Читать книгу Kingdom of Souls - Rena Barron - Страница 9

The morning after the opening ceremony, I’m in a foul mood as Oshhe and I deliver gifts to his countless cousins. He watches me like a hawk, but I don’t know why. I’m still the same magicless girl I was the night before. Nothing has changed. I want to believe that some magic rubbed off on me – that this year will be different.

My hands tremble and I keep them busy so he doesn’t notice. I have my tests with Grandmother at the hour of ösana. I can’t face her right now, not after entering the sacred circle. Not after feeling magic at my fingertips, feeling it in my blood, and then feeling it abandon me. That’s when the trembling started – as if the magic snatched away a piece of my ka when it left.

I catch the scent of cinnamon and clove and mint on the air and it reminds me of home. Every year my father brings me here so we can spend time with his family and I can get to know my mother’s tribe better. When older Mulani look at me, they see Arti: it’s only the rich brown of my skin that sets us apart. For my mother was not much older than I am now when she left her tribe for the Kingdom and never looked back. I can’t hide from my own reason for coming, the one fuelling my anticipation.

We only stay for half of the month-long celebration. Oshhe has his shop to run back in Tamar, and I have my studies with the scribes. A part of me is anxious to return home, where I’m not so much of an utter failure, especially after last night.

Our Aatiri cousins bombard Oshhe with questions about the Kingdom most of the morning. They ask if Tamarans are as ridiculous as they’ve heard. If the Almighty One is a bastard like his father before him. If Tamar smells of dead fish. If leaving his tribe for the lure of city life was worth the trouble.

While my father talks to old friends, I eavesdrop. I don’t understand everything they say in Aatiri, but I follow enough to stay abreast. They complain about the council that represents their interests with the Kingdom. They want more in return for the precious metals mined from the caves beneath their desert lands. Many times, friends have asked my father to help with trade negotiations, but he always refuses. He says that Arti is the politician in the family. To call my mother a politician is an understatement.

A witchdoctor asks after the health of the seer from Tribe Aatiri who serves in the Almighty Temple. He is very old and wants to return home. The tribe will meet in three days and Grandmother will ask for a volunteer to replace him. They say that only the very old will go because no one else wants to live in the Kingdom. Oshhe laughs with them, but his eyes are sad.

I thread my fingers together to keep them steady while my father hands out the last of the gifts. They’re still shaking from the ritual, but also because my great-aunt Zee has just asked me about Arti. When a simple shrug doesn’t deter her, I say, ‘She enjoys being Ka-Priestess of the Kingdom very much.’

With a nod and a laugh, Zee tells me that Arti could have married the Almighty One had she been clever enough. Joke or not, this is news to me, but it doesn’t come as a shock. My mother has done well for herself in Tamar. Having risen from nothing, she holds the third most powerful position in the Kingdom, behind the Vizier and the Almighty One himself. Not a day goes by that she lets anyone forget it.

‘If you were a princess,’ Zee says, ‘you wouldn’t need magic then.’

At her slight, I forget her comment about my mother.

You wouldn’t need magic then.

Everyone knows about my little problem. My younger cousins at least pretend they don’t, but some of the elders are blunt about it, their tongues sharp. Zee’s the sharpest of them all.

‘If I were a princess, Auntie,’ I say in a slippery sweet voice, ‘I wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing you every year. That would be such a shame.’

‘Speaking of shame,’ Zee says, fanning a worrisome fly away, ‘I can’t for the life of me understand why my sister would risk angering the other edam by bringing you into the sacred circle.’ She draws her lips into a hard line. ‘What did she say to you last night?’

Grandmother had said surprisingly little, but I won’t tell Zee so she can spread rumours.

‘I see you still like to gossip,’ Oshhe cuts in, fixing his stony eyes on his aunt. ‘A wonder your tongue hasn’t fallen out from talking too much.’

Several people cluck at Zee and she rolls her eyes.

Late afternoon, my father is asked to step in to mediate a dispute between two friends from his youth. He fusses about leaving me until I tell him that I’m going back to my tent to rest before my tests with Grandmother tonight. I’m supposed to meet up with Essnai and Sukar, but I decide to take a walk to clear my mind first. I’m still seething at my great-aunt and seething at Heka too.

In Tamar, hardly anyone has magic, and no one cares that I don’t either. But here magic plays on the wind like dust bunnies, teasing and tantalizing, forever out of reach. Most tribal people have some magic, even if it’s not as strong as Grandmother’s and the other witchdoctors’.

As I move through the patchwork of bright Aatiri tents, a cousin or an old friend of my father greets me at every turn. They ask about last night, but I want to be alone, so I leave camp, hoping for some peace. I weave through the white Mulani tents nearest the Temple of Heka. The Temple stands on the north edge of the valley, the golden dome shimmering against the white walls. A group of Mulani decorate it with flowers and bright fabrics and infuse the stone with magic. I walk by as a procession of women, each with a basket of water balanced on her head, march across the stone. The art is so detailed that you can see the water sloshing around in the baskets.

I slip between the Zu tents covered in animal hide and pause to watch elders carving masks out of wood. It’s getting late by the time I roam into the maze of Litho tents, separated by sheets draped across wire. There isn’t much privacy in the valley, but the camp is quiet aside from the rustle of the cloth in the wind. Most of the tribe has gathered around the firepits to prepare for the second night of the blood moon.

My wandering doesn’t bring me much peace, not like it does when I lose myself in the East Market back home. There’s always a merchant selling something interesting to keep my mind busy there. Or I can listen to the stories of people who come from neighbouring countries. Meet people like the Estherian, who tosses salt over her shoulder to ward off spirits. Or the Yöome woman who makes shiny boots that patrons line up in the early morn to buy. But most of all, I wish I were lying on the grass along the Serpent River with Rudjek, away from everyone and everything.

If the Aatiri camp was orderly, the Litho tents are a mess of confusion. I become so turned around that I end up in a clearing. By the smell of blood and sweat, I can tell that it’s a makeshift arena. Had Rudjek come to the tribal lands, he’d spend every waking moment here.

I’m halfway across the clearing when two Litho boys around my age step into my path. When I try to move around them, they block me again, stopping me in my tracks. They’re up to no good. It’s written in their white ash-covered faces. Both stand a head taller than me and wear vests of animal hide dyed stark red. We stare at each other, but I don’t speak. I’m not the one sneaking around like a hungry hyena. Let them explain themselves.

‘We want to know why a ben’ik like you got to enter the sacred circle,’ demands the boy with a black dorek tied around his head. He looks down his nose at me. ‘You’re nothing special.’

The way he spits out ben’ik makes my skin crawl. I wander so much in Tamar without fear because of my mother’s reputation. No one would dare cross the Ka-Priestess. In the tribal lands, I should know better. I’m an outsider and people like me, ben’iks, are even less liked for our lack of magic. It can’t help that they’re angry Grandmother broke the rules for me.

My blood boils. I should’ve been more careful. I turn to go as two more boys appear out of the shadows. ‘Don’t make a mistake you’ll regret,’ I say, lacing my words with equal venom. ‘My grandmother is chieftain and won’t take kindly to any trouble.’ I immediately realize my mistake. People shrink upon hearing my mother’s name at home, but here my empty threat only makes things worse. The Litho boys cut me with glares that set my heart racing.

One of them waves his hand and the air shifts to encase the whole clearing in a shimmering bubble. Everything outside it seems to disappear. I suspect that the bubble will keep anyone from seeing or hearing what’s happening inside, too. ‘We know your grandmother and your owahyat mother too,’ the boy says, his face twisted in disgust.

‘We know you as well, Arrah,’ the dorek boy sniggers. ‘It’s rare to meet a ben’ik with a lineage so rich in magic. But then, the sins of the mother often fall on the daughter.’

My eyes land on a staff propped against a rack as sweat glides down my back. It may be useless against them, but at least it’s something. My chances would be better if I had a hint of magic, even a smidgeon. Enough to keep me safe. I clench my hands into fists, thinking of when Heka’s magic touched me last night. It drew my ka from my body, then left me like a fleeting wind. I can almost understand why some charlatans risk so much to lure magic to them.

I keep all four boys in my line of sight. ‘If you call me ben’ik one more time …’

‘We’re going to teach you a lesson,’ the dorek boy says. ‘Ben’ik.’

I run because they have magic and I’m outnumbered. Before I get far, I crash into the edge of the bubble and fall down. They’ve made sure I can’t leave.

My pulse drums in my ears as I climb to my feet and lunge for the staff. It feels balanced in my hands, offering me the faintest feeling of security. If I had a weapon of choice, this would be it. Any Aatiri worth a grain of sand knows their way around a staff, Oshhe would say.

The Litho boys laugh.

Let them.

I shift my stance. ‘Touch me and I will break every bone in your miserable bodies.’

‘The ben’ik can fight?’ The third boy cracks his knuckles. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Believe it when you eat dirt, you swine,’ I say.

My words sound braver than I feel, but I mean them. Even if they have magic, I won’t go down without a fight.

‘She’s bluffing,’ says the bubble boy.

Magic crackles in the air like a summer thunderstorm and I brace myself, the staff ready. They close in around me. The third boy pounds his fist in his other hand, and the ground trembles. I take several steps back, keeping the sides of the bubble at my rear.

‘Well, what do we have here?’ someone asks from behind me.

Sukar appears out of thin air. The three tattoos across his forehead sparkle like stars in the night. He runs his hand over his shaven head, looking as amused as ever. The Litho boys take one look at his slight physique and roll their eyes. Their mistake.

Essnai steps into the clearing behind him – statuesque and poised, a head taller than both of us. Purple powder covers her forehead down to her long lashes. The red beneath her midnight eyes and the gold dusted on her nose stand out against her umber skin. Her lips are two different shades of pink. She’s changed her hair back to black. Even the Litho boys are too caught up in her beauty to notice her grip on her staff.

I sigh in relief. My friends never fail to make an entrance.

Essnai clucks her tongue at me. ‘Always wandering off and getting into trouble.’

Heat creeps up my neck, but I answer her accusation with a shrug.

‘Someone forgot to invite us to this little party,’ Sukar says.

‘Your protection tattoos won’t save you, Zu.’ The dorek boy spits on the ground.

Sukar pulls a pair of sickles from scabbards across his chest. ‘They broke through your ward easily enough, but I have these just in case.’

Even his curved blades have magic symbols engraved in them – made by his uncle, the Zu seer in the Almighty Temple.

‘What’s two more ben’iks to beat up?’ the third Litho boy asks with a laugh.

Essnai says nothing as she lifts her staff into the same position as mine.

‘You should leave before you get hurt,’ I warn the Litho swine.

‘You’re bold for the daughter of an owahyat,’ says the bubble boy.

Before the words clear his lips, I hurl a rock, aimed for his face. It’s clear from the malice in his voice exactly what he thinks when he calls my mother a prostitute. He doesn’t know her and if anyone can talk crap about Arti, it’s me, not him. But the boy knocks the rock from its path with a gust of wind.

‘Nice try, ben’ik,’ he says.

I spit in the dirt.

So they’re talented in the elements. Dirty, arrogant swine. They think because we don’t have magic, we’re defenceless. Another mistake.

‘Are we going to talk all night or fight?’ Sukar yawns. ‘I vote fight.’

Even magic isn’t foolproof. I know that better than most from watching my father in his shop. The only way out is through the boy holding the bubble intact. He hasn’t moved a muscle since he conjured it, as if he needs to stand still to keep it steady. That’s my opening. I don’t second-guess as I charge at him. My fingers tighten against the staff, but the ground shifts and I land hard on my face. The fourth Litho boy’s outstretched arm trembles as the dirt under me groans and settles again.

Sukar and Essnai spring into action. My friends bat away the rocks two of the Litho boys hurtle at us with their magic, neither lifting a finger. I catch a rock and send it flying. It hits the boy who knocked me down square in the chest. He lets out a little squeak and I can’t hide my satisfaction. Serves him right.

I’m on my feet again, my eyes narrowed on the bubble boy. He calls for help, but Sukar and Essnai already have his friends battered and bruised on their knees. The bubble falters before I even reach the boy, and he runs away. I don’t bother going after him. He got the point. Once the bubble’s gone, the sounds of the night’s celebrations rush back into the clearing. The rest of the Litho boys run away too.

My hands shake as I clutch the staff. They weren’t even that powerful. Yet, if not for Sukar and Essnai’s help, things could’ve ended much worse. How could Heka bless scum like that with magic and skip me? At the first beats of the djembe drums, dread slips between my ribs like a sharp blade. It’s time to face the thing I’ve been dreading all day.

My tests with Grandmother – the great Aatiri chieftain.