I was sixteen and it was easy to mistake my love for him as love for the world. But I think, if I had loved the world more and Bayyur less, I might have trod more carefully. I would have gone to the Temple of the Great Mother and asked for assistance. But I loved Bayyur and I believed he loved me, and I thought in doing this I might save him. Perhaps more arrogantly, I believed I would survive my wedding rites.
Two nights passed before I prepared a gatha unlike any other. I dyed the ochre paste I put on my eyelids and lower lip black, and I chose a simple linen gown dyed in saffron. I wore no gold—not in my hair nor at my wrists. From my neck hung a single pendant, the emerald stone that had hung from his ear on our first meeting, given to me by his own hand when I was a child.
The monastery was quiet as I swept the small prayer bower. The kazervaaj were used to my calling Bayyur, and none had guessed what I called him for now. But the leader of my hagaad, Vala, looked down into the prayer bower, her spear in hand, her eyes hard. I could not hold her gaze, for if she guessed my purpose she would drag me, screaming, back to my chamber, whether my skin was sacrosanct or not.
Songs of love had been forbidden to me, for—or so the mother priestess said—I did not understand their power. I did, or I thought I did, for the arrogance of what I’d accomplished at thirteen was a powerful drug. And I understood that to enchant Bayyur, to call him for this even as his essence decayed, I could not use joy or ecstasy. It had to be love.
And so I sang the suku softly, as if only to myself. I sang of love as I knew it—all-consuming, fractious, like thunder and lightning at once, roiling between my two palms. Love, for me, was Bayyur looking up at me in wonder, was his voice rasping for my help, was the moment—the single second—my skin had touched his.
How little I knew of love, and yet how much.
Suku flowed into dekaad, and so, too, did the bitterness of what I had to do. I had grown up loving Bayyur and being told that he could never love me in return. What use did a kazerach have for a mortal’s love when it was fleeting, a brief moment in the shade of ages?
And I had been named such, hadn’t I? Khefa—a mote, a speck. Named such because I was the mote irritating market sellers, and I remained such in hopes that I would be the blood mote in Bayyur’s eye, as close to him as his own heart.
So here I was, my heart song lifting from my throat, my feet moving through the paces I’d learned since I was a girl. The dekaad of love, too, was different. It was not sultry or beckoning. It yearned and it pleaded and it desired. The dekaad of love was love unfulfilled, waiting for the kazerach to join and turn it to joy.
And so I danced and I danced and I danced until it seemed all stars had gone from the sky and all the lanterns went out. And when at last I stopped, my skin shining with sweat, the ochre at the corners of my eyes bleeding down the sides of my face, Bayyur stood before me. Gone was the gold dust from his skin and hair. He gleamed, instead, with blood.
But I felt hope, perhaps foolishly. Hanging from his left ear was the emerald stone I loved so, swinging from a delicate gold chain. He held out a clawed hand. I did not hesitate to take it, to let him draw me to him. The orange of my gown, soaked through with his blood, turned crimson and then black. His free hand swept over the curve of my cheek.
No one had ever touched me. No one had dared. I was meant for Bayyur and Bayyur alone, and I knew, too, that in all likelihood he would not have me. But now, in the circle of his arms, with his black eyes fixed on mine, I understood the yearning in love, the way flesh and the divine were inextricable from one another.
He did not warn me before he raised a clawed thumb to my bottom lip and split the skin. It was painless, and yet I felt my own blood drip down over my chin, taking the ochre dye with it.
“Do you take the step forward?” he asked.
Here was the Bayyur I knew, confident, assuming, without fear or doubt. I did not question the blood on his skin or the look in his eye. I knew only that the dance had worked, had brought him to rights. And the marriage was not yet done.
“Yes,” I said.
His mouth came down on mine. Where I had felt thunder and lightning at the touch of his skin, this—
How I loved him, and how I loved this. The divine was fire and thunder, the implosion of suns, the horrible, cacophonous unmaking of worlds. It thundered through my blood, it stretched my mind to its limits. We mortals were not made for kazerach, not like this, and yet my body held and my mind, too, though I waited for both of them to disappear.
When he pulled away I knew what would be left on my mouth and chin; a black line splitting my bottom lip, and carving its way over my chin. The mark of the kazerach’s bride. But I thought little of that as I looked at him. He had not changed, and yet some aspect of him was different. Something in his sight unsettled me. He caught my eye and smiled as he had long ago, and it did not ease my fear. He came forward and did not pause when I stepped back.
A hand, without claws, rested on the emerald hanging from my neck.
“Why do you balk at me?” he asked.
The saagkazaar knew song and dance beyond anyone and anything. And I understood suddenly, horribly, what had changed in the patterns of his voice.
He was become part mortal.
Not all. Not even most. Half of a sliver’s sliver. And yet, I knew, it was enough. The part mortal could not power the divine. Could not sustain our world.
“Bayyur—” I breathed, searching his face. A man stared back. Not a kazerach. “What have we done?”
I felt sick hearing the tones of my own voice, because I understood without his speaking. For the mortality that had seeped into his voice had been leached from mine. And in exchange he had given me a little of his divinity, a little of his cosmic fire.
“You will save me, Khefa,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against mine. “You and your light will hold the corruption at bay. Long enough—”
“Long enough?” I gasped. “Long enough for what?”
“Long enough for an end to let flower a new beginning,” he said. “When I pass, you will become Kumzala—the garden by which a new world will be born. A mote that will turn to fire and bring about rebirth.”
MELIE
By Justina Ireland
I clambered over the rocks, nearly slicing my hand open on a jagged edge as I steadied myself. From far off, the jetty had seemed like the perfect place to find my quarry, but now that I was on the rocks I began to worry that maybe I should’ve picked another spot. There was no way I’d be able to get out any farther into the water, at least not this way.
Well, not without swimming.
Klydonia was a prosperous place of fertile farmland, rugged mountains, and a seaport that had allowed us to trade with most of our neighbors. But it was also a land brimming with beasts of all sorts and sizes. It was the kind of place where jumping into a dark current was a terrible idea. There were half a dozen sea creatures that would drown a human just for fun, and I wasn’t the best swimmer even without a selkie dragging me toward the bottom of the sea.
I started to head back to the beach to find another spot when I saw them pulling themselves up onto the rocks: mermaids. Gloriously fat, their rainbow hair knotted with bits of seashells as well as coral and kelp. Their skin was a blue-gray, and only their brightly colored tails stood out against the rocks.
For months I had been running errands for the High Sorcerer in hopes that he would see fit to take me as an apprentice. He had sent me on task after task, all with the promise of sharing his great wisdom. Anyone in Klydonia could learn magic, but it was incredibly dangerous to be self-taught. One never knew when a spell might backfire and turn an aspiring sorcerer into a lump of clay or a toad. So a teacher was a must.
And since the only teacher strong enough to help me learn the advanced spells that would let me help my village thrive was the High Sorcerer, I had to get to those mermaids. Otherwise, it was b
ack to the stacks of the library, reading spells I was too inexperienced to try.
I redoubled my efforts, finding a couple of handholds, finally hopping across a particularly dangerous gap from one rock to the next. The water swirled with dangerous currents, and one false step would definitely mean my end.
But, mermaids! It would be worth it. Maybe.
“Halloo!” I called, once I was within shouting distance of the mermaids, giving them a jaunty wave. A few mermaids screamed and quickly dove back under the safety of the water, but those who had pulled themselves farther up the rocks stayed where they were, their bodies taut with aggression.
“Don’t run, it isn’t even armed,” one said, the statement directed at me as much as the other mermaids. It? Ouch.
“Leave us be, landling! We’ll never tell you the location of our castle or give you any jewels,” called a mermaid with turquoise hair.
“Don’t think we haven’t seen your ships, docked out in the deep, waiting for an opportunity to strike,” said another, her expression hard.
“And if you try to come any closer we’ll pull you off the rocks and into the cold, dark water,” said yet another, leaning back on her rock.
I didn’t think that one was lying, so I looked around at my rock and carefully found a seat. The mermaids were near enough that I could talk to them without too much effort, and I had no intention of letting them make good on their threat to drown me.
“I’m not here for your jewels or to conquer your kingdom! I’m an apprentice to the High Sorcerer, and I’ve come to ask for a vial full of your tears. It’s for a very important spell,” I said, grinning with newfound confidence. I had no doubt they would help me. After all, if I were a mermaid I would’ve helped them. Helping was just a natural instinct. Right?
A few of the mermaids poked their heads up out of the water. “Mermaids don’t cry,” said one.
“What kind of spell?” another called.
“I believe it’s to heal the sybaritic fever,” I said. This was a lie. I didn’t actually know what the tears were for. The sorcerer never told his lowest-level apprentices what they were fetching ingredients for, and even my translation of the old books was suspect, as the High Sorcerer constantly reminded me. Not that he deigned to talk to me. When he did speak in my general direction it was usually to call me the wrong name and then tell me my readings were incorrect. But never to offer the right translation.
“Also, why would we help you?” asked the turquoise-haired mermaid, interrupting my small pity party. I was beginning to think of her as the leader. “We hate the sorcerer. He sends his apprentices to hunt us for our scales.”
“And they stare at us in a gross way,” another mermaid said.
I made a face. “That was probably Ernst. He’s icky. Look, I don’t like the sorcerer very much, either, but he’s kind of my boss, and if I want to be a great sorcerer then I have to do what he says.”
“If you’re an apprentice, where are your robes?” called another mermaid, one with lavender hair, who had pulled herself a little bit out of the water.
My face burned, and not from the afternoon sun. “Um, they didn’t have the robes in my size.” I couldn’t help but remember the sorcerer’s cool gaze as he’d told me, “You are too large for robes, so your regular clothes will have to do.”
“I’m too fat,” I said, the admission feeling like something shameful even though I wasn’t sure why.
At this the mermaids cried out in dismay. “Too fat?”
“But you look positively malnourished!”
“She’d never survive in the water with so little blubber.”
“Ugh, humans are the worst.”
“I like her skin, though. It’s so brown!”
“So,” I said, seeing an opportunity in their outrage. “It would be a huge boon if you could give me some tears.”
A few of the mermaids murmured agreement, but the turquoise-haired mermaid was unmoved. “We aren’t going to give you them for nothing. It’s very hard to cry. So what can you give us in return?”
I grinned, and leaned forward as much as I could while sitting very uncomfortably on a very jagged rock. “How about a story?”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
By the time I got to the end of “The Dragon and the Moon Maiden,” the mermaids were sobbing piteously. One of the younger ones swam over to claim a vial I held out, and another besides. When the mermaids returned the vials, their tears sparkled in the fading sun, strange and unusual. A deep sense of relief and satisfaction sank into my aching bones.
I had done something right. Now the sorcerer would have to take me seriously.
The mermaids slipped into the water, going on about their business, and the turquoise-haired mermaid swam over to me, handing me a couple of bright-yellow scales from her own tail. I took them with the reverence they deserved. Mermaid scales were among the rarest of ingredients for magic working.
“We really liked your story. If you want to come back and tell us more, we’ll let some of the others know. You could get a lot of scales and tears,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said, but the mermaid was already sinking beneath the waves, back to her underwater home.
It was a long walk back to the castle, up the steep and winding path along the cliffs that overlooked the bay. I turned to search over the water for the ships the mermaids had spoken of, but I saw nothing but evening mist. Perhaps they were confused? Still, it would bear mentioning to someone in the defense ministry after I got back.
I took my time, and when I finally got to the top I was breathing heavily, and my stomach grumbled. I’d missed lunch, and the eventide bells were already ringing, meaning that I’d missed dinner as well.
Still, there was work to be done. So I pushed my hunger and disappointment aside and headed straight for the sorcerer’s tower.
The castle had once belonged to the monarchy, but when it had been overthrown the Council of Ministers decided to expand the original castle grounds into a sprawling complex of apartments and offices that merged nearly seamlessly with the nearby town. The sorcerer’s apartments were in the old, original portion of the castle, and I had to wind through the more modern white-stone hallways in order to reach the staircase that would lead to the sorcerer’s spell room.
I deftly navigated the various wards, nearly singeing my curly hair when I miscalculated the length of a fire ward, but eventually I was at the door to the sorcerer’s potion shop. I pushed it open like I had a thousand times before, only this time I was met with the door slamming rudely in my face.
“Who is it?” an irate, masculine voice demanded.
“It’s Melie. I have the mermaid tears,” I said with some irritation, rubbing my nose. I recognized that voice, and knew nothing good could come of this interaction.
There was a scrabbling on the other side before the door opened a small crack. A single blue eye peered out at me. Ernst, the sorcerer’s favorite apprentice.
“Hand it here, and I’ll give it to Hansen when he gets back.”
I snorted and put my hands on my hips. The tears and the scales were tucked away in my satchel, and there was no way I was going to give either of them to Ernst so that he could take credit for my hard work. I’d made that mistake too many times before.
“What is taking you so long finding that foxglove?” came the bellow from the other side of the door. Ernst looked back, and I took that opportunity to lean into the door, unsettling Ernst and making my way through. He fell back with an oof and I strode inside, head held high. On my way to the back of the potion shop I snatched a jar of foxglove off the shelf and upset a jar of singing bees, all without pausing in my route.
The sounds of breaking glass and Ernst’s yelps of dismay from behind me were a dark source of pleasure. I even let myself smile.
At the back of the potion shop a c
auldron bubbled over a banked fire, and Hansen murmured to himself in annoyance. The first time I had met the sorcerer I’d been surprised at his age: he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five summers. He had a shock of yellow hair and skin like unbaked pastry, a hallmark of his people. He’d come to Klydonia to learn the craft of sorcery from the previous master, and had taken over the position when the last sorcerer died.
There were voices within the court that didn’t like having a foreigner, especially one so ready to bring on his own countrymen as apprentices, in such a high position of authority. But those voices were usually silenced. Not because he was any sort of well-loved personality, but because his critics always ran afoul of some sort of mischief. A wiser council would’ve considered that perhaps there was some intent behind Councilmember Guth being attacked by a basilisk right after accusing the High Sorcerer of murder, but the rest of the council were so enamored of the man that it never came up again. Once they’d managed to move the stone that had been Councilmember Guth into a courtyard, that is.
I didn’t much care about court politics. I just hoped that at some point I would be able to stop fetching ingredients and do some actual spellwork. I didn’t even like Hansen all that much, and I sincerely doubted he had translated some of his texts correctly, but without his approval there were several very powerful texts that were off-limits to me.
Mostly, I didn’t understand why Hansen was so against teaching me the sorcerous arts. I could feel the possibilities simmering in my veins whenever I read a passage aloud, despite what Hansen had told me on several occasions: that my power was so low I’d never be much more than a hedge witch. There was nothing wrong with being a hedge witch, but I knew I wasn’t one. I could feel the potential inside me. I just needed a way to direct it.
Where I came from, we didn’t much believe in only certain people having magic. My village elders all had some measure of ability, learned through practice and study. It wasn’t until Hansen came to our land that people began to speak of some folks being better than others, and it was one more curious thing that made me suspicious of the High Sorcerer.
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