Shadow Scale by Rachel Hartman
“At last you see it with your eyes and no other’s,” said Camba, her own eyes shining. “It may feel overpowering and unbearable, but I am here to help you bear it.”
I was touched by her words; I hoped Ingar was, too, but he seemed too shocked to take in very much. I didn’t like to interrupt, but I needed to get him back to Naia’s. Camba spoke first, however, looking across at me: “When do you return to the Southlands?”
“In about two weeks, when friends come to fetch us back.” I meant Kiggs and Comonot; I wasn’t sure whether their coming was a secret.
Ingar groaned and sagged, his knees buckling; Camba’s circling arm kept him upright. “Two weeks isn’t much time for rehabilitation,” she said, her voice thoughtful and low. “Ingar needs help during these next days. He will feel lost without Jannoula at first, and he may invite her in again.”
I studied Ingar’s vacant eyes. “Abdo said Jannoula puts a hook in people; Pende phrased it the same way, ‘unhooking her from his mind.’ So why is Ingar so … empty?”
Camba smiled unexpectedly and gazed at Ingar almost fondly. “I’ve never seen such a deflated bladder; there’s barely enough Ingar-light to fill him up. Jannoula steals your mind, if you allow it. Her hook can be the roots of a tree, or a tapeworm, winding through you, sucking your soul-light away. She takes without giving, but she’s convinced him that he likes it, or deserves it.”
Camba’s eyes turned sad in the dwindling light. “Would … would you permit me to take him home and oversee his care? You’ve never had Jannoula forcibly stripped from your mind. I know what it’s like.”
I nodded solemnly, not wishing to seem too eager to be rid of him. Something else had struck me, however, a familiar huskiness in Camba’s voice. I knew her voice, I suddenly realized, but from where? Not from my visions. I said, “Camba, you’re ityasaari, and yet I’ve never seen you.”
With her free hand, Camba demurely raised the hem of her diaphanous dress, just enough to reveal a band of silver scales around each knee, distinctively half dragon.
That removed all doubts, if I’d had any. “In visions, I mean,” I said. “My mind reached out to others—before I stopped it—but not to you.”
Camba drew herself up to her full height; the gibbous moon was rising behind her towering hair. “You reached out to me. You even spoke. I recognize your voice.”
“Now I know you’re mistaken,” I said. “Only two ityasaari ever heard me speak, Jannoula and—”
“A person on the mountaintop, throwing crates and screaming,” she said, pointing north at the double peak looming over the city. “I looked different then. I was born into a masculine body, and I had misgendered myself.”
I had known the voice and hadn’t believed my ears. She was in my garden after all. I racked my brains for the Porphyrian verb Abdo had taught me, a polite inquiry that didn’t even exist in the Southlands. “How may I pronoun you?” I hazarded.
Camba smiled warmly and inclined her stately head. “I pronoun myself emergent feminine,” she said in Porphyrian, then added in my native tongue, “Or I do now, at last. On my Day of Determination, I declared myself naive masculine. I was already ityasaari; it embarrassed me to be even more complicated than that.”
She led Ingar down the temple steps and bundled him into her waiting litter. I studied her movements, looking for something that recalled that vision, the day she’d been ready to die. It was hard to see beyond the jewelry, hair, and saffron draperies, but suddenly the sunset glazed her bare shoulders a burnt orange, and I recognized in the strength and sureness of her limbs the echo of a person I’d once seen, a harmonic that I’d mistaken for the fundamental.
She was the one whose despair I’d felt, whom I’d reached out to in empathy. In my garden she lived in the statuary meadow, and I’d called her Master Smasher.
I walked back to Naia’s, lost in my memory of that vision, and then lost in fact. Porphyry became a labyrinth after sunset. It should have been a simple proposition to find Naia’s again: the harbor was downhill, and east was to the right along the shoreline. Porphyry, alas, was all dead ends and cul-de-sacs and nonplanar geometries. Three rights didn’t make a left. I began to fear that I would meet myself coming from the other direction.
I finally made it back, and up four flights of stairs. Naia had left a lamp burning. She was asleep on the couch, wrapped in a cobwebby shawl, her cheek pressed into the pillow I’d given her. I extinguished the lamp, and she didn’t stir.
I quietly ventured a peek behind Abdo’s curtain, just to check on him. Getting him together with Pende was going to be harder than I’d realized, and I did not like the idea of Abdo suffering in the meantime. I listened for steady breathing to tell me Abdo was asleep, but I heard nothing.
Once my eyes adjusted to the near darkness, I saw that Abdo had propped himself on an elbow and was staring back at me.
I hoped it was Abdo and not Jannoula. I approached cautiously.
“How are you feeling?” I whispered, drawing back the curtain on the window so the moonlight illuminated us. His sleeping mat took up half his alcove. I sat beside him on the wooden floor, my back against shelves of Naia’s ledger books.
Abdo lay down and was silent for some moments. At last he said, I feel awful. When we were on the ship, Jannoula ignored me most of the time. Maybe she was busy, maybe it was simpler to watch you through Ingar. For several days she’s hounded me, though, and especially these last hours. She’s come after me with such terrible force that I feel like my head might split open.
I felt a rush of horror just under my ribs. She was taking revenge for Ingar’s release, I had no doubt.
“I don’t suppose you can let her through to talk to me?” I realized as I spoke the words that this was a terrible idea, but I was itching to pick a fight with Jannoula myself.
Abdo was shaking his head vehemently, the whites of his eyes reflecting the moonlight. If I let her seize me while I’m awake, I’m sure she’ll never let go. I have to push against her every minute. He wrapped his arms around his head and began to weep soundlessly. I’m scared to sleep. I’m scared to move. I have to concentrate.
My heart was breaking for him. I said, “Pende pulled her out of Ingar’s head; he could do the same for you. We could go to the temple of Chakhon first thing tomorrow morning.”
He sobbed harder, his breath coming in ragged gulps. I didn’t know what to do. I took his good hand between both of mine, sympathetic tears blurring my vision, and I hummed softly, a Southlander lullaby. His breathing slowly calmed; he wiped his eyes with the back of his useless hand.
I should go to the temple and let him fix me, he said. But it feels so much like defeat.
“What do you mean?” I asked, stroking his hand.
Pende invaded my mind, too, said Abdo. Not literally, but I felt his expectations as creeping, strangling vines. He said my mind was the brightest in ten generations and that only I could be his successor. His hopes were going to swallow me right up, and … I had to push back. I would have disappeared otherwise.
You needed to dance, I said silently, feeling I understood him. I’d left my father’s house, despite the danger of exposure, because I needed to play music, to grow into myself and my own life away from him. I remembered how assertive Abdo’s dance had been the first time I saw him, how it seemed to be a way of underlining his presence in the world.
He inhaled shakily. I’ll come with you to the temple. I hate it, but I’m in too much pain. I can’t keep fighting her forever.
“Pende can’t keep you against your will,” I said firmly, not sure whether that was true. Getting Jannoula out of Abdo’s head was surely the first priority, though; we’d face the repercussions of letting Pende help after that was sorted out.
Abdo was soon asleep, in spite of himself. I hoped Jannoula would have mercy and let him stay that way. He still had a tight hold of my hand, and I couldn’t disentangle myself without waking him. I lay upon the wooden floor beside his mat and someho
A few hours later, I was startled awake by the realization that I’d forgotten to tend my garden again. I closed my eyes and quickly went to check on it. The denizens were all calm and quiet, as if nothing had happened; it was becoming more and more apparent that they didn’t rely on my daily vigilance. I spent several minutes walking in circles before I realized I was looking for Pelican Man—Pende’s grotesque—and that I wasn’t going to find him or his topiary lawn.
Once again the garden seemed to have shrunk. The trees in Fruit Bat’s grove were shorter; I could pick oranges that used to hang out of reach. Did the garden contract when I neglected it, or was it simply more apparent after a longer absence? I wanted a way to measure the change. I imagined two large standing stones, one on either side of Miss Fusspot’s rose garden. I named them the Milestones, even though they weren’t a mile apart, and I paced between them three times to be sure my count was accurate. They were forty-nine paces apart. I would remember that, and measure each time I was here.
I returned to myself and stretched, achy from sleeping on the floor. Abdo had released my hand, so I got up, closed his curtain, and tiptoed across the apartment to the narrow bed Naia had meant me to sleep in. I lay awake some hours longer, fretting over my garden’s diminution. As hard as I tried, I could not figure out what it meant.
I was awakened again, after the sun was well up, by the sound of many voices speaking Porphyrian too rapidly for me to understand. I emerged from the guest room, blinking blearily, and found myself unexpectedly faced with a couple of dozen people packed into Naia’s main room. They wore the bright tunics and trousers of the lower city, many with fish-gutting knives at their belts or their hair tied back with colorful fabric. A pile of children bounced and giggled on the couch; a pair of women unwrapped hot dishes of barley, eggplant, and fish, turning Naia’s writing desk into a buffet table.
A hush fell the moment I appeared, two dozen pairs of dark, inquisitive eyes staring unabashedly at me. Finally, a woman who shared Naia’s round cheeks and short stature spoke slowly enough for me to understand: “What is this foreigner doing here?”
Naia elbowed her way to my side and began introducing everyone—Aunt Mili, Uncle Marus, Cousin Mnesias—in such rapid succession that I felt certain she didn’t intend me to remember any of them. They each nodded tersely, looking lightly affronted by my gall at popping out of nowhere. Naia’s father, Tython, smiled at me, but we were off to the next cousin before I could even smile back. We worked our way across the apartment and then out to the stairwell, where nieces and nephews sat on the steps, passing a bowl of dates.
When we reached the lower landing, Naia whispered, “I told one of my sisters that I was worried about Abdo, so now the entire family descends on us. We’ll figure out how to help him, don’t worry.”
She didn’t say so, but from the way she was patting my shoulder, I deduced that the family would find my presence extraneous. I was being dismissed.
“I know how to help Abdo,” I said. “Another ityasaari has invaded his mind, and she’s hurting him. I’d hoped to take him to the temple this morning.”
And given how badly Paulos Pende had reacted when I’d mentioned Abdo, I thought it might be better for Abdo’s family to take him.
Naia frowned skeptically. “Abdo wouldn’t want to go to the temple.”
“Last night he agreed to go,” I said, hoping his resolution still held this morning. “He needs to go as soon as possible so Paulos Pende can remove this invasive ityasaari from Abdo’s mind before she takes over completely. She could make Abdo do anything, against his will. She could make him kill Paulos Pende, or himself.”
Naia glanced back over her shoulder; the sound of arguing filtered down from her apartment. “My family has a complicated history with Chakhon,” she said, “but I will convince them this is urgent, even if I have to carry Abdo to the temple myself.”
She retreated up the stairs, not looking back. Her nieces and nephews watched me, wide-eyed. I decided they needed to know their cousin was in trouble; surely the more people that knew, the better. “Abdo needs a temple of Chakhon like … like as if he flames with fire,” I said in Porphyrian, hoping the sentiment, at least, made sense to them. The children nodded solemnly, their mouths puckered as if they were saving their laughter for later.
I heard it before I reached the bottom of the stairs.
I stepped out into the sunshine, thoroughly preoccupied. I needed something to do, or I’d spend the whole day fretting about Abdo. Luckily, I had an uncle and five more ityasaari to locate—without Paulos Pende’s help and, I suspected, against his wishes.
I was contemplating where to start when I realized my name was being called. I turned and saw a pimply-faced youth in a pointed red cap standing near the door of Naia’s building; I’d walked right past him when I came out. The lad flashed a grin and then spoke with exaggerated slowness, sticking his lips out like a horse’s. “Are you the foreigner who’s staying with Naia?” he asked. “Seraphina?”
“Yes, it is I, yes, Seraphina,” I managed. He gave a curious bow, like an awkward paraphrase of Southlander courtesy, and handed me a hinged metal box the size of a small book. I turned it in my hands, uncertain what to do with it. The messenger pointed out an ornate latch, which opened the thing. The two flat interior surfaces were covered in smooth wax, and carved into the wax were words in Goreddi:
Seraphina, this letter greets you and begs your attention.
Ingar is sleeping at last. I kept him awake most of the night, asking him about himself, making him remember. The key is to fortify him so he doesn’t believe he needs her, and to exhaust him so he sleeps. It is common to relapse, but we must guard against it. Pende will hardly be pleased to unhook Jannoula a second time.
I understand he left his luggage at Naia’s, and that it was mostly books. He will be in dire need of occupation—Gods know I can’t stay awake forever. Would you kindly gather his books and bring them to me at House Perdixis? It would be a great blessing.
Camba
The red-capped messenger grinned when I looked up. Was I supposed to pay him? It seemed he only wanted the box back. “Any reply?” he asked. I shook my head.
Ingar’s belongings were all upstairs, of course, but I did not care to face Abdo’s extended family again, not right after I’d been so unceremoniously ejected.
However, I knew where there was another book—a difficult, ciphered book—that might keep Ingar occupied for a while. I would fetch it from Orma’s stash at the Bibliagathon, deliver it to Camba, learn where the other ityasaari could be found (for surely Camba knew), and start searching in earnest.
I stopped in the Zokalaa on the way to the library, found an everything-on-a-stick vendor, and bought two skewers of eggplant for breakfast. The sky was clear, and the breeze carried whiffs of charcoal smoke, fish, and unfamiliar flowers. A nuncio announced news from a pedestal in the Zokalaa at intervals each day; he was a portly gentleman whose booming voice made Josquin’s sound like a feeble squeak. I stood and listened to him while I ate my eggplant, and was pleased with how much I understood. It helped that he spoke slowly and clearly. I walked on, smiling at shopkeepers stacking fruit into tidy pyramids and children skipping up the steep streets as if the slope were no obstacle.
At the Bibliagathon, I went straight to the musicology room, intent on retrieving the slim manuscript that had been tucked into Orma’s notes. My ulterior motive, of course, was to check whether Orma had returned. He might even be here, hard at work. Alas, the little room was empty, and his notes were wedged into the volume of Thoric exactly as I’d replaced them. I glanced behind me as if he might walk around the corner, set his things on the table with apparent unconcern, look up slowly, and … not smile.
He did not appear. This was a silly way to look for him, like some shy suitor mooning about in front of the beloved’s house, hoping for a glimpse. Orma had come to Porphyry with Eskar, and Eskar had been dealing with the
Still, I filched the leather-bound, handwritten testament Orma had secreted in the book, not merely to give Ingar something to do—although it would work brilliantly for that—but in hopes that Orma would miss it and would contact me at the address I’d written in his notes.
The librarians had frisked Ingar last night; I couldn’t walk out with this book under my arm. I shoved the ancient manuscript up under my tunic.
Of course, this unsubtle subterfuge made it awkward to talk with librarians; I’d clearly done things in the wrong order. Keeping my arms folded across my even-flatter-than-usual chest, I approached a pair of librarians pushing a cart of scrolls up the corridor. They listened politely to my mangled questions, but neither remembered a tall, bushy-haired, bespectacled foreigner with a beaky nose and no manners.
“No manners by our standards, or by yours?” the younger librarian asked, sagely stroking his peach-fuzzed chin.
“By mine,” I said.
“So, climbing shelves and drinking ink,” said the other librarian, a stout woman with a charcoal pencil stuck into her curly hair. I was not quite convinced she knew it was there. “I’d remember such an unruly Southlander,” she said.
“Ha ha,” I said, trying to maintain a cheerful expression. “But where is it a neighborhood of saarantrai? Where part of the city?”
The younger man broke into a smile. “The exiles mostly live in Metasaari. That, we can help you find.”
The woman knew exactly where her pencil was; she extracted it expertly and drew directions to Metasaari on a scrap of paper, and then another map (at my request) to House Perdixis, which turned out to be quite close. I thanked the librarians in the most formal way possible. The young man got a funny look on his face, then said in flawless Goreddi: “Sometimes simpler is better. If you say a casual charimatizi in a sweet voice, maybe batting your eyes, no one will fault you.”