Chapter Thirty-Seven Hanan
chapter thirty-seven
hanan
The queen insists on moving out of the birthing chambers as soon as possible.
She clutches my arm with one hand as we ascend in a muted procession to one of the upper bedrooms, where she installs herself.
She has my things moved to a connecting bedroom; she wants me kept close at all times.
She allows no one else near her or the princess.
For weeks food is brought to us: lavish platters of meats and rice balls, stews and cakes.
The queen insists we eat together, and I find the lady’s maids glowering at their usurped position as favourite.
My mind wanders to Pocket. I haven’t seen him in days.
I wonder if he’s found some food. If he’s worried about me.
How stupid to be worrying about a bird, but I can’t help myself.
‘We are fading into nothing.’ She sighs melodramatically. ‘We must have energy.’
The queen insists on a regular exercise routine.
One afternoon we stroll, the child in her arms, cloistered from prying eyes.
Salvacion accompanies us even here. There must be very little the queen can conceal from her shield.
The arbour sits in the middle of the courtyard next to the sundial.
It’s position and pendulum mechanism allow the queen to be in the light across the day, gently rocking the princess.
Today the air is chill, but the sky is cloudless and we walk the concentric paths lined with flower beds and shrubs, almost labyrinthine in design and breadth.
‘I must feel the air on my skin, Hanan,’ the queen says, breathing in the flowers of the inner courtyard. They remind me of the perfume the queen dabs on her skin, crushed white flowers trapped in oil in glass bottles. ‘A daily turn about the gardens is good for my constitution, is it not?’
I nod, still unused to the way in which she defers to me like this.
Even bundled, I can see the princess is looking healthier.
She has gotten bigger, her cheeks full and round with large curious eyes.
She squirms and fusses, throwing the blankets off.
Perhaps wanting to feel the air on her skin, like her mother.
‘I am glad to see the babe looking so hale,’ I say, filling the silence. The queen seems content with my omnipresence, but I find her attentions stifling, afraid I’ll say something ill-considered.
‘A great many things are well since your addition to our household.’ The queen smiles, and I avert my eyes. Her gaze is like the sun and I cannot stare directly into it.
‘I can’t take credit for all these successes, Your Grace. It is very generous of you to say so, but the work here is all your own.’
I share a look with Salvacion, who lets a slight smile slip out. We both know that many invisible hands lighten the load of the Bastion, without which the careful order of things would collapse.
The queen gives me a wry look. ‘You must stop your pandering, Hanan. Are we not friends?’
I’m not sure how to answer this. We are nothing like friends, but my queen will have whatever she wants.
‘Of course, Your Grace. I will do whatever you ask.’
She indicates we sit on a stone bench, and she inches closer to me. I can’t help but stare at her. She’s so close I can smell the oils and perfumes in her hair and on her skin. She smells sweeter than all the treats that have been ferried up to our rooms of late.
The lustre has returned to her skin, her hair, her eyes. They are shrewd and watchful but with a fervent energy behind them. I feel exhausted looking at her and clutch the cool stone for support. To feel something sturdy and unyielding beneath my fingers.
She clicks her fingers, and Salvacion brings a large box, which they set down in front of me.
‘I have brought you an old friend,’ the queen says.
‘For me?’ I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
She nods and I lift the lid of the box, a gasp escaping my lips. Inside is an old and knotted branch, as long as my leg. I reach forward and the air between the piece of wood and my fingertips burn. It’s not possible for it to be here, so far removed from its home.
The queen smiles and I feel a twist in my gut. ‘The Tree of Life. You know it so well.’
‘What is it doing here?’
I ache to touch it; that’s how weak I’ve become.
I pine and yearn for it, despite everything.
She sees it in my eyes. The queen grabs my hand and encloses it around the wood, too quickly for me to cast a protective circle.
A sharp jolting pain shoots up my arm and into my chest. My heart constricts, as though being squeezed by a vice.
I gasp and reach out for the queen, but she holds us fast against the wood.
I put my entire weight on it and use it like a cane, standing fast and pushing against her.
Then the world tilts under me. I taste that bitter, familiar calamansi.
Sea salt and woodsmoke and rainwater in my nose, on my skin.
The souls are all so lost, drowning in pain and confusion.
Rent asunder from their resting place. The sanctity of peaceful Death, constant sleep in the Tree of Life.
She has maimed the tree and violated the souls who rest there.
I feel their memories: the smell of freshly baked bread. The laughter of an old friend. The warm callused, hands of a grandfather.
At Aistra I was part of a group who ferried the souls of the dead to the Tree. We nudged gently, coaxing them. Their fear was like feathers on my skin.
This is something else, a sharp bite.
‘Bring them to me,’ the queen insists.
I feel her energy tugging at mine and I try to resist. It’s unnatural.
Is it any more unnatural than my dabbling in dark magic?
Necromancy was forbidden at the temple. What I did to Malostra, just as cruel.
It’s forbidden and tastes rich. Besides, there’s so much potential energy in those dead souls.
I’ve seen what it does for her, felt the pleasure run through my body.
I let the energy of the souls pass through me and into her.
It’s the reverse of ferrying the souls. Instead of guiding them to the tree, I’m yanking them from the wood and pushing them into her body.
Their fear is more than feathers this time, it is a sharp beak and talons.
The pain is too much to bear, and I tear my hand away from the wood.
I collapse on the steps of the dais and the queen breathes in deeply. The princess begins to cry.
‘Take her to the nursery; she’s quite fatigued.’
In my periphery, I watch Salvacion take the bundle from the queen’s arms. On the ground beside me is the branch, the bark withered and scorched.
‘Here, Hanan,’ the queen says, helping me to my feet. She hands me the branch and I lean on it, resting my weight between her and the wood.