IGMS - Issue 25 Page 6

  "I do not like him being in the camp," he told me. "I applied for permission to remain as a guard until he leaves."

  I watched Ainara and Marlis by the communal fire-pit. She was teaching him our language, a process that involved much pointing and laughing on her part. Though the night was warm, Marlis clutched a red blanket about his shoulders. His clothes had been ruined in the course of his illness, and he wore only the hip-cloth of our men; it seemed to make him uncomfortable. I thought it would be easy enough to make him a simple garment, loose enough that the heat would not overwhelm him.

  "Tanith?"

  My mind wandered too much, with Marlis here. I turned my attention back to Tain, and tried to ignore my sister's laughter.

  Marlis came to me while I ground dry root for a poultice; Tain's leg was not healing as quickly as I liked. Marlis sat beside me, splaying his legs and propping his weight on his hands behind him. I let my braids hang around my face as a curtain, hiding the flicker of my eyes as I watched him.

  "I have been speaking to Ainara," he said.

  "Oh."

  "You are twins, she says." He waited, but when I said nothing he pressed on. "And you sing to that tree, out in the forest." Again I said nothing; he already knew the answers. I wouldn't waste air on a response. "We have people like you where I come from. Singers."

  "What do they sing to?"

  "In the empire they sing to stone. My family sing to the sea. I don't think I've heard of anyone singing to trees before."

  "I don't sing to trees. I sing to Kadara. He's only one tree."

  "Elsewhere, singers begin as twins in the --" He did not have the word, but gestured to his own torso. "But when they are born, only one survives. The singer."

  "It is different with us, then," I said. "Our singers are always born with twins. Alive." I did not tell him that in all the tales, this did not last.

  "That is what I am wondering about. I do not know much about such things, I admit. But my understanding is that the singer only has the power of her songs because she has taken in the life of her twin. And they can sing many songs, do many things with their power."

  "I can only sing to Kadara. Ainara is the one who is great. She can do much. You should speak to her." I did not truly want him to leave. I liked his voice, even the way he stumbled over the simplest words.

  "She is kind," he said.

  I swallowed a laugh. "You are the first to say so. She is great, but she is also a child. Greedy. Impetuous. She cannot focus on one thing for more than a heartbeat, and she knows only how to speak, not how to listen." I cut off the litany of Ainara's flaws, my cheeks flushed. All were true, but I had no right to speak of them to a stranger. "I love my sister," I said.

  "Don't worry. I have five brothers," he said. "I am curious, though. Are the twins of your singers always great, like Ainara?"

  "They all have some skill," I said. "But there have been few like Ainara."

  He rubbed his cheek and stared out over the hills, seeing nothing but his thoughts. "I wonder," he said, but did not finish the sentence. Ainara approached, carrying a shallow basket of lisi berries. Her hands and lips were stained with the juices; she had been picking and tasting, most likely all day to get a basket that full. I straightened up from my work. "You had best fetch Tain," I said. "His heart will break if we eat those without him."

  "You are the one who should be concerned with Tain's broken heart," Ainara said. "I have my own to tend to. Marlis, come. Taste these."

  And then I understood. She wanted him to stay. I wanted him to leave -- and I wanted to leave with him.

  He will go, and all will be as it has always been, I told myself, and turned back to my work.

  Marlis did not leave. His sickness made him too weak for travel still. I brewed him tea to help him sleep and sat up with Tain outside the hut we had given over to the Luskari. Tain had sent Gemi to the men's village to fetch his arrow-making supplies, and he had quite a pile growing beside him. When I had watched him long enough to learn the trick of it I started in on his supplies myself. He grumbled at first, but he found no fault in my work and soon we worked in rhythm with one another.

  "Ainara is in love with him," Tain said after a time.

  "I know."

  "When he looks at her, he sees a child. He doesn't see the way she looks at him," Tain said.

  "That is good," I said, fighting to keep my voice light. "She might as well marry a wolf, after all."

  Tain shrugged. He had odd ideas about the devils and those beyond them, sometimes. They bled our blood, but they were not Kadara's people; Kadara's people were the only people. And yet, perhaps Tain's odd ideas were closer to truth than foolishness. My own line had crossed with the devils in the past, and I was no less a person. "He does not see a child when he looks at you," he said.

  "Good! I'm not a child."

  "That's not what I mean." He jutted his jaw forward, then clicked his teeth. "He looks at you the way I look at you. And you look right back."

  "That's not true."

  "You don't want to be my wife," he said.

  "There is no one I want more." It was true, in its way.

  "That's not enough," he said. "I might be happy, having you, but you wouldn't. You should be with someone whose eyes you can meet with equal fire." He gathered up the arrows we had finished and stood.

  "Tain, wait," I said, but he did not stop.

  His footfalls were soft in the dust, and quickly gone.

  Ainara wandered off before dawn. I was left to serve Marlis a morning meal.

  "Are all Luskari your color?" I asked to fill the silence.

  "I'm a bit of a half-breed," he said. "Most Luskari are more like you. But the eyes . . ." He tapped a finger at the corner of his eye. "Everyone with a claim to the Luskari name has eyes at least as green as these. What about Ainara? I've seen others born pale like her, but not with black in their mouths."

  If he was so interested in me, like Tain said, why did he keep asking about Ainara? "Ainara is different. She's great."

  "So you keep saying, but I don't think it's true."

  I had my knife at his throat before he could blink. "Do not say that," I said. My tone was warning, not angry. "She is great. It was said at our birth, and it was written on Kadara's roots. Do you understand?" She was different than the others that had come before, the sisters and brothers of singers. We were different.

  He met my eyes, unafraid. "I won't say it again," he said. I lowered the knife. We were close to one another. I felt his breath on my face. It smelled of wine and soft grains. He lifted his hand, and two of his fingers touched my lips.

  I laughed at the unintentional accusation. He looked puzzled, but pleased. "I like it when you laugh," he said.

  "We can't," I murmured, and I kissed him. I said it again when he put his hands on my waist and pulled me close, and when I ran my fingers through his hair and found it impossibly fine, and when his teeth grazed my collar bone.

  And then I pushed him away. "We can't," I said again. "You are not a person."

  "I don't understand what you mean," he said.

  "You're not people. Like an animal," I said. "Like a devil."

  "The devils aren't animals. Neither am I. I'm like you."

  I shook my head. "It's not so."

  "I want to tell you something, but you have to promise not to use your knife on me again." There was still good humor between us. I promised, smiling. "I think that Ainara's power was meant for you. I think that anywhere else, you would have taken her power before your first breath, and she would have died. Perhaps it has something to do with Kadara, and why you don't breed outside your own group."

  I looked at him askance. "We don't breed," I said. "Cattle breed. Kadara protects us. If he gave my sister life, I am glad of it."

  "But that's not the way it's meant to be," he said. "No -- I'm not saying that Ainara should have died. But what you have here is different than anywhere else. There are many people who would want to learn abo
ut you. Your knowledge could be quite valuable."

  "Valuable?"

  "That sounds terrible. I just thought that perhaps you could come with me. Find out more about yourself. About the world. Haven't you ever wanted to see what lies beyond your borders?"

  I drew away from him. I longed for it, but I should have been satisfied with my singing, with Tain, with the life that lay ahead of me.

  "You could be great," he said, but if he meant to tempt me he failed.

  "Ainara is great," I reminded him. "I only walk before greatness." I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling his heat and the strength of his heartbeat. Then I stood, and went to find Tain.

  I dreamed of blood. It gloved my hands and filled my mouth; it tasted sweet. It was my sister's blood, by my sister was not Ainara, and I was not Tanith. I was some other singer, or perhaps the singer's twin. One always killed the other. One always hated the other. But Ainara and I were different.

  I woke with Marlis' name on my lips and Ainara's eyes glinting before me in the dark. She lay on her side, staring into my face. "He's gone," she said.

  I shook the dream from my eyes. "Who?"

  "Marlis. He's gone."

  "He wouldn't leave. Not without --"

  "Without you?" She moved closer to me, until her forehead touched mine. "You tasted him. I can see it on you."

  "Oh, Ainara." I sighed. I had been cruel to go to him when I knew how she felt. "I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

  "It is all right," she said. "He wanted to take you away. Away from Kadara. Away from me."

  "I wouldn't have gone," I said. I stroked her bone-white hair, bound in hundreds of tiny braids.

  "You would have," she said. "I can see that, too. But now you can't."

  It was then I saw the knife she held between us, wet with blood. Her hand, too, was stained, and the red was ugly against the white. The tip pointed at my stomach, and for a moment, I was afraid. And then I realized. "Gone," I said.

  "I did it for you," Ainara said.

  I wanted to kill her then. I knew I could break her grip on the knife. It would be easy to turn the blade against her, to drive it up beneath her ribs. I shut my eyes and shuddered with the force of the thought.

  "Shh," she said. "It will be all right now."

  I kissed her softly on the brow and gathered myself up. She remained, eyes half-closed.

  "It had to be done," she murmured, and a tear slipped down her cheek. I left her there, both less and more of a child than I supposed, and walked toward the river crossing. At the bridge I heard a shout, but did not turn back. I walked into the woods, and toward Kadara. I would not have noticed if a snake were under my foot, or a pack of spotted wolves at my sides.

  I held my breath to keep the dream-deep blossoms from filling my lungs with their poison, and walked deep among Kadara's roots. They shifted around me, with creaks and groans that were almost words. Below the center of the trunk the roots grew thick as my wrist, and as I stood there they wove themselves around me in a cocoon. I sank to my knees in the wet soil, and put my hands to the woven wall.

  When I sang, I only asked why. I offered nothing but my voice, yet Kadara answered. We belonged to Kadara, the great tree sang. His people; the only people. He protected us, even from one another, as best he could. He wove the songs of my people with his, and the songs could no longer harm the children who shared the singer's womb.

  But always we killed each other. We shared a womb; perhaps a soul as well. We could not both live.

  If not for Kadara, perhaps I would have been the strongest singer of all. Ainara was great, but her power was mine. I wondered if I could take it from her, with her death. I hated myself for thinking it.

  Kadara sang and sang. At some point I slept; I cried, too, and pressed my cheek into the dirt. Marlis was between us. He would have turned us against each other, Kadara said. Ainara was right to kill him.

  His words were not so clear. He was not human, and did not think as I did, but I felt his fear, and his love, and I understood. And I understood the hatred quickening inside me. I sang again, pleading for just one tale that did not end in murder. But Kadara, who had stood for as long as the people's memory stretched, sang only of sorrow.

  I thought that our story would end differently. I still hope it might.

  I did not go home again. I knew that if I saw my sister's pale face, or Marlis' red blood, I would want to hurt her. I did not want to kill her. But someday I would. Or she would wish to kill me, and the result would be the same; one of us would die.

  And so I walked. I followed the river to the devils' camp, where I knew the people wouldn't look for me for some time. The devils were puzzled, but showed me their maps. I told them of my sister, who could charm serpents and wolves, and walk the wild untouched.

  I travelled alone, and accepted no companions. When I reached Untaba, I heard of a white-skinned girl with a black mouth who was looking for her sister. I walked on.

  It was the last time she arrived ahead of me. She had known where I was going; I have not made such a mistake again. But everywhere I walk I tell my tale, and sometimes her tale has spread faster. They speak of her with wide eyes, and I hear now that this strange girl, this great girl, can heal with a touch, and see a man's future in his eyes.

  My sister Ainara is great. She chases me across the plains and through the forests; across oceans, with the Luskari and their like; through strange and winding cities. She follows me out of love. Out of love, I flee her.

  My sister is great, and I walk before her.

  Counterclockwise

  by Alethea Kontis

  Artwork by Kevin Wasden

  Philosopher physicists postulate that it was not merely one celestial event but a combination of the "Fiery Trigon" (the conjunction of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars), the appearance (and subsequent disappearance) of a new star in the heavens, and the metaphysical energy produced by the solar eclipse that aided the successful Gunpowder Plot explosion of 1605 in creating the Fawkes Schism, which fractured off a pocket of the British Prime or Known Universe and facilitated the mutual juxtaposed existence of the Secondary and Tertiary Universes (commonly referred to as the Second Kingdom and Nodnol, respectively). All Hallow's Eve, roughly a week before the anniversary of the Blast and the legendary fabled night when the veil between the living and the dead is lifted, ironically became the day on which the energies of these multiverse bonds are the strongest. Instead of ghosts, persons, places, and objects are pulled seemingly at random from the Tertiary world into the Secondary, or the Secondary into the Prime -- the former of each universal-plane pairing being the less stable of the two.

  Edith slid her finger down the yellowed page and read the passage a third time. Damn and Blast. Only a bleeding idiot tried to study on holiday.

  Masked merrymakers filled the pub in varying states of dress and drunkenness. Thankfully, nobody wanted to waste precious partying time on a party pooper with her nose stuck in a book. Edith reached for her tea, only to realize her cup was empty.

  A hand appeared before her holding a tumbler of ice and pungent amber liquid.

  Damn and Blast. She'd gone and jinxed herself.

  The hand was attached to an older gentleman in a three-piece suit and bowtie. Her father had once taught every day in a suit like that. He'd been buried in it, too, per his wishes.

  The stranger stood patiently by while Edith took his measure. He had kind green-grey eyes, a friendly smile, and lacked the predatory air surrounding most terminally single men, so Edith motioned for him to take the chair across from her. A rare occurrence, to be sure.

  "Hello," said Edith.

  "Hello," said the stranger.

  "Do I know you?"

  He just kept smiling. "You looked bored. And thirsty." He shifted the spine on her musty textbook. "Gladney and Coulter. Brilliant. Are you a genius or a masochist?"

  "Mostly I use it to intimidate strange men."

  Those agate green eyes twinkled. "And when that doesn't wo
rk?"

  "I hit them with it."

  "Excellent plan." He lifted his tumbler in salutation and Edith looked down at her own. "Macallan. Splash of water."

  She held the glass up to the dim lights. "And a drop of Quixilver?"

  "My dear Miss Hornby. First off, I would never blaspheme the Single Malt Gods with such a contamination. Secondly, if the honourable Messrs Gladney and Coulter couldn't knock you out, the most fashionable date-rape drug of choice hasn't a chance. Furthermore," he took a sip, "if I rendered you unconscious, then I'd be bored. That would be a shame."

  Edith laughed, despite herself. That this gentleman knew both her name and her taste for scotch bothered her, but his posh attitude and subversive wit intrigued her. "You have me at a disadvantage, Mister . . .?" Edith happily adopted the stranger's old-fashioned formality.

  Though seated, he still managed a small bow. "Edward Moriarty, at your service, Miss."

  Edith rolled the twenty five-year-old Macallan over her tongue. The smoky flavor might only have been duplicated by the pub itself burning down . . . which is exactly how long Edith guessed Benny would have kept this precious bottle before he sold so much as a thimbleful. Edith's whole body sighed in happiness. The only thing better than a nice glass of scotch on a long, dark night like this was a nice glass of free scotch.

  All right. She'd play his game. "Tell me, Mister Moriarty, do you often dress like a professor and stalk young women?"

  "One should dress one's best for every occasion," he answered. "You can blame your friend George for the intimate knowledge of your name and alcohol preference."

  "Ah." Mystery solved. That was so like George. "I thought perhaps you knew my father."

  "I knew of him. A gentleman and a scholar." Edward raised his glass again.

  "There were few like him," Edith toasted wistfully.

  "Oh! That reminds me! I brought you a present." Curious, but his enthusiasm was fascinating and mildly contagious. If it weren't for the hint of grey at his temples, Edith might have guessed he was younger than she. Mum was right -- men really didn't age past fourteen.