‘I’ve seen several priestesses in my time,’ Salvacion says, meaningfully.
One royal and one priestess was tradition, but our queen has gone through as many priestesses in almost as many years.
Her words are ice in my bones. We all know the horrors, spoken in whispers: families screaming as their children are snatched in the night. As soon as that power shines bright enough, the Bastion knows it.No one knows how. We live in fear that someone we know may disappear next.
Biba’s past miracles have been embers compared to the otter-cat. This has been enough to get their attention. Biba will be taken from me and raised on the Winter Isle and serve them until she dies.
The map lies there, quietly biding its time. The pursuit of a promise. A phantom treasure. My husband knew the folly of adventure.
Eventually, I ask: ‘What is the queen looking for?’
‘I don’t know. But you’ll know it when you find it,’ Salvacion says. ‘And you’ll certainly be in the queen’s good graces. I’m sure everything could be forgotten.’ She stands and adjusts her jacket. ‘It may just be fisherfolk talk, but there’s an old woman, touched, on the mainland in Umasa. She might be able to help you understand what’s happening to Biba. Good luck, Ris.’ She claps me on the shoulder, hard.
The lackeys abandon their drinking and throw open the door for her exit. I stare at my blood on the soles of their shoes until they leave.
‘I need air,’ I tell my friends in the silence of the abandoned tavern.
Ryla helps me outside while Kopiro and Vullis begin to clean up.
It’s raining hard, the wind and rain lashing at my face. It slaps me hard as I lean against the stone wall, doubling over, my head between my knees. I retch, but nothing comes up. The bile is stuck in my throat. I can see the fabric of my dress torn asunder, underskirts flashing through the tears. Most likely caught on a nail or splinter when I was on the floor. Ruined, like so much of what I make.
My knees buckle and I fall to the ground. Ryla pushes their short hair behind their ears and crouches next to me, helping me up to lean against the wall. They rub my back. When they go to wipe the blood from my mouth, I tear a scrap of material from my hem and wad it against the bleeding gums.
chapter nine
hanan
Malostra is soundasleep next to me. I slowly untangle our limbs and crawl out of bed, narrowly avoiding the crack between the twin beds where we have pushed them together. We always move them to their original spots in the mornings, but over the years we’ve worn grooves in the flagstones. We’ve gradually added our own touches of personality to the sparsely furnished room. Dried flowers pressed under the mattress and feathers that have landed on the mantel adorn the simple chest that holds our belongings. The window casement never fully shuts, always bringing the cold sea air straight to my face while I sleep. It’s a sacrifice I make for feeling like I could escape out the window at any time. I check Malostra is fully asleep before I tiptoe across the cold floor and out into the hallway. The sconces are lit and throw strange shadows on the walls. The temple is still at this time of night, the other women asleep in their beds. Who knows how many of them sleep soundly in the arms of other Sisters.
Creeping around the corner, I nearly shout as I bump into someone.
‘Sister Hanan?’ Mother Lin asks, holding a candle up to my face.
‘Beg your pardon, Mother.’
She appraises me, silently waiting for me to give my reason to be out of my room at night. We aren’t locked in our rooms, not expresslyforbidden from roaming the halls when we please. However, there is no reasonable explanation for me to be here save one.
‘Night water,’ I say sheepishly.
Mother Lin sighs and waves me away. ‘Be quick. You’ll catch a chill.’
I smile at her concern, rubbing the gooseflesh of my arms under my nightdress. Fire lights our way in wall-mounted sconces, but we only get candles in our rooms and those are rationed. Only the Bastion has the luxury of roaring fireplaces when the mainland’s seasons shift. Suffering strengthens us.
I slip into the bathroom and listen for Mother Lin’s footsteps to retreat. When I’m certain I’m alone, I heave the stone out of place under the sink. Within the nook is my collection of papers and assorted materials gathered over the past years while scribing for the library. These are little treasures I have rescued from the fire, or mildewing where they have been stuck down the backs of bookshelves, forgotten and faded from time. My studies have intensified since I learned of the king’s death and the appointment of a new priestess; there isn’t any time to waste. Our abilities are the only things that set us apart from one another, and the queen must have the best. I still haven’t fully decoded the language on my latest acquisition, the swirling symbols with tiny serifs and images that look to me like hearts or diamonds, but who can say. Alongside my stash is a small kitchen knife, stolen and hidden away in my cloak during a herb-lore lesson.
I take the knife now and hold it against my skin, where hours earlier the flower had burst forth. I cut slowly and precisely, biting my lip from the pain. I’d hoped I’d get used to it by now. My palm tears, the blood welling quickly to the surface. I look at my dictated symbols and then close my eyes, picturing the cut in my hand withan invisible thread knitting the skin back together. I go over the movements several times and open my eyes, studying at my hand. The skin is puckered, and I watch, a smile quirking my lips, as the skin closes up. It’s not as neat as last time, but to anyone else it would look like a lifeline on my palm. I place a finger over the line and rub, as though buffing a jewel. I keep watching intently, my eyes straining in the dim light. Until, eventually, the line is thin, barely visible. I clench my jaw. I must be able to protect and heal a queen, not simply myself.
No one sees me return to the room. Malostra stirs a little as I clamber back into bed and pull her warm body close to mine. She lets out an involuntary snuffle in her sleep at my cold feet.
‘Are you sneaking around again?’ she asks, her words slurring together sleepily.
You can’t share a room with someone for years and not expect them to notice your strange ways. Malostra likes to burn her skin. I don’t comment on it, and she ignores the cuts on my hands and arms. We all have our ways of trying to feel something, little war badges of our dedication to the craft. If you’re not suffering, you’re not succeeding.
‘Some experiments,’ I say, stroking her hair.
She rolls over and kisses me. ‘You’ve been studying so hard recently. I wish you’d spend half as much time here as in the library.’
I say nothing for a moment and then ask: ‘Do you want to practise an exchange?’
