The Forbidden City

by Deborah A. Wolf

  Sulema tried not to touch the pale skin where she had been bitten by the reaver, or notice that a patch half the size of her palm was cool and hard to the touch.

  Come to think of it, I spend a lot of time trying not to think these days. Shaking her head to clear it, she stepped down from the short pedestal and walked over to view Cassandre’s sketches.

  She had never seen a drawing of herself before, and did not know what to expect. She knew what she looked like, or close enough. The water in a well bucket often spoke to her of a girl with an unruly orange frizz the shade of unripened dates—or had until she earned the warrior’s braids. Her spotted skin was too pale for the desert sun.

  Honey and a sprinkling of spice, Mattu Halfmask had said.

  Everyone told her she shared her mother’s eyes, hard and golden as a hawk’s. She had never cared to reflect overlong upon these things, being more concerned about her seat and the aim of her bow. Thus the image of her own face was a shock to her when she peered over Cassandre’s shoulder.

  She gasped aloud. There she stood, as real as if Cassandre had stolen her shadow-self and pressed it onto paper, staring out across the jagged lines of a hastily sketched Atualon. The breeze had caught in her hair and she remembered brushing it back from her face. The fabric of the gown was so skillfully wrought in just a few short strokes that she had to touch it… No, the fabric did not feel as soft as the artist had made it look.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “What magic is this?”

  Cassandre went still all over, her eyes sharp. “Magic? Why do you ask?”

  “I… it just…” Sulema hesitated, her fingers held in the air over the drawings. They were so real. And yet—

  “That does not look like Sulema.” Saskia stared at the drawings, as well, and her frown matched Sulema’s confusion.

  “Pardon me?” Sulema had never seen ice, but she heard it now, crackling through the artist’s voice. “Perhaps you can do better?”

  “Noooooo…” Saskia drew the word out as she waved toward the sketches. “I mean, they look like her, as she looks now. They just do not look like Sulema. This is some outlander woman, not a warrior of the people.”

  Ehuani, Sulema thought, truth, and her throat tightened. Cassandre had captured Sa Atu, the woman she needed to become, but not Sulema Ja’Akari, the warrior she longed to be. Mattu had warned her, had he not, that everyone in Atualon was wearing a mask of some sort. And now I do, as well.

  “This is not me,” she said.

  “Ehuani,” Saskia nodded and she relaxed. Sulema had not realized the warrior had been tense.

  Cassandre pursed her lips, eyes darting back and forth as she considered the images she had created.

  “How would you wish me to draw you, then?” It was a deliberate question carefully worded, carefully weighed. Sulema could hear the whisper of words unsaid shushing about the room.

  “It matters, does it not?” she asked finally. “Whether you paint me like this”—she held her breath for a moment, and then continued, deciding to trust the master painter—“as I am to be seen, as my father would have me… or as I would see myself?” Her heart pounded in her ears.

  Cassandre eyed her in turn. “It matters,” she said finally. “It matters a great deal… Sulema.”

  “Magic,” Saskia whispered, and took half a step back from the drawings. “There is magic in these, ehuani.”

  “Ehuani?” Cassandre tipped her head to the side. “You keep using this word. What does it mean?”

  “It means ‘truth in beauty’,” Sulema told her, “and though there is much beauty in this work, there is little truth. These do not show me as I am, as I would be. These pictures lie.”

  “How would you have me draw you?” the master painter asked again, staring straight into her eyes. Sulema stared back, and reached up to rub at her numb shoulder.

  This one would have made a good warrior, she thought. “Paint me like one of our warrior women,” she answered at last. “Strong and fierce and… whole.”

  Cassandre’s response was a smile as wide and wicked as Sulema’s own.

  “Good,” she said. “Good. Put your warrior’s garb on, then, but be quick! I do not have all day.”

  Sulema whistled to herself as she shed the silken garments of her father’s people and donned the vest and leggings that she had so reluctantly set aside for this foolishness.

  “I notice,” Saskia said to Cassandre as she resumed her post by the door, “that you do not deny there is magic in what you do.”

  “Of course there is magic,” Cassandre sniffed as she took up her charcoals and a new sheet of parchment, and as Sulema resumed her place. “It is art.”

  * * *

  Hours later, it seemed, the dragonstone beneath her feet warmed in anticipation. Sulema dropped her warrior’s pose and turned just as Wyvernus strode out onto the balcony. He wore his golden robes of state and carried the Mask of Akari tucked unceremoniously under one arm. His smile when he saw her was so wide, so bright, Sulema could hardly bear to look at him without shading her eyes.

  “Ah, there you are, Daughter! I had forgotten that you were getting your sketches done today.” He stopped and peered at her. “Ah, you chose to wear a warrior’s leathers? That is… interesting.” His grin faltered for a moment, but then widened to include Cassandre, inviting her to join in some mischief. “I wonder if I might borrow my daughter for a bit, my dear. If you are nearly finished…?”

  Cassandre regarded them both flatly, a dark storm in her dark eyes. “Do you want me to finish this portrait, your Arrogance, or do you not? Perhaps you would prefer to find another painter…”

  “There are no other painters in Atualon,” Wyvernus protested, “none whom I would trust to immortalize my lovely daughter, at any rate. If this were not a matter of great importance, I would not dream of interrupting you, sweet girl. The very fate of the world…”

  “Oh, go.” Cassandre brandished her charcoal like a dreamshifter’s staff. “Just go. I have enough sketches for now.”

  “You have the gratitude of Atualon, and her king.”

  Sulema stepped down from the low pedestal, wincing as her knees wobbled. Weak, she thought with irritation. She turned to Cassandre and tried to catch her eye for a conspirator’s wink. “My thanks as well…”

  Cassandre muttered something rude and rolled up the sheets of parchment as if they were the enemy, while Wyvernus swept Sulema from the room.

  He led his daughter down the wide hallway, followed at a distance by Saskia. The inner walls of Atukos lit with joy at his approach and faded slowly behind him, a marvel that still made Sulema smile. Living stone, she thought, and she reached out to touch the wall. It flashed gold and red at her touch, and sent a little thrill of welcome tingling along her skin.

  “Sajani Earth Dragon loves you, Sa Atu.” Wyvernus slowed his steps and tempered his smile, but his eyes were still lit with a boy’s anticipation. “These walls did not welcome me until I had been king for a year and a day, but they lit for you at the moment of your birth, and they rejoice now that you are home.”

  Am I? Atukos was a wonder, but her heart still longed for the Zeera. Perhaps some day Atualon would feel like home.

  Perhaps when you have been queen for a year and a day.

  Sulema stopped short, staring at her father. “Did you just…” Can you read my mind? Like a vash’ai? Then, before he could respond, Can I learn to do this? Speak to people in their heads?

  “Only sometimes,” he told her aloud. “Only within the walls of Atukos, and not without effort. It is not so much like a Zeerani’s bond with one of your great cats, as I understand it—I cannot read your feelings, your deeper thoughts. It is more like… like watching a fish flash beneath the surface of a pond. There, and then gone again. With a little practice, you should be able to hear my thoughts, as well.”

  “Only within the walls of Atukos.” Sulema’s heart fell again.

  “Only then,” Wyvernus agreed. “And as I said,
not without effort. A bond must be forged first, a strong bond of the heart, and even then the magic fails beyond the walls. Otherwise I would have found you—and your dear mother—before those wicked men spirited you away, and I would not have missed you all those years.” He reached for her hand.

  Sulema did not pull away. Her head spun. My mother— but her mind darted away from the thought, as fish from a shadow that falls across their pond.

  “So you cannot use this ability to find Leviathus or Daru?” Or Mattu Halfmask, damn his hide, she thought. She did not wish her father to know of her feelings, not just yet.

  “They are not within the fortress, so no. I have tried.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “As I have tried to find your young Mattu.” He gave her a sideways look. “I am also aware of certain people whispering in the shadows. You may have heard that I helped young master Halfmask… disappear.”

  “I had heard that,” she agreed, reluctantly. “So… it is not true?”

  Her father snorted a mirthless laugh, and let her hand fall. “Not a word of it. Against the parens’ will, I spared the lives of Mattu and Matteira when they were small, and I have protected them as my wards ever since. I may not be Ja’Akari like you, my dear…”

  Sulema laughed in spite of herself.

  To think of her father, a man, as a warrior! Certainly he was a powerful man—powerful enough to keep the Sindanese emperor cowering behind his shining walls, powerful enough to keep Sajani Earth Dragon trapped in her dreams—but he was still just a man.

  Not even the greatest of men could become Ja’Akari.

  “…but neither am I without honor,” he continued. “If I want someone killed, Sulema, I will kill them myself, in the full light of day. If you cannot kill a person beneath the eyes of Akari, in front of your family—and theirs—then you have no business taking that life.”

  Sulema had always longed for a father’s advice, but this was not at all what she had expected.

  “Was this what you came to tell me?”

  He snorted again. “I would hardly risk Cassandre’s wrath in order to wax pedantic. The last time I got on her bad side, she painted me without hair, and look what happened.” He passed a hand over his bald pate. “Never meddle in the affairs of artists, Sulema, for they are clever and slow to forget. Those who wield color, or song, or dance, wield a power as great as our own, in their way. It is simply magic of a quieter sort.”

  “Ani says ‘the silent warrior has the sharpest sword.’” Of course, Ani usually said it to shut her up.

  “I believe I would like this Ani of yours. I hope to have the chance to know her better.” Then he turned slightly. “Ah, Davidian! Good of you to join us.”

  Imperator General Davidian was red of face and slightly winded, as if he had been running.

  “Your Arrogance, it would be easier for me to guard your person if you would not disappear like that.” He pointedly did not look at Saskia, who just as pointedly did not look at him, though both their faces reddened. Sulema rolled her eyes. That love story was the worst-kept secret in Atualon.

  “My apologies, Imperator General.” The king grinned and winked at Sulema. “I promise never to disappear again.”

  Perhaps I am home, at that, she thought, returning the king’s grin. He is most certainly my father.

  The Imperator General raised a small golden whistle and blew into it. A squad of Draiksguard and Divasguard rounded the corner, marching quickstep. None of them glanced at the king, but disapproval rolled from their cloaked shoulders thick as a morning fog.

  “We are caught,” the king sighed to his daughter. “Now we are in trouble.”

  Davidian ignored that. “To the grounds, your Arrogance? We have cleared the place of commoners.”

  “At once, Imperator. Come, Sulema.” Wyvernus took her hand again and tugged, much as Ismai had when they were young and he had stolen honey-cakes to share. “I have a surprise for you.”

  THREE

  The moons-haired princess came to Atualon on a ship so vast it was nearly an island.

  The dark wood of his belly had been steeped in slaves’ blood and magic, and carved with the blind eyes and severed hands of the sea goddess Sitneh. The silk of his sails had been soaked with the tears of the crones who wailed as they wove, speaking of their loves lost to the ocean kin, of husbands and wives and children who had slipped beneath the waves or been snatched into the sky.

  Never had she regretted the price that had been paid to carry her to the king she would marry, and why should she? Not a spoonful of the blood had been hers, nor a measure of pain. Neither were the cries of the sacrificed doves, that they might fly up to her high chambers and disturb her passionate dreams.

  Oh, but she had sacrificed. She had left behind her gardens, and her sisters, and a little white dog, had she not? She might have married the black-bearded king of the river pirates, and laid a dowry of slaves and oranges and river pearls at her mother’s feet. He had been handsome enough, that one. She might have married the king of the green lands, far to the west, and brought a bride price of golden wood and golden children. He had been a stern man and too old for her liking, but his eyes were kind and his swords sharp. It would have been a fine match.

  Then one of her ladies had slipped an ivory trinket beneath her pillow, a tiny portrait of a flame-haired man with fierce eyes and a wicked grin, and nothing would do but that she claim him for her own. So she did, and here they were, and all the world had paid the price.

  Hafsa Azeina had stood atop the Sea Gate, her short hair whipping angrily about her head and robes billowing as the deep-bellied ships ghosted into view. Bright horns lifted into the sky and pierced the peace with their glad cries. The heavy bells tolled, ropes burning the hands and shoulders of youths who would give their hearing so that the foreign princess might be bid a proper welcome. The great drums rolled, the glad heartbeat of a city called out by wooden instruments dearer than the humans who made them, and played them, and kept them clean and safe.

  Young girls danced upon the sea-walls, children who had been purchased as infants and trained their whole lives, crying in the night as their mutilated feet bled through their thin blankets so that a golden-eyed princess who dreamt the dreams might walk down this gangplank and smile as a king knelt to kiss her fingertips.

  One of the dancers had slipped and might have fallen to her death had the Mistress of Dance not dragged her to safety by her long, dark hair. That girl had run away not long afterward. She had been caught and eventually sold in Min Yaarif to a man who beat out of her all thoughts of dancing and running.

  “I never knew,” Hafsa Azeina told her companion.

  “You never cared,” Basta replied, twitching the tip of her tail in irritation. “Even now, these things do not touch your heart. I can read your dreams, Annu. You would walk this path again, and water it with the blood of the innocent. You would burn the world to have your daughter and keep her safe. You have no regrets.”

  Hafsa Azeina regarded the sleek cat, too wild, too wise. “I have regrets,” she said. “I regret killing you. For that, I am sorry.”

  Twitch, twitch. “Do not apologize to me. In killing your kima’a, you harmed only yourself. I am not the one to whom you owe your pretty words—as if words might wash away blood, or wipe away tears. As if the worth of your words is more than a life, than the least of lives.” Her green eyes closed in a slow wink. “You have learned nothing.”

  “Will you teach me now?” Hafsa Azeina made a slashing motion with both hands, and the scene before them faded slowly away. “It is too late for such things. I am dead.”

  “You are not dead.” The cat yawned, showing her white teeth, her pink tongue. “You are just very, very stubborn. Of all the Annu ever to walk the path of dreams, why must I be saddled with you? It is time for you to wake. Open those eyes of yours, lest I lose my patience and scratch them out. Time to open that dark heart of yours, lest I eat it.”

  “You may have it, for all I care,” Haf
sa Azeina said, closing her eyes, as if shutting out the cold and the dark would make a difference. None of it had ever made a difference. The slaves’ sacrifice, the fate of a dancer, all the hate or all the love in the world mattered not at all in the end. “I fear you would find my heart a bitter feast.”

  “You fear?” Basta growled, velvet-sharp voice prickling the air around her. “Hafsa Azeina, fear? Not yet, Dreamshifter. Not yet… but you will.”

  “Do your worst,” she told Basta. “I no longer care. There is nothing left to fear.” Hafsa Azeina opened her eyes, closed them, and opened them again. It made no difference at all.

  Nothing left to fear? Laughter rippled through the void. The voice was not Basta’s. Nothing at all? I wonder.

  “’Ware, Annubasta!” Basta howled. “Wake, Annu! Wake now!”

  “I cannot,” she replied, or perhaps “I care not.” She was never quite sure. It made a difference, however. A very great difference, in the end. A thousand hands rose up from the darkness to pin her, to hurt her. Hands tangled in her hair. They pinched and clawed at her skin. But she had felt pain before, and horror.

  You are in my world now, Dreamshifter, the voice of Belzaleel said, and he laughed. As long as you remain here, you are mine. A tongue joined the hands, licking at her skin like wet flame. Mine. Sleep forever, for all I care.

  “I will not wake,” she growled, even as the hands tore away her silken garments and invaded the sanctity of her flesh. Even then. “I am not afraid.”

  Oh, but you will be, the voice purred, thick and wet as hot blood. You will be. Teeth grazed against her throat, sharper and harder than a dragonglass dagger.

  In the end she screamed.

  In the end she was afraid.