Chapter Thirty Hanan
chapter thirty
hanan
The queen spends the next weeks among company, always filling the place with people since the Magliyab festival.
Her spirits are high as she laughs, skin aglow.
She drapes a hand across her belly as she drinks, and her eyes meet mine as I hide in the shadows.
I catch my reflection in the glass: a tall, gaunt woman, with greasy hair that falls around her shoulders like a shroud.
My skin is dull, and my eyes vacant. I don’t remember the last time I walked the grounds, felt the air on my skin.
Each time she takes from me, I need to recover.
I will lie in bed staring at the brand on my thigh until it no longer glows, no longer burns from her draining me.
At first, I was bedridden; then I crawled. Now, I stumble.
I stagger away from the queen and her courtiers.
The halls are full of noise and the press of warm bodies, and my feet take me to the cold, dark corners, the lonely hallways.
By habit I find myself at the library, slipping the key into the lock, the metal warm from my skin as I held it in my pocket.
Once inside, I need to feel something tangible under my hands, to know I’m secure in here.
I run my fingers across a tapestry of Paranish, tracing each of the isles in turn.
When I brush against Aistra, I feel something behind the fabric.
The indentation of a door, but there’s no handle on this side.
This must be how the queen sneaks up on me.
I long to know where it leads but content myself in knowing the library has finally begun to reveal its secrets to me.
For now, I place a stack of books just in front of the tapestry, hoping it will act as an alarm the next time she decides to visit.
Something falls out of one of the volumes, a thin piece of paper stained with inky fingers.
I carefully unfold the page and recognise Mother Lin’s handwriting:
Sinaya. I am sending a sheaf of mansegrass as you requested. Blessed be His Majesty and we pray for him daily at the temple.
The faint fragrance of the mansegrass is all that remains, and the messy fingerprints speak to the desperation of its recipient.
One of my predecessors, who failed to save the king.
I drop the letter, the anxiety seeping from the paper to my skin.
My desperation has a new energy, hounding at my heels.
I will not be like this priestess. I will not let her leave me so hollow.
I must armour myself against draining. I will not extinguish as quickly as the others.
I begin hunting through the stack of tomes, thirsty for knowledge and the power it can bring.
My arms ache as I heave the books around and my breathing becomes laboured.
I try to ignore the cries of my body, still healing from the binding and now weakened by the drainings.
To have such liberal access to the history and secrets of generations of priestesses is a luxury I could not have fathomed as a child at the temple, and I won’t squander it.
I am poring over a volume when something hits the window, startling me.
The pane is half open, and I see a bird collapse on the sill, its neck broken.
It’s a small, colourful thing, round and delicate-looking.
I am reminded of the bird at the Temple of Aistra, the one that set this ripple across the water of my fate.
I wonder at this bird now, prodding the energy field around it to see how much is left of it.
Then I cast a protective circle, placing books end to end around me.
I would prefer to use something that hasn’t been transformed from its original nature and I’m used to using stones to ward off any energy that might interfere with my intention.
However, books will have to do. I hold the bird gently in the palm of my hand.
I can sense the life ebbing out of it like blood from a gaping wound.
In my mind’s eye I place my hands on that wound, and the pain ricochets up my arms and into my neck, a violent snapping of bones.
I muffle my screams, biting on my sleeve.
Once I’ve cleared my tears, I look back at it.
The broken neck has snapped back into place, and its head rotates in one fluid motion.
Its little heart starts beating, wings fluttering in confusion, and then it’s out of my hand and dashing about the room.
Its desperate trilling pierces my ears, and I try to catch and calm it.
My anxiety rises with its pitch, and I remember the exploding heart, the viscera.
‘Please, be calm!’
The bird reacts, landing on my pile of books. I see its breathing slow, its eyes less wild. The colour has returned to its feathers. Brilliant violets and sunset pinks, with the oranges of summer adorning its beak and head. It has a comically long beak for such a small thing.
‘We both want you to live. You must trust me, though. Can you do that?’
The bird looks at me and cocks its head. I wonder if I have gone mad. It inclines its head, as if in understanding, and I let out a small laugh. It twitters at me in turn, and I do believe I have slipped into an entirely surreal world. Truly, I have lost my mind if I am talking to a bird.
For the rest of the afternoon, it is my research companion.
The bird sits at the windowsill, looking out, but seems uninterested in flying away.
It is strange and comforting to have another living being in the library.
I fashion a perch for it and wonder if I should cage it.
I’ve never found anyone else in the library, and I’m unsure who else save the queen has access.
Would it be more suspicious to transfer the bird to my rooms?
But the servants clean there, which they never do here, if the dust is anything to go by.
No, I think the bird is best kept secret and safe in the library.
I sneak out of the library, slipping past the feasting hall, which is full of music and dancing, and almost lose my footing at the sight of the queen singing:
‘Highest of halls and tallest of towers
That’s where you sleep, my love.
Thickest of walls and over each hour
That’s where I’ll find you, my love.
Warmest of sheets and wildest of dreams
That’s where you’ll wander, my love.
Deepest of rivers and darkest of hearts
That’s where you sleep, my love.’
Her voice is high and strong, knifelike through the air.
It stops me in my tracks to watch her, the emotion writ on her face, her pale, delicate throat raised in supplication to the sky.
I count in my head and force myself to move away, to break the spell that would keep me watching her until she stops.
The kitchen servants are used to my coming and going, fetching dainties for the queen, and I steal away some seeds and nuts. The bird adores them, nipping gently at my fingers, and presses its soft head against my skin. When I lock it up for the evening, it coos mournfully.
‘Do not worry, friend. I will be back in the morning.’
As I lock the door I wonder if the bird will be alive when I return. I marvel to see it alive and well but I remember the initial soaring of my heart when the mokon came back. That was a temporary miracle.
When I enter the library the next morning, the bird is still there.
It wakens, untucking its head from its wing, and chirps at me.
Every time I unlock the library doors I hold my breath, and it is still alive.
The bird is still with me the next morning, and the morning after that.
I begin to keep a small flame of hope in my heart for it, tallying the days like a lover.
Then I make the mistake of naming it, Pocket, on account of its size.
It seems content in the library, grateful for the treats and company I bring.
I wonder at such a life for a creature, so close to the sun and fresh air and yet closeted here in the dark with me.
It is my experiment, to twist life from death, wrestling its essence back from the grave.