‘Ris, I’m sorry.’
I collapse into him, and we stand there, my knees buckling as he holds me.
‘He left us. And now he won’t ever come back.’
He strokes my hair gently. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘He left us behind. This was our dream, and he left me behind.’
I let the rage seethe like poison through my body, crying until I feel spent. Finlyr says nothing, just holds me, and I listen to his steady, calming breaths. I want to hate him, to blame him, to trade him in Larkin’s place. But in my heart, I know that’s not true. I am tired of being the martyr, the widow. The ruin of fury is eating away at me.
chapter forty-one
hanan
The queen calls meto the throne room. Lately we have been cloistered together in the upper chambers and gardens. I don’t think I’ve seen her hold court since the child was born, although it has only been a few months. There haven’t been this many courtiers gathered here since the Magliyab festival, and the Bastion hums with expectation. My chest burns, bile rising up my throat to make me sick. They are here for one purpose, and their eyes crawl over me. I hold on to the withered branch, as wretched as the memory of it is, for balance. I had thought the plain gown I was given upon my arrival the finest thing I would ever feel against my skin, but the queen has bedecked me in one of her cast-off gowns – deep crimson embroidered with golden thread. I feel like a weed moonlighting as a flower.
The sunlight pours through the oval window above her, the coloured glass dappling a rainbow across her face. I’m reminded of the glass in the Temple of Aistra, where I spent so many hours on my knees, looking up at the illusion of the Bastion. Malostra told me she dreamt of being a priestess ever since she could remember. She was one who came willingly, who showed her power proudly.
My footsteps echo off the flagstones as I approach, flanked by Seaguardians, Salvacion leading the procession towards the throne. The queen sips from a goblet, and I can smell the rich alcohol even from here. She taps her fingernails on the side of the cup, metal andprecious gems clinking as she waits. Salvacion helps me kneel on the floor, and I bow my head, the cane rattling beside me.
The queen doesn’t say anything for a painfully long time. I hear the shuffling of eager steps and the sound of her chalice being refilled before the servant retreats.
‘Life is so fleeting, don’t you think, Hanan?’
I flick my eyes up to the vague shape of her. Does she really want an answer?
‘Most of us spend our lives trying to outrun death. But not you.’
Her voice is the same as the day in the baths. I could slip into the liquid of her voice, let it envelop me in its warmth. Until it would hold me under.
I shift on my knees, and Salvacion notices my struggle. She helps me up, and I lean on my cane, head still bowed.
‘You are an inquisitive little otter-cat, aren’t you?’
The force of the queen’s stare makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I am too tempted; I must look up at her. Her expression is hard, eyes alight, but not quite with anger. It’s something else, like a hunter smelling blood. There’s rage, but there’s also anticipation.
‘I’m impressed by you, Hanan. There hasn’t been another priestess of your calibre for generations. Your studiousness is a testament, but your raw power – that is not something that can be taught.’
‘Your Grace is too kind,’ I say softly, the courtesy tripping off my tongue unbidden.
‘I do not say this to flatter you, Hanan. I’ve invested a great deal in your potential. Nurtured it, given it opportunity to grow. Is Pocket not a testament to that? Your little spectral escapades? The hale and hearty princess?’
She lets the words hang, and I consider. Who is to say I would’ve been able to do those things without the queen? The luxury of timeand resources. It took me years of covert study at the temple to resurrect that mokon for just a moment. In a few months I’ve resurrected Pocket and kept him alive. I’ve not only spoken with the dead but conjured its likeness from a text. The princess would not be alive if not for me. If the Temple Mothers could see my necromantic progress, their eyes would roll back in their heads. My mind wanders to the fatigue, the empty pit in my stomach, the figurine of the stone bird. A sacrifice worth making.
She puts down her chalice and turns her attention to her courtiers. The queen descends from her throne and places her hand over mine, on top of my cane. The floor beneath me hums gently, as though thousands of bees were underfoot. I startle, listening to the whispers in the walls. Voices distant and indistinct, melting into each other. Voices of the dead.
‘They are connecting,’ one of the courtiers says in amazement.
The queen grabs my cane before I can protest. Then she raises it high, and I flinch back. She brings it down with a sickening thud, but the pain doesn’t come. When I open my eyes, I see that her left arm is at a strange angle, bones crushed and protruding from her skin. She does not yell, does not show any sign or semblance of pain, but continues to stand proudly, resting on my cane. She grabs my hand and places it roughly over her wound. Her skin is warm and supple beneath my grip, but pain radiates across my entire being.
I try to resist, but it is like scratching an itch. I reach for her wound in my mind, let the energy from the Tree flow through me and back into the queen. I feel the wood pushing out of her flesh, the bones knitting themselves back together, the skin smoothing over. My cane falls to the floor with an unceremonious clatter.
The courtiers stand in stunned silence. I collapse to the dais, panting.
‘She performs miracles, but she needs more training,’ the queen says, examining her arm. It is exactly as it was before. ‘And as a gift to my loyal supporters, I will grant you the chance to taste of her powers and let her taste yours.’
The courtiers start forward and I find myself cornered on all sides by those who long to touch me. My body goes rigid. They begin to murmur excitedly and then stop. The queen has her hand outstretched, and they retreat.
