I look from each isle, from the lush greens of Summer, through to the golds and reds of Autumn, and in the distant mist I know hides the Winter Isle. I shiver and wrap my cloak tighter around myself.
chapter sixteen
hanan
The bird’s neckis twisted at a horrible angle. I cock my head to the side, peering at the entrails and feathers matted with blood. When I bend down to touch it, it’s still warm. It must have crashed into the temple only minutes ago. The wind is ripping at me today, and the huge swells blast sea spray. My skin dances with the pain of the lashing and I crouch low and close to the temple wall for shelter. The bird is a beautiful little thing with bright blue feathers and a gold-tipped beak, and I encircle it with my cloak. So small and so fragile. Hollow bones that allow them to fly but make them vulnerable.
A shiver runs down my spine and the Tree’s energy pulsates through me. The sighting of a mokon is a rare and precious thing and the death of one is a terrible omen. I cast a protective circle around myself and touch the talisman at my neck. Even though it’s a moment for reverence, my eyes are thirsty to examine its form. My gaze flits across its delicate feathers, its unreal unearthly colours. Such a thing feels shot through with magic, with power. But not anymore. It lies there still, but not restful.
‘I’m sorry my sweet,’ I say, placing my hand gently on its body. A scream pierces my head, and I pull away. It stops. I breathe, closing my eyes and tentatively stretching out my hand again. Once I make contact, the cacophony begins again. I focus on that awful, frantic noise. The bird is screaming, not on the ground on the Winter Isle but in my head, inside my flesh. I hold on to the bird’s body. Painshoots through my arm and into the bird. It’s heart jolts, then beats. It increases rapidly, a murmuration, then a frenzied fury. I open my eyes and see the mokon, moving and flapping wildly. It squawks and I remove my hand, letting it into the sky. It takes flight, a bewildered and ugly movement. It screams again, its eyes red and weeping. Even though we’re no longer touching, I feel the wild hastening of its heart.
‘Wait!’ I shout.
The bird’s heart explodes, ripping it from the inside out. It bursts into a nothingness of feathers and blood. What remains of the mokon splatters on my face.
At first, I think the screaming is coming from me. Then I turn around and see Malostra standing at the temple door.
I run after her, so fast my muscles burn and the breath in my lungs is fire. My eyes adjust to the gloom inside the temple, listening for the rhythmic slap of her shoes on the stone floor. Her breathing is ragged and she’s crying, gasping for air. The hem of her skirt is just within reach, and I grab at it. We both tumble to the ground and there’s a sharp, blinding-white pain.
‘Let go of me!’ she shouts, stumbling to her feet. Her skirt is torn, her knees bruised. I’ve caught my teeth on my lip and bring my hands up to my face as blood pools in my palms. Something sharp penetrates my skin, jagged little knives. There are thorns sticking out of my skin and then I see Malostra’s hands. She’s grown a sunburst of gorse in her palms, and the plant retreats now that it’s done its damage. She stands there numbly, not running, no longer trying to escape me.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask slowly.
She bites her lip and looks at my bleeding hands.
‘What did you do to that bird?’
‘Malostra—’ I begin, my voice honeyed.
‘Answer me!’ she cuts me off, salt-sharp.
I hold her gaze. ‘What did you see?’
‘You... fixed it,’ she says, and I think there is a tiny sliver of wonder and admiration in her voice. ‘But then – something went wrong. The bird became... something else.’ Her brow furrows as she tries to find her way, to remember and understand what I did. ‘You killed it. It died, again.’
The temple’s quiet has been broken by Malostra’s shouts and I feel the stirring of the Sisters in corridors, moving closer towards us. The rustle of skirts rounds the corner and there’s Mothers Joca and Lin striding purposefully towards us, followed by an orderly line of Temple Sisters. We have disturbed the start of afternoon study.
‘Are you going to tell them?’ I whisper, desperately trying to hold Malostra with my gaze.
‘What in the name of Aistra is happening here?’ Mother Joca asks, as I dust off my skirts and stand.
Mother Lin eyes the tear in Malostra’s gown, the blood on my face.
‘In so many generations, we have never seen fighting in these halls,’ Mother Joca continues, berating us loudly in front of the silent sisters. I don’t believe that in the centuries of the Temple of Aistra’s existence there hasn’t been a single bout of violence.
The Sisters keep their heads down, peering curiously through their eyelashes at us. Malostra has adopted this pose as well: head down, hands clasped.
I feel bile rise in my throat and am filled with a poisonous disdain for her meekness. I stand arms akimbo and stare directly at the Sisters. They hold the whip of priestess-hood above us, but I’m under no illusions now. I’ve failed, lost any chance of that. Fuck it, may as well be defiant. Aistra knows I’ve craved it all these years.
‘Explain yourselves, Hanan and Malostra,’ Mother Joca commands.
‘A lovers’ quarrel, I’m sure,’ Mother Lin says lightly.
An involuntarily sneer creeps onto my face and the smile drops from hers. The relationships between Temple Sisters are commonplace but to speak of one so publicly, so off-handedly, is absolutely tasteless. I had thought Lin had more decency.
‘That’s not what it is,’ Malostra snaps. There’s a wine-stained blush on her face and her mouth is pursed, as if she might cry. ‘The bird was dead. And then it was alive again. Hanan, she—’ Malostra scrambles to find the words. ‘She brought it back to life.’
‘Necromancy?’ Mother Joca breathes.
