Part 11 (1/2)

”In a city of enameled tiles on mud brick walls, a city of heat and luxury in a barren waste, there was a certain gate. This gate was not one of the gates that arched above the main avenues that the army might march down, or the processions of the G.o.ddess, or the retinue of the Great King. This was a side gate, a place that might be easily overlooked for its plainness in a city of beauty. The gate was unadorned, had no name. It faced west, in a city that looked to the east, out toward old trading routes no longer in fas.h.i.+on, out toward the hinterlands, out toward the yellow hills of the desert province. A woman came to that lonely gate, every morning before sunrise, and looked out to the west. Tell me about the woman,” Rhea said, sitting back.

Rosalind hesitated, trying to pick up the thread of Rhea's story. Her mind wasn't focusing very well. The room had gone a shade of blue-black, like a night sky far away from city lights. Was that haze from the candle, or was it from the knot of bitter herbs smoldering in the copper dish?

Rhea waved at her impatiently. ”Don't think! Tell the story that is in you.”

Rosalind gave up trying to think and started speaking, letting the words surprise her as they came out of her mouth. There was a difference to the sound of her voice, a little like her mother's, or more like her grandmother's. ”The woman went to the gate every morning because it was the last place she saw the person she loved. The gate was the place they said good-bye, before her lover left. Not death. Her lover was exiled, out into the desert. Someplace out in the yellow hills, her lover is waiting for her. They can't be together because of their status. The woman is a priestess, her life is devoted to the G.o.ddess. She's been trained for years and years in the temple and knows literature, philosophy, politics, theater. Priestesses pledge seven years of their life to serving the G.o.ddess, and during that time, they belong to the people and cannot have lives outside the temple. But in a city of luxury, where love is all around her, she'd never known love. When love came to her, it was a complete surprise, something that threatened to tear down the structure of her whole life.” Rosalind looked at Rhea and saw her grimace, as if in pain.

Rhea's voice had the same hazy quality to it as the air in the room, threaded with smoke. The story she told sounded so familiar to her, as if Rosalind had heard it as a young girl and was only now being reminded of the details. She could see the gate in the wall, could start to see the priestess who stood there every morning.

Rhea took up the story, weaving in strands of scarlet and vermilion. Rosalind could see the colors hanging in the air. ”I will tell you of the priestess's lover. The Great King of the city had a dream that his newborn child must be raised and educated as a prince, or surely he and his city would fall. So the Great King took his daughter and gave her to her uncle, a retired general from the G.o.ddess's army. The uncle, following his instinct, put the child into the hands of the first woman he met, out in the wasteland.

”This woman was a fortune-teller, a woman of old, wild magic, unregulated by the temple. The rural people came to her for charms and potions, for the reading of dreams and the laying of ghosts. When the uncle held out the child, wrapped in a simple soldier's cloak, the fortune-teller looked on her and knew this was her fate. She could feel the Wheel turn as she accepted the child and vowed to raise it in disguise, hiding even from the eyes of the G.o.ds.

”The fortune-teller knew two things about the fate of the child. The first, that it was royal, and so must receive the training and education that would befit a prince of the royal house. The second, the child must grow as the trickster G.o.ds grow, in disguise to deflect all ill luck. So the child from birth was raised as a boy. This disguise, it turned out, was no disguise at all. It rather followed the nature of the child's heart and revealed more than it concealed.

”Out in the desert, in the yellow hills, the handsome girl grew into a beautiful boy, her heart burning at her exile from the city she had never seen. She had been cared for by the fortune-teller from the beginning of her life, grown up in the same house with wild magic and spirits. Yet she had a restless nature and yearned for adventure, for danger and destruction. Her heart ached for something she could not name. The fortune-teller watched as the prince grew restless and felt fear. There was no standing in the way of the urging of the heart. Something larger than life called the prince back to the city.

”The fortune-teller knew that it was her fate to go, but she had come to love the prince beyond all sense, and so she grieved. With the madness of youth, the prince abandoned her exile and stole into the city. And what happened there?” Rhea said, stirring the dish of smoldering herbs with her teaspoon, in a slow, circular motion.

It drew Rosalind's eye, mesmerizing her for a moment. She set her hands flat out on the table, to make sure it wasn't spinning too. It was her turn to speak. She wasn't sure if she had started already.

”The priestess had a vision during the night of a black eagle rising to embrace the sun. The eagle had fallen in love with the G.o.ddess in her solar aspect and went mad. The eagle flew into the heart of the sun, knowing that the single embrace would mean immolation. But for one moment, one perfect moment, the eagle knew divine love. When the priestess woke from this vision, she walked to the gate like a woman drunk on uncut wine. There, as the first rays of the sun struck the gate, a beautiful boy slipped into the city. The priestess took one look at the boy, at the handsome girl, and her heart fell at the prince's feet,” Rosalind said, not recognizing her voice at all.

Rhea stood up and walked to the cast-iron stove. She reached up into the rafters, drawing down a knot of herbs hanging to dry. She crushed them, sniffed them, then sprinkled them over the copper dish. Rosalind watched the gray-green specks fall like rain into the embers as Rhea spoke.

”In this city, when a person fell in love, their friends would offer condolences and a hope for a speedy recovery. Love was rightly seen as a form of madness, a hunger that builds on what it seeks to devour. The hungriest heart is one that has never known its own appet.i.te. The fortune-teller advised the prince against this affair. There are certain kinds of love that are sendings directly from the G.o.ddess, a perfect balance between souls. The danger with these kinds of love is that they flare too hot for mortal flesh to contain, and they spill over, pulling with them destiny. The fortune-teller knew that this love might well alter the course of the Wheel of Fate. So she warned. Naturally the prince ignored her advice and ran with open arms toward the priestess.”

Rosalind sat up. ”The prince really loved the priestess. It wasn't just stubbornness on the prince's part. They were happy together.”

”Of course they were happy together. That was the G.o.ddess's gift to them. But the G.o.ddess can be jealous as well as magnanimous, and the priestess belonged to Her. The gift had a price. The news of their affair got out, through various means. A satrap who yearned to overthrow the Great King of the city got the news and prepared to use it to destroy the prince, the priestess, and the king. He was very powerful, this satrap. He did not follow the G.o.ddess of the city, and so he did not have the citizens' reverence for Her ways. He learned that the girl-prince was sneaking into the city to see the priestess, through that gate. He captured them and ordered them put to death, knowing it would break her father the Great King's heart. There was no hope.” Rhea set her teacup down and leaned her arms on the table, staring into Rosalind's eyes, challenging her.

Something stubborn rose up in Rosalind, something that refused the story Rhea told. ”But the prince's friend, the fortune-teller, loved her too much to let her die. She managed to smuggle word of the execution out of the satrap's palace, to the temple of the G.o.ddess. The women of the temple told the army, and they marched on the satrap's palace in time to stop the execution.”

Rhea shook her head. ”Not in time to stop the execution. The archers had already fired their first arrows when the army came through the door. The fortune-teller knew that this love carried a price. Death had already visited that room, Death who is sister to the G.o.ddess of the city. She cannot be denied. Who died?”

”The arrows were aimed at the prince. But the archer looked at the beautiful boy, and his hand shook. He was unable to get a clean shot. The arrow went wide,” Rosalind said, desperately clutching Taryn's blue gla.s.s mug. She saw, again, the crow s.h.i.+ft its clawed feet on the blue gravestone.

”You know better. You know that the archer's hand did not shake. You have the other memories. Tell the truth about this,” Rhea said, acidly.

Rosalind felt a great weight pressing her down. She wanted to put her head down on the kitchen table. ”No,” she said, exhausted.

”Tell the truth about the arrow, Rosalind.”

”It went right at the prince's throat. But...” Rosalind stopped, unable to speak.

”The fortune-teller could not see her die. While the priestess stood frozen, the friend saw Death reaching out for the prince. She did what must be done and stepped between the arrow and her throat. She did what the lover could not do. So Death had her portion, and the Wheel of Fate turned as it must,” Rhea finished, sounding as weary as Rosalind. The smoke from the copper dish had dispersed, leaving only the single candle burning down into a puddle of red wax, congealing like blood on the table.

”But, I never-” Rosalind blurted out.

Rhea held up her hand. ”You, no. The first of your line, yes. The woman who waited by the gate pa.s.sed her blood down the ages. As did the prince, and her friend, who gave up her life. It's a cycle as old as the city of enameled tiles, now dust so long men do not remember her name. Great love leaves echoes. The women of your line have always loved the women of Taryn's. You carry the memories of your ancestors, and frankly I'm surprised at how clear they come through to you. Souls return again and again with the turning of the Wheel. When a single moment changes the direction of the Wheel, it spins off ripples that do not fade until they all meet the sh.o.r.e.”

”You mean that the friend who saved the prince's life changed things. That it shouldn't have happened that way. We're still living out what happened then,” Rosalind said. The story had the quality of fable; it was sufficiently outside of time that she didn't take it seriously. Her focus was starting to return, and with it came the warning of a headache. Probably from those d.a.m.n herbs Rhea burned.

”Is that so odd? Children live out the mistakes of their parents, over and over, and pa.s.s them down to their own children. Families pa.s.s down quirks, habits, secrets. Souls pa.s.s on the same things to their kin. The Death was meant for the prince, the fortune-teller took it on, and so her family must now live it, again and again. The world is full of signs. I'm sure they've been trying to speak to you. You were born with two gifts. You come into the world knowing that love is waiting for you, and you recognize it when it arrives. She has what you need, and you have what she needs. You two have been lovers before, three times. You are both very young,” Rhea said, wearily.

”How old are you, Rhea?” Rosalind asked, suddenly, feeling a chill pa.s.s through the kitchen, like a wind off a lake of ice.

Rhea opened her eyes, perhaps not expecting this question. ”A woman of my line was in Babylon when Alexander rode in. She threw flowers before his golden chariot. I remember. A woman of my line saw Rome fall under the sandals of the Northern tribes. I remember. I saw Europe lit by fire and blood, one war or another. I am old enough. Women remember.”

”Was the fortune-teller, your ancestor, the lover of the prince?” Rosalind asked without knowing why. It was important to know, even if it was before her time.

”For a moment, no longer. It was never meant to be. The priestess was meant to come and bring love like a gift to the prince. So the pattern was set in motion. The women of my line have always been irresistibly drawn to the women of her line, but we can never hold them. We are their teachers and healers when they are young, when their anger is the most alive part of them. But then we die. We have to, to make room for the women of your line to come. And you always come.

”There is more. Taryn told you I was supposed to be her mother this time around, yes? I was. I thought I could love her, teach her, and spare her pain that way. But she is Taryn. She is as stubborn a creature as any of her line since the first. She refused to come back, refused to get born into the flesh again, because of what you did to her.”

Rosalind was shocked. ”What I did to her? Not the first of my line?”

”You, Rosalind. Your soul, your new soul. Oh, it's a pattern as old as the first pair, true. But you betrayed her last time around. It was a hard time in history then, to be lovers and women. Not so long ago, really. I had already come and gone. She waited to meet you and she did, as magnets draw steel. You were lovers, for a short time. As I said, this was a hard time in history. You felt the weight of the world's hatred. You gave up and pulled back. The women of your line have always flinched at the last moment, and Rosalind is no different.

”You left her alone, after the bonding had happened. She's never been as strong as you are, you know. Her line is never as strong as yours. When you left her, told her never again, and married a man, she couldn't survive it. She killed herself. Go ahead, look horrified. She can't live without you, once she's met you. She never could. The original couldn't, either. You, the women of your line, give them life in a way no one else can. You can also take life away. She was so distraught, Taryn was, that she refused to come back. She missed the chance to be my daughter. She had to know that you were already here, in the world.

”She waited a decade and more just to be sure. You know, I thought I could protect her this time, change the direction of the Wheel of Fate. I thought you wouldn't show up, after...that. But you did, just like you always do, like the women of your line always have. Taryn's tied to you. She will never be free,” Rhea finished, clenching her hands in her lap, looking away around the room.

Rosalind couldn't swallow, could barely breathe. After all her anger at the people who had hurt Taryn, her lover, now she found she was one of them. The one, from the sound of it. How much of this could she believe? Stories, fables. Hadn't love been a fable to her, until a few days ago?

”I...don't remember ever doing that to her. But if I did, I learned from it. I love her now, Rhea, with all my heart. I will never hurt her again.” Rosalind found herself speaking with conviction, but didn't know where the conviction came from.

”Of course you love her. You have always loved her. Even women not soul-bonded to her fall in love with her easily, but the balance between you two is perfect. The pattern will keep repeating until the last echo of the first Death has settled, until the Wheel is free to turn again. The memory will be hazy for you for a bit, but it's woken up now. You'll start to see more and more of it.

”You know, we never did get along. How could we? The women of your line come and take from us all that we have ever valued. I let myself grow lazy this time, when so many things seemed different-Taryn's age, our ability to live as a family, Joe and Goblin. I've never had the chance to have a family of my own. I stopped watching to see if you were coming across the horizon, Death on your heels. But the Wheel turns.

”Old arguments, prayers, and invocations set against the ritual and direct action of street magic. Argue with me when you know what I say is true. I am not optimistic, Rosalind Olchawski. Prove me wrong.” Rhea rose from the table and walked to the stove.

Rosalind sat, stunned, feeling the weight of history collapse on her. Something from the ma.s.s of information jumped out at her. ”Rhea? You said that you...the women of your line die when, well-”

”When you show up. Before, usually. We can't stand the sight of you,” Rhea said easily.

”Maybe that pattern is being broken, then...I mean...” Rosalind began, only to face Rhea's suddenly turned back.

”No.”

”But, I'm here, and you...” Rosalind started, desperate to find a loophole.

”Are dying,” Rhea said, putting the kettle on the flame. ”She doesn't know. I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her yet.” She turned to Rosalind, her face half in shadow. ”Don't take her away. I know she's yours now. I have eyes. But Joe and Goblin will need her. Let her stay with the family.” It was a request. Rhea had actually asked her for something, almost pleaded.

”Of course I won't take her away,” Rosalind vowed.

Rhea smiled, just a little.

”Why don't you tell all this to Taryn?”