She clicks her fingers, and Salvacion brings a large box, which they set down in front of me.
‘I have brought you an old friend,’ the queen says.
‘For me?’ I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
She nods and I lift the lid of the box, a gasp escaping my lips. Inside is an old and knotted branch, as long as my leg. I reach forward and the air between the piece of wood and my fingertips burn. It’s not possible for it to be here, so far removed from its home.
The queen smiles and I feel a twist in my gut. ‘The Tree of Life. You know it so well.’
‘What is it doing here?’
I ache to touch it; that’s how weak I’ve become. I pine and yearn for it, despite everything. She sees it in my eyes. The queen grabs my hand and encloses it around the wood, too quickly for me to cast a protective circle. A sharp jolting pain shoots up my arm and into my chest. My heart constricts, as though being squeezed by a vice. I gasp and reach out for the queen, but she holds us fast against the wood. I put my entire weight on it and use it like a cane, standing fast and pushing against her.
Then the world tilts under me. I taste that bitter, familiar calamansi. Sea salt and woodsmoke and rainwater in my nose, on my skin. The souls are all so lost, drowning in pain and confusion. Rent asunder from their resting place. The sanctity of peaceful Death, constant sleep in the Tree of Life. She has maimed the tree and violated the souls who rest there.
I feel their memories: the smell of freshly baked bread. The laughter of an old friend. The warm callused, hands of a grandfather.
At Aistra I was part of a group who ferried the souls of the dead to the Tree. We nudged gently, coaxing them. Their fear was like feathers on my skin.
This is something else, a sharp bite.
‘Bring them to me,’ the queen insists.
I feel her energy tugging at mine and I try to resist. It’s unnatural. Is it any more unnatural than my dabbling in dark magic? Necromancy was forbidden at the temple. What I did to Malostra, just as cruel. It’s forbidden and tastes rich. Besides, there’s so much potential energy in those dead souls. I’ve seen what it does for her, felt the pleasure run through my body.
I let the energy of the souls pass through me and into her. It’s the reverse of ferrying the souls. Instead of guiding them to the tree, I’m yanking them from the wood and pushing them into her body. Their fear is more than feathers this time, it is a sharp beak and talons. The pain is too much to bear, and I tear my hand away from the wood. I collapse on the steps of the dais and the queen breathes in deeply. The princess begins to cry.
‘Take her to the nursery; she’s quite fatigued.’
In my periphery, I watch Salvacion take the bundle from the queen’s arms. On the ground beside me is the branch, the bark withered and scorched.
‘Here, Hanan,’ the queen says, helping me to my feet. She hands me the branch and I lean on it, resting my weight between her and the wood.
chapter thirty-eight
finlyr
Even Ris is reluctantlygrateful for the undead when the weather turns. The ship roils, and we hunker down, buckets at our bedsides sloshing around with every creak and moan.
‘What if Birdy falls overboard?’ Isagani asks when the storm is particularly bad.
‘Birdy?’ I echo and then sigh. ‘By Aistra, which one is that?’
‘My double. The one who climbs the rigging.’
Can a man get no peace? There is little to do but drink, and I hold the palm wine bottle like a babe in arms. We’re gathered in my quarters as it’s the only space below deck big enough for all of us. Ever since the mango incident we’ve gathered more often, as if there’s something fearful about being alone. Often Isagani or Biba will come wandering by during the day looking for Sinigang or something to amuse themselves. Then Ris will come looking for one of the kids and before I know it, they’re all here, making themselves comfortable. Or as comfortable as we can in the current seasickening conditions.
I fiddle with my compass. As I look down at the worn metal, I think about my mother. Her voice, tripping over itself to get the words out fast enough to keep up with the flow of her thoughts. The gap between her teeth when she laughed, head fully thrown back in mirth. The missing little finger she had lost to rope-burn early in her sailing career.
How I wanted to be like her. Maybe if she were home more often I wouldn’t have felt that way. Or perhaps that’s the cynicism of years like dust settling on my shoulders. She always returned with a far-fetched tale. She once swore she had kissed a seamaiden and kept a charm in her pocket, which she insisted was a rock from the caverns of Orin.
No nobler thing than sailing Paranish and protecting the royals. That’s what I thought then. She spoke about the late king, the current queen’s father with warmth. She spoke about the royals with reverence and admiration, but also a familiarity of which I could tell she was immensely proud. I wanted that pristine white uniform and the blue wave and sunrise sigil.
‘I’ve spent the best years of my life on this,’ my father had said once, smoothing the spare uniform for her next voyage. It always had to be crisp and clean. It was years later I realised that was the point. Bedecking your personal guard in such impractical finery.
There was something in his voice. It wasn’t jealousy, but there was an unpleasant bitterness to it. He never told me his secret feelings about my mother’s position, but I was thankful it kept a roof over our heads. There was a grim determination on my father’s face when the news arrived of my mother’s death. Almost an inevitability in the set of his jaw and the dark circles under his eyes.
I take another swig from my palm wine.
