Of Smoke and Wind

  Of Smoke and Wind

  A Short Story

  by

  J. Leigh Bralick

  Published by SisterMuses

  Copyright 2019 © J. Leigh Bralick

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  For all my readers. Thank you for your support!

  Of Smoke and Wind

  Dawn transpired hours ago, but the birds outside my window are silent.

  I kneel still on the flat velvet cushion that lies in the perfect center of my chamber, my hands on my knees and the morning breeze in my hair, but even the rising sun’s warmth on my face cannot banish the chill in my bones. It is the seventh day of Jade, third of the Festival of Lady Sun. My heart should have been glad, but instead fear flutters like a trapped thing within me.

  A soft tap on the door behind me shatters the emptiness, followed by the whisper of my slave’s bare feet on the stones.

  “Good morning, Mistress,” she says.

  She always speaks too softly. No matter how many times I ask her to speak up, she only laughs—nervous—and vows she has no stronger voice for the Voice of the Gods.

  “Is it a good morning, truly?” I ask. “The birds are silent.”

  “Perhaps there is a storm coming.”

  She stops by the window, her shadow falling on me the way the sun’s rays had moments before. I feel colder than ever, but I don’t have the heart to ask her to move.

  “A storm,” I echo. “Do you think I would not know if a storm were coming now, in Jade?”

  “I only meant—” she stammers, and I lift a hand to calm her.

  “Yet you are right, I think.”

  I tip my head, cradling the silence, as if listening for the whispers of the Gods to tell me the day’s fortune. What would Ashiya think if I tell her I can hear nothing?

  “What does it matter?” she might say, if she were feeling bold. “You see the truth of the world and all men’s hearts, and all that you see comes to pass.”

  When she finally leaves the window, I stand to let her dress me, edging my bare toes along the silken border of the cushion. Her hands move deftly, drawing my simple tunic from my shoulders and draping me in the ornate, stiff fabrics of my ceremonial robe. The sleeves alone are loose, made of the finest silk that whispers like a kiss over my arms. I run my fingers over the false jeweled buttons as I consider the falseness of my life. Twenty-three years—seventeen spent in the service of the divine, after the Gods saved my life and my father gave me as a gift to the Temple in thanksgiving.

  I can hardly recall how it all began. In my first years at the Temple, I had a tongue too clever for my own good, and more insight than my years had any right to. The priests required nothing more of me than soothsaying, telling idle fortunes for those too lazy to make their own. Then one day the priests came and asked me to interpret the wills of their own private Gods. And then came the young King with his Knights in the cold clash of steel and the stench of road-weary horses, and with swords drawn they demanded that I promise them victory over an enemy I had never heard of in a war I never knew existed.

  I promised it—I’m not ashamed to say that it was a bald-faced bluff to save my own skin—and the battle was won. Rumor of my powers burst the banks of reality, and then nothing could staunch the bleeding lie. I was sixteen, then. Sixteen, and much braver than I am today. I was taken from the Temple, my little cloister in the hills, and brought to the palace of the King. Since that day I have lived tantalized with the illusion of freedom, like one of the rare birds in his menagerie.

  The birds that are now silent.

  And I, who have always esteemed my powers as nothing but smoke and wind—and a healthy dose of luck—am afraid to the core of my bones.

  “There is a chill to the wind,” I say, though I am drowning in yards of embroidered silk and velvet.

  Ashiya’s hands hesitate on my back, where they have been lacing the bodice closed. “Do you think so, Mistress?”

  “Do you not?”

  She lets out a sharp exhale, and hurries to resume her lacing. “I would say nothing to contradict the Voice.”

  “Ashiya.”

  I sound stern, but I need her honesty, not her deference. The Gods alone know I have no one else, no one to whom I am even permitted to speak outside the performance of my duties.

  Performance, I think, a bitter smile on my lips.

  I turn to her, taking her hands. They are very cold, but she doesn’t try to pull them free.

  “Is the wind chill?”

  “I would not say it is, Mistress. But you must know better than me.”

  “If the wind is warm, then it is warm, and not by my say-so,” I tell her. “Never doubt what you know to be true, even if I tell you otherwise.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” she whispers, unconvinced, and darts behind me to finish her task. “Are you ready?”

  “For the Jade Predictions?” I force a laugh. “Of course.”

  She thinks I laugh because I am certain of my powers. I laugh because I know it all means nothing. The Jade Predictions, offered every year on this day since my fateful prophecy of military victory, are my offering to the King in exchange for my life. I am too dangerous to be allowed to live free. I have overheard too many whispers spoken behind my back—if I will not prophecy for the King, I will die.

  If I prophecy and my prophecies fail, then I am either a traitor or a liar.

  Either way, I do not deserve to live.

  A cold sickness claws through me, and I clamp my hands tight over my abdomen. The false buttons cut into my tender palms but I do not release the pressure. If I do, I fear I may be sick. The Voice of the Gods is not permitted to be sick. She is not permitted to be weak.

  Ashiya attacks my hair as soon as she finishes with the dress. She weaves and braids and twists until my hair is piled on top of my head in an intricate crown, laced with jewels, and heavy. Then she grips my chin and dabs her choice of powder on my eyelids and cheeks, and draws a stain that tastes of verga berries on my lips.

  “You are very quiet,” I say presently. “Or, more than usual.”

  “Forgive me,” she says, and sighs. “I cannot do justice to your eyes, no matter what color I use. They have seen too much. Sometimes…I feel like you must see my soul.”

  I lower my eyes immediately—out of courtesy, or maybe out of shame. She touches two fingertips to either side of my neck, and a sweet smell like death or incense wreaths my neck like a torque.

  “You’re ready, Mistress,” Ashiya says. “Shall I send word to the city?”

  I turn carefully in the draped robe and return to my window, the sun’s rays warm on my forehead and the stone floor cold and smooth beneath my bare feet. My fingers trace the sharp contours of the window casement and I listen for the birds, but still they are silent. Only the wind stirs in the fronds of the tall trees, mocking me with the illusion of a whisper.

  “Send word.”

  She goes at once, leaving me alone in my chamber, facing my fear. I am not afraid that I will have nothing to prophecy for the King. I fear that after all of these years, I will actually have something real to foretell—a murmur in my thoughts weaving dread into every beat of my heart, insistent, begging me to take heed.

  I have never actually wanted to be a prophet.

  Ashiya returns too soon with a score of guards at her heels. They are all stern and silent, and without a word they escort me out of my c
ell…my chamber…and down the long narrow hallway that reeks of damp stone and dust. Our footsteps echo in perfect cadence below the high ceiling, while against it comes the sharp tattoo of my heart, stubbornly beating out of time.

  We reach the stairs at the end of the hall and the guards ahead of me take the lead, never breaking the strict regularity of their pace. I take a moment to pause before descending.

  “Are you all right, Mistress?” Ashiya asks, hovering anxiously at my elbow.

  I put a hand on her shoulder. She is very young, much younger than I am, and her shoulder is thin. I fear leaning my weight on her, but she immediately steps forward to support me.

  “I feel a little faint,” I say. “Will you help me?”

  Without a word she wraps an arm around me. Her hand lights on a tender bruise on my side, but I stifle the grimace so she won’t see it. It is one secret of many.

  To reach the southern wall we must pass through the lower level of the palace, where the noise and smells of the kitchens hang like a pall over the corridor. Usually the aromas of cooking—the finest not only in Varhada but in the whole of the East—entice me, but today they only turn my stomach sour.

  The guards ahead of me slow, and one of them calls back, “What is the reason for this delay?”

  It is Ashiya who answers, boldly, “The Voice of the Gods is burdened with divine messages. Give her a moment, sir.”

  Their awe is palpable, and not one of them dares to question her. To my relief, when they move again, their pace is slow to match my own. At the end of the corridor we reach a winding staircase that always seems to grasp for the very pinnacle of heaven. But the balcony it leads to is not very high—still near enough to the crowds that they can hear my voice.

  Ashiya takes the inside of the stairwell, where the steps are treacherously narrow, and I lay my other hand on the rough outer wall for support as we make the dizzying climb. Already I can hear the sounds of the festival seeping in from the plaza—a confusion of drums and horns, and the shrill, heady buzz of a burgha, its whine bleeding into the persistent noise scraping at my thoughts. The cacophony of the crowd fills every corner of the plaza, so there is not a shred of quiet anywhere to be found.

  As soon as we step out onto the balcony, an absolute silence falls.

  In the stiff breeze, the banners snap and riffle, but apart from that the hush is so thick I imagine I can taste it.

  To my right, a herald calls out with a clarion voice, “May I present the Voice of the Gods! Let the Jade Predictions commence!”

  I have no name. I have never had a name. The priests thought it unnecessary; the King never cared to learn it. Even Ashiya has never asked. None of them care—I am not a person to any of them. I am nothing but a tool. Nothing but a Voice.

  The crowd below lingers in waiting silence. They don’t cheer to greet me; they are too afraid of me for that.

  I make my way, alone, to the balustrade. Ashiya has released me, standing back at a respectful distance. I immediately miss her support as the ground writhes beneath me. My throat is dry and cracked as the stone bannister beneath my hands, and a trickle of sweat chases down my spine. But I am so cold.

  This is the one day of the Festival of Lady Sun that the King does not preside over the celebrations from his own shaded balcony. He and his Knights will stand in array below me as I make my predictions. They have yet to arrive; I am as tense with anticipation as the crowd, feeling the weight of a thousand stares upon me, listening to the flutter of the pennants, praying for the sun to thaw the chill in my heart. A guard close behind me shuffles his feet, and I can sense his nervous energy. Does he know? Can he taste the bitterness of death on the wind as I can?

  Death is coming. The storm and the sorrow.

  My teeth chatter, and I prod the bruised tips of my toes against the balustrade to remind myself that I am real.

  A lone trumpeter shatters the expectation with an eerie cadence, and the crowd erupts in exultation as the troop of horses parade into the plaza, their metal-shod hooves ringing on the stone. The King’s General shouts a single command that I cannot understand, and the whole company halts. I squeeze my eyes shut as the sun passes behind a cloud, and listen to the clatter of armor as the King dismounts.

  It is the only time he dismounts for anyone. But, I wonder, will he pay reverence to me after this day?

  Or is the whisper of death chewing at my thoughts a portent of my own fate?

  “What is your desire?”

  I’m not sure how I manage to speak the words with any sort of authority. My voice carries an unnatural note, as if it were not one voice, but two, and one of them slightly out of tune. The sound is like fingernails scraping stone, and a chill spiders down my arms. I dig my fingers against the balustrade, but it is not enough to drown out the wrongness of it all.

  The King takes a few paces forward. His men-at-arms clash their swords against their shields, then fall still, and silent.

  “I desire to know the will of the Gods. Speak the fate of Varhada, and her King, for the year to come.”

  This is the seventh year I have heard the same request. For six years I have bluffed and side-stepped and swindled another year’s grace from the King, weaving empty and ambiguous promises of fair harvests and stability, along with the occasional prophecy of the death of someone important—all just vague enough that they would inevitably come to pass.

  But the lies do not come readily to my lips today. I clutch the bannister and pray for the sun to return, but she does not. My body is racked with shivers. And in my mind, I see all too clearly.

  I see a rising sun scorched in black.

  I see armored knights on their plumed warhorses, blades flashing red in the fire light.

  I see the bodies of the dead, burning and bleeding.

  A village in smoking ruin.

  This much might be a memory. It has the feel of a memory, but I was so young when my own village was destroyed that I can remember very little besides the stench of burning flesh and the taste of tears as I wept over my mother’s body.

  I close my eyes a little tighter. I am there now, among the dead and the dying, listening to screams of pain mingled with the clash of steel. My feet move carefully over the broken earth, stepping over fallen roof tiles and the detritus of shattered lives. The sky above is black, not the black of night, but the tattered black of smoke and storm. I can barely breathe.

  This much is not a memory, and I am so afraid of what it means.

  All at once I remember the King waiting below me, the crowd lingering in breathless suspense. One of my guards clears his throat, and I wonder how long I have stood there, gaping at the sky, walking among the dead.

  I must speak, but I don’t understand the vision I have been given.

  “A storm is coming,” I say.

  Uncertainty stirs the crowd. I can feel the King’s nervous fear palpably, and I know he wants to ask for an explanation, but he doesn’t dare interrupt my predictions.

  “I see the rising sun swathed in smoke and shadow.”

  This time the throng shifts and mutters in audible surprise. I hear a faint gasp behind me—Ashiya. What do they hear in my words that I don’t?

  “War.”

  I want to say more, but that word falls from my lips like a hammer-blow, and I stagger under its weight.

  The silence carries on endlessly, then the King says, “War? But what is the outcome? Speak!”

  “The light of the Sun is blotted out by smoke,” I gasp. “The storm is coming. The knights…I see them, the white plumes of their helmets and their horses’ chaffrons painted in red and black. Blood and char. You will come to see their villages laid waste. Their soldiers are outnumbered. Their defeat will be perfect and absolute. The standard-bearer lies in the mud, and in the smoke and ruin they will never see the rising sun. And I am…so cold.”

 
I fall to my knees, bruising the tender skin again, and press my forehead against the rough stone. If this is what it means to speak the will of the Gods, I want no more of it. I feel empty inside, hollow—a cracked and faded vessel poured out and left to be forgotten.

  Why is no one cheering?

  Why are the King’s soldiers not shouting and clashing their shields?

  Why are the musicians silent, and why…why is Ashiya weeping?

  Then the King shouts, “Take her away.”

  There is an edge to his voice that terrifies me more than my darkest nightmares. One of the guards grabs my elbow and pulls me to my feet. I can barely stand.

  “Gods,” another guard whispers. “Look at her. She’s still under their power.”

  “That isn’t our concern.”

  He drives me a step forward, but the world gives way around me.

  * * *

  When I come to my senses, I don’t know where I am. The guards have left me sitting in a broad chair that is much too large for me, the cushions covered in richly embroidered silk, the arms carved in ornate designs—lions’ heads, and winged lizards. It is far finer than anything in my own chamber, far finer than anything I have ever touched. To my left a fire crackles in a massive hearth, but despite its welcome heat, there is still a part of me, deep inside, that feels winter-cold. Someone has left a plate of festival food nearby. The smell of honey and cinnamon wreathes the room like incense, but it is not enough to banish the odor of sweat and steel that trails the King’s guards like a shadow.

  “I will give you one chance to explain yourself,” says someone behind me.

  I recognize the King’s voice immediately, and resist the urge to retreat into the deepest corner of my chair. Instead I sit a little straighter, though I bow my head so he cannot see my fear. He moves in front of me but continues to pace, restless, his bare feet silent on the marble floor, the silk of his court robe rustling softly in protest. At least he is no longer wearing his battle armor—but I know the King does not need to be holding a sword for my life to hang in the balance.