‘Why don’t you ask one of your new crewmates?’ she snaps, slamming the door to the rooms below.
chapter thirty-four
hanan
I am sequestered inbed until the queen deems me strong enough to leave. I detest being at her will, which sounds foolish, as I have been at her will since I stepped foot in the Bastion. Actually, even before that, though I did not know it. The shadow of her fingers has moved every moment of my life. As a girl I didn’t fully understand how I had come to be at the Temple of Aistra. Now that I am at the Bastion, I understand it a little more. Children bought, children snatched. Whispers that may their way to the Bastion like vibrations on a spider’s web. Either way, taken from their families as soon as the power they demonstrated was strong enough. Too strong to be controlled, strong enough to be moulded. As a Temple Sister, I had thought commune with the dead was the holiest duty to which I could aspire. Now, I sense a dark shadow to the power being nurtured in me.
One night, when I am restless in bed in the quiet hours before dawn, I feel a strange stirring in my body. It gives me the same thrill I had sneaking texts from the temple library; the first time I saw the word ‘necromancy’, the first time I could give voice to the sense of something forbidden, something straddling Life and Death. I am too weak to move much, so I examine my body bit by bit. My arms have the same tingly sensation as when they go numb in the night. Cold runs down my neck all the way to my feet, like ice water hasbeen poured over me. My hairs all stand on end as the smell of decay reaches my nose. But I can find nothing that would be its source. Something out there has been disturbed, like turned earth.
I feel a lump at the small of my back as I try to go back to sleep. Within the mattress, I find a little stone figurine of a bird with a hole in its chest. Perhaps a talisman from a previous priestess? I hide it in my gown’s pocket and rub the bird’s head to soothe my nerves. It’s comforting to think of the other priestesses who have come before me. Less so to think of their fate, which befalls us all, of withering into dust after we are spent.
Later that day, the queen visits me, bringing a bowl of sweetened rice porridge.
‘Your Grace, you are too kind, but I can manage myself,’ I insist as she holds the spoon up to my face like I’m a baby.
She watches me silently as I eat, my hands less shaky today. The fatigue from the draining is like the weather in Umasa, some days overcast and others perfectly sunny. It can turn suddenly, so I try to follow the language of my body.
‘How is the princess?’ I ask, keen to get her eyes off me.
‘She fares very well, thanks to you,’ the queen says, a warm and self-satisfied smile dancing on her lips.
‘You are too generous, Your Majesty.’
Her praise makes me feel emboldened. I must ask her. It’s now or never. I open my mouth.
‘I hope to continue my studies, to better be able to serve you, Your Grace,’ I say tentatively, avoiding her eyes.
She considers. ‘I would not have you tire yourself out, Hanan.’
‘Of course, Your Grace. In moderation, I’m sure I could achieve a great amount. It would be a shame to lose momentum on the progress I’ve made.’
‘Say it plainly, Hanan.’
‘I wish to return to the library, today.’
She eyes me for a long time. ‘Very well. I shall leave you, but listen for the bell summons. I won’t have you peering over dusty tomes all day every day. Not now the princess is with us. She is your first priority.’
It takes me longer than I hoped to dress myself and make my way down to the library. I lean against the walls, taking each step slowly, and sliding the key into the lock feels like coming home.
Nothing has been touched in the library, and Pocket’s food tray is almost empty. I make my way over to him, and he gives me a gentle nip, followed by a pleased trill.
Once he’s settled, I retrieve the volume I was working on the day the queen went into labour. I gather my papers of translation and continue my work at double speed. I didn’t understand what I was looking at before, but now there’s an inkling of something in my mind. I hold the warm bird figurine as I work. The volume is weathered and mouldy, ill-maintained and forgotten in the back of the stacks. I doubt anyone has catalogued or reviewed the collection for years. Doubtless the other priestesses utilised the resources here, but it seems the last scholarly-minded one was perhaps my predecessor who wrote this volume.
At last I have some semblance of a translation. It makes no sense. It’s a jumble of words that don’t string together to form sentences of any meaning. Pocket flies over to me and stands on the parchment, obscuring some of the text.
‘Thank you, but that’s not helpful.’
I listen with bated breath for the summoning bell, but nothing comes. Still, I must work quickly. I’ve no idea how often the queen will let me back here undisturbed.
The bird figurine has grown slick in my pocket from my fiddling, and I place it on the desk. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a word peeking through the hole in the figurine. I look again. No, that can’t be right. I adjust the figurine so it moves slightly across the page, near the top of my transcription. It’s a cipher, with the figurine acting as a focus lens. When I look through the hole I can string the meaning together. The words dissolve in my mind’s eye, forming the shape of a woman. She hovers above the book, only head and shoulders, with the rest of her like an inky trail dripping back down onto the pages. It is the priestess who authored this account. She appears incorporeal, a shadowy figure of smoke and ink.
‘Who are you?’
‘Priestess Sinaya. One who came before.’
‘Were you one of the—’ I catch myself. I wanted to say ‘failures’, but that feels impolite around a spectre. ‘One of the healers for the king?’
Priestess Sinaya gives a wry smile. At least that’s what it looks like to me. I remember the letter I found from Mother Lin and the faint remnants of mansegrass.
