Chapter Two: Effect

Inside, trembling and holding back her tears, she hesitated. She had to tell her mother what had happened. Her mother would surely be horrified. She would not have known this about her business partner and once she did, she would be certain to expel him. Or report him to the Mogul. This is what Ilyria told herself.

But another voice from farther inside her was saying she was in danger from everyone within the walls of this mansion. Even her mother. And this was why she hesitated.

No, she thought, it cannot be so. This is my childhood home. There were happy times here. Weren’t there?

She knocked at her mother’s door. Though it was late, light from her mother’s chambers edged from beneath the door. She knew her mother used the night hours for her planning, preferring to rest during the day when she claimed only fools were afoot.

There was no answer, so Ilyria knocked again, a little louder this time, “Mother,” she whispered, “Mother, please. I must talk with you.”

Her mother’s old servant answered the door. She had a shaven head and heavy body and she greeted Ilyria with her silence. Ilyria had never asked what happened to her tongue but she knew that her smile had disappeared at the same time as her tongue.

“Show her in,” came her mother’s voice from the desk at the back of her chambers, “And then leave.”

Ilyria gestured that she would find her own way and the old woman gave her a long look whose meaning Ilyria could not discern, before leaving.

“What on earth are you doing here at this hour,” said her mother, “you should be resting so that your skin at least will look fresh tomorrow.” She put down the quill pen she had been holding and narrowed her eyes at Ilyria. “You look terrible.”

“Mother, it is because I have seen something terrible,” said Ilyria. She walked around her mother’s desk and kneeled in front of her. She studied her mother’s face and told herself that this woman was still her mother and that she must have loved her father enough to make her. She told herself that she could trust her. She closed her eyes and recalled the scene in the courtyard. The words tumbled out of her mouth, and she tried hard not to let her emotions get ahold of her. If she cried, her mother would stop listening altogether. “Then he walked off,” she finished, “whistling. Like nothing had happened.”

Her mother had turned her face away from her.

“Mother,” she said. She reached toward her mother’s beringed hand but before she could grasp it, her mother snatched it back.

“By the everloving gods, child,” said her mother, “You are stupid as well as dull. You are lucky that one such as Dirk should even cast his eyes at you.”

“But Mother,” said Ilyria, struggling to understand what her mother was saying, unable to believe it. “Mother, have you not heard what I have just told you. He murdered Haris. Remember Haris? He used to come here. We took piano classes together. He was such an awful player, you used to tell him that all the time,” she tried to laugh but only a sob came out, “He …”

Her mother held up her hand. “Enough,” she said, “You are hysterical. Go to bed now and make sure you are presentable by the morning. If not, believe me,” she leaned forward, “I will feed you such herbs that you will be perfectly pliable.” She leaned backwards, “Perhaps I should have done it sooner.”

Ilyria did not need reminding that her mother’s skill with botanicals was spoken of widely. In whispers.

In a daze, Ilyria stumbled toward her chambers. This had to be brought to the attention of the Mogul, she thought. She remembered little of her father, but she had a memory, faded with time, of her father taking her to meet the Mogul. She had been so little; she remembered her father holding him in front of her as he rode there. He had never liked carriages. The Mogul had been not at all what she expected. He had worn loose cotton clothing like a common citizen, and he had prepared them a meal himself, a tray of dates and cheeses, sweet treats dripping with honey and a fizzy red liquid that bubbled up in her nose making her giggle. She remembered when they left, her father told her he was a man of honor and she had thought he was talking about a place. But he is from here? she wanted to say. Where is this honor?

Now she wondered again. Where is this honor? It was nowhere in this mansion. She sat down heavily on her bed, her hands trembling in her lap. Remembering Haris when they used to chase geckos around the walls of the mansion; when he had lifted his baby girl to her, smiling shyly and asking her to be the baby’s godmother; how he looked at his wife and how many times she had wished she too had someone to look at her that way. Now Haris was gone, and she had done nothing to save him.

I couldn’t, she whispered, I swear, I couldn’t. She lowered her head into her lap and let the tears come.

A soft, rustling breeze roused her. She looked up. The window to her balcony stood open. She had forgotten the reason for her dash down to the courtyard. Now, she recalled the myth of the Lightning Bird and that it appeared wherever there was strife. But was it harbinger or origin of the strife?

Ilyria stood. Her weding dress lay in folds of silk and pearls on the divan. If she were to accept her fate, then she would climb into her comfortable bed now and try to sleep. Tomorrow she would allow servants to dress her, and she would allow herself to accept the desire of a murderous, evil man. Her fate would be fully known and completely out of her control.

She thought again of the Lightning Bird. But if she took flight, she would be launching herself toward an unknown fate; but one where each step would be decided by her, would be in her own control.

Perhaps the Lightning Bird was neither harbinger nor origin. Only effect.

Ilyria dug through the recesses of her cupboard for the trousers and shirts she had stashed there for the rides she would go on late at night when there was no one around to stop her. She drew on two layers of clothes, choosing especially baggy shirts to hide her form. Though she did not have her mother’s curves, she had curves nonetheless. Then she wound a scarf around her head, tucking her hair in as best she could. Looking in the mirror, she thought she looked like a sloppy sort of boy. It would have to do for now. Finally, she packed a small bag but when she stood back to survey it, she realized how much she would have to learn. The bag was velvet with inlaid threads of gold. It was far too ostentatious for a young man out on the streets of Idixat.

Instead, she stuffed her pockets with cords of jewels which she hoped could be traded. She hurried downstairs, her feet padding softly, her breath sounding too loud to her in the vast echoing halls of the mansion. She stopped at the door leading to the courtyard, her hand out, about to turn the handle. Idiot, she cursed herself softly, you don’t run away using the front door.

She lost time wandering the mansion trying to find the right passageway to the kitchen and servants’ quarters, praying no one would see her, that no servant would be awake readying things for the days’ festivities.

In the kitchen she swiped a stale loaf of bread from the counter and a bottle of red wine from the cellar and put them both in a rough shopping sack that she slung around her body. She opened the door of the scullery, a place she knew only as the entrance used by the servants. As children, she and Haris would dare each other to open the forbidden door.

Now she opened the door and stepped outside into an alleyway beyond the walls of the mansion. She was in the streets of Idixat! She shivered with fear and excitement.

As the door clanged shut behind her, she looked down at her bare feet, sinking into the filth of the alley. She had forgotten shoes.