Prism Cloud

by Jeff Wheeler

  He pointed at one of the girls with his finger. She then went to the center of the room with him and lowered into a defensive stance. The bearded instructor proceeded to attack her. Cettie watched in shock as he kicked her, threw her down. The girl fought back, of course, but was no match for his skill and reflexes and size. She cried out in pain a few times, but eventually lay still, trembling in pain. Cettie longed to go to her, but the teacher finally stood, folding his arms imperiously, and two servants entered and carried her out.

  He pointed at a different girl, one who was closer to Cettie’s age. The girl strode forward with confidence. The master stood his ground, arms flexed, and nodded to her. She then launched into an attack, sending high kicks straight for his head. One of them actually connected, rocking the man’s head back. He caught the next one, hooking his foot behind the girl’s ankle and cutting her down, but she landed smoothly and flipped back onto her feet. Cettie watched in amazement as the two traded blows—arms, elbows, fists, knees. Back and forth they struck at each other, but the master eventually won the match, landing a blow to the girl’s stomach that winded her. He then torqued her arm behind her back, leaving her facedown on the floor, hissing in pain as he wrenched harder and harder. Cettie saw her eyes squeeze shut against the pain, and then her shoulder popped out of socket with a sickening sound. It made Cettie clench her own stomach. Was she supposed to do this as well?

  The girl collapsed, unconscious and silent, and then the same servants came in and carried her away.

  The master folded his arms again, scanning the group. Then he motioned for the youngest girl to approach. To Cettie’s amazement, she did so without any apparent fear. The master adjusted his technique with this one. He showed her a series of blocks, then began to throw a punch along with each block. Each time it went faster and faster until the young girl wasn’t able to react quickly enough, and the master punched her hard on the shoulder. The girl grimaced in pain but quickly raised her guard again. They exchanged blows until another punch made it through. Tears began to trickle down the girl’s cheeks, but she didn’t openly sob. They kept at the blocking drills until she could hardly lift her arms. Then the master nodded, and the girl walked toward the doors on her own, rubbing her bruised arms.

  Then the master turned and nodded for Cettie to approach.

  That surprised her. She’d thought she would be chosen at the end. Cettie wasn’t sure what to do, but she didn’t want to fight the man. She shook her head no, her insides twisting with dread. The master scowled at her and repeated his gesture, his lips pressed in a firm, hard line. A dangerous warning flashed in his eyes.

  The girl next to her gave Cettie a nod.

  She felt completely unprepared and vulnerable as she stepped into the middle of the room. The master appraised her and then dropped into a stance she recognized. He performed a movement from the Way of Ice and Shadows, a series of Bhikhu fighting techniques Raj Sarin had taught her. He then nodded for her to mimic him. She did, because she knew the move. As she held the stance, he pushed on her hand and arm, trying to shove her off balance, but her legs were strong from the practice. Was it coincidence that he faced her in a style she knew? She doubted it.

  The master pursed his lips and adopted another stance, the next one in the sequence. Cettie copied it. The master nodded for her to go on. She did, performing the rest of the set from memory as he observed her. When she was finished, he made her repeat a certain section. Then he made her do it again. She did. He adjusted her arm positions slightly, applying pressure to her wrist to make sure she was holding it right. He nodded again, stepping back from her. And then he attacked.

  Cettie responded on instinct. She’d performed the moves before but never against a man twice her weight and strength. Blocking the kick coming at her ribs hurt her forearms, but it was better taking the pain there. The master wheeled around to strike her from the other side, and Cettie found herself scrambling to counter his move. He was fast and didn’t follow the prescribed routine of the set. He kicked her thigh, and it hurt, but she fought on. Then he kicked her in the stomach and knocked her down. She scrambled back to her feet as the final kick struck her chest. Her ribs cracked, and she flew backward, landing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Pain ripped through her, and still her lungs wouldn’t expand. Cettie clawed on the ground in panic, struggling, and then felt arms grip her and bring her to her feet. She wheezed and choked as the familiar helpers walked her out of the room. Her eyes were misty with tears of pain.

  She finally managed to take a breath, and then another, but they were accompanied by painful jabs in her side. Her ribs were undoubtedly broken. It would take weeks to heal. Anger and resentment grew inside her. How could she be expected to fight like this regularly? Why would they maim and injure the girls sent to the school? She was escorted to a door and down the dark staircase beyond it, which was illuminated only by a few Light Leerings embedded in the wall.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the helpers led her through another door. Gathered inside the room was a small group of healers and the girls who had preceded her in the training. A few benches and tables had been set up around an enormous, moss-covered Leering that dripped water from where the mouth would have been. The carving was ancient, the face hardly more than a few craggy lines, but the eyes burned a dull orange.

  The two helpers set Cettie down on the bench, which she sat on gingerly, holding her side where the pain was the greatest. Just breathing made her flinch. The other girls looked cheerful and well, even the one who’d had her arm dislocated. They looked at her with knowing smiles. One said something in a language Cettie didn’t understand to the other girl, who nodded in agreement.

  One of the healers walked to the mossy Leering and peeled away a strip of the green vegetation. It had little flowers on it and exuded a sweet-smelling odor. The healer approached Cettie with it and gestured for her to hold the moss in her hands. Confused, Cettie obeyed. As soon as she touched it, she heard and felt the power of the Mysteries ignite in her skin. The strains engulfed her body, and she literally felt her cracked bones mend, pulling back into their proper places, becoming firm once more. The aches and bruises faded as the magic rushed through her, restoring her energy and her health. She stared at the little bit of moss in her hands and watched it shrivel as it yielded its power to her, trading its energy for her health. Watching it die filled her with compassion, but she sensed the magic was given willingly.

  The moss in her hand shriveled down to a tiny little stub, which the healer then took from her and returned to the boulder with the Leering. As she watched, it connected its fibers with the other moss growing there, which made it revive and flourish. She had never encountered such a plant before, one that could heal wounds. What would Adam think about such a thing? She stared at the Leering in surprise, and then heard the two other girls laughing at her.

  It was not a mocking laughter, but a knowing one. They nodded at Cettie, and the girl whose arm had been devastated stood and demonstrated that she was hale again. While Cettie could still remember the pain she’d endured at the master’s hands, it was only that . . . a memory. Her body was perfectly whole again. What sort of plant was it? How had it healed her?

  She knew someone who had the answer.

  The girls returned to the training room, where the master continued to practice with them. Sometimes sparring, sometimes teaching them weapons. He paired up the girls, and they practiced drills and forms. The older helped teach the younger while the master walked around, offering refinements to their technique. Cettie was famished by the time the midday gong sounded and they were ushered back to the eating hall. The portions were small, and Cettie ate hers with relish, her body craving food. The meal was eaten in silence, and then the girls were dismissed to the courtyard.

  The other girls seemed to know what to do, just like before, and they set to work on the garden beds, each one being assigned by Jevin. It appeared they were allowed to talk and converse with each other, but the
y communicated in a language Cettie didn’t understand. She found Jevin there with his hautboie, playing a whimsical tune, but he set the instrument aside to instruct her. He showed her which of the rectangles was hers and began teaching her about the various plants and how to care for them.

  He was very knowledgeable and friendly, and after he had explained the basics of what she’d be doing, she felt comfortable enough to ask him about the moss.

  “What is the plant that grows on the Leering in the healing room? The one they used to help us recover from the fighting?”

  “It is called Everoot,” answered Jevin simply, using a small spade to dig into the rich, dark earth. Then he pursed his lips and gave her a cynical smile. “There are legends about it, of course, but I don’t believe them. Not anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They say it grew in the First Garden, the one that the First Parents came from, beneath the sea. The First Mother smuggled some of it out, keeping it wet in seaweed, and hid it from the First Father. She was the first hetaera. The one who got them expelled from the Deep Fathoms and nearly drowned them both before they reached shore.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cettie said, shaking her head.

  “And why should you bother?” Jevin answered with a shrug. “Every world has its own creation myths. It is strange how similar they are. Yours . . . from Muirwood’s garden of Leerings . . . and ours from the gardens of the Deep Fathoms. Almost as if we shared the same origin. But as I said, it’s nonsense and foolishness. The myths are meant to control us. To make us act a certain way. Perhaps the purpose of the Everoot story is simply to remind us that the Everoot needs to be kept damp. You see, if it is not, it becomes the most deadly of poisons. The story reinforces a practice, nothing more. It’s just a means to an end.” He sniffed and dug around the dirt some more, then withdrew a small set of shears and carefully trimmed one of the leaves. “This one only kills you if brewed into a tea. It’s called deadlock. Quick and silent.”

  “What language do the other girls speak?” Cettie asked.

  “Genevese is the common tongue here. That girl is from Occitania,” he said, pointing to the twelve-year-old. Pointing to a few of the others in turn, he said, “She is from Atabyrion. She is from Pisan. She is from Leoneyis. She’s quite good and will be graduating soon. She’s needed to seduce the new emperor.”

  Cettie raised her eyebrows. “The new emperor? She’ll be sent to Lockhaven?”

  “No, not that empire. The new one. The one rising here.”

  Cettie gave him a confused look, her heart bubbling with worry. “What do you mean?”

  He set down the shears and picked up the trowel again. “Leon Montpensier’s empire. The sun has risen on his new dominion. This has all been underway for many years, you know. The rise of the new empire. The rebirth of the hetaera.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY−TWO

  PERCEPTIONS

  Not all the classes of the poisoner’s school were equally dangerous. After studying the poisonous herbs in the courtyard, they practiced musical instruments—for finger dexterity, sophistication, and so they might understand the musical culture of other realms. At least, that is what she was told. Then they were brought to their most traditional class yet: mathematics. Cettie quickly proved her capability to the teacher, who then presented her with harder assignments that went beyond what she had studied at Muirwood. The other girls, who were all younger than her, gave her looks of surprise and respect. But the next task they were given put her back out of her comfort zone.

  They’d been asked to climb part of the high outer wall surrounding the villa. It loomed up beyond a small pond and was accessible only by hopping from one rock to another across the water. The goal was to reach the top of the wall without falling back down into the pond, a challenging task, and not just because certain rocks protruded more than others. Partway up, a series of Water Leerings would activate, drenching the handholds as well as the climber. As soon as one girl fell into the pond, the Leerings would shut off, and the next girl would get a chance to start working her way up.

  The youngest girl had gotten the highest so far that day, an impressive feat for one so small. As Cettie waited for her turn, she thought about all she had learned on her first day and resisted the urge to be charmed by the school and its practitioners. The villa itself was scenic and lovely, and it matched what she’d seen of Genevar. This place wasn’t a hodgepodge of buildings and crumbling tenements like the landbound cities at home. It also struck her that the girls here were not imprisoned against their will—at least, it didn’t seem that way. She was probably the only one who wished she could voluntarily leave. And had she been brought from the Fells to this place, instead of being discovered by Lord Fitzroy, it would have likely won her over on the first day.

  The knowledge that she would be helping General Montpensier, her father’s enemy in the war, caused her distress. She’d learned from Sera that he was a vain and ambitious man, not a desirable leader by any means. What was more, she couldn’t stop thinking of what Caulton Forshee had told her about the hetaera. In the past, they had persecuted and even murdered the mastons. But was the reverse now true? Were not they the hunted ones?

  Was there an inherent right and wrong way to use the Mysteries? She could sense the power in the poisoner school just as she had at Muirwood. It was a different kind of song, but music nonetheless. Was there room enough in the world for both kinds, or must one always be in conflict with the other, just as she was in conflict with herself?

  She remembered the look in Caulton’s eyes as she showed him the kystrel. Perhaps her father had purposefully arranged for her to have it, hoping to educate her in another point of view. Why had she been so quick to hand it over? She could have used it to escape the poisoner school. She did not see any chains around the necks of the other girls in training. Did that mean the kystrels were only awarded at the end?

  Cettie felt a touch at her elbow and turned to find the Leoneyis girl at her side, gesturing for her to go to the wall. Cettie apologized for being lost in her thoughts, but she could see her apology meant nothing to the other girl. The language barrier stood between them. Still, the Leoneyis girl’s expression was encouraging. So different from the girls she’d known in Muirwood, who’d despised her because of her origins. The difference made her insides twist. Why was she enjoying these challenges so much?

  Cettie bounded from one rock to the next, but her balance was not quite as firm as she’d wish. She dreaded embarrassing herself by falling into the pond before reaching the wall.

  After crossing the rocks safely, she gazed up at the wall, which seemed much taller now that she stood at the base. There were small ferns and shrubs around the edges, and the stones were still a little damp from the previous climber. All the girls wore dresses and shoes—no climbing gear was allowed or provided. It was a test of physical strength and endurance. Unsure of herself, Cettie studied the edge of the wall, knowing the other girls were watching her. Being alone would have made it easier. But how different was this from memorizing and performing a dance at a ball?

  She took a steadying breath, judging the various handholds, and started up the face of the wall. It was not long before the burn in her muscles became distracting. She had not conditioned herself for this kind of effort. Her strength was in her self-control—she refused to quit, pushing herself to climb higher. The strength in her fingers flagged, and her discomfort grew more acute. She hadn’t even climbed high enough to trigger the Water Leering yet. But she didn’t let her slowness distract her from her goal. Patiently and painstakingly, she ascended, one stone at a time. Even when her legs began to tremble and quiver with the exertion, she summoned the will to move just one stone higher. And then one more.

  From a distance, she heard the trilling notes of Jevin’s hautboie. The sun was sinking rapidly, making the shadows grow thick and inky. The notes of the music caught her off guard, but they were soothing, and it helped her
to think about something other than the pain in her forearms and knees. She was sweating profusely now, hugging the wall, trying to find the strength to keep going. Concentration became difficult. She’d never felt so exhausted, but she clung to the gentle melody of the instrument as she reached for another handhold, her neck muscles so tight and pinched she couldn’t even look up. She pulled herself up, her arms shaking.

  And then the water started to fall. She sensed the Leering activate, just as she’d always sensed them, and knew it would happen before the first blasts of water struck the crown of her head. The shock of the water and the additional weight of her wet clothes made the agony even more unbearable. Water continued to streak down her face, and she shook her head, dislodging droplets, fearing she might drown in the deluge. Yet still she pulled herself up another piece, unwilling to submit to the fatigue and strain. She couldn’t hear Jevin’s music anymore, but somehow felt it vibrating in the stone. Another handhold.

  And then her foot slipped on the next wet stone, and Cettie found herself being pushed away from the wall by the force of the water. She tried to recover, tried to cling to anything, but it felt as if the entire wall had been rubbed smooth. Her arms began pinwheeling, and she tottered backward, unable to think. She fell down, down, down. Pain exploded in her right elbow as it struck one of the pond rocks, and then she was completely submerged underwater. The pain made her involuntarily yell, which sucked in a mouthful of brackish water. She floundered in the murk, choking and gagging, trying to find her way up. Then she felt a hand grip her wrist and realized the other girls were helping her.

  They hoisted her up, and although she was blinded from the water in her eyes, and her elbow throbbed in agony, she let them. They offered foreign words in encouraging tones. She felt hands around her waist and realized more than one was helping her. Clumsily, she reached the edge of the pond, her arm afire with pain, and then knelt on the bank, spluttering and coughing. One of them struck her back between the shoulder blades to help. Her ears were clogged with water as well, but as they drained, she could hear the garbled tunes from the hautboie again.