Читать книгу Kingdom of Souls - Rena Barron - Страница 10

Grandmother’s dome pavilion looms over the smaller, squat tents in the Aatiri camp. Its patchwork of bright cloth billows in the gentle breeze in the valley. My legs ache as I weave through the throng of people preparing for the second night of the blood moon. I wish I could lose myself in them and find a place to hide from my tests. I don’t want to fail again.

I suck in a deep breath as I finally reach the tent. My cousin Nenii pins back the flap and ducks inside. She and Semma clear away teacups and wash down the long, low table. Magic strung in glass beads, draped along the walls, lights the room. I’m always amazed by Grandmother’s endless ways to bend magic to her will.

I press two fingers to my forehead and dip my head in a slight bow. ‘Blessed night, cousins,’ I say in Aatiri. The greeting twists on my tongue, but the girls don’t make fun of my accent. These cousins have always been kind and accepting, even if I’m an outsider. Still, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s only because of Grandmother. Plenty of people are polite to me in Tamar out of respect for my mother.

They chime back, ‘You honour us, granddaughter of our great chieftain.’

‘Join me, Little Priestess,’ Grandmother calls from another room.

Her voice brims with authority, but it’s not unkind.

Nenii and Semma give me encouraging smiles as they fluff pillows. Before I slip into my Grandmother’s private quarters, Nenii whispers, ‘Come by our tent later so we can help braid your hair.’ My cheeks warm, but I’m glad of the offer. It’s long overdue and would take me forever. I shake off my doubts about them. Not everyone cares that I don’t have magic.

I pull back the curtains that separate the salon from Grandmother’s private quarters. She sits cross-legged on a mat in the middle of the floor. She isn’t wearing her bone charms, only a yellow kaftan with coloured beads across her shoulders. Light flickers from the jars of burning oil in the corners and leaves the rest of the room in shadows. Her quarters smell of cloves, cinnamon, and cardamom – the spices of her favourite tea. ‘Grandmother,’ I say, bowing to her. ‘Honoured Chieftain of Tribe Aatiri, blessed night.’

‘Welcome, Granddaughter.’ She smiles. ‘Sit.’

Grandmother clutches her hands on her lap, and when I squat on the reed floor facing her, she flips her wrists and lets the bones fly. They land between us in the same position they did all those years ago when she first tried to teach me magic. As they do every year. Her whispers fill the room as she channels the ancestors’ spirits through the bones. Several voices come across at once. My belly twinges at the clipped, guttural words that are neither Aatiri nor Tamaran. The language doesn’t sound like that of any nation near the Kingdom or the tribal lands. In the corner, one of the candles flickers and goes out.

Grandmother has never told me what the message means. Whenever I ask, she answers, ‘The time is not yet right for me to say.’

Still the question burns on my lips. What does it mean? I almost beg for an answer but bite my tongue. It isn’t fair that she’s keeping it from me. Why would she? Unless it’s something bad, or if it means that I’ll never come into my magic. The blank expression on her face gives nothing away.

‘People are upset about me entering the sacred circle,’ I start, then my words catch in my throat. She had to know they would be. Grandmother stares at me with one eyebrow arched in anticipation. She bears the angular face, prominent cheeks, and proud nose common among the Aatiri. Her look, as always, is one of slight amusement – as if she’s privy to a secret that no one else knows.

The phantom of Heka’s magic still lingers on my skin. It was the first time that magic ever came to me. It didn’t just brush by on its way to answer someone else’s call. It sparked in my soul like a vital organ I hadn’t known was missing. I want to tell Grandmother this, but I’m afraid of what it means that the magic didn’t stay.

She risked angering the other edam and the entirety of the tribal people – for what reason? I bite my lip and drop my gaze to my hands. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘People should mind their own business,’ Grandmother says, her voice sharp. When I meet her eyes again, she smiles. ‘As for your question, let me try to explain.’ She waves her hand over the bones and they arrange themselves into a neat pile. ‘Our magic presents in different ways. It’s no small thing that you can see magic and your mind resists it. I’ve long wondered if, perhaps, your magic is simply asleep. I brought you into the sacred circle in an attempt to awaken it.’

A flush of heat creeps up my neck. ‘I guess there’s only one way to see if it worked.’

‘Take the bones,’ Grandmother says. ‘Tell me what you see.’

So begin my tests.

The bones feel smooth and polished, and slippery against my hands. They don’t hum with magic or speak to me. It’s no different from Imebyé all those years ago, or any blood moon since then. I clutch the bones with my eyes closed, my pulse pounding in my ears. I will them to tell me their secrets. Please let this work.

When I can’t stand waiting any longer, I throw them.

The bones scatter in a random pattern that means nothing to me. Grandmother studies them, her eyes lingering on each bone, then lets out a soft sigh. They don’t mean anything to her either.

Why do I keep failing at this? What am I doing wrong?

She allows me no time to lament, only snaps her fingers. Nenii enters the room carrying a mortar and pestle, a knife, and piles of herbs. Once she’s gone, Grandmother says, ‘Make a blood medicine of your choice.’

That I can do. I’ve learned how to make dozens while helping my father in his shop. But without magic, all blood medicine does is give a person a stomachache. Or a hangover.

I crush herbs, adding a bit at a time to get the right consistency. The medicine calls for white nightshade smoothed into a paste and a dozen other herbs. It isn’t long before I’m lost in the work, my mind at peace for the first time at the festival. I’ve always found making blood medicine calming, even if challenging. Juices stain my fingers green and a pungent odour stings my nose by the time it’s done.

To seal the spell, I need to add my blood, but I hesitate. I don’t want to disappoint Grandmother or myself again. After this, we’ll know if last night had been worth it, if my true magic was only asleep. I nick the tip of my finger, add blood, and whisper the incantation in one breath.

It’s done.

If my measurements were off by the smallest amount, the work would be for nothing. Without magic it is for nothing. I always go through the motions because of Grandmother, but after Heka’s touch, I hope a spark of magic will finally show. This year has to be different. It’s now or never.

Grandmother’s silver locs are loose and reach her waist. Even without her adornments, she still looks every bit the chieftain that she is. She raises an eyebrow. ‘You intend to turn your hair blue?’

‘It’s very popular in Tamar.’ I smile down at the bowl. If it works, I’ll make Essnai all the hair colour she could dream of. I’ll find a thousand frivolous, fun things to do with magic. I’ll be useful in my father’s shop, and one day open a magic shop of my own.

‘Indeed.’ Grandmother gestures at the bowl, a grin dancing on her lips. ‘After you.’

We both drink and nothing happens. Aside from the atrocious taste. Another failure.

On to the next.

We spend hours going through the tests.

I fail to read minds.

I fail to manipulate water.

I fail to see into the future.

I fail to call upon the ancestors.

I fail to heal the cuts on my fingers.

I fail to detect what ails a sick woman.

We work late into the night, people coming and going for various tests. My head throbs and my stomach twists in knots as the hour of ösana approaches. Magic is at its most potent in that space of time between night and sunrise. Grandmother never loses patience and encourages me to keep trying. I wish my mother would be that way instead of voicing her constant disapproval.

‘Are there any easier tests?’ I ask the moment we are alone.

Grandmother throws the bones again. ‘Those were the easier tests, Little Priestess.’

I wince. ‘Please don’t call me that. It only makes things worse.’

She frowns but doesn’t look up. Something in the bones has her full attention. She points to two bones that lie crossed together. This is new. They’ve never landed like that before.

The sacred circle did change something.

My heart races as I lean forward in anticipation. Could this finally be it?

Grandmother’s finger shakes as she speaks in two voices. One is a low hiss that comes from her throat, and the other sounds like glass shattering. Both are so terrible that they send chills down my spine. Her head snaps up. ‘Who are you?’

I shrink when her eyes land on me – only the whites visible. ‘What?’ I ask, not knowing what else to say. I’ve seen her in trances before but never anything like this. Something shifts in the air. ‘Grandmother, what’s wrong?’

‘Leave!’ she shouts, staring over my shoulder. I jump to my feet and whirl around. The tent flutters and the unlit jar of oil sparks to life. I back away. No one’s there, but a new, unfamiliar magic rushes into the room. Magic not coming from Grandmother and definitely not from me. Magic that I can’t see, only feel slithering on my skin. ‘You do not belong here, green-eyed serpent!’

Spittle shoots out of Grandmother’s mouth as she barks the last words. Sparks of magic – tribal magic – fill the room. It lights on her skin. Her whole body begins to glow. The bones rise from the ground and spin, caught in an impossible windstorm.

I clench my fists as her magic sweeps through the tent. It flits against my arms like moth wings. I want to flee, but I don’t move. It won’t hurt me.

Grandmother’s head snaps backwards so hard that her spine cracks. I gasp. Soon we’re both shaking. She leans to one side, sweat pouring down her face. For the first time, she looks old and fragile. I kneel next to her.

‘It will pass,’ she says, straightening herself up again, though she’s still panting.

‘What … what was that?’ I stutter.

‘Have you seen the green-eyed serpent in your dreams, child?’ she asks, her voice sharp.

‘What?’ My teeth chatter, and I hug my shoulders. The tent is cold in the aftermath of the strange magic. The space feels too small, the air too thin. Something bad was here – something powerful enough to challenge Grandmother. ‘I don’t understand.’

She clucks her tongue, then glances at the curtains separating us from the rest of the tent. They stand as stiff as sheets of metal until she draws a loop in the air with her finger and they become cloth again. ‘Enter, Oshhe.’

My father bursts through the curtains with so much force that he halfway rips them from the ceiling. His expression is panicked as he looks between us. Upon seeing that we’re all right, he lets out a deep sigh. ‘Honoured Chieftain,’ he says, bowing. Then his voice softens. ‘Mother, what happened?’

‘It’s hard to put into words,’ Grandmother says. ‘Please join us, son.’

Oshhe squats beside me, his eyebrows pinched together. ‘Are you okay?’

I nod and lean against his side. He wraps his arm around my shoulders. He’s warm and smells of grass and sunshine, and his embrace calms my nerves. ‘To answer your question, Grandmother,’ I say. ‘No, I haven’t seen a serpent, green-eyed or not, in my dreams.’

‘I think you’d better explain, Mother,’ Oshhe says, his voice calm – too calm. He only uses that voice when he’s not happy.

‘There was someone here … something.’ Grandmother shakes her head as if clearing away cobwebs. ‘Someone who does not belong. Perhaps a relic from the past, I do not know, or an omen of the future …’

Again Grandmother speaks in riddles, but her voice shakes a little. Whoever, or whatever, this thing is, it’s rattled the great Aatiri chieftain, and that scares me too.

‘She – the green-eyed serpent – possesses magic I do not know,’ Grandmother finishes. ‘Magic that feels very old and very powerful.’

‘Magic you don’t know?’ Oshhe questions, one brow raising. ‘Was it … an orisha?’

‘An orisha here?’ I blurt out. ‘In the tribal lands?’

I can’t imagine the orishas in the tribal lands any more than Heka in the Kingdom. Though the tribes acknowledge that the orishas exist, they hold Heka above all. In the Kingdom, the orishas take precedence, but the citizens come from all walks of life and so do their deities.

‘No, not an orisha,’ Grandmother says, her tone reluctant. ‘Something else.’

‘A rebirth, perhaps?’ Oshhe says. ‘A powerful witchdoctor who has cheated death.’

Grandmother massages her temples. ‘I can’t be certain. I need to talk to an old friend who will know more. It will take time to reach her, for she does not walk these lands.’

A chill runs down my spine. Grandmother is the Aatiri chieftain. I’ve never known her to not have an answer. She’s one of the most powerful witchdoctors in the tribal lands, in all the world.

‘You haven’t said what this green-eyed serpent – what she has to do with me,’ I say, unable to hold my question back any longer.

Grandmother regards me again, her eyes bloodshot. ‘In truth, I do not know, Arrah.’

Her words knock the taste from my mouth. The Litho boys would’ve beaten me if not for Essnai and Sukar’s help. The boys’ magic had been feeble and nothing special, yet still too much to handle on my own. Now this? My mind slips back to the sacred circle again. Why couldn’t Heka gift me with magic? ‘Am I in trouble?’

‘I will not lie to you,’ Grandmother says. ‘I do not think she means you well.’

‘But you have an idea of what she is,’ Oshhe says, his face blanching.

Grandmother’s voice drops low – the way one utters an unspeakable secret. ‘I don’t want to speculate.’ She scoops the bones into her lap, her hand shaking. ‘It’s best if I consult with the other edam first …’

‘Grandmother!’ I beg. ‘Please … you know, don’t you?’

She worries her fingers across the bones, still refusing to meet my eye.

‘Mother,’ Oshhe says, his jaw clenched, ‘speak your mind.’

‘The green-eyed serpent,’ Grandmother says after a weary breath, ‘is said to be a symbol of demon magic.’

Silence falls upon the room and Grandmother’s words hang like a noose between the three of us. Demons are myths, legends. Stories that parents tell to scare their children into behaving. The scribes teach us that the orishas saved mortal kind from them. Back home we call someone who sucks the joy out of life a soul eater. It’s meant as a harmless insult – one inspired by the tales that demons feasted upon kas. Everything I know about them comes from those half-forgotten stories. People fill in the gaps in the folklore with their imagination. The scribes say that the orishas erased the full memories of demons from our minds to protect us. Now Grandmother’s telling me that demons are real, and one is very much alive.

‘It’s impossible,’ my father whispers, the news stealing the strength from his voice. ‘There has to be another explanation. Demon magic has been gone for thousands of years.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Grandmother says, closing her fist around the bones.

I rub the back of my head, feeling the onslaught of a headache. The vision has Grandmother scared too. She’s trying to protect me, but I want the truth. I need to know if the green-eyed serpent is a demon … how could it be possible and what does it mean? Could this be the reason my magic is asleep, or why Heka’s grace had only touched me in passing in the sacred circle? I’m reaching for straws, but I ask anyway, ‘Does this demon have anything to do with my magic not showing?’

‘It’s possible,’ Grandmother says, her voice so very tired. ‘There’s much in this world that even I cannot perceive. As I said, I must consult with the other edam. Together, we may be able to find an answer.’

My father’s practised calm gives away to frustration. ‘How do I keep Arrah safe?’

Grandmother thinks long before answering, ‘I do not know, but we’ll find a way.’

I don’t miss the uncertainty between her words. I’m irritated that they need to protect me. If I had magic of my own, I could protect myself. My mind reels with the grim news. Not only has Heka forsaken me, but things are much worse. I once laughed at stories about demons, and now I know that one may walk in my shadow.

She does not mean me well.