I’d been past the waterfall to the inner temple any number of times, but never down the passage Mother led us through. The path sloped down, going in spirals that tunneled ever deeper. Formed initially of smooth polished stone, the tunnel had no moss, as we’d left sunlight far behind. After a while, the stone began to look more organic, with ripples that seemed to pulse rhythmically. Though I’d always understood Calanthe was both an island and a living being, depending upon which reality you viewed Her from, the feeling that we moved through the veins—or intestines—of some enormous creature was unsettling.
It’s fucking creepy, Con’s voice said in my mind, making me smile. Would he and Sondra drink from the water and see their truths? I put my wager that they would, if only because neither of them could stomach backing down from a challenge.
Ambrose walked beside me, dragging the bad leg and leaning heavily on his staff. He managed to keep up, though Mother never slowed her pace.
“Does your leg pain you?” I asked him, wishing I could offer assistance, though I didn’t know what I could do.
“Not pain, exactly,” he replied. “All that truth has made it more difficult to ignore the weight dragging at it.”
“Weight?” I recalled what Mother had said, about Ambrose existing in several realities at once. That certainly explained how he looked different to me, depending on what kind of vision I used—and perhaps on his own magic. I focused on the leg, looking for magic or trying to see through to another layer. It changed with each lens of attention—sometimes looking like a young man’s healthy leg, sometimes withered to skin and ligaments, sometimes … What was that? It seemed to be dark as iron, and massive. A manacle and chain?
Ambrose watched me, his canny green eyes in a young man’s face bright with interest. “Did You see it?”
“Are you … chained, in some other place?” I felt a bit absurd guessing it, but his face lit with pleasure, as if a prized pupil had solved a difficult problem.
“Indeed I am. For quite some time, I’m afraid.”
“Who is holding you captive?” I asked, wondering at the might of that wizard.
“It’s my own doing,” Ambrose replied ruefully. “And not easily undone.”
“So you are shackled in a prison in some other reality, but able to move around freely in this one?”
“Not exactly freely, as You observe. The restrictions that bind me govern me in a number of ways.”
I considered that. “You’re not able to speak of it, unless someone asks you questions.”
He tipped his finger to his temple in a salute. “And even then I must be careful what I say, lest I alert those who would be … distressed to learn how I’ve eluded certain restraints.”
“Can you be freed?”
He grimaced. “That remains to be seen.”
Hmm. “Is there a place in this world that corresponds physically to where you are chained?”
Brightening, he nodded. “An excellent question, Your Highness. Very clever.”
“I assume it will do no good to ask where.”
“There are clues,” he suggested.
“Not helpful, Ambrose.” Then I laughed, imagining Con’s frustration if he heard this conversation. “Is it important for Me to know?”
He mulled that over. “It might well be. It depends.”
“You must leave the riddle for the moment,” Mother said without looking back at us. “As we have arrived and Your Highness has a more immediate problem to solve.”
I looked around, perplexed. We seemed to be in yet another bend in the tunnel, not anywhere in particular. I thought of Con sardonically expressing disappointment at the lack of fantastic elements at the cave entrance to the temple, and had to admit to a similar feeling. “Right here?” I clarified.
Mother glanced around. “This isn’t good enough for You, Queen Euthalia?”
“I don’t mean to seem that way. I’d just expected…” something that would give me more of a clue as to what I should do. I turned to Ambrose. “Do you sense Merle here?”
“Here and not here,” he answered, looking as perplexed as I felt. “Perhaps Your Highness should open a door? Or a window would do,” he added helpfully.
I tried looking with different levels of vision, seeing only the tunnel encircling us. Mother watched expectantly. I was missing something …
Oh. I’d been so determinedly walling out Calanthe’s raging that it had become a reflex. Even now, knowing I must, I hesitated, afraid to make contact with the monster in myself. So much for truth.
The waters of truth had shown me that I’d been cowardly, shirking my more difficult responsibilities, and now it was time to step up.
More than nervous, I reached for the dreamthink. Once a boon to my troubled mind, the state where I could revel in Calanthe and my connection to Her, the dreamthink felt heavy, fraught, and prickly. Full of death and the screams of the suffering. People, animals, plants, soil, the sea—all fouled with violence and despair. And worst of all, Calanthe hungering with avid greed for more.
I flinched from it, from my own guilt and from the pride that had me shunning any sign of weakness, from asking for and accepting help. And I faced my own greed, the craving for control that led to the lust for power, the blood hunger that devoured, uncaring what it killed. I’d felt this, drinking Con’s blood. I wanted to dance, to run and be free. Not to be captive, serving as a rock for the parasites that crawled over my skin.
I flailed against the bonds that held me, seeing myself strapped down as the wizards had confined me, bound to their altar of stone, bleeding me dry. I would not be contained! I roared my defiance, my determination to escape and break free. The wizard in purple pushed back his cowled hood, his beak curved and sharp, amber eyes bright with intelligence.
“Merle,” I breathed. “Merle, help me.”
Merle, with a very serious and concerned expression—though how I could see that on his raven’s face, I didn’t know—inspected the bonds restraining me. I pulled at them, pouring strength into it. The table under me cracked, and it seemed I felt the world tilt on its axis. Merle spread his wings wide, the cloak falling away, and the giant raven threw himself over me, pinning me down.
I flailed, determined to escape, but also confused. Was I supposed to help Merle?
The wizard in blue robes approached, funneling magic to Merle. The bonds grew stronger again, though I managed to free a hand—not a hand, it was a cluster of twigs? Oh yes. I remembered. But I had the orchid still, and I used that power to fling them away from me. Both wizards went flying, one taking flight on black raven’s wings.
“Lia,” the wizard in blue yelled to me. “You must take over for Merle. Remember what you are here to do.”
Ambrose’s voice? In my confusion, I stopped fighting, and the bonds coiled around me again. No, no—I wanted to be free. Magic surged through the orchid, rich and redolent, the sheer force of nature pouring out. All the might of wind over water, the erosion of stone over time, eons of life, the finality of death, the most unstoppable power of all.
I was too powerful and they could not bind me any longer. Roaring my triumph, I broke the last bonds, leapt from the table to the floor, but it crumbled beneath me. People screamed, shrieking as they fell into the sea.
Then Con stood before me, face serious and full of love. He held a crimson ribbon in his hands—and I remembered with a rush the excitement and unexpected freedom of being bound. “It can be good, too,” he said, in his low voice. “You liked it. You wanted it. You still want it. Trust in this.”
That was true. Truth. Yes, I had agreed to accept the bonds, to lie down in this world and allow my children to live and prosper. “You fed Me blood,” I told him.
“And always will,” he replied. “Will you accept the bonds?”
“Yes, because I love you.”
“I love you, and so I put my bonds upon you.”
And then I was binding myself, weaving the ribbons around my limbs. Careful so they’d be comfortable. Firm so they couldn’t be broken. I smiled at myself, feeling that love and trust. “I do this for you.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
As the bonds tightened, as I allowed them to comfort and restrain me, I fell into an easy sleep, dreaming of the orchids that would bloom from me. They didn’t have to live on their own, because they had me.
“Love you, my daughter,” I murmured.
“I love you, Mother.”
I came back to my fleshly body with a start.
We stood in the tunnel, lit only by Mother’s lantern. She watched me curiously, and warily. Ambrose stood straighter, a cheerful grin on his face, his gaze roving over me with patent delight. And Merle sat on his shoulder.
Ambrose and Merle, there in that chamber. Helping me to tame and bind Calanthe, who was also me. “I am too many people at once,” I murmured, and Ambrose’s smile widened.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he confided.
“Calanthe is at rest,” Mother declared, then bowed deeply to me. “Thank You for Your sacrifice, my queen and my goddess.”
Not sure what to say, I inclined my head—and felt the silken slide of cool vines over my bare shoulders. Startled, I put a hand to my head, finding myself not bald anymore, but with luxuriant growth flowing over my shoulders. Scooping it up, I brought it round to see: a wealth of fairy-thin vines, delicate as human hair, but rich with small leaves and blooming with tiny blossoms in every color.
“It’s quite remarkable,” Ambrose assured me, and Merle croaked in approval.
“And as it should be,” Mother added reprovingly. “No more shaving it off.”
“No.” I smiled at her, feeling radiant with it. My own hair, as I’d never imagined it could be. Then I realized … “My hand!”
It had completed the regeneration, the orchid back on my ring finger. I flexed my fleshly fingers, finding them the same as they’d been before. And my arm no longer looked wasted. I felt like myself again—something I would never again take for granted.
“Thank you, Mother,” I breathed, and we all knew I meant Calanthe. I reached for the dreamthink, and She responded with the sleepy embrace I’d been so long familiar with. And no longer minded. Calanthe wasn’t meant to be any more awake than this in our realm. Across my island, people and animals bustled, bursting with renewed life. The damage hadn’t disappeared, but they were working to fix it. All of us, together, putting things to rights again.
We’d done it. A miracle.
“I’ll take You to Tertulyn, Your Highness,” Mother said, extinguishing her lantern as we emerged into the light-filled upper caverns of the temple.
“I should go tell Con the good news first,” I said, slowing my steps, my good spirits falling.
Mother didn’t pause, turning down a tunnel I knew led to the private residential areas and clearly expecting me to follow. “I believe Your wolf will be occupied for some time yet.”
“He drank the water?” I hurried to catch up, quite easy in my bare feet and leggings, with my body humming with renewed vitality. I glanced back. Ambrose seemed to be gliding along without too much trouble. Merle had his head pressed into the wizard’s golden curls, Ambrose replying softly from time to time, as they carried on the conversation they’d been having the entire walk back.
“Both Conrí and the Lady Sondra partook of the waters.”
I didn’t doubt she would know, but it still surprised me that Con had. Sondra, yeah. I could see her curiosity overcoming her cynicism, not to mention that she could never resist a dare, but Con? I’d been just certain he’d fight it all the way, and I said as much.
Mother chuckled. “Oh, he fought all right. But his inner self wanted the truth badly enough that he succumbed.”
Ah. Now, that sounded like my Con. “And he’s still under the water?” Surely we’d been gone for hours. Hard to say. Time moved differently in the temple.
“He fought himself for a very long time,” she replied with wry amusement.
Hmm. Hopefully the truth wouldn’t wound him too much. But Con was strong. He was much better at facing ugly realities than I was. If none of the terrible events of his young life—and the trials since—had broken him, I doubted anything could. Still, I very much wanted to go to him. This worrying over someone wasn’t something I was accustomed to. Until recently I’d only ever truly fretted over Calanthe. And now that I understood I was Calanthe on some levels, that seemed terribly self-absorbed of me.
“Mother, I have a question,” I said quietly, glancing back to make sure Ambrose still lagged by a considerable distance and remained absorbed in the conversation with Merle. Though the wizard might understand this better than I did. Still, it felt private. Personal.
Mother glanced at me. “Ask, daughter. The wizard will not hear.”
“How is it that I’m an extension of Calanthe, both Her and yet not?”
She smiled in sympathy. “I wondered when You’d receive that truth. I suppose You needed to see that in order to subdue the monster in Yourself.”
I nodded. All so very odd to wrap my mind around. Monster.
“You are not so different,” Mother reassured me, seeming to know I needed it. “We all battle ourselves. Witness Your Conrí, at war with himself in any number of ways.”
That was Con, most assuredly.
“We are all spirits taken flesh. Your flesh is simply created somewhat more deliberately than the rest of us, fashioned from a blend of materials.”
“Flower made flesh.”
“Or flesh made into new flesh. Our spirits descend, occupy our bodies for a while—as we live the life of the body—and then return from whence they came. Most of us cannot know the nature of the spirit we spring from, but You are unusual in that You do know.”
“Calanthe.”
“Yes.”
I frowned. “I still don’t understand how I can be both.”
“When our spirits animate our earthly forms, we don’t descend entirely. Part of that spirit remains in the other realm. What we are in these bodies is an extension of the spirit.”
An extension of the goddess. “So I’m a walking piece of Calanthe? Like a puppet?”
“Euthalia,” she scolded gently. “You can hardly be a puppet of Yourself. We are all spirits living lives in this reality, with parts of those spirits remaining in the astral realm to guide and learn from our human experiences. Some of those spirits have other manifestations in this world. The island we know as Calanthe is one of Yours.”
“Thank you, Mother. I will think on this.”
“You and philosophers throughout history.” She smiled at me kindly. “Don’t overthink. If we were meant to know everything while incarnate, we would.” She stopped at a closed door. “Tertulyn is within. I shall leave You now.”
Ambrose had caught up to us. “Would You like Merle and me to remain, Your Highness?”
“I would love your company, but I fear I must do this alone.” I glanced at Mother, who did not disagree. “Do I knock?”
She shook her head sadly. “She will not respond. Goodbye, my Euthalia. Visit us again soon.”
“I will, Mother.” I embraced her, and she held me tightly.
She released me, arranging my hair around my face. “My beautiful, powerful girl. Remember that You are Yourself. Don’t get caught up in the rest of it. This is Your life to lead as You wish.” Brushing tears away, she laughed softly. “I grow sentimental in my old age. Come along, wizards. I shall escort you out. We appreciate your assistance in our time of need, but you have much territory to cross before you can be trusted. I’ll be happier with you out of my temple.” With that they walked off, disappearing around a bend.
Taking a breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Like all the residences in the temple—like the one I’d had before I went to live in the palace with my father—the room was more garden than chamber. A bed and sitting area nestled under a rock overhang, then progressed into a tangle of vines, flowers, shrubs, and trees. A fishpond occupied a large terrace, bright shapes darting within.
Tertulyn sat on a bed of violas at the rim of the pond, dangling her fingers in the water, apparently absorbed with her reflection. With her simple shift and long hair spilling around her, she might’ve been a sculpture in her stillness. Nymph at the Pond. She didn’t seem to hear my approach—or if she did, she ignored me. I walked right up to her and she never moved.
“Tertulyn?” I ventured.
She looked up and pasted on a bright smile, nothing of herself in it. “Oh look,” she said in mocking singsong. “If it isn’t Lia’s pet dogs. His Imperial Majesty Anure, Emperor of All the Lands, regrets to inform you that he had an urgent engagement elsewhere, with his new prize. I hope you’re not too fond of Euthalia. You lose, Slave King.”
And she went back to gazing at the water.
“Tertulyn, it’s Me.”
She looked at me and smiled. “Oh look. If it isn’t Lia’s pet dogs. His Imperial Majesty Anure, Emperor of All the Lands, regrets to inform you that he had an urgent engagement elsewhere, with his new prize. I hope you’re not too fond of Euthalia. You lose, Slave King.”
I crouched beside her. “I am Euthalia. It’s Me. Your … friend. Remember?”
Tertulyn looked up. “Oh look. If it isn’t Lia’s pet dogs. His Imperial Majesty Anure, Emperor of All the Lands, regrets to inform you that he had an urgent engagement elsewhere, with his new prize. I hope you’re not too fond of Euthalia. You lose, Slave King.”
This would get old very quickly. I put a hand on her shoulder, thinking physical contact might remind her of our long relationship. It did—but not as I’d hoped.
She exploded into movement. Like one of Con’s vurgsten bombs they’d buried in swamps and fields, to touch them was to set them off. Wizard magic blew over and through me.
Tertulyn flung herself at me, her face a rictus of rage, fingers curled into claws that fastened around my throat. She hurled me onto my back, the breath thudding out of me. I’d fallen into a trap, baited especially for me. Her hands tightened on my throat until I couldn’t draw breath.
But I could reverse her viciously expelled energy and that coiling wizardry. Inhaling the scent of the orchid ring as it funneled Calanthe’s deep magic through me, I repelled both. Tertulyn bounced away, falling to her back, and I followed, pinning her there with her own struggling attempts to attack again. The wizard magic, untethered, furled around me, seeking a target. Drawing on Calanthe’s wards, I bundled the wizard magic and flung it into the teeth of the ancient enchantments. They chewed, strange otherworldly shrieks echoing, then all went silent.
Tertulyn went limp. I looked into her blank face, the empty eyes vacant of the warm affection they’d once held—or pretended to hold. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from seeing her. Maybe a part of me had hoped she could be reclaimed. Mostly I’d wanted to ask if she’d betrayed me deliberately, if everything had been a lie. I’d wanted resolution and now it seemed I wouldn’t ever have it. Shadows slimed behind her smile, her face holding nothing of the woman I’d known, the girl who’d been my friend.
I sat there a moment longer, coming to terms with losing her, that I’d lost her long ago. My friend and lover had died when they wiped her mind. I thought of what Mother had said, about the spirit extending to live awhile in Tertulyn’s body. Was it there still, trapped in flesh that lived on mindlessly? If so, it deserved to be freed.
I hated to do this, and yet I refused to be the coward and leave it to another. I’d given execution orders before—more times than I liked to contemplate—and I’d observed those executions, taking that responsibility on myself as queen, as my father had taught me to do. But never had I carried out a death sentence with my own hands. Truly, I never guessed I had this ability. It came to me, though, offering itself, and I pulled at Tertulyn’s physical vitality, draining the life slowly from her body. She weakened, then went boneless. Her eyes drifted closed and her face relaxed dreamily as I let her life sift softly into Calanthe’s soil.
Finally she collapsed into herself, a puppet with her strings severed, the last of her body’s life gone. Wiping the tears from my face, I arranged her limbs into a peaceful posture, brushing her hair from her face with the old tenderness that had lived between us for so long. Maybe it had never been real for her, but it had been for me. I’d choose to remember her that way. My childhood companion. My fellow student in those first shy joys of the body. I folded her limp and boneless hands, cold and damp from the water, on her breast. In her rest, her face looked familiar again.
“It’s time to sleep now, old friend.” Tertulyn wasn’t a child of Calanthe, but she would become part of us anyway. I could give her that. The orchid hummed gently on my finger as I drew on it, the violas rustling as they burgeoned. Stems wound over Tertulyn, filling in as leaves and blossoms billowed into verdant life. Calanthe, answering my request with a warm embrace, took Tertulyn into her soil. Within moments, there was no sign of her body, except for the lavish mound of flowers. Violet for mourning.
I sat there a while longer, letting the tears fall. “I loved you well, Tertulyn,” I finally whispered. “Rest in peace.”
When I rose to my feet and turned, Mother stood there. I hastily wiped away my tears, wishing my guilt could be as easily hidden. Hoping she hadn’t seen how easily I could take a life. “I thought we’d said goodbye.”
She shrugged a little. “I thought this decision might be easier for You if You believed that. I suspected this might be the outcome.”
“Do you disagree?” I asked, realizing that it was far too late to ask that question.
“Would I disagree with my queen?” she returned with a sad smile.
“I would hope so,” I returned immediately, though I also knew that might be too much to ask.
“For what it’s worth, Your Highness, I don’t disagree.” She gazed at the bed of flowers. “This war has killed many, and Tertulyn was a casualty of that terrible wheel. We can’t save everyone.”
“That doesn’t mean we don’t try,” I replied, hearing the echoes of Con and myself saying those very words to each other at different times.
“Then go save the rest, my wild daughter.” She came and kissed me on the forehead. “We’ll wall off this garden to be Tertulyn’s resting place, so the others might visit and pay their respects to her memory.”
The others. Blessed Ejarat—what would I tell my ladies? Of course they wouldn’t question me, but … I took a deep breath, mourning the loss of their trust and affection already. I’d executed one of their own, and there was no taking that back. “I must go. If Con has finished?”
“He has. And is pacing, impatient for Your return.”
I smiled, despite the ache in my heart. That absolutely sounded like him.