In truth there were numerous females—thousands of them—on the most famous of the moons above the planet of Illyr, for the gray sphere of Avila Minor housed the Marque, the citadel of the Nairene Sisterhood, filled solely with feminine forms and girlish voices. A male Illyri had never so much as set foot on it, for to do so was against all laws, and the punishment for contravening them was severe.
Right now Ani Cienda could hear several of the Marque’s females whispering loudly outside her chambers. She glanced away from the picture she held in her hands and frowned toward the door. Honestly, did they not understand that she was trying to rest, and she was most certainly not deaf?
“The Archmage has given instructions that she is not to be disturbed,” rang one voice, clear and strident.
That was Cocile, noted Ani, Syrene’s former handmaiden, who was now referred to as the Archmage’s “aide.” Ani had suggested the title when she’d become Syrene’s official scribe, replacing Layne, who had been killed by the Mech, Meia. Even all these years later, Ani could not help but admire the audacity of that damned Mech, for Meia had then taken on Layne’s identity after disposing of her, becoming a spy disguised in a Layne-skin.
Once Meia’s duplicity was revealed, Syrene was so enraged that all those who served her directly were immediately rounded up and sliced open. Random cuts were inflicted to the arms, the legs, the shoulders, the cheeks, and one unfortunate Half-Sister had even lost most of an ear by panicking and struggling. Syrene’s search for impostors was more than skin-deep: she wanted to see the Sisterhood bleed; she wanted meat and pulsing arteries to convince her that no further Mech impostors hid among her Nairenes. Everybody was a suspect. No one was immune.
On hearing of Layne’s demise, Ani had hurriedly offered her services as Syrene’s new scribe—and she could be more than a scribe too, she reminded the Archmage, for she was the last of the treasured Gifted, the young Novices who possessed psychic powers, and whom Syrene had been molding into her personal cohort of assassins.
What they were—and the purposes for which they had been intended—hardly mattered now, though, for they were all dead, with the exception of Ani. As the only Gifted still breathing air, Ani could serve as more than a mere keeper of records, she reminded Syrene; she could be a protector, an ally. Upon hearing this suggestion, Syrene had smiled curiously at Ani, a new light in her eyes, and after several long minutes during which she probed Ani’s mind—and Ani stared back at her meekly, allowing her access, up to a point—the Archmage had reached into the folds of her red robes and produced a blade.
“Give me your hand, Earth-child,” she said.
Ani held out her right hand, palm up.
“Are you right-handed?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Well then, the other one, idiot.”
Turning her face away, Ani proffered her left and, without ceremony, Syrene swept the blade across the palm. Ani screamed as the skin split open, creating a deep gash of lumpy white flesh and sinew that quickly filled up with blood, spilling over and splashing to the floor.
“You look real enough to me,” said Syrene. “Cocile, get a medic. And a mop.”
She turned to Ani again, who was kneeling at her feet, clutching her balled left hand in her unharmed right, tears leaking from her eyes. The Red Witch bent down and whispered into Ani’s ear so that only she could hear.
“Now, how did you expect to be my scribe with an injured writing hand? Stupid child. Get some rest. You’ll be ordained as a full Sister in the morning.”
The following day Ani was transferred from the Twelfth Realm to Syrene’s private sanctum in the Fourth, with strict instructions to leave all but her most personal belongings behind, for her new role demanded fresh robes, and brought with it an elevated position in the Nairene hierarchy. From that day forth, everything was kept fragrant and clean for Ani by the white-robed Service Sisters, who held their tongues and lowered their heads in her presence, such was Ani’s new status and influence.
After the first week, Syrene had waved the blade at her again.
“Oh, I should cut off both your hands, Earthborn,” she snapped. “Your handwriting is appalling. Is there anything else you’re good for?”
Ani took a deep breath.
“Clouding, Your Eminence,” Ani reminded her. “I’m quite good at clouding . . .”
And as she revealed more of her powers to Syrene, she had cause to write less, and in this way she grew closer to the Archmage, and increasingly valuable to her.
• • •
The Archmage now had many aides and scribes, although much of the time she preferred that notes weren’t taken at her meetings. After all, written records could incriminate, especially during a civil war that had now been raging for for more than four years, and still thundered on far beyond the protective walls of the Marque.
Absently, Ani rubbed her thumb over the thick scar on her left palm, the relic of Syrene’s blade. She had worried at it regularly in those early days, fretting as she tried to find her niche among Syrene’s initially unwelcoming staff, so that the wound had healed lumpy and risen. She had considered getting it fixed, but it had come to represent something more to her, a constant reminder to be vigilant, and even now, as she felt it, her ears remained attuned to the noise outside. That was one thing she’d learned very quickly after her promotion: in the Sanctum, you kept your ears open, especially when it was assumed that you weren’t listening. You always listened, you always watched.
“May I leave this with you, then, Sister Cocile?” said the voice from outside. “The Archmage will need it to be fitted and altered before her trip.”
Ani smiled despite her frustration with them, for that was Xela, the nimble-fingered seamstress from the Seventh Realm. Xela was the very Sister who had made Ani’s gown for the Genesis Ball all those years ago, the dress that had tumbled over her shoulders like a waterfall, and had all the young Illyri officers queuing up to dance with her. It was the last truly joyful day that Ani could remember. She felt almost happy at the memory. Almost.
Lord, I was only sixteen, she thought, just a child. She looked again at the picture in her right hand, an old photograph printed on Kodak paper from Earth. In the image, a male and a female were gazing adoringly at the slight figure who snuggled between them: her parents, Danis and Fian, their arms around their only daughter, the child laughing at the camera, her silver hair thick as a mane, her face open and without secrets. It was a long time ago—in more ways than one—and the picture was crumpled at the edges, and worn from repeated handling.
Xela’s voice carried through the door, tinged with frustration. Xela was now an aide too, a wardrobe aide, personally responsible for the stitching, laundering, and general maintenance of the Archmage’s vast and elegant wardrobe. When a new gown was required, Xela was entrusted with putting it together under the watchful eye of the chief Nairene designer, Sister Illan.
“The fitting will have to be done before this evening if we are to make final adjustments in time,” continued the seamstress.
“Yes, yes, only urgent business,” said Cocile in that imperious way of hers, and Ani knew she’d be waving her hand, wafting Xela away like a fly. Cocile was annoying in the extreme, but she was a matchless gatekeeper.
“It is urgent,” pressed Xela, not to be stopped.
“I said—”
Another voice interrupted Cocile now, softer and shyer, but the quietness forced others to stop and listen.
“Sister Xela, as soon as the Archmage is available, I promise I’ll run down and fetch you to fit the dress. She shouldn’t be long now.”
That was Lista, a Service Sister turned handmaiden—a real handmaiden, though, not a metaphor for a bodyguard, like Cocile. Lista helped the Archmage to dress, and ran minor errands, and sometimes was even permitted to rub the Archmage’s esteemed shoulders after a particularly hard day, or an unusually trying meeting, especially on those occasions when her boss was too weary to make her way to the spa for more formal treatment. Ani liked Lista: the young Sister was trusting, trustworthy, always grateful, and didn’t bear grudges. Such qualities were rare among the Sisterhood. Indeed, Ani suspected that they were rare among the entire Illyri race.
Yet still, despite Lista’s efforts, the squabbling outside the door continued. Other voices chimed in—Ani recognized those of Toria and Liyal—and Cocile grew more strident, and finally Ani could take no more. She sat up and quickly put away the photo, placing it into a hidden drawer in the cupboard beside her bed, making sure she locked it carefully. Then she placed her feet into the red silken slippers on the floor, pulled her heavily embroidered robe around her, and padded to the door on silent, soft soles. She paused for a moment before she threw it open, startling the small crowd beyond into openmouthed silence.
“What is going on out here?” she snapped. “I’m trying to rest.”
As one, they bobbed at the knee, their heads dipping reverentially.
“Your Eminence!” they cried. “Our sincere apologies.”
And Archmage Ani nodded curtly at her assembled aides, and the eye tattooed on her cheek seemed to stare deeply into them, even as she turned away.