hurried out.
Imaan closed her eyes, listening to the rhythmic clacking of shoes as Liza walked the marble corridor to the Temple’s entrance. She heard the heavy wooden door to the sanctuary creak open and pound shut, leaving her in silence. She waited, but all was still.
Imaan sprang up from her chair and collected her books, pacing with the swift movements of a woman gripped by desire. She thought of him as she moved, of how much she wanted him. The veins in her arms tingled as she locked the classroom and took a narrow road, finding at the end a tiny opening in the thick, stone walls that surrounded the City. She crawled through it, emerging on the other side into the soft sands of the Marah Desert, her home. The warm southerly wind danced across the horizon as Imaan hurried home with the eagerness of a lover, her path lit by thousands of stars shining from the clearest of skies. Her feet sunk in the sand as she walked; she looked to the small adobe shelter nestled among the sparkling dunes, welcoming her. Imaan hurried inside.
No one shall bother me now, thought Imaan, bolting the heavy lock on her door.
She threw off her shoes and shuffled across the fuzzy carpets, shutting windows and lighting lanterns. Soon the whole room glowed with golden light, which scattered in shadows as it crossed the piles of books and manuscripts stacked throughout the room. Imaan smiled. She turned to a simple, carved cabinet on the opposite wall, her breath quickening as her mind filled with forbidden thoughts. She unlocked it and opened its painted doors, staring at her most unholy desire.
“Still as handsome as ever,” she sighed.
An exquisite, ruby-studded water pipe gleamed at her from inside the cabinet, silent and seductive. Imaan prepared the pipe and settled down onto a velvety cushion, her thoughts already lost with him. He gave it to her, this pipe. It was a piece of him, and it was hers; she could do with it as she pleased, think as she pleased. She pressed her lips to the cold metal and inhaled, swirling the apple-scented smoke around in her mouth as she enjoyed every last bit of the flavoured tobacco. Outside, the whirling desert sands hummed the low notes of a violin as they kissed the outer walls of the City, in harmony with her pipe’s gentle gurgling. She listened, feeling the caress of the humid smoke creep over her lips as she exhaled, her thoughts adrift with the dancing cloud. When Imaan smoked her pipe, she was no longer the Lady but simply a lady—forgetful, sinful, and as blissfully happy as the rest of them, embracing destruction with passionate abandon.
She thought again of the film in the classroom—of watching his beautiful, perfect body so close against her own. She could still feel him trembling against her chest, smell his hair, her skin tingling from touching him. She touched her tongue to the back of her teeth, sighing heavily.
“What am I going to do?” asked Imaan to the smouldering coals. “How does one move forward when so much of this should never have happened?”
She set down the silver mouthpiece, rubbing her hand over her tired eyes.
“With each passing day I become more like Eli. The Leviathan grows in power, and I become more powerless to stop it. Whatever am I supposed to do?”
Furious knocking broke the silence. Imaan’s heart jumped to her throat as she sprung up from her cushion, her body still ablaze with memory.
Someone was at her front door.
C H A P T E R 4
Imaan peeked through the crack in the shutter, finding a small, pink figure fidgeting on the stoop.
Oh for the love of Avi! thought Imaan. It was Catherine.
She spun around and grabbed the pipe, throwing it into the cabinet as she slammed it shut. Imaan washed her face and opened the back windows, fanning the smoke from the room. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt as she opened the door.
“Catherine! What are you doing out at this hour?” asked Imaan.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my Lady, but I couldn’t wait. Liza is not yet back from prayers. I was afraid
she would stop me.”
“She would have been right to stop you. It is too late to be travelling so far alone,” said Imaan, bidding her enter. She filled a glass with milky, rose falooda and handed it to Catherine, who downed it in one long gulp. Catherine wiped her face with her sleeve.
“Now, what is the matter?” asked Imaan.
“Remember the lesson you taught us a couple weeks ago about meanings within meanings?” asked Catherine. “You said something about how mystic texts sometimes reveal other sayings when you count letters or look at lines?”
“Yes, I remember it,” said Imaan.
“Well, this evening I was reviewing Liza’s telling of the legend. I found this.”
She unfolded a crumpled piece of paper tucked inside her notebook and handed it to Imaan. Imaan read.
Kiss that bind will seal man’s fate.
“See,” said Catherine, circling letters. “If you take Liza’s telling as a poem, that phrase emerges as a jumbled acrostic, separated by stanzas. Take the first line, In the days of old… mers were bold / King Neph / Send / Said… When you unscramble the first letters in the first four lines—i, k, s, s, from in, king, send, said—you’ll find the word, kiss. If you do the same for the first letters in the second four lines, you’ll get the word, that and so forth, until you get this saying, Kiss that bind will seal man’s fate.”
Imaan stared at the crumpled paper, comparing it to Catherine’s open notebook. She was right.
“Do you think it means something?” asked Catherine, barely able to contain her excitement. “Was Liza prophesying?”
Imaan hesitated.
“This is very good work, Catherine, but we must be careful not to jump to conclusions. I will pray over what you brought me and see what I can make of it. For now, I ask that you keep quiet about what you found and not think of it further. It would be most unhelpful to cause confusion in yourself or among the maidens. Do you understand?”
