An Accident of Stars Page 6

  And then, just as quickly, it turned electric; not an unpleasant jolt, but a fizzing, tickling sensation, as though she were standing near a current without actually touching it. Pulling back, the kid indicated himself and spoke. “Zech.” The same hand pointed at Saffron. “Sa’ferryn.” And then, to her absolute astonishment, a third intelligible word: “Follow.”

  Comprehension was a tiny miracle, and yet it was significant enough that despite everything – her lost fingers, her shaved head and every other disorientation the day had brought – she laughed. The sound came out shallow and twisted, but it was laughter nonetheless, and when Zech stood up, somehow Saffron found the strength to copy. Darkness was coming fast now, and falling had dizzied her even before she’d had to contend with slaps and blood loss. She swayed on her feet, staring numbly into the fountain. Her severed fingers lay on the bottom like a pair of weird fish, still leaking thin ribbons of blood into the water. The thought of reaching in to claim them was repulsive. Only then did she notice she was still holding her wrist out in front of her, as though offering her mutilated hand to whoever would take it. She turned to Zech, but despite his youth, the boy didn’t flinch.

  “Follow,” he repeated. The word sounded funny, and suddenly Saffron knew why.

  He wasn’t speaking English. And yet, she’d understood.

  Saffron stared. Was this magic, then – a fleeting touch that somehow made languages bleed together? She couldn’t move, paralysed as much by this fact as her throbbing hand. Zech sighed, approached her cautiously, then slipped a skinny arm around her waist. It was pathetically comforting.

  “I can’t do this,” Saffron said. Her voice cracked like an old woman’s. “Mum. I want my mum. I want to go home. I can’t do this.”

  “Walk,” said Zech. It wasn’t quite a plea. For the first time, Saffron looked down and saw there were tears on the kid’s cheeks. “We walk. Just walk. Be… OK.”

  The last word was in English. Presumably, whatever magic allowed them to understand one another went both ways. And so, because there was nothing else she could do, Saffron walked.

  * * *

  Gwen glared at Yasha, for all the good it did. Having brought her to Trishka’s rooms, the matriarch now stood guard on the door, refusing to let her leave. So far, only two people had been allowed in: a young child, running to tell them that Pix had returned, and then, a few minutes later, Pix herself, dishevelled yet triumphant. Her smile had vanished, however, on hearing what had happened to Saffron – and not just because the girl had fallen. Only then did Yasha reveal what everyone else in the compound already knew: that every morning for the past week, Vex’Mara Kadeja, fallen priestess of the Vekshi goddess Ashasa and now the foremost consort of Vex Leoden, had read the omens, seeking the proper day to make a dusk offering to Ashasa in the Square of Gods. That she’d declared her intentions openly beforehand was an act of breathtaking heresy, almost equal in kind to her choice of venue. Though situated in the Warren, the holy fountain in the Square of Gods was no less sacred to the Kenan pantheon than if it had been part of the palace temple.

  Of course, none of them had any way of knowing if today had been that day – not until Zech returned, at any rate – but as soon as Yasha spoke, Gwen knew in her bones that it was, of course it was, because the Many as she understood it was incapable of working any other way. Kadeja’s decision to worship Ashasa in the Square of Gods was roughly equivalent to the Queen of England holding a full Christian mass in the Dome of the Rock. What else would happen, but that her charge be caught up in events she couldn’t possibly understand?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Gwen asked Pix, her voice low and dangerous.

  Pix flushed. “Would it have changed anything if I had? It was out of our hands. You didn’t need another reason to worry about the girl.”

  “Yes,” said Gwen, through gritted teeth, “but if you’d told me Kadeja was planning a jaunt to the Square of Gods, I might have ridden a different route to avoid it!”

  “Enough!” snapped Yasha, thumping her staff on the floor. “We’ll know soon enough what’s happened.”

  Gwen bit back a retort, knowing the old woman was correct, but not liking it. She glanced at the bed, where an exhausted Trishka slept in a swaddle of blankets. Though she’d woken briefly to greet Gwen, she’d subsequently lapsed back into sleep. The power needed to open portals between worlds was considerable even before you factored in Trishka’s physical frailties, and while Yasha made periodic attempts to dissuade her daughter from overexertion, it was only a formality. Trishka’s magic demanded use, and after her one disastrous attempt at suppression all those years ago, there was no question of her repeating it.

  A wild thumping on the door disrupted Gwen’s reverie. Yasha responded at once, revealing the same messenger boy who’d previously announced Pix.

  “They’re back!” he said, but there was a gulp to his words. “They’re… Zech said I should run for one of Teket’s Kin.”

  “Do it,” Yasha said. Nodding fearfully, the boy vanished, leaving Gwen’s imagination to conjour up all the very worst reasons why Saffron might need a healer.

  Without another word, Gwen, Pix and Yasha left the room, hurrying down the hall and out into the courtyard. They were just in time to see the gates pulled close behind a haggard-looking Zech, who was barely managing to keep Saffron upright.

  “Lights!” Yasha roared, and several onlookers scrambled to obey, their features obscured in the evening blue. But Gwen’s eyes were sharp as ever, and despite the darkness, she saw what the matriarch could not: that Vex’Mara Kadeja had found her precious omen in Saffron Coulter.

  “Gods be good,” she whispered, and ran to them. Saffron was dead on her feet, clutching her left arm sideways across her body. Her taal hung awkwardly from her hips, forcing her to stumble over its hem. Her head was shaved, and her hand was bloody.

  “Got her,” Zech croaked, staggering back as Gwen put an arm around Saffron’s waist and lifted her up. The girl was deadweight, but not yet unconscious; she whimpered at the contact, still clutching her maimed hand. Despite the urgency of the situation, Gwen nonetheless made a point of catching Zech’s gaze.

  “Thank you,” she said. The child sagged with relief. “You’ve done well. I won’t forget it, and nor will anyone else.”

  Zech nodded, rubbing her eyes with the back of a hand. “Can I sit with her?” she asked. “I used the zuymet. We understand each other a little.”

  Gwen managed a weak smile. “Come. I’ll be glad of the company.”

  Belatedly, the lights came on: a series of round globes situated at intervals along the compound wall, made luminous by magic. Gwen turned, Saffron heavy in her arms, and saw the expressions on Yasha and Pix’s faces as they realised what had happened.

  “Use the room next to mine,” said Pix, her face ashen. “It has the best light.”

  “I plan to.” Gwen strode past, Zechalia trotting at her heels, and felt a flash of bitter satisfaction that Yasha, for once, was rendered speechless. Climbing the steps to the veranda was a challenge. Saffron’s weight put an extra strain on her hips and knees, but she managed it all the same.

  “You go ahead and open the doors,” she grunted to Zech, and despite her obvious exhaustion, the girl was quick to obey.

  Once in the room, she deposited Saffron gently on the bed. Zech hovered in the doorway, her eyes darting from Gwen to the single chair and back again. Gwen gave a bark of laughter.“Take it, girl. I’ve things to do.”

  As Zech sank onto the chair with sheepish gratitude, Gwen knelt carefully by Saffron’s side and proceeded, with as much tenderness as she could muster, to remove the bedraggled taal. It was tricky work – Pix had done a good job securing it, which was the only reason it hadn’t fallen off entirely. She’d just managed to wrestle the last corner out from under Saffron’s prone body when Yasha and Pix arrived, the latter bearing a bowl of warm water and a washcloth, the former only a scowl. On seeing the matriarch, Zech instantly
leapt to her feet and proffered the chair, but Yasha declined with a wave of her hand. Folding the taal into a neat, bloody square, Gwen passed it to Pix in exchange for the water.

  “I boiled it with alcohol,” Pix said. “It’s clean.”

  Gwen nodded absently. “If you can hear me,” she murmured to Saffron, moistening the cloth, “I’m going to clean your hand now. All right, girl? This will sting, but there’s no helping it.”

  Saffron stirred a little, though her eyes remained closed. Her creamy school blouse was stained with red. Gently, Gwen lifted the injured hand and began to dab away the blood, first from the surrounding skin and then, finally, from the stumps themselves. Saffron shuddered, but didn’t scream – presumably, she’d already exhausted that response. It was an ugly sight, though at least Kadeja had made a clean job of it. Nothing remained but ragged flesh and the gleam of knuckle, the proximal phalanges completely severed from the metacarpals.

  “How long before the priest arrives?” she asked.

  “He’ll be quick enough,” Yasha answered. “Teket’s Kin know us here.”

  Old pain tinged her voice, and Gwen couldn’t help but share it. None of them were sure whether Trishka’s weakness was caused or simply exacerbated by her magic, but whatever the case, the sevikmet couldn’t heal it, and though Gwen had done some research on Earth, she was yet to uncover anything to work as either mitigation or cure. Fibromyalgia was the closest thing she’d found to a comparable condition, and it was still so poorly understood that, even without the added complication of Trishka’s magic, they were both leery of using it as a starting point.

  Now, as she set her cloth aside, she found herself hoping that Saffron and Trishka might have occasion to talk, once they’d both recovered; and once Saffron had learned to speak Kenan through the zuymet, of course. Teket’s Kin could no more regrow Saffron’s missing fingers than Earth’s leading scientists could render Trishka pain-free and healthy. Accepting what she’d lost would be hard for Saffron, Gwen knew – not just because of the circumstances under which it had happened, but because of what it would mean for her eventual return home.

  But all that was a way off yet, and beyond her power to control. Until then she knelt at Saffron’s bedside, and waited for the priest.

  * * *

  Zech was weary in her bones. Though possessed of a strong stomach, she’d nonetheless been shaken by the sight of Saffron’s ruined hand. Using the zuymet and then carrying the older girl home had tired her too; every muscle ached as though she’d spent the whole day at staff practice. Sleep would come easily, if she let it. And yet she stubbornly stayed awake, curled up on her chair and watching as the purple-robed priest used his magic to close Saffron’s wound. Gwen stood beside her, concern evident in the way her hand would suddenly grip Zech’s shoulder, but she needn’t have worried. Though he looked more like a warrior, the priest was nonetheless a gentle, practiced healer. Thanks to her own small talents, Zech could feel his magic, the sevikmet, as a vibration in the air; could even see it a little, as though a blue mist were seeping into Saffron from his hands.

  Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably much less, the priest straightened.

  “It’s done,” he said, his dark skin glistening with sweat. “The wound is closed and free of infection. She had some other hurts too – I’ve eased them as best I can. When she wakes, tell her the stumps will be tender for a week or so, but that it shouldn’t prevent her from using the hand, particularly not once the new skin starts to toughen. In the long term, only her grip will be truly affected by the loss – she won’t be able to fight like she used to.”

  Zech was so worn out, it took her a moment to grasp that he thought Saffron was Vekshi too, raised to wield a staff as all their women were. If she were one of us, Zech thought, she’d either have to switch to a heretic staff, or else wield a child’s staff one-handed. Her whole fighting style would have to change.

  All of a sudden, Zech was gripped by horrible, crippling guilt. What if she’d told a different lie to Kadeja, one that hadn’t made Saffron out to be Vekshi? Would the Vex’Mara still have taken her fingers?

  Gwen, who had been in the middle of thanking the priest for his services, broke off mid-sentence and looked at her.

  “Zech? What is it?”

  “My fault.” She could barely force the words out, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I told the Vex’Mara that Saffron was Vekshi. I called her cousin. If I hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have held her to Ashasa’s law. It’s my fault!”

  “She’s not Vekshi?” the priest asked, but that only made Zech cry harder. I should have waited until he was gone!

  Gwen didn’t answer him. Instead, she crouched down in front of Zech and pulled the girl into a hug.

  “Hush,” she murmured, stroking her hair. “None of this was your fault. Kadeja is what she is, we both know that. Nothing would have changed if you’d told her the truth, except that she might have questioned you about where Saffron came from. And who would that have helped, hmm?”

  As quickly as they’d come, Zech felt her tears dry up. Nodding into Gwen’s shoulder, she took one last shaky breath and calmed herself.

  “Apologies,” she said, though the guilt still rattled inside her. “I was overset.”

  “We’re all overset tonight,” Gwen said, straightening once more. Even the priest smiled, and of course Saffron’s secret was safe with him. Didn’t Teket’s Kin take vows to keep the confidence of those they healed?

  Cupping his hands respectfully to Gwen – and then repeating the gesture for Zech’s benefit, such a cheeky deference that she giggled despite herself – the priest signalled his intent to leave.

  “Send for me if anything else happens,” he said, “but Teket willing, it shouldn’t be necessary.”“Gods watch over us,” Gwen answered graciously.

  But no sooner had he left the room than Gwen sagged, as though her strength had suddenly run out, and when Zech offered her the chair, she took it wordlessly. When she spoke, her eyes never left Saffron.

  “Tomorrow, you’ll need to tell us all what happened in the Square of Gods. Everything you can remember. Try not to talk about it until then – the more often you tell a story like that, the more likely you are to exaggerate the details.” She paused. “It would be best if you slept tonight in your own room. I’ll need to speak to Saffron when she wakes. Alone.”

  “Of course,” said Zech, though in truth she felt a little deflated.

  “Good girl. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure you’ll have time enough to meet her when she’s recovered.” Finally, she looked up. “Tell Pix and Yasha I’m sleeping here, would you? And if either one wants to hash this out now, you keep quiet and send them straight to me.”

  Zech was torn. She wanted to stay with Saffron – it was one of the consequences of using the zuymet – but when Gwen yawned, she forced herself to nod and exit, shutting the door behind her.

  Six

  Catching Up

  Saffron squirmed through a sea of uncomfortable dreams, each one more disquieting than the last. Long-haired velociraptors chased her down a series of unfamiliar hallways, getting closer and closer until she tumbled into a fountain. Gasping, she swam through a portal at the bottom of the sea, but when she hauled herself out on the other side, her mother was there, saying that she’d ruined her academic career and needed to be declawed. Saffron tried to explain that there’d been a mistake – it was Beastie the kitten they wanted to declaw, she didn’t even have claws, but her mother just smiled and took her into the garage. The rest of her family was lined up and waiting for her, their faces solemn. Saffron began to beg and plead. She tried to run away, but then her father grabbed her, pinning her hand to the hood of the car, murmuring to be a good girl, Saff, hold still, and all while her mother advanced on them with a pair of pliers. The cold metal clamped down on the two smallest fingers of her left hand. Her mother started to pull – “They’ve got to come out!” – and even though Saffron tried
to scream, instead she was choking, unable to say a word. With a sickening wrench, her fingers popped free like deciduous lizard tails, twitching and writhing on the car bonnet. Still gagging, Saffron turned around to confront her parents, only to find that both had vanished; instead, there was only Gwen, watching her with sad, apologetic eyes.

  She’d woken up. Gwen really was present, sitting opposite Saffron in a cushioned wicker chair. Still foggy, she didn’t immediately understand what had happened or where she was. She was in an unfamiliar room, the walls and floor both painted stucco white, though the latter was covered by a faded red carpet patterned with geometric designs. A low, square window covered with wooden shutters let in glimmers of daylight. Seeing that, Saffron felt a lurch of panic. How long had she been asleep? Had a whole night passed? In a wash of fear and pain, her memory came flooding back, bringing with it a new, strange tingling in her left hand.

  “No,” she whispered, not wanting to look, knowing she had to. Sitting upright, she pulled her hands out from underneath the rough blanket and laid them in front of her, unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes. The two smallest fingers on her left hand were gone, the skin healed over as pink and seamless as if they’d never existed. And yet she could still feel them there, a phantom twitching so strong that when she closed her eyes, it was as though nothing had changed. But it had; she’d seen her fingers sink in the fountain, remembered the blinding agony as the smiling woman had severed them with her knife, a series of quick cuts to the joint, efficient as a butcher. Then she raised her right hand to her head, and felt what else she’d lost: her hair, reduced now to nothing more than stubble. That, too, was bizarre, though in a different way. Her whole head felt naked, each turn of her neck too quick and light without the familiar weight. She kept on reaching up to reflexively brush the strands away, startling when her fingers hit flesh instead.