Читать книгу Kingdom of Souls - Rena Barron - Страница 15

After another restless night I crawl out of bed before dawn. So many dreams spin in my head. One about a real green-eyed serpent slithering through the East Market. No bigger than a river snake, it moved through the throng of shuffling feet with ease. In another, the child snatcher stalked the tribal lands with a string of children bound by rope in trailing in their wake. Then I saw Rudjek standing on the edge of a forest as dark as night, with the eye of Re’Mec at his back. Some connection between the three had been clear in the dreams, but now sleep fog clouds my mind.

If I hurry I won’t miss my father before he leaves for his shop. I slip into the sea-blue tunic and trousers I wanted to wear yesterday and carry my sandals to not wake the others. Terra will be put out when she finds me gone at eighth morning bells.

The sun peeks over the horizon as I pad down the long hallway. Our villa curves around a courtyard where my father grows herbs for his blood medicines. My parents’ twin rooms are at the opposite end of the villa. Ty and Nezi have their own rooms, and Terra’s is next to mine.

Mosaic figurines dance along the wall, twisting, twirling, and leaping to keep pace with me. The magic is Mulani, one among many traditions of my mother’s tribe. From the dancers to the white curtains to the silk pillows in the salon, Mulani staples decorate our home. Even if Arti never visits the tribal lands, she must miss something about her life there, to keep these small mementos. I pause to stare at one of the dancers, and he stops too. When I was little, I used to press my hand against the wall to feel the hum of magic. Arti tried to teach me how to make the dancers move, but I couldn’t. She knew what it meant even then. Years later, the unreadable look on my mother’s face in that moment still haunts me.

Oshhe squats over the roots of a kenkiliba bush in the courtyard, running his fingers through the soil. ‘You’re up early, Little Priestess,’ he says, his back to me. ‘Can’t sleep?’

After I inhale a deep breath, I say, ‘I have a lot on my mind.’

‘Help me collect herbs.’ He offers up a pair of shears. ‘It will put your mind at ease.’

My father cuts leaves from the bush while I settle in front of a thicket of tangled matay vines. I snip at the small red buds, careful not to prick my fingers on their thorns. He doesn’t press me to talk; instead he quietly fills a small sachet with leaves. The courtyard is his sanctuary. Nezi manages the gardens surrounding the villa, but my father cares for his medicinals.

‘I received an invitation at my shop yesterday – one I know you were expecting.’ Oshhe moves on from the kenkiliba bush and begins collecting seeds from a neem tree. ‘You have my blessing to attend, but we’ll need to convince your mother.’

I do want to go to Rudjek’s ceremony, but with all the things that kept me up last night, it’s the least of my concerns. ‘What she did yesterday was awful.’

My father’s face pinches. He says he wants nothing to do with politics, so it’s a subject rarely discussed in our household. I figured out long ago that it’s not politics he doesn’t want to hear about: it’s my mother’s schemes.

‘It was cruel,’ I say, unable to hold back my words. ‘She made a spectacle of the missing children just to strike at the Vizier. What kind of person does that?’

‘Still your tongue, daughter,’ Oshhe says, ‘before you say something you may regret.’

I snatch another vine so fast that a thorn pricks my finger. I bring my thumb up to my lips but think better of it. Matay causes sleepiness in small doses and hallucinations if one ingests too much of it. My father nods his approval when he sees that I remember.

‘I don’t agree with your mother’s ways,’ Oshhe says, ‘but her animosity towards the Vizier is not unwarranted. He is not a kind man, daughter. I need you to understand that. I know that you and his son are close. I was hesitant all those years ago when you asked if you could go play with him by the riverbank. I only allowed it because one cannot judge the son by the father. Children are innocent.’

Rudjek has always wanted to keep our friendship from his father. I assumed his reason was the same as mine, since our parents hate each other, but I’m no fool either. The rumours about the Vizier are even worse than the ones about my mother. People say the Kingdom has no enemies because he orders the assassination of anyone seen as a threat. ‘Father, I didn’t come to talk about the ceremony.’

He gives me a sheepish grin. ‘Sometimes it’s better to ease into difficult conversations.’

It’s hard to know where to start or what to say. Everything that’s happened since the Blood Moon Festival tangles in my mind. Disappointment, fear, and disbelief eat at me, but I refuse to let them win. I have too much pride for that. I’m too stubborn.

‘Do you think the green-eyed serpent is a demon?’ I finally work up the nerve to ask. ‘Could one have survived the War with the orishas and hidden herself this long? What would a demon want with me?’

My last question strikes a nerve, and my father flinches. It pains me to admit that my mother has a point. There’s no reason a demon would have anything to do with me. I dig my fingernails into my palms. I’m grasping for connections, a reason, but nothing makes sense. Before my father can answer, another, more desperate question rolls off my tongue. ‘Do you know when the first child went missing?’

Oshhe cocks an eyebrow, waiting to see if I’m done. When I don’t speak again, he inhales deeply. ‘It’s hard for a parent to not have the answers their child seeks … but I sense that there may be a link between the Aatiri chieftain and Arti’s visions. Whether this is the work of craven anti-magic or demon magic, I cannot say. We must hope it’s anti-magic. If demons are back, then there will be much trouble ahead.’

My father pauses, studying the tangled matay vines on my lap. His eyes brim with the shine of fresh tears held back. He wants to be strong for me and I want to be strong for him too. ‘To answer your other question: the first child went missing at the start of the blood moon. You are right to make that connection,’ he says, his voice strung tight. ‘I need you to be very careful, Arrah. I know you like to visit the markets and go to the river, but these are not safe times.’

I tuck my hands between my knees, trying to push back the sinking feeling in my chest. There’s no mistaking the fear in my father’s eyes. A look so foreign on him that it tears out a piece of my heart. He can’t bring himself to say the rest, so I do it for him. ‘You think Grandmother’s vision means the child snatcher or demon, whatever it is, will come after me.’

My father’s posture straightens – his jaw clenches. ‘I won’t let that happen.’

‘You wouldn’t need to protect me if I had magic of my own,’ I say, bitter. ‘When my magic comes, I –’ My words trail off at his pained expression.

‘Arrah.’ My father’s voice is gentler, almost placating. ‘It doesn’t matter if you ever have magic. You’ll still be my favourite daughter, and I’ll protect you until my very last breath.’

I’m your only daughter, I almost say to be spiteful, but I can’t bring myself to hurt my father even in anger.

That’s it, then.

Even my father has given up on me ever having magic. The news is too much to bear.

Every day at eighth morning bells, the Almighty Temple opens to the public. Most people climb the precipice to the Temple on their own, but some take litters. The Almighty Palace gleams against the westward sky, overlooking the city proper and the ambling Serpent River to the east. The Vizier’s estate sits on a cliff opposite the Temple at the southern edge of the city. It’s a palace in its own right with tan walls that glow in the morning sunlight. But my mind is far from the magnificent views of Tamar right now.

Dread crawls through my belly as I remember my father’s words. It may not matter to him that I never have magic, but I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. If I want to know more about demons, the Temple’s the best place to start.

Robed scholars and scribes sweep up the path beside street merchants wearing their very best. No matter their social status or family name or religion, everyone comes to the Temple. For the morning lessons are also the time to pay tithes.

Attendants in earth-toned robes direct people through the gates. Along the edge of the cliff, five stone buildings curve around a half-moon ingress. Several scholars veer towards the gardens and ponds to confer in private. While most people funnel into the central buildings for lessons, I head for the Hall of Orishas.

A tang of blood lingers in the air as I cross the courtyard, where the shotani practise in the dead of night. The elite assassins train with the seers from a young age. Over the generations, their families moved from the tribal lands to the Kingdom. They have magic, not enough to gain status in the tribal lands, but much more than the street charlatans. Most of what we know about them is speculation since they always move in shadows.

Magic clings to the Temple walls. More even than at the sacred Gaer tree where the first Ka-Priest’s body was buried. In the day, it only looks like specks of dust out of the corner of your eye. It’s at night, especially during the hour of ösana, that it comes to life.

Sukar and another attendant stand outside the Hall of Orishas on the northeast edge of the cliff. He waves me over. ‘So many people confessing their wrongdoings.’ He rolls his eyes when I reach them. ‘They tithe to rid themselves of their guilt. It never gets old.’

Sweat glistens against Sukar’s shaved head, and his tattoos glow. They only do that when he’s near someone with the gift. I glance at the other attendant as she waves people along. The echo of her magic dances across my skin, taunting me. Sukar excuses himself from his duties, and we duck into the long ingress and enter the Hall of Orishas. Shifting torchlight along the walls casts nefarious shadows across the chamber. It’s the perfect place to talk—and to brush up on my history.

The hall is home to the statues of the orishas who survived the War with the Demon King. They moulded their own images out of stardust darker than the darkest night. It’s hard to look straight at them, or stare too long, for their figures begin to blur around the edges.

When I was younger, Sukar, Essnai, and I used to make a game of it. Who could stare the longest? I won once, if you can call it winning. I stared so long that the darkness around Essi’s – the sky god’s – statue bled into my eyes and left me blind for half a bell. Sukar ran to get my mother, who sent his uncle in her stead. I wasn’t the first child to tempt fate and pay the price. I don’t repeat my mistake now.

On our way to a private spot, we pass a few patrons prostrated in meditation at the feet of their favourite orisha. As we go deeper into the hall, we see fewer people and it’s only the echo of our footfalls that disturbs the silence. The glowing script on the walls stands out in stark contrast against the dark. I’ve never had a reason to question the holy texts, nor the history I was taught about the tribal lands. But the scripts say that the orishas destroyed all of the demons. If the first scribes got that wrong, then what else don’t we know?

The sun orisha, Re’Mec, wears an elaborate headdress of ostrich feathers and pearls, his ram horns as thick as a man’s arm. His eyes glow with fire above a sharp beak that ends in a point. He’s naked, his shoulders broad, the chiselled lines of his muscles further asserting his dominance. A glass sphere sits upon his lap. The grey mist inside it represents the souls of the orishas who sacrificed themselves to stop the Demon King.

Re’Mec’s twin sister, Koré, sits across from him on a dais beneath a glass dome that shrouds her in shadows. She has the sculptured face of an Aatiri woman, sharp angles and prominent cheeks. Her hands are talons, and long braids flow like rivers across her breasts. She holds a bronze box with a chain around it. Two women wearing the sheer white headwraps common among the twin King’s worshippers kneel at her feet. They each offer their patron god a small box of trinkets with moons carved inside the lids.

The wall next to Koré tells the story of the Demon King’s fall. She poured her magic into a box to trap his soul, yet it wasn’t enough. It took twenty of their most powerful generals to seal the box. They volunteered their own kas to bind it for ever. Other orishas had fallen in the War, but it took their sacrifice to end it.

I wrap my arms around my shoulders, unable to imagine what that would’ve been like. To give the part of yourself the tribal people considered the most sacred, the most pure. I have more questions about the demons than I started with. How were they as powerful as the orishas, if they weren’t gods themselves? Why did they eat souls? How did they do it? We only know fragments of stories about them, made whole by imagination.

Sukar clears his throat, encouraging me to hurry up. But I look at each orisha as we amble down the hall. We leave behind Koré and Re’Mec, passing by Essi, then Nana, the orisha who shaped the earth.

‘Have the seers had any more visions about the child snatcher?’ I whisper to not disturb the patrons lying at the feet of Mouran, the master of the sea. Across from him, two more patrons kneel before Sisi, the guardian of fire. I skim every holy script we pass, but nothing immediately jumps out at me. Much of it describes the War in bloody details.

‘If you mean have we heard of more visions from your mother: no,’ Sukar says. ‘Whoever the child snatcher is, they’re able to block my uncle and the others from seeing them at all. The Ka-Priestess is the only one powerful enough to get a glimpse. And even that hasn’t been much help.’

I wince at the news, and silence stretches between us as we walk past Yookulu, the weaver of seasons. His followers have sprinkled rain daisies at the base of his dais to celebrate Su’omi – the season of renewal, when all the flowers bloom after the cooler months of Osesé. We come upon Kiva, the protector of children and innocence. Oma, the orisha of dreams. Kekiyé, the orisha of gratitude. Ugeniou, the harvester. Fayouma, the mother of beast and fowl. Fram, the balancer of life and death. All of the orishas appear giant in stature.

The orishas always appear with both animal and human aspects. Always giant in size.

‘And you, my friend,’ Sukar asks, his usual playfulness gone. ‘Any news since the Aatiri chieftain’s strange vision?’

I shake my head, recalling the conversation between my father and me. Now is not the time to say, not until we know more. ‘Nothing yet.’

‘Be as patient as a lion stalking the night.’ He winks at me. ‘The edam will find an answer.’

At the end of the hall, we come upon the fourteenth orisha, called the Unnamed. Her face has no memorable features, so there’s little to recognize her by, save for the cobras around each of her arms. I pause to examine her, or rather the serpents with their heads poised to strike at her wrists. The other statues are majestic, intimidating, but this one feels wrong. Staring too long at her, darkness begins to seep into the corners of my eyes and my heartbeat quickens. The room seems to tilt, and panic unfolds in my mind. I force myself to look away.

I’m in the middle of reading another script when Tam, one of Rudjek’s sparring partners, ambles towards us. He has kinky golden hair paired with the sky blue eyes and bronze skin of a Yöomi set against Tamaran features. A face that’s lean and athletic, noble. His look is striking, one that draws eyes, and he knows it. He was recently named a first-year scribe and has been teaching at the Temple.

Tam clucks his tongue, a sly grin on his lips. ‘Is the Ka-Priestess’s daughter skipping lessons again?’ He casts a pointed look at me, then turns to Sukar. ‘… and the Zu seer’s nephew shunning his duties. Need I remind you that the orishas demand our fealty, and such disregard is frowned upon?’

Sukar rolls his eyes. ‘Get lost, Tam. Can’t you see we’re busy?’

‘Barasa is looking for you.’ Tam shrugs. ‘Something about misplaced scrolls.’

‘Twenty-gods,’ Sukar says after a deep sigh. ‘I swear my uncle is hopeless without me.’

‘A Temple attendant swearing in this sacred place.’ Tam cringes, his sly grin fading. ‘That doesn’t bode well.’

‘Shut it, will you, Tam,’ Sukar snaps, then excuses himself before rushing to answer his uncle’s summons.

When Sukar is gone, Tam leans against the throne upon which the orisha of life and death sits. Fram is duality and balance, depicted with two heads to represent their fluid nature.

‘They didn’t want any part in the War with the Demon King.’ Tam tilts his chin up at Fram. ‘For them, life and death are different sides of the same coin, so they refused when Re’Mec and Koré asked for their help. The whole duality thing is a double-edged sword … but they eventually came around.’

I cross my arms. ‘I never thought you’d end up a scribe; you love the arena too much.’

‘I considered the gendars’ – he grins again – ‘but my real talents lie in education.’

He says it with such sarcasm that I laugh. I’m about to write him off when I think again. Maybe he can help me find out more about demons.

‘So tell me something about the orishas that most people don’t know.’

‘The universe began with a bang.’ He whistles, drawing death stares from the other patrons in the hall. ‘You call it the Supreme Cataclysm, but it has many names. Think of it as a void of profound darkness that destroys and creates without beginning or end. Over the course of aeons, the first orishas crawled from its belly and cut their umbilical cords – so to speak. Each of them possesses some piece of the Supreme Cataclysm’s nature. Like the Cataclysm, the orishas love their creations.’ Tam adjusts his position, his focus turning to the Unnamed. ‘Unfortunately for us, a god’s love is both beautiful and terrifying.’

‘I’ve never heard the origin story told quite like that,’ I say, surprised.

‘I embellished it a little,’ he admits. ‘I became a scribe so I can tell lies once in a while.’

‘Tell me about her … the Unnamed.’ I point up. ‘The truth.’

‘We don’t speak of her.’ Tam shakes his head, his words clipped. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

My eyes linger on the serpents again. There was someone here … something, Grandmother had said. Someone who does not belong. Perhaps a relic from the past, I do not know, or an omen of the future.

‘A green-eyed serpent.’ I swallow. ‘Is that a symbol of demons?’

Tam startles and stares at me with one eyebrow quirked. ‘That’s an interesting question.’

‘Why interesting?’ I say, catching the sombre note in his voice.

‘That’s the name the orishas gave to the demons, yes,’ Tam confirms. ‘For though they possessed many forms, they all had green eyes, a mark of their race.’

My dread from earlier comes back in full force. If my father is right about the connection between both visions, then I have my answer. I know what a demon would want with children … with me.

This can’t be possible. It can’t be. The demon race perished in the War with the orishas, but had one survived? Could there be more? If demons have an insatiable hunger for souls, there are none more sacred and pure than the kas of children.