Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (30 page)

“But Uncle Jace is our ally. He is family.”

“We need aid, Angelfish, and your uncle simply cannot give it to us. The people will starve,” my father says. His matted beard is so long it rests on the table.

“So he hasn’t abandoned us,” I say, my voice rising. “He simply isn’t in a position to help.”

“Jace has betrayed us and promised Asher to Isbis. If Caspius is caught between the Dual Kingdom in the west and us to the east…well…”

“They will be crushed between us,” Adelpha finishes for her.

I look at them each in turn. “You will turn against your family so you can take all of Longfield for Tibuta?”

“We are not interested in that. We are interested only in survival. If we do not align ourselves with the Dual Kingdom of Whyte and Gregaria we risk their allegiance to Isbis or the Spice Isles, which would leave us vulnerable, an island all alone in the Vestige Sea, surrounded by enemies. We have no choice.”

“Our mother is right. If you think about it, Ooruk is neutral.” Adelpha points to the northernmost nation on the map, a mountainous region that is considered holy. “They are too busy waiting for the Elysian Gate to open and have ignored our pleas. The Salt Kingdom is not interested in our petty spats.” She points to a narrow strip of land south of Ooruk, a desert barrier between Ooruk and Caspius. “Historically Isbis is hostile towards us,” she points to the large coastal land to our east, “and though they are too busy fighting the Spice Isles,” she points to the islands to our south, “they cannot fight each other forever. With Whyte, Gregaria and Tibuta under the same flag, the rest—Caspius, Isbis and the Spice Isles—will fall in a heartbeat. Most importantly, Whyte has agreed to send troops.”

“I see.” My voice is cold.

“There is no room for sentiment in politics. Our options are clear,” she says.

“Adelpha is right,” my father says, adjusting his stained black tunic.

“Have you asked Drayk for his counsel? I doubt he would support this,” I say and my parents exchange a suspicious look. “What?” I say because it annoys me. It is as if I have stumbled upon a secret. “Why do you keep doing that?”

My sister has a knowing grin smeared across her face.

“Ashaylah, don’t—” my father starts, but my mother holds up her finger to silence him.

“It is interesting that you should mention Drayk,” she says, rummaging for something hidden in the folds of her peplos. “You see, I found this.” She unfolds a piece of parchment. A letter written to one of the families of the victims from the riots. With my seal on it.

“I should put you to death,” my mother says, shaking her head slowly. “But instead, I will let the prince decide your fate.”

“Ashaylah, you are being unnecessarily cruel,” my father says but is ignored.

“Sit down,” she snaps and I instinctively take my seat. I can hardly tear my eyes from the letter. Proof of my disloyalty.

“As I explained to Adelpha, we need to secure a blood tie between Tibuta and Whyte. Prince Slay Satah is of the right age and we feel we ought to take this opportunity before someone else does. The emissary from Whyte has confirmed the prince is on his way to discuss marriage to one of you in exchange for food to satiate the angry masses and men to suppress the uprising. Whyte has promised to expel the rebels. We will conduct a
cleansing
of Tibuta. There will be no one left to oppose us. With a mere drone we will silence our enemies.”

It is as if everything has gone still. Memories that point to this moment bombard my mind: the emissary from Whyte talking to my mother outside the Chamber of Petitions. That time I spoke to my father recently and he told me whatever happened I should trust my mother’s judgement.

My mother’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I will let the prince pick which one of you he wants to take back to the Dual Kingdom.”

I snort. It is such a startling, inappropriate sound that my parents and the imposter look at me as if I am mad. “You want one of us to marry the Prince of Whyte to stop the Shark’s Teeth and protect your pride?” I hoot with caustic laughter. “You want to pretend this is Jace’s fault so you can justify democide?” I thump the table.

“Stop laughing, Verne. You are lucky not to be hanging from the Justice Tree this very minute,” my mother says, an archer preparing to fire.

Adelpha rolls her eyes.

My surprise gives way to hot anger, which builds and builds, writhing to break free. “I cannot believe this,” I say, springing out of my chair and knocking it over. I take an arrow from the quiver, nock it and fire. “I have often admired and feared how calculated you are, Mother, seeing nations like these pieces on a map, cities as assets or liabilities, never fully appreciating the faces behind a war, the individuals who will suffer. What about the people of Tibuta? You are willing to let them die rather than negotiate?” I pause to breathe. “You will force the Caspians into a war they do not want to fight. Everyone in Longfield will have to pick a side.” It is unlike me to speak so boldly but anger bubbles in my soul and spews over the edge. “A cleansing?” I spit the word out. “We do not need a
cleansing
. What we need is peace. You propose to destroy the Shark’s Teeth, our people, like a coward…a…a murderer. There is no honour to it.”

Gone is my fear of reprimand or punishment. Gone is my desire to ingratiate myself. Gone is my timid, small self. I will happily betray my mother again and again if it will mean I can stop the bloodbath. If it means saving thousands of Tibutans, I will do it. My pulse pounds in my head. I feel trapped, tricked. I am outnumbered. But it is no matter; I will fight.

My mother’s voice is icy. “Sit down, Verne.”

“Angelfish, we need Whyte. You must understand. Please sit down.”

I pull out another arrow and shoot. “Understand? What is there to understand? We are all pawns to her: Aunt Aria, Uncle Jace, you, Tibuta. Pieces to be moved or exchanged however she sees fit.”

My mother’s composure is breaking. She gets to her feet. “How dare you? I do not treat you like pawns. Everything I do, Verne,
everything
is for Tibuta. Even if our soldiers are loyal, their brothers might not be. Or their sons. Use your head, you stupid girl.”

Adelpha is leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed.

“You have made it very clear where your loyalties lie and they are not to this nation,” I say.

My father sighs heavily. “Verne, this has been a very difficult decision.”

“Has it? It seems like you made it quickly enough. You have invited foreign soldiers—men, with men as their monarchs—into Tibuta to kill Tibutans. In Ayfra’s name I pray this is a dream. If you do this, everything our ancestors have done, everything they have worked for, will be for nothing. You will tear this nation apart.”

There is a long, drawn-out silence as we reach behind us for arrows to reload our weapons and discover are quivers are empty. Our arrows are embedded in each other’s flesh or lie around the room. My father tries to take my hand but I snatch it away. I shake my head in disbelief. “Let Prince Satah come. Let him pick whoever he wants. You are making a terrible mistake. I am ashamed to be a Golding,” I say.

“Thank the tides we have Adelpha,” my mother says.

The soldiers and their chiliarches have been relegated to the mess hall, tucked away in a maze of chambers connected by breezeways, narrow arcades and rows of columns. I stand outside listening to the raucous laughter and the shouts for more wine then enter and scan the room. Hydra, Petra’s chiliarch, is propped up at the head of a far table. The commander grips the handles of an earthenware cup with hands scarred from battle. She is in mid-conversation and occasionally waves furiously to emphasise her point. Petra’s head is bowed, her body rigid, suggesting the taciturn strategos has been patiently listening to the commander for some time.

I push through the rows of tables and before anyone realises who I am, squeeze in beside them. Hydra’s is the self-assured voice of one who has served long enough to know how far she can push authority. “Well, look who it is,” she booms. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d had an argument with your mother and had come to find comfort in our stories.”

“Not this time, Hydra.”

The chiliarch slaps her thigh. “Well I’ll be damned. Don’t tell me you’d rather celebrate with us? I’m sure the food is better in the ballroom.”

“I have information for you.”

Hydra snorts. “Is that so?” Unlike Petra, who maintains her composure, the chiliarch’s eyes are bloodshot, her speech slurred. “And what could you possibly have to say at this hour that warrants leaving the party? I heard they had truffles.”

“Will you just listen?” I say. I have always liked Hydra’s brash, no-nonsense approach but there is no time for it now.

“Well excuse me,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning so far back she almost falls off her stool. Not caring if anyone can overhear me, I tell them of my mother’s plan to import soldiers from Whyte. “She means to conduct a cleansing. And by the time she has finished there won’t be a single rebel standing. I thought you should know. You especially, Petra. Soon hundreds of Tibutans will be the victim of my mother’s incompetence.”

Petra counters with eloquent silence. I am tempted to speak, to fill the silence as we all feel we must, but I hold my tongue. Hydra has fallen quiet. She nurses her drink.

“One boat,” Petra finally says and I frown.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t think I am ignorant of what is going on. I’ve been in counsel with your mother and she assures me only one boat will enter Tibuta. A mere two hundred men will join my army. I have no objections. We need all the help we can get.”

“But—”

Her dark eyes bore into me. “It is one boat.” Petra lowers her voice so only Hydra and I can hear. “With all due respect your highness, I have tolerated your hints of treason for far too long. You asked me where my loyalties lie. I am loyal to the queen. Though I have my reservations about killing our compatriots, it is my duty to put sentiment aside and do what has to be done.”

Hydra will not look up from her bowl.

“You don’t honestly believe that bringing Whyte soldiers in to do our dirty work is the honourable way to solve our problems? The queen is more concerned with conquering the mainland than she is with civil stability or the Tempest.”

“Your highness, I have endured your barrage because I appreciate that your intentions are good. But enough is enough. You must stop. Your plots are futile. No one can stop the queen.”

“What has she said?”

Petra shakes her head.

“She said something, didn’t she?”

“It matters little.”

“I know my mother and if she—”

Petra brings her fist down hard on the table. “Please,” she says, the word dripping with desperation. “Stop or I will have no choice but to tell the queen everything you have said.” She stands. “If you will excuse me, the prince is expected sometime tomorrow. I must get a good night’s sleep and report to her majesty at dawn.” The strategos steps out from the bench.

I watch her departing back, shaking my head in disbelief. Around me, soldiers have stopped their chatter to watch us.

“She threatened you, hasn’t she?” I call, making Petra pause. She does not turn around so I speak loud enough for her—and those around her—to hear. “A good leader has no need for threats. She is a servant to the people. You told me that. You also told me that a leader must win the people’s trust. She must fight for them, not against them. Has my mother fought for you, Petra? Has she fought for any of us?”

Petra is very still. I can see the rise and fall of each breath. She shakes her head and continues towards the exit. Conscious of the muttering and upturned faces as my outburst spreads across the room, I quickly depart.

At the door a helot grabs my arm. She is short, far shorter than me, and her front teeth are black. She looks no older than thirteen. Her eyes are aglow with disillusionment and drink. “Highness, there are some who would rather drink blood than see Tibuta bastardised by the Dual Kingdom. Say the word and we will follow you,” she says and I squeeze her shoulder.

“Thank you, soldier. In time, Tibuta will need all of us.” I release my grip. I turn with purpose, knowing that this brief encounter has the potential to start a revolution.

“Back so soon,” Cook says as I re-enter the kitchen, which is now piled with dirty dishes. His skin is thin, like wax paper. There are yellow stains beneath his armpits.

“Remember this day,” I say, slapping him on the fleshy part of the arm. I push past him to look along a line of men who have their hands submerged in barrels of greasy water. “Where is Ried?”

Cook nods towards the corner of the room. The red priestess is scraping scraps into a trough.

“Ried, come with me.”

The red priestess looks up and passes the dirty plates to one of the boys. She wipes her hands on her apron. “What is it, your highness?” she says as I lead her out the kitchen and down a corridor to a tiny cloister where three date palms sprout into the sky. We stop overlooking a fountain with a snake’s head that spews water and green moss into a basin of silver. We stand in the moonlight that peeps out from behind the retreating clouds, hidden by a column.

“I must speak to Maud.”

“One moment.” The red priestess closes her eyes. Her breathing is heavy, controlled. A long, painful silence is interrupted by a cacophony of screeching and rustling leaves as a bat lands between the spiny fronds of one of the date palms. But Ried does not stir. Finally, she opens her eyes. “I am sorry, highness, she is asleep and I cannot wake her despite my best attempts to yell in her dreams.”

I run my hand through my hair as I think. “Keep trying. The moment you get through to her warn her that my mother is planning a cleansing. A trireme of soldiers is arriving from Whyte tomorrow. She intends to kill every traitor in Tibuta. The Shark’s Teeth must go underground. And Ried, tell her it is no longer safe for me to stay here. I need you to smuggle me out of the palace.”

I am greeted by a bathrobe and two bare feet. Harryet knuckles the sleep from her eyes and yawns, “Verne, what is going on? Why are you up so late?”

I enter my solar, cross to a side table and light a whale-oil lantern. With a warm glow flickering against the walls, I pace up and down my solar. “The high priestess told me that the First Mother was born of the coupling of an angel and a demon, the former providing all that is good, the latter all that is evil, and from the violence was born something pure.” I stop to look at her, then continue marching. “And so, all humans born of the First Mother have conflicting parts. And there is no greater conflict. Good and evil pull at each other like a tug of war. At one end stands the First Mother and at the other the Fire, who threatens to pull her over the edge.”

“Yes,” my friend says patiently. “But what of it?”

“Harry, I struggle with my two sides: she who would be craven and she who must be brave for the people.” I continue to march up and down. “I hold two conflicting truths in my mind: it is a sin to kill my mother
and
I must accept my fate the way everyone must accept that she is a certain person and not another, born to one woman rather than another. I must accept it because I am a woman of Tibuta. This life was chosen for me long before I came into the world.”

She nods without speaking.

“But to do this will be like taking a knife and plunging it into my own heart.”

“Then do not do it.”

I shake my head dismissively. “I must.”

She steps tentatively forwards and places her hands on my shoulders. Her hair is a tangle. I can smell the warmth of sleep on her breath. “Then have courage.”

“Yes…yes you are right,” I say. I break free from her grasp and continue my patrol of the vast marble room. “Will you summon Drayk? Tell him it is urgent and to meet me in my bathhouse.”

After my carelessness with the letters, I have no intention of being overheard again and the bathhouse is one of the only truly private rooms in the palace. Steam rises from the gap beneath the door in ghostly tendrils and fills the marble dome. I sit on the alabaster plinth in the centre with the damp clogging my clothes. On five of the walls there are fountains, and the sound of running water should be soothing but it is not. I am too distracted by what I am about to do to appreciate the tinkle of diamonds down the drain. I am a general sending my troops to war.

Water drips down my nose. I clench and unclench my fists. The door squeaks open and Harryet and Drayk enter. Harryet stands just inside. The chiliarch’s face is flushed; his hair is swept back so wet curls gather at his neck. He sits beside me and takes my hand.

“Drayk, my mother found one of the letters.”

“No. I was so careful.”

“She doesn’t know the full extent of our betrayal otherwise she would have had me killed and you tortured, but she is suspicious. Do you remember the emissary from Whyte?”

He nods.

“My mother wants to unify Tibuta and the Dual Kingdom.”

“It makes sense.”

“We will be unified by blood. Prince Slay Satah will pick me or Adelpha to secure troops and food, to guarantee our allegiance.”

Drayk nods very slowly, digesting this information. “No doubt in time your mother hopes to invade the mainland. Space on the islands is limited.” This is typical of the immortal, a man who has learnt to think strategically and not emotionally.

“My mother will betray the prince and keep the throne for herself. I’m almost certain of it. She has no intention of naming anyone her successor. Why else would she have humiliated Adelpha and suppressed her gift in front of all those people? And Petra will not join us. She has threatened to turn me in. I must leave the palace.”

“No,” Harryet says, holding her hand to her mouth.

I tell them in detail of all that has transpired. “The time has come where words will not suffice. With or without Petra, I must make a stand.”

“I will come with you,” Harryet says. Drayk nods in agreement.

“I am sorry, Harry. I have something else I must ask of you.” I take a deep breath. “I must preface it by saying that should you feel strongly opposed to it then you can—in fact you
must
—speak up. I promise there will be no consequences.” This, of course, is a lie. And she knows it. There are always consequences, even for our inaction.

My friend is a tight ball of string, aware that she is about to be unravelled. “Tell me. The gods know I will do my best.”

It is as if I float above, watching the words spill from someone else’s mouth. “Harry, I am asking you to leave Tibuta without me.”

“No.”

“Of course I will not send you against your will but I need you and Bolt to travel to Alaira, the capital of Caspius, to warn my uncle of my mother’s betrayal. Please understand that I love you. You are my dearest friend and I would not ask this of you if I thought there was another way. You are the only person I trust completely other than Drayk.” I nod at the chiliarch. “I would go myself but my path is a more violent one. I hope to save you from that.” I wipe away the condensation that has gathered on my brow.

Harryet picks at her hem. Her expression is blank. “You are sending me all that way? I have never been further than Lizard Island.” Her big eyes implore me to understand.

“I am asking you to go of your own accord. I will not force you. If it is repugnant to you then I will abandon my plan: this I swear.”

“And what will happen to me once I have delivered this message? Will I be able to return to the palace or will the queen know of my betrayal?” She is quick; I have always admired this about her.

“It will not be safe for any of us here. Not for some time.”

“But this is my home.”

“Please, Harry, working for me is like imprisonment. I realised that the other night when you spoke to me of your desire for a family. Serving me means you cannot have the things you want, but I want to give you those things. Life would be…lovely…on the mainland. I will give you gold enough to buy a house of your own. I will make sure you have servants and people calling you ‘madam’. On your arrival they will bow down and call, ‘All hail the honourable Harryet Nathos.’ You will have ewerers and attendants, men to make your bed, fleets to carry you wherever you want to go, consorts and—”

“I do not need all those things. I do not need to be called ‘madam’. It is my responsibility to call others ‘madam’. It is my responsibility to ensure you are comfortable. I…This is…Please, Verne, the gods did not intend for me to live as you do.”