Gambit of the Gods Page 8

  Gideon glances at me and nods, still moving through the trees—yes, through them.

  “It’ll be less shocking for them, and for the Clans. Miklos and Artan aren’t as much of a consideration since they’re already Outsiders. But yes, the more the abilities mirror who they are, the better, I think.”

  “His dominant forces are Earth and Life. His ability will be strongest if we think along those lines,” Mother adds.

  “I don’t disagree,” I reply, “but what does that leave Artan? He loves plants, books, his father, and Little Squirrel. That’s not much to draw from.”

  They both consider that, looking thoughtful. Meanwhile, Artan stops to digs a wild onion plant out of the ground. Placing it in his basket, roots and all, he whispers an apology to the plant for uprooting it. He’ll replant it in his garden behind the hut that he, Miklos and Little Squirrel share.

  Artan knows the name and properties of nearly every plant he sees, thanks to his plant books from Civitas Dei and from sharing knowledge with Clan healers. This knowledge has earned him great respect among the Elders and healers. Others laugh at him behind his back, calling him Igasho Nodin, ‘he who wanders, whispering to himself’, since he can oftentimes be found in the forest, talking to himself and to the trees.

  But wait—that’s it.

  “We’re surrounded by plant life here,” I say excitedly. Gideon and my mother look at me like I’ve lost my mind, but I ignore them. “The trees stand over Artan and his family like guardians, both hiding and protecting them. What if the trees, the ferns, the grasses, and the flowers all rose up and fought by Artan’s side? Maybe he could even make seeds in the ground sprout up around his enemies!”

  “That could work,” my mother says thoughtfully, her eyes unfocused as if imagining the possibilities. After a moment, she starts giggling like a little girl, and I glimpse the image in her mind—a tree rampaging through the forest, chasing away menacing shadows. I give her a happy mental hug. She and Gideon exchange a look of warmth and love between them, making me mentally blush.

  It took my mother a long time to get over my father’s death. But Gideon patiently wooed her after giving her time to grieve. Their love blossomed out of mutual respect and admiration. She loves him because he cares for Jade and me as if we were his own children, and he clearly adores her. I‘m thrilled for them both, but I stay far away when they go off alone together. I don’t want to accidentally ‘overhear’ their mental embraces. No child wants near that!

  Gideon has that look he gets when he’s excited by an idea. “That’s good, son.” he says. “But what if Artan is somewhere no plants grow? Or not enough?” Looking around on the forest floor, he quickly finds what he’s looking for and points. It’s a tree branch, as thick around as my forearm, almost as long as a man is tall.

  “This branch was once alive,” he explains, his tone now that of a lecturing scientist. “Some part of it still remembers living.”

  Mother perks up, somehow anticipating his next words. “Artan could call living vines out of it to wrap up his enemies and incapacitate them.”

  I grin. It’s perfect.

  Gideon makes as if to scrub his hands through his hair in thought. He always looks comically surprised to find he can’t do it, even after all these years.

  “What about Miklos?” he asks Mother and me. “Malyse’s ‘rules’ allow one new offensive or defensive ability for each pawn in the game. But Miklos is a healer. There’s no way he’s going to hurt anyone except in the most extreme circumstances. You know how he always says he wishes weapons had never even been invented. If we make him one, it seems like a wasted effort. Also, his dominant forces are Spirit and Water. We can’t very well have him call down rain on people, and the ocean is too far away to drown people in, not that he’d ever allow that anyway…”

  While we’ve been talking, Artan has left us behind. We squint off into the distance, thinking hard. I discard several ideas—calling down lightning, invisibility, freezing assailants in place—as either too violent or too impotent.

  At last Mother offers, almost tentatively, “Gideon, wait. What if Artan could take his attackers’ weapons out of their hands? Cause them to be turned against their user? Water is movement, and Spirit is power or control. He would be able to control or command the movement of objects.”

  Gideon nods thoughtfully, blue eyes narrowed behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “I’ve always loved the idea of being able to move objects without touching them, like they did in the old stories. The ability could also translate to moving people out of the way of harm, or moving items in a room to block an attack. I think the possibilities could be quite far-reaching. It’s very powerful, but also non-violent, just like Miklos.”

  We start walking again. I’m now trying to think of abilities for Little Squirrel. Her dominant forces are Life and Spirit…controlling or commanding life, hmm…

  Soon the Village clearing unfolds in front of us. Women from various Clans hurry toward the main fire pit carrying foodstuffs, musical instruments, and decorations. I can just make out the eight wooden pillars surrounding the main fire pit from where I stand. Each is carved with one of the eight Spirit Animals that watch over the People. I picture the pillar of the Hunting Cat Clan, the Clan Little Squirrel belongs to, thinking about the Spirit Quest she will go on tomorrow. She’ll be all alone, away from the Village and the protection of those who love her, at the mercy of wild animals, stalked by an unknown danger. The eyes of the hunting cat on the Clan pillar seem to come to life in my mind. The falcon that always follows Little Squirrel swoops down to alight on its head, staring at me…

  “I know the perfect ability for Little Squirrel!” I blurt. “Come, let’s find Jade so we can decide on Spark’s ability. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  We hurry away in search of my sister. When we find her, she tells us her idea for Spark’s ability. It’s so obvious it makes us all laugh.

  That night, we four move from one sleeping Chosen to the other, hoping our gifts will be enough to save these people we’ve come to care about so much. Not knowing who or what endangers them makes us feel as helpless as Miklos does, but we’ve done what we can.

  When Little Squirrel leaves tomorrow, Mother, Jade and I will follow. We always do when anyone goes on a Quest, to impart a Vision and ensure that they embrace their Spirit Animal. But this time, there’s so much more at stake.

  That night, the memory of Little Squirrel’s beauty as she bathed in the river glows in my mind as I watch the moon rise over the Village. I can never win her love. But at least now, because of the abilities we bestowed, I can protect her and those she loves.

  Chapter 8: Sera

  It’s the day of the House Klia Masquerade Ball. But first, Kella and I will attend our first hanging.

  We’re in the main Queensrealm Marketplace, where all eleven Houses bring their wares to sell or barter. Today Kella is taking the place of her sister, Kylea, whose job it normally is as Third-Daughter to sell House Klia wares in their barter booth. Soon now, Kella’s sister Kylani and her friends will come to take Kella to the Field of Honor for the hanging, and I’ll go with them.

  Meanwhile, though, I’ve decided to take a look around at everything for sale here as if I’m a free, living woman rather than an invisible spirit trapped in a half-life. It’s funny, what I used to take for granted while I lived, the little things that mean so much: holding someone’s hand, enjoying a sweet, or browsing for a new dress. I’ve realized, now that it’s too late, that life is made up of all these small, seemingly insignificant moments, stitched together. Yes, the major events mattered too, but I hold all of them forever in my heart, never to be lost. The little things, on the other hand, are so easily forgotten. And they don’t seem so little anymore, once you’ve lost them. Now that I’ve done what I can to protect Kella, I intend to relax a bit.

  Sidling up to the shoppers, I admire everything on display there that a woman might desire: elegant hats, wra
ps, half-capes and cloaks, furs, feathers, jewelry, ribbons, scarves, dresses, gloves, boots, and so much more. Then there are the candlemakers’ and honey-sellers’ booths, the glass, mirror and furniture-makers, the metal-workers, porcelain and silver sellers, fan-makers, perfumiers, painters, doll-makers, jewelry-crafters, fabric sellers, sculptors, etc. I avoid the food vendors, not wanting any reminders of things I can no longer enjoy. But the air is festive with laughter, music, and chatter, with musicians and singers drawing large crowds, and before long, I find myself dancing a few remembered steps along with the other dancers.

  Ladies sail hither and yon like majestic ships with servants tossed in their wakes, buying this or that, whispering to one another behind their fans. Slaves dressed in short pants and vests with the sigil of the House they serve on the right breast follow meekly behind them, carrying their ribbon-wrapped purchases.

  After some time, I find myself back at the House Klia barter booth. I’m surprised to see that High Elder Kylara herself has come to relieve her youngest daughter, since most of the time, she barely notices her. Kella looks bored, selling packets of tea, spices, dried herbs, small jugs of oil, and other items that only House Klia is authorized to sell, with little zest. I notice she’s constantly fiddling with her new white lace gloves. She’d rather have on riding gloves, galloping Darkstar across an open field, I know. But that won’t happen today.

  “Kella, stop that fidgeting,” Kylara growls in annoyance between customers. “Have you heard anything I said, girl?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Kella replies, “but all I can think of is the hangings.” She looks away, squinting, searching the thinning crowd of shoppers.

  My own people outlawed the practice of hanging long ago in favor of imprisonment, which we deemed much more humane. But from what little I understand of the method, it can be a quick, almost painless death if the neck breaks immediately. Still, it seems a brutal end, unbecoming of any moral society.

  Kylara studies her shrewdly. “You don’t have to go. Karyl still refuses to, and no one rebukes her for it. Or if you do go, you could turn away.”

  Kella glances up at her, then quickly away again. “I told Kylani I’d go, and we’re going with her friends. They’ll laugh at me if I turn away.” She tugs at her glove again, unconsciously. “I can handle it. I’m old enough.”

  I step into her, wanting to calm the rising tide of anxiety I know will be there for all her protestations of strength. She’s always been a sensitive and kind girl, which is why I Chose her, but we can’t afford to let her mother see any weakness in her. Kylara was my Chosen before Kella, so I know only too well how she’ll react if she senses Kella’s fear.

  It’s one of the main drawbacks of living in a society where everyone has the ability to sense your feelings: at any time you might be stripped bare emotionally, for everyone to see and judge. Like everyone else in the Queensrealm, Kella knows how to shield her feelings from others, but sometimes they come upon her so fast she doesn’t always have time.

  Just then, Kylani steps out of the crowd several paces away. A younger girl in a grey pinafore over a light blue shift, typical of House Beltarra, and two Elmaya girls, twins in matching white dresses with red lacings at bodice and sleeves, follow her closely. The latter are Kella’s best friend Ellarin’s older sisters. Ellarin herself is ill, and without her and Karyl to lend their support, Kella tried to back out of attending the hangings. But after Kylani’s teasing, she agreed.

  Kella’s dismay rises once again at the sight of them, and I soothe her as best I can. Her mother sees the girls at the same moment and makes an amused shooing motion.

  “Go, girl, try to have fun. I’ll be there myself in a bit, once Emik and the others pack up our wares,” she adds, gesturing to the three slaves squatting nearby under the shade of a tree. They rise stiffly and hasten to serve their mistress, heads bowed.

  Stepping from behind the booth, Kella gives each of the girls a brief embrace in greeting before they all start down the hill toward the Field of Honor.

  The Field of Honor isn’t just a field, it’s a massive arena where citizens of the Queensrealm gather to indulge in their favorite sport, Horse-Dancing. Kella passionately loves the game, proudly representing her House on their team. I’d gone to the Field of Honor with her many times before, and with her mother and grandmother before her, but only to watch the Horse-Dancing matches. I refused to watch the hangings. I despise violence in all its forms, having experienced more than enough of it as a child, and have no desire to witness any more of it. But Kella is like my child, and I can’t let her go alone into this. We will endure it together.

  Kylani leads the group of girls, impatiently pushing through the crowd travelling in the same direction, but quickly gives up and drops back with the others.

  Elbowing one of the twins, she announces, “This will be my little sister’s first time watching a hanging, you know.” I feel Kella’s embarrassment as if it were my own.

  “We’ve seen three,” the twin Kylani elbowed brags. The other nods smugly.

  “It will be my first time too,” the younger girl in the grey pinafore admits, moving closer to Kella and giving her a look of quiet understanding. Kella smiles back in gratitude. A friendship is born in that instant, I sense. Kylani and the twins hurry on, talking and gesturing animatedly.

  “Your name is Kella, isn’t it?” the younger girl inquires, squinting against the sun’s brightness. “I’ve seen you at Gathering. My name is Breslin.”

  “Glad to meet you, Bres—”

  The two dodge out of the way of a group of younglings racing through the crowd. Both girls giggle as the last, a tiny blonde girl in a pink dress, collides with the glossy black skirts of a beautiful, middle-aged woman.

  The little blonde loses her balance, grabbing desperately for a double handful of the dark fabric, not realizing she’s pulling the woman’s skirts down a bit in the process.

  The woman’s cool blue eyes widen in surprise. She wrests her skirts away from the child, adjusting them as if she were brushing filth from them, and continues on her way. Undaunted, the little girl hurries away to catch up with her friends.

  I share Kella’s amusement before we turn our attention back to her new friend. We’re nearing the gates to the Field of Honor now. Breslin stares up the hill at the towering arena walls, watching the eleven House flags flapping in the breeze as if wishing she were somewhere else. Kella’s own fear fades somewhat as sympathy rises up within her.

  “Do you like Horse-Dancing?” she asks. The fear leaves Breslin’s eyes, a smile lighting up her face.

  “I love it!” she exclaims.

  “So do I,” Kella gushes, grinning back. “My team just made me Team Leader. I only hope I don’t disappoint them.”

  “Nonsense! I’ve seen you play. You and your horse always seem to know where the ball will be before everyone else.”

  Kella blushes at this praise.

  “Your House is going to win the Championship this year though, I think.”

  “My cousin Belsa is Team Leader of her trio. Her netstick broke in the last game. Were you there?”

  “Of course; I’d rather die than miss a game. The Magpies’ #3 was clearly aiming for Belsa’s arm, but the enforcer missed it.”

  “Right! Belsa was furious. We—”

  The girls slow, seeing a crowd gathering up ahead. Pressing closer, we see a woman of perhaps fifty summers lying on the ground, her orange dress muddied and torn. She’s convulsing, eyes bulging and mouth gaping wide like a fish, gasping desperately for air. A woman in white tries to hold her down, but the other woman is too slick with sweat and blood. The twins move to help her. But the woman in orange shudders, her back arching up off the ground. One flailing arm catches the woman in white in the face, and blood pours from her nose. Yet she hangs on doggedly, murmuring in a calming fashion. We watch in horror as the writhing woman’s spasming face slowly turns a faint, sickly blue-grey. Her bloodshot, bulging eyes mutely beg for he
lp.

  “Come on,” Kylani says from behind us, grabbing Kella’s arm. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”

  Kella hesitates, then walks unsteadily after her sister, with Breslin trailing behind them.

  The massive, open gates tower over us, then swallow us. After climbing several flights of stairs, we locate some empty seats in the grandstands and settle in.

  The Field of Honor contains a sweeping, short-cropped grass field stretching the full length and most of the width of the arena. Two tall poles stand about a horse-length apart at each end of the field, about the height of four men. Some distance beyond the poles, wooden gates close off matching portals in the wall of the arena, large enough for mounted riders to enter and exit through.

  In the center of the dirt area separating the first of the seats from the grassy field stand two tall wooden structures mounted on wheels. I notice a series of ropes attached to a very long central wooden arm on each. The much longer part of the arm points downward, a rope with a double noose hanging from the end of it. The platform the arm pivots on is raised above the ground so a man can stand underneath. The short part of the arm has a heavy-looking bag of sand attached to it.

  They look like strange catapults, I muse, not at all like the simple gallows my people once used. And why the double nooses?

  The crowd around us had been chattering quietly, but as soon as we all catch sight of the women in black, leading their two prisoners toward the structures, the crowd goes silent. Kella’s heart beats faster and her hands begin to shake in her lap. Her emotions are a combination of horror, anticipation, and anger as she watches them. Looking out through her eyes, I soon realize why. The slaves they’re leading are only boys.

  One, tall and thin with shoulder-length brown hair, walks with his head down. He looks to be about sixteen summers. The other boy is shorter, with blonde hair, and appears to be approximately fourteen summers old. He has a black eye, the bruise turning yellowish-purple. Both boys are gagged, their hands bound behind their backs. The younger boy fights his captors as best he can, making desperate screaming noises around his gag as he flings himself about. They have no choice but to drag him.