The Revolution of Painted Birds
by Kayla Bashe
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
At twenty, Marekath leads the charge to conquer the famed walled city of Elezara. She leaps high into the air, powerful wings spread. True flight is rare among the warrior-strain, and even hovering places a perilous burden on her wing-muscles. She could explode her own organs by sustaining this effort. But what does she have to live for besides war?
With a roar of effort, she pushes through the gates, straining them open. Arrows slam into her body as soldiers stream forth. She contradicts gravity with the force of her fury and pain.
Afterwards her wings are in tatters; she will never use them again, the bonesetters tell her. But the city is theirs. They grant her the fortress as if in consolation for the loss of flight.
The fortress only has one dungeon. Luckily, in her first month as commander-in-residence, she’s acquired only one prisoner.
Marekath has been learning to tell humans apart, and she catalogues this one’s features: alert dark eyes shining with fury, scratched olive skin, hawklike nose starting to swell from a well-timed punch.
Those eyes fix on hers as she descends the stairs. “You took my markings,” he spits, gesturing at his face. The chain around his wrist tightens and snaps his arm back down.
So much is important to humans. The people with whom they breed. The young they bear. Even their incorrect religions, the worship of dead gods. Deities killed in the Planar Wars, as she has subdued their abandoned followers in the war on this earth.
But their tattoos? That’s new to this area.
“What did they mean to you?” she asks, curious.
“They still mean everything.” He splays a chained hand over his blank neck. “My merah did these before she died in your workshops. A braid for weaving a good family, stars for prosperity, a compass for guidance. The ones on my cheek were to protect me from the torments of your sun-creature in the afterlife. Now that, too, is gone. Do you intend to torture me after I’m dead?”
Merah means ‘mother’, a word new to Marekath, She pulls the discussion back onto familiar ground. “Tell us of your co-conspirators, and we shall release you unharmed.”
“You have no proof I did anything.”
“We have information enough.”
She works him over for the remainder of the day. Torture, Marekath has found, is surprisingly inefficient; better to make prisoners confess of their own free will. Who encouraged him to distribute subversive material in the weaving workshops? Where is his printing press stored?
“I took my orders from no one.”
She knows he’s lying. The people in other cities sharing translated versions of the same booklets have taken their secrets to execution. This may be her final chance.
“Tomorrow is your execution date, you know,” she tells him. Her boot nudges a tray of stale bread in his direction, close enough that the chains will not punish him for reaching out.
“I told you, I worked alone.”
“Then... one more question, one chance to earn your freedom. Tell me what this is.”
She produces his former armband: a stylized pictogram printed in earth-brown on a scrap of undyed cloth, the local cuneiform for bird.
At that he grins sharp. “Let me tell you what you hold, wing-beast. This is the symbol of the Seabird. She had the spirit of a dead god bound to her skin: a god of freedom. You can’t catch her because she’s everywhere — on the rooftops, in the slums, in the schools, in the factories — and if you ever meet her, she’ll be the last person you ever meet. Her blowgun is tipped with death. Her mind is a cipher, her hands are equations. Her eyes are the net that catches the sharks.”
Fury at the sheer wrongness of it all stabs Marekath’s scars. How dare a woman like that live. Marekath watches her claws dig into the prisoner’s shoulders, her arms slamming him against the wall. The world tastes like salt.
“Commander! Hurry!”
The voices calling from above release her. Instantly, she moves back; sees the prisoner unconscious, blood seeping from his dented head. Irrational guilt suffuses her. She wants to beg this heretic’s forgiveness. Such thoughts are pointless. He’s not a real person, and still she regrets hurting him. Another sign of her strain’s deformities. No other soldiers have such breeder-like qualms. She ought to pray more to be cleansed.
“Stay right there,” she murmurs. “I’ll find someone to tend to your wounds.”
Marekath emerges upstairs into a swarm of chaos. A lithe little thief had swung in from the open window, grabbed the freshly slaughtered goat from the officers’ dining table, and sprinted down the hall to climb down the tower. She’s just missed the thief’s disappearance.
Could this have something to do with... that person? She has no desire to acknowledge the Seabird’s existence, even within the privacy of her own mind. Doubtlessly the rumors are just that. By the time she’s pinpointed the security flaws in the fort’s construction, nearly an hour has passed.
Talons press skin as she glances into the dungeon. Indignant wonder replaces Marekath’s fear. Against conditioning, she lets out a slow, admiring breath.
The prisoner is gone, gaping shackles dangling to the cold floor. And across the stones stretches a stylized painting of a seabird. How could this be? Something stranger than knowledge draws her to stand before the drawing, to lower herself into a crouch and place a palm over its earth-dyed shape.
* * *
Like a dream, the dungeon fades. The ocean’s scent soothes old aches. A woman with storm-moonlight eyes rests a hand on her shoulder. Cool water floods her mouth, clean as respite.
Leave pain behind, both your own and the giving. I shall be here for you.
A vision — a moon-trick — wickedness! She pulls her battle axe from her shoulders and sets to work dispersing heresy, scraping paint from stone.
Members of the soldier strain don’t learn to read. Still, Marekath spends the rest of the day pacing amongst her clerks, soothed by the cadence of their scribbling. The sky outside flares blue against cloud-drift. She can’t help but wonder: Did I dream of that woman before?
As time passes, more information drifts towards her.
The Seabird can speak rebellion in any language known by humankind.
The man who invented al-gibra created an unsolvable problem in his tower of sand. The Seabird, drunk on pomegranate wine, scribbled its solution on a napkin.
She knows the myriad caves outside the city, and the jackals follow at her heels.
Twenty guards were sent to capture one of her followers; they were left bound and naked in the main square, her emblem painted on their chests.
She can slip from a sealed room in a wisp of smoke. Swim into the harbor and save children from drowning without emerging for a single breath.
If half of what Marekath hears of the Seabird is true... exceptional, for a heretic.
For a woman.
Always the sea outside the city walls seems to whisper unfamiliar names. It’s reasonable to research an enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, but Marekath’s curiosity slinks deeper each day. Is it true the Seabird lies with other women? How many, and under what circumstances? She tries to imagine a dark-eyed face of soft brown human skin, a pelt of black hair, and searches for these features in every crowd. If she had not rebelled, would we be allies now?
Her fascinated wonderings about the Seabird are neither pure nor right. But if she goes to the priests...
“This is why the re-building canticles are extracanonical! We all have our roles in life: for one strain to act like another is a harbinger of eclipse.”
She’ll be made an example, her scars paraded in the streets. The same fate as Taher. The last Marekath had heard of her, the former soldier was a meek laborer in a carpet workshop, subsisting on goat’s milk and millet, her sleeping mat raised to keep rats from her face. Hobbled to keep from running, drugged to keep from fighting, vulnerable as any worker to the stocks and the rack.
No. She’s spent years honing her gifts in the deity’s service. Challenging duty would be worse than death.
* * *
“Another prisoner, Commander. We found this one with the printing press. Put up a real fight, too — gave all the girls with her time to escape, though we’ve got a squadron tracking those down.”
Blood smears her lips and crusts over her nose. Coughs explode through her body. Pain tightens her face, but she remains on her feet — then a boot to the stomach sends her gasping to her knees. Although she seems fragile, she raises her head; kneeling, yet defiant. Proud. Her eyes are startlingly blue against deep brown skin.
Marekath shoots to her feet. “Who is this?”
Cool mockery plays in the prisoner’s expression. “You’ve captured the Seabird, Commander. Aren’t you proud?”
Soldier-strain men and priest-strain torturers alike clamor for the famous prisoner; Marekath silences their objections with a bestial snarl. Lust for knowledge burns within her, a constant distraction. Who is the Seabird? What does she want?
Marekath circles the cell, predator-slow. “Tell me, what is your ultimate plan? Surely you must have some goal besides becoming a cactus needle in the empire’s palm.”
Welts splatter the prisoner’s limbs; she barely has the strength to lift her head. Still, a smile twists through her voice. “I plan to sow discord in your conquered territories. Teach people how to rise against your satrapies and prison schools and guarded workshops. I’ll have your rulers fleeing scattered and scared.”
Silence would be more prudent, but the Seabird seems to enjoy talking. Marekath knows she even speaks when she’s alone, murmuring lilting prayers to her long-dead gods.
Marekath can’t help responding. “And then, being mortal, you’ll die — and, after death, pay for your sins.” A sword through her chest. Sinew-sizzling flame. Part of her wants the heretic to die of old age, grandchildren crouched by her bedside. For her to cast aside pointless rebellion and spend years content.
She shakes her head, wincing at even that small movement, but her mouth is set firm. “When I die, I’ll raise rebellion in the flame-pits. I’ll free the twelve captured goddesses and their mother moonlight and revolt against Great Sol himself.” Sudden coughing overtakes her, clogged and desperate.
It will harm Marekath’s career if the Seabird dies before trial. She steadies her. “Are you all right?”
The Seabird studies her face. “You plan to execute me. Why does my health matter?”
“I would not have you die in my custody. We are, after all, a society of fairness. Is this cell too cold for you? I can have you moved, given one-and-a-half rations—”
“It’s what your people call boarding schools and mine call prisons. A month’s hard journey away from my homeland, and we were lucky if they let us sleep indoors. I’ve been ill since childhood. There’s mold in my lungs, and they don’t work well.”
“So, the rumors of your legendary escapes... someone else wearing your armor?” Marekath’s mouth curls in disappointment. She wanted to believe her enemy was all-powerful, a worthy challenge.
“In dry air, I’m matchless. I’ve even fooled your hand-picked guards in this very citadel.” She straightens, pushing her shoulders back. True, she’s small, but it’s an acrobat’s slenderness. Something about the way she holds herself.
“I know you,” Marekath realizes.
A gasp escapes her parted lips. “You do?” Oddly, she seems excited.
“You swung through the meal hall window to pilfer food. A pointless inconvenience. Our resources will stretch much farther than yours.”
“Not a pointless anything.” A cloud shifts; starlight pours through the tiny window, turning her brown skin luminous. “A rescue mission.”
Marekath laughs harshly. “You’d be a great war-leader indeed. A thousand followers willing to martyr themselves at your word, and you risk your life to rescue one low-ranking person?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have no head for war. Sometimes sacrifices must be made — a glorious death as a rallying standard, a squadron left to hold the pass, a distraction for a greater effort. It’s like playing chess with bodies.”
“The greatest difference between you and me is that I could never convince myself to see people as things.”
“And you expect to win a single battle how?” Anger edges Marekath’s words. She has expected the Seabird to be a genius, not this pathetic, frail human.
“I’ll recruit someone; the greatest military mind living shall serve as my general. We’ll be unstoppable.” Her smile seems to break down the dungeon’s walls. Sea-scent rushes in, and the moon’s silver glow, and with it the easiness of friendship.
Marekath turns away. She forces her eyes closed and slows down her breathing. This is why people follow the Seabird. She tempts them with false love. “I’m sure everyone who sees you in chains will jump to join your cause.” Acid sarcasm etches Marekath’s words as she leaves the dungeon. The only love she needs is that of Sol.
* * *
Copyright © 2017 by Kayla Bashe
