Chapter Forty-One Hanan
chapter forty-one
hanan
The queen calls me to the throne room. Lately we have been cloistered together in the upper chambers and gardens.
I don’t think I’ve seen her hold court since the child was born, although it has only been a few months.
There haven’t been this many courtiers gathered here since the Magliyab festival, and the Bastion hums with expectation.
My chest burns, bile rising up my throat to make me sick.
They are here for one purpose, and their eyes crawl over me.
I hold on to the withered branch, as wretched as the memory of it is, for balance.
I had thought the plain gown I was given upon my arrival the finest thing I would ever feel against my skin, but the queen has bedecked me in one of her cast-off gowns – deep crimson embroidered with golden thread.
I feel like a weed moonlighting as a flower.
The sunlight pours through the oval window above her, the coloured glass dappling a rainbow across her face.
I’m reminded of the glass in the Temple of Aistra, where I spent so many hours on my knees, looking up at the illusion of the Bastion.
Malostra told me she dreamt of being a priestess ever since she could remember.
She was one who came willingly, who showed her power proudly.
My footsteps echo off the flagstones as I approach, flanked by Seaguardians, Salvacion leading the procession towards the throne.
The queen sips from a goblet, and I can smell the rich alcohol even from here.
She taps her fingernails on the side of the cup, metal and precious gems clinking as she waits.
Salvacion helps me kneel on the floor, and I bow my head, the cane rattling beside me.
The queen doesn’t say anything for a painfully long time. I hear the shuffling of eager steps and the sound of her chalice being refilled before the servant retreats.
‘Life is so fleeting, don’t you think, Hanan?’
I flick my eyes up to the vague shape of her. Does she really want an answer?
‘Most of us spend our lives trying to outrun death. But not you.’
Her voice is the same as the day in the baths. I could slip into the liquid of her voice, let it envelop me in its warmth. Until it would hold me under.
I shift on my knees, and Salvacion notices my struggle. She helps me up, and I lean on my cane, head still bowed.
‘You are an inquisitive little otter-cat, aren’t you?’
The force of the queen’s stare makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I am too tempted; I must look up at her. Her expression is hard, eyes alight, but not quite with anger. It’s something else, like a hunter smelling blood. There’s rage, but there’s also anticipation.
‘I’m impressed by you, Hanan. There hasn’t been another priestess of your calibre for generations. Your studiousness is a testament, but your raw power – that is not something that can be taught.’
‘Your Grace is too kind,’ I say softly, the courtesy tripping off my tongue unbidden.
‘I do not say this to flatter you, Hanan. I’ve invested a great deal in your potential. Nurtured it, given it opportunity to grow. Is Pocket not a testament to that? Your little spectral escapades? The hale and hearty princess?’
She lets the words hang, and I consider.
Who is to say I would’ve been able to do those things without the queen?
The luxury of time and resources. It took me years of covert study at the temple to resurrect that mokon for just a moment.
In a few months I’ve resurrected Pocket and kept him alive.
I’ve not only spoken with the dead but conjured its likeness from a text.
The princess would not be alive if not for me.
If the Temple Mothers could see my necromantic progress, their eyes would roll back in their heads.
My mind wanders to the fatigue, the empty pit in my stomach, the figurine of the stone bird. A sacrifice worth making.
She puts down her chalice and turns her attention to her courtiers.
The queen descends from her throne and places her hand over mine, on top of my cane.
The floor beneath me hums gently, as though thousands of bees were underfoot.
I startle, listening to the whispers in the walls.
Voices distant and indistinct, melting into each other. Voices of the dead.
‘They are connecting,’ one of the courtiers says in amazement.
The queen grabs my cane before I can protest. Then she raises it high, and I flinch back.
She brings it down with a sickening thud, but the pain doesn’t come.
When I open my eyes, I see that her left arm is at a strange angle, bones crushed and protruding from her skin.
She does not yell, does not show any sign or semblance of pain, but continues to stand proudly, resting on my cane.
She grabs my hand and places it roughly over her wound.
Her skin is warm and supple beneath my grip, but pain radiates across my entire being.
I try to resist, but it is like scratching an itch.
I reach for her wound in my mind, let the energy from the Tree flow through me and back into the queen.
I feel the wood pushing out of her flesh, the bones knitting themselves back together, the skin smoothing over.
My cane falls to the floor with an unceremonious clatter.
The courtiers stand in stunned silence. I collapse to the dais, panting.
‘She performs miracles, but she needs more training,’ the queen says, examining her arm. It is exactly as it was before. ‘And as a gift to my loyal supporters, I will grant you the chance to taste of her powers and let her taste yours.’
The courtiers start forward and I find myself cornered on all sides by those who long to touch me. My body goes rigid. They begin to murmur excitedly and then stop. The queen has her hand outstretched, and they retreat.
‘Patience,’ she says firmly. ‘This is no trinket to be squandered.’
Salvacion helps me stand and returns the cane. When she makes to leave, I grab at her uniform. Please be my shield, I try to tell her with my eyes.
She removes my hands but squeezes them twice, holding my gaze.
‘This is a gift. You must prove you are worthy of it. Every courtier in Paranish will have the chance to make their case. As stewards your successes must show me you are worthy. The final decision will be mine.’
There are murmurings among the crowd but none of them dares protest. From my time at the Bastion, I’ve learned the courtiers are the most ravenous of Paranish.
I’ve observed them take the queen’s morsels when she grants them, securing a better standard of living in exchange for ‘overseeing’ the towns.
There is no such thing on the Winter Isle, Aistra being governed by the Temple Mothers with a direct line to the Bastion.
It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder how the other isles and towns within were run.
I try to still the roiling in my belly and stand up straight. I will have my dignity, if nothing else. The queen remembers me then.
‘You may retire to your chambers, Hanan.’
How kind, I think bitterly as Salvacion helps me leave. The courtiers barely part as we push and shove between them to the door. I feel their hands brush across the fabric and my skin. It is a desperate hunger.
‘Do you need guiding back to your chambers?’ Salvacion asks, concern in her voice.
‘No, thank you,’ I tell her, brushing the tears from my eyes. I lean on my cane as I walk, determined to do it on my own.
‘I had no idea she was going to do that,’ Salvacion says, catching up with me.
‘What? What did she do? You should have the courage to name it.’
Salvacion exhales in frustration. ‘I am doing what I can, Hanan.’
‘Do you think all your little treacheries will do anything?’ I ask her, emboldened by anger. ‘While we eat her food and the rest of Paranish starves?’
‘Every drop of water is needed for a flood,’ Salvacion insists, grabbing my arm. ‘Little rebellions are all some of us have.’
‘Well, I’ll try to remember that when I’m an empty husk,’ I sneer, shaking her off.
She doesn’t try to follow me. I make my way to the queen’s chambers and through to the nursery, where the princess coos gently in her bassinet. I dismiss the lady’s maid.
‘The princess needs to feed.’
The maid looks at my fine dress, now dirty and bloody.
‘I said leave.’
The maid goes abruptly then.
I scoop up the princess, swaddled in a soft golden fleece blanket.
If I bartered this, how far could I get?
The princess has grown to know my touch and the promise it brings.
She comes to me easily, nuzzling into my chest. I hold her in the crook of my arm and gently brush her cheek.
Soft and fluffy as pandesal. She sneezes and then wraps her hand around my finger.
She is sweet milk, cloying and overpowering in her want. I feel it thick and furry on my tongue, the sickly but pleasant smell of sleep. I give in, and calamansi cuts through and mingles with her essence. Our energies flow into each other.
I come away feeling dizzy and nauseous, my mind clouded and body weak. Thoughts slipping like water through my hands. The babe fusses slightly and then settles.
‘Hush, Raina,’ I murmur, wrapping the blanket back into place. I never use the name the queen has chosen, the one which she will present to the Paranishian public. To me, the princess is Raina. There’s a peace in having a secret from the queen.
‘What are you doing?’
I turn to find the lady’s maid standing in the doorway. Perhaps she thinks my duties are that of an ordinary wet nurse.
‘Sating the princess,’ I respond.
Her eyes rove over us both and she approaches slowly. ‘Shouldn’t you return to the queen?’
My mouth twitches into a frown. ‘In good time.’
The maid comes forward and takes Raina from my arms. Immediately the child begins to wail, face red and scrunched.
I reach out to take her back, but the maid moves away.
We stare at each other, and I feel heat creeping up my neck.
The princess continues to cry, and the sobs turn to something else, like she can sense my anger.
‘She doesn’t want you to hold her,’ I tell the maid.
‘How do you know what she wants?’ She looks at me, afraid and disgusted. Her mouth is turned down in revulsion, and she recoils.
A loose strand of hair curls its way down the nape of the maid’s neck. I watch Raina scrabble at the air, thrashing in her distress. She finds the hair and yanks, pulling the maid’s head taut at an awkward angle. The maid yells out, almost dropping the princess.
‘I’m here, darling,’ I say, grabbing Raina and prying the chunk of ripped hair from her fingers.
‘That little—’ the maid begins and stops herself abruptly. She’s frozen in shock, and I purse my lips to keep from yelling.
‘What were you going to call the royal princess?’ I ask the maid.
‘I – I won’t disturb you again, Priestess Hanan,’ the maid says, her lip practically curling as she says my title.
As I hold Raina, I stroke the soft fuzz on her cheek.
She will grow to be as cold and hard as her mother.
But with a different whisper in her ear, she could be something else.
More than a queen. And I would be her right hand.
Beyond our little treacheries. What if I could break open the dam and start the flood?