“And do what with the dreams it catches? Carry them with me, for ever?”
Instead, she wears the dreamsnares—around her neck, under her clothes—but they are always too few.
Iskan came to us late the same evening. It is summer now, and the shutters were open to the balmy night. Kabira was playing the role of wife and had given orders for a great dish of iced fruits and pitchers of chilled tea. Our lamps flickered in the draught from the windows as Iskan stepped in.
He aged while he was away. He limped slightly on his left leg, and his left hand was bound with bandages. His hair has greyed a little and the lines around his mouth have deepened. It is because he has not had access to the spring, I think. He goes into decline as soon as he is denied Anji’s power. I looked in his eyes and saw that all-seeing gaze, the one that spears straight into my soul. He had already drunk water from the spring. And the moon is waning.
He was in good humour; he had Kabira serve him tea and even ate some of the fruit.
“What a gruelling winter it has been,” he said, licking his fingers. “However, I have obtained what I desired. Now all the vassal states from Areko to the Maiko Desert swear allegiance to Ohaddin, and pay taxes to the Sovereign’s coffer. Karenokoi is no longer a minor realm. Thanks to me, the Sovereign Prince now has dominion over the greatest realm that has ever existed. Soon none shall remain who can challenge us.” He smiled widely. “The campaign reaped more fruits, besides. In Harrera there was a man with vast knowledge. Of great things, dark and dense. It is mine now. It is contained in my library. And in Koiama I came upon stones from their holy mountain which still possess immense power. I shall have them built into the wall around Ohaddin. Our palace shall be impenetrable, should the districts ever revolt.” He fed himself candied almonds.
I thought of all the people of Renka who lived outside Ohaddin. In Areko and in the provinces. What protection would they have against the wrath and vengefulness of the eastern districts? But I said nothing.
“Meriba, my flower, come to me,” said Iskan, beckoning to her. “How—”
He stopped short when he noticed her stomach. She was seven moons through and already large.
“I certainly have been away a long time,” he said slowly. “The flower is already bearing fruit. Come.”
Meriba glided timidly over to her master. He laid a hand on her belly and she blushed most becomingly. Kabira looked away, her hands clenched hard on her lap. Iskan made a soft sound, not quite a sigh but thereabouts. Meriba shuddered. He removed his hand.
“Follow me.” He got up and went over to the door. “We shall take a little walk in the garden, you and I.”
Confused but still blushing, she followed her master. The doors closed behind them with a bang, and the lamp flames flickered. Kabira jumped to her feet, rushed over to a window and stared out into the darkness. Soon voices drifted to us from the garden: Meriba’s nervous giggle, Iskan’s deep tones. It was a very still night. I joined Kabira where she stood. Not much could be seen out there in the dark; Iskan had taken no torches with him. The outlines of the trees and bushes were drawn sharp in the moonlight.
Then came the sound. The one I have learnt to listen out for. It was perfectly clear in the still night: a lock being turned, a heavy metal door being opened. Kabira turned sharply away from the window.
“It cannot be prevented,” she said to herself, wringing her hands. “There is nothing I can do. No.”
I rarely see Kabira upset. She rushed to her quarters and closed the door behind her.
Orseola was with the Sovereign, so I was left alone, spying out into the moonlit night. It was quiet again. No wind blew. Suddenly the canopies of the zismil trees began to shake violently. The rustling sound was unmistakable. They were trying to tell me something, and though my blood sang in response, I did not understand the message.
This morning I was awoken by a prolonged scream. It was Meriba. The labour had begun. Far too early. I took what I thought might be necessary from my herbs and concoctions. Estegi was already waiting for me outside Meriba’s room. No midwives or old ladies bothered to witness this time—it was not a wife giving birth to an heir, but a mere concubine and her bastard. When we went in I saw, to my surprise, Kabira standing by Meriba’s bed, among all the vases, painted screens and pottery. Her skin was very pale and the lines around her mouth were deep.
“She has long been suffering already, in silence,” she said shortly. “Her strength is waning.”
I could see that she was right. Meriba’s eyes were sunken deep in her skull and her skin lay taught over her cheeks. Her breathing was shallow and strained. I pulled the cover to one side and pressed her belly gently. All signs were bad.
Then she opened her eyes and I gasped. Her eyes were completely black—nothing around the irises at all. A chasm was opening inside her. I looked at Kabira, who first pressed her lips together, and then blurted out, as though involuntarily:
“This is what he does. If the child is a girl.”
In that moment many things became clear: Kabira’s sons, and why she never answered directly when asked how many times she had been pregnant; Meriba and Iskan’s walk to the spring last night. Hatred raged through me, violent and corrosive. To misuse the powers of the earth in such a way! To have arbitrary reign over life and strength. To eliminate girls from one’s lineage and family, as though they were worthless. To pervert that which should be used for good!
I did all I could for Meriba. She was nearly senseless with pain and unable to speak; what I gave her did not afford her much relief. But it did not last much longer. The child was small, and eventually she emerged in a flood of blood and water. I held her in my hands as her tiny lungs fought for breath. Everything about the little body was perfect: the fingers and tiny fingernails, the bent legs, the soft soles of her feet. Eyelids like petals.
It is the worst thing I have ever had to witness. She wanted to live, but she was too small. I laid her at her mother’s breast, where she took her final breath. I looked away. Out through the window. Never have I felt so powerless.
Meriba did not live to see more. The dark water was tearing her apart from the inside, making her shake and shudder and writhe. A horrific death. Kabira, Estegi and I sat by her bed until the last moment. Kabira held one hand and I held the other. I mumbled prayers to the earth to receive her body and bestow it with new life. They have different beliefs here in Karenokoi, but as a wisewoman it is my duty to escort the dying to the other side. And we have shared the same man, Meriba and I. That is a bond that cannot be unmade.
When eventually she left her pain-wracked body we sat silently awhile. The sun was shining through the window and children’s voices could be heard from the garden. Kabira’s sons were playing outside. I closed Meriba’s midnight-black eyes. Estegi straightened the covers around the two bodies. Kabira lit three candles. I cannot say I mourn for Meriba. But I mourn for her daughter. The girl whose father chose to forsake her life. Her little body barely made a bump under the sheet. The hair on her crown was thick and black.
We left the room. Kabira sent Estegi away to pass on the message of the deaths, and ordered tea and a soup to fortify us. We ate together in the small shaderoom. She had ordered a soup with vegetables and mushrooms, and I was grateful for the lack of meat.
When I had finished eating I looked at Kabira.
“You survived.”
Kabira stared for a long time into the red-painted bowl in front of her.
“Thrice.” She was quiet. “I believe I survived because I grew up with Anji’s water. I had developed a tolerance, though I never drank it when it was oaki. My body was accustomed to its power.”
“Is that why you were worried about her pregnancy?”
Kabira nodded slowly. “Though I did not know that it would kill her.”
The doors to the hall swung open and Iskan came storming in. Without a word he stomped away to Meriba’s room. He stayed only briefly before coming out again. We clasped our han
ds and looked at him in silence. He stared at us.
“She is dead!”
“It can hardly come as a surprise,” answered Kabira. I was amazed by her courage. Iskan had a wild look in his eyes, almost as black as Meriba’s had been.
“This was not my intention. You!” He pointed at me. “You murdered her with your poisons! You envied her, you always have!”
“Did you give her Anji’s water, Iskan?” Kabira’s eyes were burning. “If so, it was you who murdered her, not Garai!”
“Quiet, woman!” Iskan smacked her across the mouth. “Guard!” He pointed at me. “Thirty lashes!”
My punishment was enforced at once. There, in the hall, the guard tried to pull off my jacket but I stopped him. I took it off myself, and the camisole underneath. I folded them neatly and laid them on a cushion. Then I bent forward.
I bled anew with every lash. Each one an offering. Thirty new scars, and I dedicated them all to Anji, and Meriba, and the new-born girl, and all of Kabira’s daughters, and to my sisters.
If he had truly believed it was I who killed Meriba he would have killed me as well. He knew who was at fault. Yet he refused to bear the blame.
* * *
He has four new concubines now. Young, beautiful, easy to control. I cannot tell the difference between them. They are remarkably interchangeable, as was his intention. He does not want to get attached to anyone again. Because I could see in his eyes that he was attached to Meriba, or at least, as much as it is possible for him to be attached to anyone. One of them is already pregnant. I think he will let her have the baby, regardless of its sex.
Kabira is changed. She is brooding over something. I do not know what it is, but I am concerned for her. She has a darkness inside her that I cannot reach. We do not speak of such things, but we seek out each other’s company more and more. Orseola keeps to herself, but Estegi, Kabira and I sit together once more, to paint, draw, write and drink tea. I am also brooding. Because now I am intent on more than just an offering. Now I crave more than just vengeance. I am going to set Anji free, though I do not know how it might be done.
Kabira
NE NIGHT I WAS AWOKEN BY ESTEGI WITH long-awaited news: the Vizier’s mother was dying. As Iskan’s wife it was my duty to keep vigil by the deathbed, so I was escorted by two guards, with Estegi in tow, out through the golden lattice doors of the dairahesi. It was the first time since the erection of the new palace that I was permitted access to the residence Iskan had built for his mother. Where she had raised my sons and kept them from me. Raised them to take after their father, especially the eldest son. They were all asleep and I had given orders not to wake them. Not yet.
We passed through large but sparsely furnished chambers. One, with floors of pink and white marble and many red-lacquered columns, was empty but for an altar on which incense and candles were burning. The floor before the altar was sprinkled with rose petals. I presumed it was in honour of the memory of Iskan’s father.
The old woman did not know that her husband was killed at the hand of their own son.
Our steps echoed as we hastened from room to room. As Estegi led the way it occurred to me that she must have been here before. She, a lowly servant, moved with more freedom around the palace than I, wife of the Vizier. I watched her long, skeletal shadow glide across the floor and for a moment I was struck with a white-hot blaze of envy. Like a flash of moonlight on Anji’s water. Then I returned to feeling nothing at all.
The old woman was lying in a chamber filled with shadows and flickering flames. Formal mourners were sitting by her feet. Their faces were painted white already and they rang brass bells and sang the wailing songs that guide the soul along the right path when it leaves the body. On the bedside there were dishes and bowls filled with everything that Izani ak Oshime-chi would need for her final journey. Gold and silver coins. Incense, tobacco and wine. Seven shells for the seven fishermen. Gazing at these objects, my thoughts turned to my own parents, and how they had died without these gifts. And my siblings, who had no mourners to help them on their way.
Izani was lying propped up on a mountain of silk pillows. The curtains around her bed were open but still she was in darkness. Estegi knelt by the door. Slowly, with dignified steps, I came to my mother-in-law’s side.
She did not notice me at first. Her thin lips twitched nervously, as though trying to form words or take deep breaths. Her sunken eyes were darting here and there. Her hands lay motionless on the bedcover. I leant forward and looked her straight in the eye.
“Here I am, mother dear.” I suffused the words with all the venom I could muster, but spoke quietly enough that the wailing women could not hear me. “I am here to ensure you receive the final farewell you deserve.”
Her wandering gaze focused on me and her hands continued to twitch.
“Iskan. Iskan.”
“He is not here. He is in Areko. I have sent word, but I am afraid that he will not make it in time. The message may be delayed.” I smiled. It was a smile I had learnt from Iskan himself. “But we can speak of Iskan, if it please you, mother dear.”
“Yes. My son. My fine son.” Her breathing came intermittently. She was anxious, but not afraid—not yet.
“I have many stories to tell about him. Would it please you to hear? Let me start from the beginning. Let me tell you about all the lives your beloved, precious son has taken.”
She took a deep breath and tried to speak, but I did not allow her an opportunity. I revealed everything. All the blood on Iskan’s hands. I started from the beginning and omitted no detail. I came in close to the dying woman’s face, and mercilessly named every poor soul whose death I knew of. In each case I could provide proof and explained in detail the connections. At first she did not believe me. She pressed her lips together and looked away. But she could not close her ears. She could not shut me out. By the time I came to tell of how Iskan murdered his own father, and how he had spoken of it afterwards, the sun was rising. She emitted a terrible scream, and I clasped her hand and gestured to the mourners to carry on singing, for the inevitable end was approaching.
“Liar,” she wheezed. “Give me something to drink.”
“Are you thirsty?” I whispered in her ear. “Are you wearied by the thought of your son’s misdeeds?” I lifted an empty bowl from the adjacent table and held it to her lips.
“Here, drink deep of this cool water. Let it soothe you, just as you soothed me when I was pining for my sons. When I was weeping for the daughters Iskan killed. I hope it affords you the same consolation you gave me.”
The mourners were ringing their bells, the day was dawning and still Izani lived. I began to fear that Iskan would indeed make it to her bedside before she left her body. I had bribed the messenger with a piece of jewellery so that he would not make haste. It was a great risk. I chose not to think about what Iskan would do with me if he discovered what I had done.
I recounted all the evil deeds Iskan had committed, and perhaps embellished my knowledge with a little conjecture. Izani was writhing like a worm, the sour putridity of death on her breath, and yet her spirit refused to surrender. She wanted to see her son. I could not allow this to happen. She must not reveal what I had been saying, and I did not intend to allow her a moment of peace before she died.
“He never performs offerings to the spirit of his father,” I whispered, my lips tight against her ear. “He does not honour his memory. And neither will he trouble himself with yours.” I smiled, knowing that though she could not see it, she could hear it in my voice. “But a good wife honours the memory of her deceased mother-in-law. She makes offerings on the correct days. She ensures that the spirit does not wander empty-handed and starving among the dead. How fortunate you are to have such an obliging daughter-in-law. One that will show you the same love and respect as you have shown her. I will give you precisely what you deserve: you who have taken my sons from me; who have filled their minds and hearts with lies about me, their own mother.”
The final look she gave me was full of terror. I dug my long nails deep into her dry, defenceless palm. For one moment it seemed as though I could see her death, and it was close. I gathered all my strength to draw it nearer, my ears filling with a murmuring thrum. Perhaps a little oaki remained inside me after all.
“Under my watch, you shall be forgotten before one moon has passed.”
She whimpered, and her will gave way to mine, and she took her final breath.
Iskan arrived shortly thereafter. He sat for a long time on the other side of his mother’s bed, with his head pressed against her breast. I was still holding her hand as it grew increasingly colder. She would know that I was there. Her spirit would not forget.
I felt a glimmer of hope in that moment. A possibility, albeit a slight one. I had been ruminating over my plan for a long time. Several years had passed since the death of Meriba. The new concubines were filling the dairahesi with their children—both boys and girls. Yet I had to remain patient. I had only one chance. If I failed there would not be a second. I was already old—relegated into the shadows, forgotten. This was my final opportunity to step forward and claim a morsel of happiness before I faded away and disappeared into nothing.
I took the first step that day, by Izani’s deathbed. I reached across the cover and took hold of Iskan’s hand. My other hand was still clutching Izani’s claw.
“Iskan ak Honta-che. Grand Vizier of Karenokoi and all its vassal states. Right hand and succour of the Sovereign Prince. My husband. Permit me to comfort you through this trying time, I who know you better than anyone.”
Iskan looked up at me. His eyes were bloodshot and for a brief moment I was surprised that he was capable of grief. However, this was not the suffering of a loving son for his deceased mother. It was the pain of a man who had lost the only person who shared his vision of himself: infallible, flawless, constantly held back and misunderstood by those around him.
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