Lady of Drith

by Chad Huskins

  “Today will be a short lesson,” Osween said, taking a seat by the fire. “There is a matter that Lord Syphen wants me to see to on the Avenue of Apothecaries, and so we will only focus on one subject today.”

  Drea nodded obediently, and took a seat across from the governess. “As you say, Taja.”

  “Do you have the solutions I asked for yesterday?”

  “Of course, Taja.” Drea hastened to recover the pieces of papyrus on which she had written out the mathematical equations. She handed them over to Osween, who read them quietly and with a critical eye as the wind whipped in through the window and tried to rip the pages from her hand.

  “All your answers are correct,” she said. “But I think your written work is sloppy. There are shorter ways to arrive at the same conclusions. But we’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

  She set aside the papers, and didn’t seem to care when the wind pushed them off the table and carried them across the floor into the fire.

  “For now, let’s discuss morality and philosophy.” From her bag, she produced a large book and handed it over to Drea.

  Drea nodded. “Philosophy, Taja?”

  “I realize these are masculine arts, but since your mother overstepped her bounds on logic, we’ll see what else she did wrong. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Tell me, how much do you know about the philosophies?”

  “I confess, not much.”

  Osween snorted. “Then your mother was inconsistent. She taught you logic but not philosophy? It’s absurd. The two are siblings, and it’s dangerous to know one without the other. Well then, go on and read the first chapter.”

  Drea did as she was told, and under the watchful eye of her governess. The book was called The Philosophies, Volume I, and it was a summary of the concepts of philosophy, as well as some of the connection of philosophies to morals, as described by Iscustik the Wise eight hundred years before.

  The first chapter dealt only with the concept of truth. That is, it asked the question, What is truth? The author dared the reader to be able to make one simple statement that was undeniably true. Iscustik issued the challenge, saying that it wasn’t possible to say any one statement and be certain that every single aspect of it was above reproach.

  It was dark in the room, but the single electric lamp was bright enough to give her reading light. It flickered once or twice, and Drea thought of Thryis toiling away on the Great Generator.

  When Drea was finished reading the chapter, she closed the book and set it on her lap.

  “Do you understand why I chose this book for reading today?” Osween asked.

  Yes, Taja, I do, Drea thought. “No, Taja, I don’t,” she said.

  “Not surprised,” said the governess. “It’s because the purpose of philosophy is the pursuit of the ultimate truth, backed by rigorous argumentation and the tools of logic. Logic, which you seem to know something about.”

  “I see that now. You are very wise to show this to me, Taja.”

  “Don’t try flattery, girl. I’m not here for your approval, but for Lord Syphen’s. Am I understood?”

  Drea swallowed. She’d made a miscalculation, and she immediately understood why. Osween was an instructor, not a true intellectual. Intellectuals craved praise, while instructors craved only results. “Forgive me, Taja.”

  Osween ignored her apology. “Now, do as the book says, and try to make a statement that is true.”

  Drea thought for a moment. “The sky is blue,” she said.

  “Says who?” Osween said at once. “What sky? The night sky? Tell me, girl, when have you ever seen the night sky be blue?”

  Drea composed herself. “The sky is blue in the daytime,” she amended.

  “Really? Is the sky blue when there are storm clouds?”

  “That isn’t the sky,” Drea said. “That’s the storm clouds.”

  “And how do you know the sky is still blue above the storm clouds?” Osween said, a slight smile touching one corners of her lips. “Are you able to fly above the clouds, and see what sky is above them?”

  Drea nodded. “All right, then. The sky is blue in the daytime when there are no clouds to cover it. That much I can say I know.”

  “Can you really? And what if you met a blind man? How would you convince him of the truth of this statement? What if blindness is a gift and sight is a curse? What if the blind men have it right, and darkness is all there really is? What if light, the sun, and the sky are all just illusions we are cursed to think we see?”

  The silence in the room was broken only by the occasional wind. Plainly, there were no answers to Osween’s questions. And there never will be, Drea thought. For no statement could ever stand up to such scrutiny.

  “Tomorrow, I want you to have another statement ready for me,” Osween said. “And I want you to come prepared with arguments to defend it, using the rules of philosophy, as are written in the next two chapters of the book, and any logical arguments you believe you can marshal. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Good. Now, let’s have a look at some of your drawings.”

  Drea showed the governess a charcoal portrait she was doing of Thryis. It was from a memory, when the girls had gone with their mothers to a picnic in the hills just outside of Drith’s walls. Drea was not in the picture, but it was from her perspective. It was how she remembered seeing her friend. Thryis was wearing a white stola and palla, and turning just slightly away from Drea to look at a few butterflies that had alighted on her arm.

  Osween looked at the portrait most severely, then looked at Drea. “Why are you smiling?”

  For a moment, she didn’t know what Osween meant. Then Drea realized she had been smiling. Just looking at the portrait filled her with such joy. “Oh, um…it’s just that…I’m particularly proud of this piece, Taja.”

  Osween looked her up and down. “Hm,” she said. She looked back at the portrait. “Hm.” She looked at Drea. “Hm.”

  The wind fluttered through the room as the two women considered one another. Drea felt like some kind of piece of art herself, being judged by a skeptical eye.

  Finally, Osween said, “The portrait wants some more character. The addition of the butterflies is a bit silly, too childish. Focus on your subject more, and don’t overcrowd the portrait. Am I understood?”

  Drea’s smile completely vanished. “Yes, Taja.”

  She looked back at the portrait. “This is your friend, isn’t it? The Ardenk girl? I thought I saw her when she came to visit you.”

  “It is her, yes.”

  “I thought I saw her with a clockwork leg.”

  “This is from before she lost the leg to infection.”

  “Silly.”

  Drea blinked. “Silly, Taja?”

  “Yes. It’s silly to hold onto friends who are so unfortunate. I thought you would’ve learned that by now.” She pointed to the black book on Drea’s bedside table. “The Way is very clear on this. The Seventh Precept?”

  “I…I haven’t gotten that far yet—”

  “If you’re going to keep the book much longer, you really ought to take advantage of its ancient knowledge and actually read it.” Osween gave her a most penetrating gaze. “Am I understood?”

  The way with which she said it…She sounds strange, like she’s accusing me of something.

  “Yes, Taja.”

  Osween gathered up her things and headed for the door. She paused before leaving, and said, “Remember. Tomorrow. A good, solid statement, one that cannot be refuted easily.” She walked out, leaving the door open for Hyra’s sake.

  Drea took a seat by her easel and stared up at the portrait of Thryis. Then, out of curiosity, she opened The Way, and turned it to the first page of the chapter concerning the Seventh Precept.

  The Seventh Precept, she read. Avoid the unlucky and the unhappy people around you. They are a plague, and will bring you down. They will infect your Glamour, poison it, and leave you
as unhappy and as unlucky as they.

  Drea read a few more pages of the author’s illuminations on why this Precept was so important to one’s success in life. And, as she read it, she realized why Osween had suggested she read this chapter.

  She’s suggesting I stop speaking to Thryis. She’s saying I need to cut out my life’s greatest friend, simply because Thryis is unfortunate? I’m supposed to turn my back on a friend because she’s become poor? Because she’s lost a leg? Because her family has fallen on hard times and has to work for a living?

  Drea closed the book in a huff. For a moment, she felt the Kalderus rage bubbling towards the surface. Before she knew it, she’d flung the book across the room, where it slammed against the wall. “Insufferable woman!” she growled.

  She suddenly wanted to believe Lady Blackveil’s message more than ever.

  I have proof. Come to me, Drea Kalder.

  The wind whirled around her, picking up loose sheets of paper and spinning them around her like a tornado’s funnel. Drea clutched her furs close and looked about the cottage, which she was coming to view as worse than a cage. A cavern, perhaps. A place not of liberation, but of exile.

  After worrying over a few changes to Thryis’s portrait, Drea put her things away and started for the door. She was on her way to meet with her new-sisters for their daily sewing and weaving sessions.

  She stopped at the door, though, and looked back at her bed. Drea reached underneath it and pulled out the ceramic container, opened it, and checked inside to see if its contents were still there. To see if the Old Man was actually real. She hefted it in her hand, surprised again by its weight, and its warmth, and the distant screams…

  With trepidation and shaking hands, she fiddled with the cylinder on the side. She must have hit some kind of switch, because the cylinder suddenly popped open and Drea gasped. She checked to see if it was loaded. Indeed, it was, but with bullets that had strange markings on them, markings like glyphs.

  Drea put the cylinder back into the pistol and tucked it under her bed, then hastened out the door and across the lawn. She pulled her coverings close to her, trying to keep the wind away from her skin, but it always seemed to find a way.

  When Drea entered the house, she was glad to see a fire had been stoked in a small reading room just inside. She paused to warm herself by it, thinking about the Old Man, Lady Blackveil, and what it all could mean.

  Suddenly, something interrupted her thoughts. It was a noise.

  Sssssssssssssssss-chhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuu

  Drea looked at the entrance to the reading room, and saw Lord Hiss walking alone down the hall. Drea watched with fascination as the iron golem walked slowly, morosely, his helmet and arms chuffing out hot clouds of steam. On his arms, crixstones flashed with green darklight.

  Then, he paused. He stood in the hallway a moment before turning around, and looked right at her. He seemed to have sensed her watching him.

  Drea found herself locked by the dead gaze of Lord Hiss’s helmet. They both stood there for an eternity, just considering one another, prisoners of their own cages. Finally, he broke the spell for both of them by turning and walking away.

  Watching him, Drea felt pity for the creature. She didn’t know who or what he really was, nor how he’d come to such a sad end, but she sensed that he had been as neglected by Loraci as Drea had.

  Recalling what she’d heard Daedoris say about him, Drea found her heart stirring for the poor thing. She hollered out, “Excuse me?”

  Lord Hiss paused, and turned to face her again.

  Drea was mesmerized again by those dead, mechanical eyes, yet somehow she wasn’t afraid. She cupped her arms in front of her. He tilted his head, seemingly noticing the gesture. That a noblewoman ought to face him, all manners, seemed to puzzle him.

  “My name is Drea,” she said. “Drea Kal—Drea oda Syphen. What’s your name?”

  Lord Hiss said nothing. The only sound emanating from him was the steady and labored mechanical breathing.

  Sssssssssssssssssssss-chhuuuuuuuu

  “I know they call you Lord Hiss, but that cannot be your real name.”

  Sssssssssssssssss-chhhhuuuuuuuu

  Drea cleared her throat, feeling awkward. “I’ve heard you’re a great warrior, that you stand before men and beasts in the arena, and that you ask to be killed.” She shuffled her feet nervously. “I’m curious. Why would you do that? Why would you even fight in an arena if all you wish is to die?”

  Sssssssssssssssss-chhhhhhuuuuuuuuuu

  Drea nodded. “Of course, I’m prying. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She turned back to her fire.

  “We all do what we must,” he said. The voice was made of iron, like the rest of him. It was deep, mechanical, and ominous. “Even if we don’t want to. The gods beset us all with many burdens. I have mine, you have yours.”

  Drea took a step towards him, looking at the intricate weavings of his armor, at the glyphs etched all over. “And your burdens, are they so much that you wish to die just to be free of them?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Drea gave it serious thought. “No.”

  “Then you have not been burdened as I have.”

  “Perhaps not. But…I’ve found that talking about burdens often serves to alleviate them. Sort of like sharing a heavy load.”

  Ssssssssssssssss-chhhhhhhuuuuuuuuu

  “I’m afraid you might find my burdens too heavy for sharing,” Lord Hiss said. He started to turn away.

  “Even so,” she said. “Should you ever find yourself in a mood to talk—just talk—I’m happy to make myself available. I’m staying inside the cottage at the wooded end of the estate—”

  “I know where you’re staying, Drea oda Syphen,” he said. “I’m also a guest here. But just because we are captives of the same master, do not presume we are friends.”

  “People don’t have to be friends to be friendly. And that’s all I was doing, being friendly.”

  “You’re doing it because you pity me.”

  Drea shrugged. “And so what if I am?”

  The large golem-faced helmet remained staring at her for some time.

  Ssssssssssssssssss-chhhhhhuuuuuuuuuu

  At last, he turned and walked away, leaving Drea to her fire. After watching him go, Drea checked the timekeeper on her wrist. Curse me! It was half past the Hour of the Snake. If she didn’t hurry, she was going to be late to her weaving.

  Drea’s work with her new-sisters was hampered by the wind that kept whipping through the windows—their threads kept blowing away, and their pallas kept blowing into their faces, obstructing their views.

  “Curse this,” Saephis snapped. “I wish Hyra would come on, already. She’s making me quite ill.”

  “What do you care if she reveals herself today or not?” Daedoris asked, slowly and meticulously threading her string. She was the only one who seemed unbothered.

  “If she shows herself at her Temple,” Saephis said, “then the priests will ring the bells and we can finally shut our doors.”

  It was true. On the rare occasion that a girl appeared at the Temple of Hyra claiming to be Hyra incarnate, the priests typically rang the bells, signaling to all that the Festival was over.

  Vaedris looked up at them. “Yes, but then we would miss out on all the treats, wouldn’t we?”

  “What use are treats handed out by priests if we’re trapped in here, where we can’t get at them?” Saephis posed. “And besides, it’s freezing out, so who would want to visit the Temple in this weather?”

  “Well,” Vaedris said, “I just so happened to have planned a trip for us, but if you really think it’s too cold—”

  “What?” Saephis said, smiling. “You minx! You let me get this threading board started without telling me that we’re going to the Temple of Hyra today?”

  “We may not be, since you say it’s too cold—”

  “Oh, shut up! Stop teasing!” Saephis leapt to her feet. “I need to get prepared. I need
to have the slaves dress me appropriately. We might see some of the men from House Titung there, or that one handsome boy from House Igri. Daedoris, come! I’ll do your chores for a week if you do my hair!”

  Vaedris was already laughing hysterically as she followed them out of the room.

  The sisters took an hour to prepare, and Drea went along quietly, dressed no differently than she had been that morning. They went in the carriage again, and this time the driver was their male escort. They walked onto the Street of Guilds, where winterflowers had been arranged in bouquets and hung on wrought-iron gates, draped over electric lamps and gas lamps, or else tossed into the streets to welcome Hyra.

  To receive Hyra’s blessings meant that the changes of the season—and, indeed, the changes in the people’s lives—were going to be for the better. The changing of the seasons was Hyra’s domain, and only she could give the changes her approval.

  If a person was thinking of making a great change in one’s life, this was the time to do it.

  They proceeded to the Temple of Hyra, where thousands had gathered to line up so that the priestesses could bless them. The Priestesses of Hyra were always draped in white stolas, black pallas, and hands gloved in red kudrai silk. They went down the line and took each person’s hand. The priestesses leaned in to listen as each person whispered into their ears their heart’s greatest desire, the thing they wanted to change most about their lives.

  Giant clouds of steam leaked from copper pipelines that ran overhead, making the priestesses appear like spirits, or like they were being viewed through a thin silk curtain.

  The crowd was bustling. Despite the cold, a festive air still pervaded the streets. People were tasting the meals that the Priests of Hyra were obligated to cook for everyone during her Festival. Slaves were handing out small sweets to everyone.

  “Thank you,” Drea said, accepting a sugary treat.

  “Don’t thank them, new-sister,” Vaedris told her. “The more you treat them as equals, the more they’re likely to think of themselves of equals. Slaves don’t work too well once they develop individuality.”

  Vaedris ushered both Drea and her sisters into line. Saephis and Daedoris chattered incessantly together, gazing at the boys of the other Houses and engaging them with playful flirting and banter. They walked over to the banquet tables where the priests were fighting to keep the free meals from blowing away, for the wind was still harsh.