“Take me to her,” I say.
“I am to fulfill your every request,” the woman says, “except when it countermands an order from Lord Rasida. Lord Rasida requests that you be escorted to your rooms. Your girls are waiting for you.”
“Can I go to the banquet area?” I ask. “Perhaps eat with the rest of the family?”
“You are not family,” the woman says.
That rankles, but I recognize the line. It’s something Gavatra would say. Where is Gavatra? I try to tamp down my feeling of unease. Rasida professes love. I might almost call what I hold for Rasida a kind of love. I tremble at the memory of her touch. A woman who touches me like that would not make me a prisoner.
But I cannot help but think, again, of Zan. If Rasida needs me, I will use that need to manufacture her downfall. I will retain control over this situation. I got myself here, against all odds and at great cost. I can do what must be done to see the rest of it through.
I let the woman bring me back to my rooms. The girls are already there with food waiting on the table, and a stack of glowing tablets.
“What are these?” I ask, but of course they can’t answer. I turn over one of the tablets and I see it is a moving storybook. I have not seen anything like this since I was small. When I concentrate hard on the image that moves across its surface, I can immerse myself in the story. This one, however, is barely comprehensible. The language is not one I know, and the setting of the world is alien. Even the people are strange—spindly and long-limbed, with squinting little eyes and flattened faces. I set the tablet down, wondering which world Rasida dug these up from.
I expect to see Rasida before the walls go dim, but she does not come for me. I think perhaps she will summon me for dinner, but that time, too, passes, and she does not come.
I’m nauseous, and vomit in the shower.
I spend time looking at the story tablets, but most are like the first—so old that they are nearly incomprehensible. And they give me strange dreams.
It’s during one of these dreams that I wake with a start in the darkness. My door is open, and I see Rasida there.
I blink and rub at the walls until they brighten. I pull off my blankets and prepare to yell at her for keeping me here alone, but when the light comes up and I see her, I am mute with shock.
She is covered head to toe in blood. Not old rusty blood like I was from the day before but new, clotting blood. Her hair is a matted tangle. Clearly, some of the blood is hers. There’s sticky yellow salve on her left arm. She is holding something in her hand, a weighty object that glows green.
“What’s happened?” I say, and my heart catches, because I fear that Zan has done something stupid. Did she attack the Bhavajas? She is going to ruin everything.
Rasida does not meet my gaze. Instead, she gets down on her knees in front of me. She drops what she is carrying.
It is my mother’s arm.
“I have brought you a war trophy,” she says, and it is all I can do not to scream, because this is exactly how I presented this arm to my mother after I stole it the first time.
“My mother—” I begin, but I know what’s coming now, and I want to run, but I am rooted to the spot.
Where would I go? I have nowhere to go.
Rasida takes my hands into hers, smearing dried blood and grime onto my skin, and presses my hands to her cheek.
“You are free now,” she says.
“Free?” My voice is a whisper.
“I have freed you from Katazyrna,” she says. “Your mother is dead. Your world is ours.”
My gut twists. I must say the right thing. I can’t waver in this moment, or she will murder me too. “I don’t understand,” I say. “We have brokered peace.”
“I have done this for you,” Rasida says, and she gazes up at me now with her black eyes, and in them I see absolute certainty, complete calm. “You are Bhavaja now. Katazyrna is no more.”
“What have you done to my sisters?”
“They will renew the world,” she says. “They have been recycled. We will eat their bones.”
“No,” I say, and I back away from her. I can’t help it. My mind and body are split in this. I want to claw at her face. No, I want to claw at my own face, because this is my fault. I did this. “Rasida, we brokered peace. You’ve broken the peace. You broke your word!”
Rasida gets to her feet, slowly. I fear her then. Not as I did before, not as my enemy, but the fear one has for a mad animal, a mutant creature who has never known the light.
“I will never break my word to you,” Rasida says. “But the peace was brokered with Anat, not with you. It will be difficult to adjust. But this is your home now.”
“You can’t . . . ,” I say, and I don’t want to ask her, I don’t want to know if she’s killed Zan too, because of course she has, and then I wonder if she knows about Zan, and who she really is. Does she suspect? Could I have given myself away? I stare at the arm. My mother’s gory flesh is still inside of it; the arm was always too small for her. It pained her to wear it.
I clasp my hands together and try to control my trembling. The tears come, unbidden, but Rasida will expect tears. If I did not cry, I would be less believable when I finally said I forgave her for murdering my world.
I fall to the floor, and Rasida settles in beside me. I let her take me into her arms, and I sob against her. “What have you done?” I say. “What have you done?”
She makes a shushing sound. She wipes my sisters’ blood through my hair as she strokes me.
“Hush,” she says. “It’s just us now.”
And then, finally, I scream.
PART II:
DOWN BELOW
“THE MONSTERS DON’T LIVE IN THE BELLY OF THE WORLD LIKE THEY ALL SAY. THE MONSTERS LIVE INSIDE OF US. WE MAKE THE MONSTERS.”
—LORD MOKSHI, ANNALS OF THE LEGION
14
ZAN
Everything is monstrous in the dark.
The recycler monster moves heavily in the flickering light, squelching across the detritus of the world’s waste: spent suits and table scraps, bloody piss and shit and ruined bodies, corpulent or lean, old or young, mangled, deformed, mutant, or hacked to pieces, all the castoffs, the lame, the hobbled, the imperfect, the mistakes, the merely unlucky, the dead.