‘Ah, the Shepherd’s brilliance and benediction are now upon us.’ The Bard stops and turns around, relief painting a fleeting smile on his face. ‘My ladies, we have weathered the worst. Soon, you will be right where you belong, and I can move on to more pleasant things.’
I should not feel furious at his words, his condescending manner, the way he makes it clear he would be glad to rid himself of us, of me. Wrapping myself tighter in my cloak, I decide to dismiss insults real and imagined, and take in my surroundings instead. The sand beneath my feet feels harder now, dried and more brittle, as if I’m stepping on a carpet made of vellum or a rolled-out parchment. The colours of the waters flanking us have changed, foamy blues and angry whites giving way to deep turquoises and sapphires. As we keep going, tall reeds erupt from their still, mirror-smooth surfaces, feathery stems rising in numbers until there is no more water to be seen amid their stacks; until we’re walking through a golden field of grass.
It’s beautiful – I wonder whether Claret finds it beautiful as well, whether this drier terrain helps put the pain the waves awoke behind her. With the cloak’s hood down, her hair is no less golden than those reeds surrounding us, a cascade of curls reaching down to her shoulders. It does not evade me how perceptions change, like the landscapes of this world; how a person can gradually go from demon to a tenuous ally, to someone I seem to keep following to my ruin.
Claret suddenly stops, signalling me to do the same. ‘Snakes,’ she hisses, pointing her knife’s end to thescarlet shadows weaving between the reeds. How did I miss them?
The Bard chuckles. ‘Now, now, don’t get hysterical. These are merely ribbons of silk, harmless bookmarks, hungry to mark their place in a new story. They won’t attack you.’
‘There were many men back in my court,’ Claret draws each word out slowly, like blades buried in honey, ‘who also made a point of mocking me for what they thought were womanly reactions. They all sang a different tune before the night was over.’
‘You’re an odd one, figment. Not long ago, I saved your life and yet I do believe you’re threatening me, rather than thanking me.’
Claret raises her knife in a way that says the time of threats is over – blood will be spilled if I don’t intervene. Husband or not, he deserves a better fate.
And we have far too few allies to slay them.
I walk up to Claret, grabbing her wrist. ‘This long walk has been exhausting,’ I say, pushing her knife-holding hand down, hoping she understands. ‘Tempers are flaring, words are being exchanged, but words are nothing, nothing we cannot yet take back.’
With a grunt, Claret lowers her knife. I let her go.
The Bard walks on, oblivious to the fact that I just saved his life.
We proceed in silence, the seven-pointed star looming closer with our every step. After a while, the torch goes out, as if acquiescing that its feeble light is no longer needed. The beds of reeds surrounding us wither and crumble, leading to a smooth expanse of land.
Everything is so bright, it feels like a mirage at first.
A mighty arch rises in front of us, shaped from sand and stone, crowned by that brilliant star. It feels like yet another door that should lead to a new realm, only this one is open, inviting. I cannot see beyond it; the light is blinding. On one side of the arch, the statue of a leopard looms, so lifelike that I take a step back, fear fluttering once more inside my throat, remembering that cat-like apparition on the black beach. But both the Bard and Claret march ahead, so I set my fear aside and follow, my eyes never leaving the leopard. Its hide seems to be made of gold, or parchment, or indeed sand. Its black spots swirl like markings on a letter, in a script I cannot read, yet can innately comprehend.
Focusing on the moving spots makes my head hurt; it fills my arms with goosebumps, as if whatever birds I hold inside are pecking furiously at my skin, eager to carve a path to freedom.
And it’s because I am so focused on this leopard, on the left side of the arch, that I miss the other leopard on the right. The real one. A moving, breathing beast that trots in our direction.
‘You are safe now, my children,’ the leopard purrs, but all I see is sharp, sharp teeth.
18. Claret
From waves to ponds to reeds to desert … This world has changed so much within the last few hours, each iteration a bit drier – as if a thirsty beast is gulping all the water at its heart.
And now, as we arrive at what the Bard seems to treat like our destination, a curved cyclopean arch tall enough to fit my palace walls, I wonder if I’ve found the culprit.
And if we’ll be the ones to be sapped next.
The spotted cat next to the arch unfurls before my eyes, black markings moving on its golden skin. I don’t have time to wonder if this is the same cat I saw while swimming, when I was carrying Anassa. Because between the span of one breath and the next, it stands on two feet, humanlike. Its muscled haunches shrink into a slender, female body, wrapped in a dress with the same markings previously covering the cat’s hide. Its mighty snout morphs into a mouth, fig-coloured lips stretched wide into a smile that almost distracts from its – from her – sharp teeth.
A smile I can assume is meant to put us all at ease.
I bristle at the transformation; at the insinuation that I need appeasement. Let this world’s horrors maintain their forms, for once. Let deadly waves be waves instead of long-dead daughters, meant to drown your heart in sorrow. Let threats resemble threats.
I eye the second spotted cat, the one that still stands statue-like, guarding the entrance to the arch. Is this one also hiding something living? Will it pounce on us if we displease it?
The Bard rushes forward, bowing to the cat-turned-woman. ‘Resplendent Shepherd, Mistress of the House of Books,’ he begins, ‘thy light has once again triumphed over Lethe’s waters, bringing us safe to your glorious summer shores. As always, Shepherd, your presence is so … so …’ He pauses, eyes twitching as his words elude him – as if the mere fact that words elude him brings him corporeal pain. ‘…Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ he manages.
The cat-turned-woman,Shepherd, tuts. ‘I’d much rather you didn’t. My Bard,’ she adds, reaching out a hand for him to kiss. Her long, lithe fingers are coal-black – coated by the same hue as Anassa’s, a sign of having fought a wraith and lived. Maybe she’s meant to be our ally.
Why would the Moirai make us go through all this heartache, all this terror, otherwise? ‘Your guide will take you where you need to go,’ Clotho had said – and to his credit, all obnoxiousness aside, the Bard did bring us here in one piece. Maybe I can lay down my knife now. Maybe Shepherd will tell us more about our doors, show us how to earn the right to open them. Or maybe she’s the final obstacle to overcome, the final trial that the Moirai have for me.
What if I’m meant to skin this cat alive, turn her into a hearthrug?
