Nemesis by Anna Banks
We have nothing like the Lyceum in Serubel. It is the responsibility of parents to teach their children to read, write, and develop a skilled trade as they have time for it in the home. All the children, too, are trained in basic combat with a sword and bow and arrows, a tradition passed down from our very earliest ancestors. We have no lavish structure devoted solely for the purpose of learning, as Rashidi so kindly pointed out earlier. Leave it to the Theorians and their quest for knowledge to make such a building more luxurious than even the royal castle in Serubel. And yet the bitterness I’d felt before about their lofty ambitions does not arise; indeed, I feel a stitch of admiration for the structure and its purpose. Perhaps Serubel should encourage education. Perhaps if it did, Father could not so easily persuade his council, his army, to incite war with such a powerful kingdom.
I swallow, hoping my companion doesn’t notice my apprehension as he pulls to a stop in front of the great structure. The guard sets the reins of the chariot on the front panel and bids me to wait there while he fetches a Lingot for the king’s business. He disappears into the shadows at the top of the steps.
It’s the best possible outcome I could have hoped for, not having to persuade the Lingot myself to come along with us. The charioteer believes me to be on the king’s business, which I hope means the Lingot will hear the truth in his words, instead of the lie in mine. The Falcon King had explained to me that sometimes he can detect deceit even in the words of a third party, though delivered through ones who believe their message to be true. My hope is in the fact that it means that sometimes he cannot catch the lie in these cases.
After what seems like a handful of eternities, the guard returns to me, a young woman following close behind. She wears blue robes, the color of the servant of the king, and seems to yawn incessantly. She’s very pretty, around my age, but her hair is short and dark, spearing this way and that in a barrage of spikes. At first, I imagined that in her haste she hadn’t the time to tidy her hair, but in the lightening sky of early morning I see that she in fact arranges it in this way.
I will never get used to the Theorian sense of fashion. The women either wear their hair very long or cropped close to the scalp. The men either shave themselves bald or leave long patches of it, to be braided, dangling from the side or the back of their heads. In contrast, Serubelans strive for a more modest and less eye-catching approach to personal grooming. I glance down at my clothing now: a thin linen shendyt wrapped around me fully and tucked into a belt. The fabric doesn’t reach but mid-thigh, and it exposes my shoulders and collarbone. I’d be publicly flogged for wearing this in Serubel.
“Good morning, Mistress Sepora,” the Lingot says. “I’m Master Saen. I’ll be accompanying you at the king’s request. Where shall we be going?” Master Saen? A kingdom where women can be sold into harems, yet also honored as a master of their trade? Saints of Serubel, but I will never understand the workings of Theoria.
Still, it appears the deception worked. Now I must play a game with Master Saen, and it is not lost on me that this game may very well get us both killed. I think of Mother and wonder if she would think the sacrifice of one Forger and one Lingot worthy of averting a war. Undoubtedly, she would. But when does the calculating become cold instead of useful? Have I misplaced my trust in Mother’s judgment?
“To the Half Bridge,” I tell her.
She exchanges looks with the charioteer. He holds up his palms. “I was not aware of the destination, Master Saen.”
Saen casts a doubtful look at me. “What would the king require of us both at the Half Bridge?”
It is a tricky question. I decide to leave the king and his requests out of it altogether. And so I start our dance of words. “Thank you for coming, Saen. It is imperative that we open communication with the Parani. For the sake of the kingdom. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the king believes we are in danger of attack from the Serubelans.” I feel the charioteer eyeing us curiously as he helps Saen aboard the chariot.
She grasps the handle in front of us as the chariot takes off and casts me a nervous look. “Why would he think that?”
I explain to her about the Seer, about the images his eyes produced, about the conversation I had with the king and Rashidi. “So you see, Theoria needs to extract as much nefarite from the river as possible,” I tell her. The chariot hits a bump and we both startle. “That’s why I need to open up communication with the Parani.”
The morning sun peeks from the east behind us, and in her profile I catch a glimpse of a scowl. “The Parani are nothing but feral beasts, Mistress Sepora. They do not speak a language. I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing.” And unnecessarily disturbed my sleep is what she doesn’t say aloud. One does not need to be a Lingot to discern the irritation in her voice and stature.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think I have. You see, I’ve heard one of them speak, more or less. I think it’s enough for you to decipher.” If a Lingot can translate what the tribes of Wachuk say with their clicks and primitive growls, surely a Lingot can interpret the high-pitched wails of a Parani. The people of Wachuk believe that words are meaningless without action, and so choose to sign their words with their hands, and the occasional grunt, where just hand signals alone will not do. If a Lingot can decipher that, a Lingot can understand a Parani. At least, that’s what I’m counting on, among other things that make my stomach churn with trepidation.
She blinks. “Speak? What do you mean?”
And so I tell her only some of the story of how I came to be in Theoria. I tell her about Rolan and Chut, about how they captured a Parani and how I came to free her. I show her the X etched forevermore into my palm. It seems to burn again with the new attention.
Saen observes me as one does a person who has lost her mind. I cannot fault her on it. Not when I question myself whether this is a reasonable venture.
The soldier pulls us to a halt. We have arrived at the Half Bridge. Excitement and dread vie for my focus. I try to force the bile back down my throat as I step from the chariot and wait for Saen. Together, we walk a long, slow, and tortuous path down the bridge. It creaks beneath us in places; there are soft spots in the wood where I sink a bit, then others where the wood has risen slightly and I tend to trip on those. Saen is more careful than me, allowing me a slight lead down the bridge.
“I still don’t understand why we’re here,” Saen tells me as we stroll as though we’re taking in the scenery. Neither of us is eager for our task. Saen, because she doesn’t know what lies ahead. Me, because I do know.
We reach the end, and neither of us can help but look down into the water below. It’s a long drop. I imagine criminals walking to their death on this unfinished bridge, of them forcing themselves to jump or taking the chance of being run through with a sword by the guards as they push them ever forward. Perhaps it would be better to be on the verge of death as you hit the water. Perhaps being on the fringe of dying ebbs the pain of being eaten alive.
Even now, the Parani smell our presence, hear our steps upon the bridge. The rising sun’s fingers touch the surface of the water below us. Fins and spined heads make frantic waves in the water, a frenzy of carnivores waiting with obvious impatience for the flesh standing above them, for the potential meal watching them from above.
I close my eyes.
“We’ve no nets, no hooks, no bait. How will we secure a Parani?” Saen says, wringing her hands. “I think we need to obtain help for this task.”
“We are not here to secure a Parani,” I say softly, taking in a deep breath.
And I hurl myself from the pier.
24
TARIK
When Sepora does not appear for duty in the morning, Tarik sends a servant to fetch her from her bedchamber. After all, he reasons, she’s used to the indulgent, relaxed schedule enjoyed in the harem. Rising each morning with the sun, and especially after yesterday’s events, including their late evening discussion, will take some adjusting to.
&
When the servant returns without Sepora, he feels his stomach tightening with dread. Did he push her too far last night, prying her from the comfort of her bed for a relatively intrusive interrogation? Or had Rashidi’s callous yet empty threat of attacking her kingdom been too great a burden to bear? Or worse yet, had she escaped to seek out the Serubelan army who sent the Serpen?
No, of course not. She wouldn’t return to a king who mistreated her. And he believes King Eron did mistreat her. She hadn’t been lying about that.
“Perhaps she’s gone to attend to the Serpen,” he tells his servant. “She’ll be in the north courtyard, in the stables.” Of course, they’d had to relocate many of the horses to accommodate the length of the one Serpen. A Serpen who, by all accounts of his Healers, should be fully awake and rested by now. Still, it was his Healers who were supposed to check in on the beast first thing, not Sepora.
He’ll have to chastise her, he knows, or his guards and servants will think him weak. He’s already permitted her too much leniency in her speech and actions, earning him questioning glances from the court and glares from Rashidi, and now she’s late in attending to him. No doubt the entire palace is murmuring about how gently he handled her in the garden yesterday; he cannot allow such gossip to continue. Despite his curiosity about the Mistress Sepora, he simply must gain control over his reactions to her, however intriguing she may be.
But when the servant returns once again without her, his patience begins to wane. His father’s words echo in his mind yet again this morning. Stern hand, soft heart. But how can he have a soft heart for such blatant disregard for his orders?
He simply cannot overlook this offense.
“Find her,” he instructs. “Interrupt whatever task she’s at. And bring her directly to me.”
25
SEPORA
I hit the water feetfirst and sink for several long moments until my feet touch the slimy bottom. My first instinct is to push off the mud and return to the surface, to slink back to shore without making a commotion, without disturbing the underwater residents. Yet, that would be impossible. After all, they’ve been waiting for me. They’ve watched me watching them.
And cowering now will not accomplish the task I’ve come so far to execute. Rising to the surface. Swimming to shore. The only life those actions will save is mine.
And that is not acceptable. I had been too cowardly to take my own life back in Serubel to prevent a war in the first place. I’ll not have any more blood on my hands. The risk I’m taking is worth the lives I could save.
Without warning, I feel a sting at my calf and let out a panicked scream, sending bubbles floating in a heavy stream up to the surface. All at once, the stings cover my body, and I feel sharp teeth and venom embed into my arm, my stomach, my back. Shallow bites here and there, leaving behind their rage but not taking anything away. My flesh remains intact. And painful.
They are not eating me, I realize. Not yet. They merely taste me, and most likely enjoy the muffled screams I emit with each bite, each cry of agony I can’t hold in. I’d hoped for either a swift resolution or a swift death, and I’ll not attain either if my only accomplishment is yelping like a weakling. Floating about, sustaining nibbles to my person is not why I came.
I’m no longer a coward, I tell myself against the barrage of pain deluging my body. I stood up to my father, my mother. I admonished the Falcon King. I jumped from the Half Bridge. Wouldn’t all those things qualify me as brave? I have to believe that they would. And I have to believe that now that I’ve gone this far, I can finish the task at hand.
I hold up my palm, the one with the X on it, wondering if bravery equates with foolishness.
Saen had called the Parani primitive and feral and beasts. It’s easy to believe her now. I cover my face with my other arm, surprising myself with my vanity. All of these shallow bite marks will leave scars, venomous trenches just like the one on my palm. But to have a scar on my face … could I endure such a thing? My father had a visitor once who had a long bulging scar running down his cheek. The servants had all been afraid of him, and when my mother introduced me to him, I’d cried to be dismissed. Could I endure that kind of reaction from strangers forevermore?
All I know is that if I must die, then I will. But if I survive, I’d like to do so with my eyes and nose and mouth fully intact, my cheeks unmarred. So while my arm sustains bites and stings, it stays up to cover my face, and the shame of such an act soaks through me all the while.
The intake of breath I took before I hit the water begins to fail me. It occurs to me that if I don’t die from being consumed by the Parani, I’ll surely drown. My lungs burn and my heartbeat slams heavily against my chest, resounding in my ears with a quickening rhythm. Around me, the water swooshes and churns, and I’ve no inkling how to count how many Parani there could be swarming about me; all I know is that they’ve stopped biting me.
I allow my arm to fall away from my face and try not to take in a breath of river. At least a dozen of them surround me, of different sizes and builds from what I can see through the murk. Some dance as shadows behind others, farther than my vision will afford me. They are all easily twice the length of the average man, though, and that makes my pulse race all the more. What strikes me as most intriguing is that they all have expressions on their faces, not animalistic at all, but human expressions, the same as the Parani I saved from Chut and Rolan. Some of them seem disappointed, some of them curious, some of them hungry. But, they keep their distance, as if I’ve pointed a weapon at them.
In an instant, webbed hands grab at my waist and I’m jettisoned upward, to the surface. As my head breaks through the waves and I gulp for air, the Parani who led me to the surface also pops its head up. Though I can’t tell for certain, it appears male to me, with features more squared than the Parani I stole away from Chut and Rolan. He dips his chin back toward the water beneath us and I nod. As quickly as we surface, we plunge below with a speed as though I’m being pulled by the weight of three Serpens.
As I’m dragged farther and farther, I see that more Parani have assembled. They communicate among themselves in what sounds like different pitches of the same whine. I wonder if it weren’t for the water if these undeveloped noises would actually resemble words or phrases. A language. A communication more complex than the braying of a mule or the purrs of one of Theoria’s giant cats. A communication as complex as ours.
The Parani who seems comfortable with hauling me around pulls me to the middle of the crowd. He makes a series of sounds and gestures with his hands, clearly indicating me while he “speaks.” Another Parani treads water to move forward, also a male I think, and he takes my hand and opens it to reveal my palm. He whines at me, and I’m sure it’s a question, but I’ve no idea how to answer. I have come here utterly useless.
My lip quivers as my body fully realizes the pain I’m in from the bites. I try to hide my discomfort from their searching eyes, but surely they must know what they’ve done. And they must have a horrible relationship with Th
I want to convey that Saen and I mean only peace, that we have a reason to intrude into their territory. I want to convey gratitude for not being eaten—well, mostly not eaten, anyway. The stings all feel like hot barbs lodged in my skin. I can’t imagine what they would do if I vomited in front of them, but that’s exactly what I feel is going to happen. I try to remember how long the pain lasted on my palm and it must have been a few days before it eased entirely. Days. I do not have days down here.
I must summon more courage, more fortitude, if I am to follow through.
I place my hands together and nod toward them, hoping they’ll grasp that I want them to watch. The spectorium leaks from my palms, simmering the water about it even as I struggle to superheat it in order to mold it. I have a captive audience as I pull and push at the glowing element that lies somewhere between a solid and a liquid, malleable and yet runny in places that have not cooled. I’ve never Forged underwater before, never had to, and so it’s a remarkable challenge not to let the current interfere with my designing. I rub my thumbs against the glowing element, swiping it with my fingers and pressing it into itself until I have the crude shape of a Parani—the young female I helped to escape. I hope they recognize her when she is finished; I am vain when it comes to my sculptures as well. I wait until it solidifies completely before offering it to the male treading water before me, not unaware that I am again running out of air and quickly.
He accepts it, handling it gingerly at first, the glow of it illuminating the crowd around it, which moves in, all in various states of what appears to be awe. Fighting against the blackness speckling my vision, I point toward the surface. The male Parani passes the sculpture to the closest one beside him, who swims away with it, a small throng breaking off and following him in a flurry of fins. The large male grabs my wrist, pulling me upward again.