Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (32 page)

I feel no shame. Shame is an emotion saved for women of the mainland who do not realise that our pleasure is the gods’ gift. It is the greatest expression of their love.

I dream of my parents. My father lies beside the queen in the sticky morning heat. “I don’t know, Ashaylah,” he says, wafting the sheets to send a cool breeze over his frail naked body. “Are you sure you want to let the prince choose? What if he picks Adelpha? Anyway, no man of Whyte will let a woman rule. It is not their way.”

“Precisely,” says my mother. She leans over and rings a gold handbell.

I lie with my hands behind my head, staring at the canopy above. The residue of my dream recedes from my mind but the memory of last night is there to be relived, pure bliss, over and over again. It is as though my whole body throbs with the knowledge that Drayk loves me and with that love I could do anything.

Love is like that. It is capable of reducing our whole existence to a few moments, a few meaningless interactions, physical sensations, urges.

My immortal stirs beside me. I curl up against his back and breathe him in. I want to lie like this forever but—I wake with a start. Harryet. Ried. My mother’s threat. I push the sheet aside, throw a himation over my dress, and go looking for Bolt.

Bolt—predictable, reliable Bolt—is in the hallway. His eyes plead with me and I wonder, as I have often wondered, what he would say if he could speak, what secrets he would reveal. I ask him to prepare a littler. “Harryet is to travel to Caspius and, if it is not disagreeable to you, I would ask you to go with her.”

He grins and nods.

“So you will go?”

He nods more enthusiastically.

“You must take good care of her. She is very important to me. But then she is very important to you too, isn’t she?”

More grinning. More nodding.

I throw my arms around the war-wit’s goose-white neck. Startled, he rests his hands lightly against my back. “You are important to me too. I will miss you.”

A cough along the hallway makes us turn. “Is somebody there?” I say, peering along the hallway which goes on and on until it reaches a vanishing point in the distance. There are no shadows on the chequered floor. Every door of the east terrace is shut.

Bolt reaches for his throwing knives. There is a gentle chuckle, the sound of bare feet on marble then a pause. Laughter, like water rushing over stones, comes from a spot by Bolt’s ear. The war-wit waves his knives around like he is swatting a fly. We are still for a moment. A tap on my left shoulder makes me spin left. My cousin shimmers into view on my right. “Got you! You should have seen your face,” he says with a wicked grin.

Gently scolding him, I turn him towards my door. “Get inside before somebody sees you.” He enters obediently and I follow, looking back at Bolt with arched eyebrows.

We sit facing one another. My cousin’s sullen expression has been replaced by budding optimism. He is full of energy,
positive
energy, the sort that makes it impossible to sit still. I suspect it is because he has been given a purpose. A man without a purpose remains half asleep, his potential lying in wait, disintegrating. My cousin is stirring.

“What can you tell me?” I say, clasping my hands in front of me.

“You wouldn’t believe it, your mother intends to let the prince of Whyte pick between you and your new sister,” he says.

“I know.”

Chase frowns, wiping a blond curl out of his eye. “How could you possibly know? I was just listening to them. They were still in bed only a moment ago.”

I wave his question away. “My mother mentioned it. What else can you tell me?”

“Did you know she only intends to let him pick between you because whoever he chooses will have to leave Tibuta for the Dual Kingdom? She assumes you or Adelpha will be too busy giving the prince children to contest her. Once she has what she needs she will deny the prince the throne and turn Petra against his soldiers. There are only a few hundred. That way Tibuta will remain hers.”

“And the daughter he rejects?”

Chase looks apologetic. “She seemed confident the prince would choose Adelpha.”

“Yes but did you hear her say whether she would name me as her successor?”

He nods eagerly. “She said after what you’ve done…she would rather see you dead.”

Harryet enters my solar as she has done almost every morning since she began as my lady-in-waiting seven years ago. She has her hair tucked up beneath a scarf, functional and elegant as always. Her hands are piled with my clean clothes and she speaks as if we are alone. “I will lay out your finest peplos and run you a bath—” Seeing Chase she stops. She puts my clothes down on the armrest very slowly.

“It’s all right, Harry. I invited him in.”

Chase grins at her. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously.

A moment later Drayk escapes my bedroom like some oversized bear. Harryet’s eyes go wide. “Excuse me: I did not realise. Should I…?”

“Stay,” I say.

“Harryet,” Drayk says, nodding at my friend. He looks at my cousin. “What is
he
doing here?”

“I invited him.”

Chase crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s right.”

“Everyone sit,” I say and Harryet pulls up an armchair. Drayk sits beside Chase on the kline, keeping as much distance between them as he can. I tell them what I have learned from my new spy and they accept it with a nod. Turning to Harryet, I say, “Have you had any word from Ried?”

“None.”

I try to hide the true extent of my worry. “It’s not safe for us here anymore. You must leave immediately. I am sorry, Harry.”

“Now?” It is her eyes I will always remember: big, pleading.

“There is no time.”

“Can I say goodbye to my friends? To Cook at least?”

“They must not know. Not until I have a chance to escape the palace.”

Harryet nods. “All right.” Her tender reasoning and her absolute faith are two flexible, springy branches despite my attempt to snap them.

“You will have Bolt with you. There is nothing to be afraid of,” I say.

“That is some comfort,” she says and we stand watching each other, not knowing what to say.

I finally break the tension. “I will help you pack.” Drayk leaves us to make the final preparations for Harryet’s departure. Chase hovers, waiting for further instructions.

“Chase, you are to go wherever the queen goes. Tell me everything you learn.”

He grins, makes an exaggerated bow and says, “As you wish.” He does not grasp the gravity of the situation or if he does, chooses to ignore it.

I take Harryet by the hand and lead her into my room.

I remember a time when Harryet and I were young, before we were aware of the responsibilities that would shackle me to this life. We would lie awake in my bed for hours, exhausted but unwilling to give in to sleep. We wanted to test our endurance. The longer we remained awake, the stronger our friendship would be. Each moment we shared, each secret whispered beneath the bedcovers was proof that we would be friends forever.

But forever is a long time. As far as I am aware, there
are
no such absolutes, only the conditional grey space between black and white, a place where I have chosen to walk, balancing good and evil, remaining both here and there.

I dress my friend slowly, labouring over each detail, hoping to prolong our time together. I wrap her body in a square of yellow silk, which I tie at the shoulders, and encircle her waist with a gold band. I encourage her to sit in my chair so I can braid her hair with painstaking care, pinning it up in a crown around her head. I want to indulge in every part of her. I cannot help myself. It is like preparing for death.

We exit via the service stairs. A small door in the side of the east terrace deposits us at the back of the apartments on a grassy mound, where Bolt and a palanquin are waiting.

“Goodbye, my dear friend,” I whisper, holding the curtain back so Harryet can step gracefully into the confined compartment and settle herself among the silk pillows like a canary in a cage. I realise she is crying. Each tear is a silent accusation and I have to look away. Bolt swings in beside her and takes her hand. I smile sadly at my war-wit. “Take good care of her.”

The fleets call to one another in a language punctuated by clicks and hisses and on the count of three they lift the heavy beams onto their shoulders. Their lean muscles bulge under the weight and in the heat the white paint that covers them head-to-toe peels, revealing orange, hairless skin. Harryet pokes her head out from the curtain; I wave goodbye to my friend.

The paths are alive with dull-eyed servants coming and going. They trail twig brooms as they race towards the ballroom to sweep away the muck. Others push barrows of dry seaweed, which they lay over churned earth that is already drying in the indifferent heat. Guests who spent the night curled up under the tables wipe the sleep from their eyes, call for their servants and stumble home. With all the hullabaloo no one even notices Harryet’s departure.

Three royal palanquins sit in the Upper Ward on the lawn beyond the gardens like black toads. Fleets stand at each corner waiting to lift us onto their shoulders. They look bored, their attention focused on the horizon as if they await a miraculous being that will pluck them from this place and save them from tyranny.

Petra has raised two units from a drunken stupor and the hundred soldiers stand in rows of ten with their helmets in place, their spears raised. I imagine their heads pounding in the sun and bile burning in their throats from hour upon hour of drinking at Adelpha’s ball, each trying to outmatch her companion, none realising that oblivion is no proof of virility but a demonstration of powerlessness.

Petra stands at the front ready to march with the blast of the shofar. She wears her perfect smile barely hidden beneath her whalebone helmet.
She would smile even while she thrust her spear right through me
, I think bitterly. Then she would straighten her uniform and proudly march away. For her, the uniform is an honour; it is the very symbol of lawfulness, her license to uphold the status quo. What she does not realise is that her uniform is a disguise: it means she need never question the system that simultaneously props her up while pushing her down. Without her uniform she would have to question her unwavering devotion to her monarch.

“Damn her,” I say under my breath.

My mother, father and Adelpha are seated inside the nearest litter, hidden behind the wafting black muslin. I pop my head inside. “Mother, I am here.”

“So you’ve graced us with your presence after all. I had my doubts.”

“I apologise for my outburst last night. I was tired and you took me by surprise. I will not embarrass you in front of the prince. I promise.”

Her words hit harder than a spear to the ribs. “Of course you won’t. You face the Justice Tree.”

On the way to my palanquin I notice a soldier watching me. Though the rest of her file looks straight ahead she will not look away but instead winks at me. When I pause, she nods ever so slightly. I approach. “Can I help you?”

It is Ried, disguised as one of Petra’s hoplites. Her face is barely visible beneath her pronged helmet. She looks as if she too has been awake all night. The sight of her makes my heart beat faster. “You will be leaving today,” she whispers. “Someplace between here and the harbour. I will help you as best I can.”

I wipe my hands down my breaches and nod almost imperceptibly. “Thank you,” I whisper, then, loud enough for those around her to hear: “Eyes forward, soldier.”

Drayk offers me his hand and helps me into my palanquin before folding in opposite me. The sensation of his knees against mine ignites the flame inside me again, so warm, so alive. I look away, not trusting myself to linger on his provocative face. The shofar sounds, making me jump, and the fleets lift us off the ground. I concentrate on the sound of their breathing and, leaning my head back and shutting my eyes, recall the touch of Drayk’s lips against mine, the scent of him close to me, and his wet hair running through my fingers.

“Who were you talking to?” Drayk says, dragging me back into the present.

“Ried,” I say and, with eyes shut, relay her message.

In the closed compartment of the palanquin with only a black curtain separating us from my mother’s army, Drayk rests his foot on the bench between my legs.

“Stop it.” I laugh as he runs his boot up and down the seam of my pants.

He raises his eyebrows and pushes harder.

“Drayk,” I say in mock indignation. In truth it is a welcome distraction. Pushing his boot aside, I take hold of the fabric around his neck and pull him to me. “You should know your place,” I say and push him back, laughing.

“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he says, crossing his arms.

An awkward silence envelopes us. I reach out one hand and finger the chiliarch’s badge secured above his heart. Together we scrutinise the bronze snake, neither speaking as I run my index finger along the curve of its body, following each contour until I reach the spot where the tail disappears deep inside its mouth. That object, that symbol of honour, loyalty, servitude—it could be as big as a round bronze shield considering the distance it creates between us. I hear it mocking me. I unpin it and hold it in my hand.