After two days’ travel, the young princess Aeribis came to that place where the plains met the sea, and there for the first time in all her life she laid her eyes on the great gates of Lyvia, City of the Dead, where her mother was queen. In her heart, she was afraid, for she knew not what welcome the dead would give their still-living princess.
Would they celebrate her return after these eighteen long years? Or would they turn away and denounce her as a foreigner, whose body held yet the warmth of life? Her heart quickened as her company passed into the shadow of the gate.
Presently, there came out of the gate a squadron of soldiers, who stood ready upon the plain with shield and spear in hand. Their leader, standing apart from the others, asked: “Who are you that seek entrance into the City of the Dead?”
Before Aeribis could make her reply, the captain of her guard spoke, and he said they were sent forth from the kingdom of Lansun in answer to a summons from the Queen of Whispers herself.
“We are to escort the princess to her mother’s court.”
Aeribis unhitched the clasp of her saddlebag and brought out the letter from her mother—the first she had ever received—and she placed it in the hand of her captain, who dismounted his horse and carried it to the Lyvians.
Having finished with the letter, the Lyvian captain looked upon Aeribis, thin girl in her white gowns, and said: “Forgive us, my lady, our caution.” Carefully, he approached her and returned the letter to her hands. “You are welcome in our city, but these men must not enter. The blood is yet warm in their veins, and the living heart beats in their chests.”
Her guards moved to draw their weapons, but Aeribis stayed their hands. “Go. Leave me to my mother’s people and return you to your kingdom. I fear not the dead, and I would enter through the gate.”
Her guards protested, saying that, should she enter the city alone, surely she would be made a monster. But she was not troubled by their words. “If Lyvia is peopled by monsters,” said she, “then I am already such a monster.”
Thus, her guards departed, bound for their homeland. But while they were yet within her hearing, they began to speak crudely, saying they were glad to be rid of the Corpse Daughter.
Presently, the captain of the Lyvians took in hand the reins of her horse and brought her through the gate into a ruined and fallen metropolis.
“The queen allows not a fragment to be cleared away,” said he. “For every scattered brick is yet a bone of the Lyvia that was, and surrounds the Lyvia that still is.” While he was speaking, he led her down an ancient avenue past barren gardens, fallen aqueducts, and shattered facades of temples. And he spoke of the grandeur that had been when he yet lived.
At length, they came to a magnificent arch carved from white marble that spanned the wide avenue. Passing beneath it, they left the ruins and entered a marvelous city at the edge of the sea. And the captain said: “Behold, the great city of Lyvia.”
Astounded, Aeribis looked upon the city, whose towers pierced the sky, whose gardens were lush with many trees, and whose tiled walls were freshly washed. The avenue was packed with merchants, soldiers, and workmen such as could be found in any city, though their faces all were pallid and sunken. Many bore visible wounds sewn shut. All bowed as she passed by.
Still uneasy in this strange place, she wondered that the dead should so welcome among them one who still lived. And she asked the captain: “Why do they show me such honor?”
To which he replied: “Tell me what difference there is between us that the people of Lyvia should not welcome their princess with gladness in their hearts.”
At length, they came to the palace, whose towering walls cast shadows over the city even as the cliffs soar above the sea. And the walls were upheld by immense columns and spanned by vast arches. Aeribis marveled at these sights, each a sign of Lyvia’s might, until a maidservant came forward who would attend to her and be her guide through the palace.
Aeribis was struck by the appearance of this girl, for this was the first she had seen of an unarmed Lyvian close at hand. The maidservant was gaunt of face and figure, as one consumed by hunger or disease. Her skin was gray as morning frost, and black were the veins that crossed the bones of her jaw, spreading like roots around the milky eyes.
Bowing, the maidservant offered Aeribis a withered hand, and wishing to cause no offense, Aeribis accepted it. And she showed not her displeasure at the icy touch. Then the captain who had brought her to this place looked back in the direction of the outer walls and set his eyes upon them. Seeing that he was intent upon leaving, Aeribis called out, saying: “Will you not stay with me?”
And the captain answered her: “My lady, would that I might bring you to your mother’s hand, and see in her eyes the joy of your return. But too long have I tarried here, away from my men. And I must needs return to my post. Be at peace. The Queen welcomes you among your people. And the blessing of the God of Whispers be upon your soul.”
☽☾ ☽☾ ☽☾
The maidservant spoke not but led the way in silence through spacious halls and grand ballrooms, all lavishly decorated. Presently, they came to an arcade that opened onto an inner garden, where an olive tree stood over a pool of clear water. With a gesture of her hand, the maidservant indicated that Aeribis should sit there and wait, so Aeribis took her leave and found a soft place in the shade. And while she waited, she contemplated all she had seen this day.
Presently, footsteps sounded in the grass. Lifting her gaze, Aeribis saw a youthful woman dressed in sheer black gowns. Her skin was pallid as bone, though otherwise, she appeared not like the dead. Her eyes were as glinting emeralds, and her black hair shone in the sun. She approached Aeribis and touched the living cheek with a cold hand.
“My lady,” said Aeribis. “My Queen of Whispers.” For she knew at once her mother.
The queen smiled and said: “My daughter. At last, you have returned to me.” So saying, she took the girl by the hands and, pulling her to her feet, embraced her tightly.
Through the noontide, they shared the shade of the olive tree and conversed about a great many things.
And the queen asked: “Has Thereza been a mother to you?” This Thereza, called The Golden, was queen in the kingdom of Lansun, from which Aeribis had set out. It was she who had been charged with the raising of Aeribis.
The princess explained that she had been well provided for, raised up even as a blood daughter of the court. But she kept from her mother the words Thereza had spoken when the letter from Lyvia was unsealed:
“I will not come between a mother and her daughter, but know this: Once you set foot through the gates, there will be no returning to my kingdom. For it is not known what kind of place Lyvia has become since its desolation, nor what shall become of you once you enter it.”
And Aeribis withheld also other truths of her life in Lansun, for she wished not to burden her mother’s heart at this joyous meeting. Dipping her finger in the water, she observed how the ripples distorted her reflection, and she said: “Thereza treated me fairly, but she was not a mother to me.”
The Queen of Whispers touched her daughter’s shoulder. “On my account, have you suffered. That is plain to see. Yet I am thankful to Thereza for honoring the friendship we once shared.” With the sleeve of her gown, she wiped away her daughter’s tears, saying: “Weep not, but be glad. For after such long years, the God of Whispers has returned you to your mother’s breast.
“Often have I dreamed of you. And in my dream, I have seen you even as I see you now: a cooing infant sucking at a foreign breast, a lively child running the tiled veranda, a young woman whose blue eyes shimmered, pure as water. The years have been as an age of the earth.”
“Then why?” asked Aeribis. “Why did you not write to me?”
And the queen replied: “Your words strike me to the heart. Often did I take up my stylus, eager to set down the message that would speed you to my side. If I could but fix in words all the anguish of my heart, the volumes would fill not only the palace but also all the streets of Lyvia, such that even her mighty walls could not contain them. But you needed your life in that world. A queen must be wise and of vast knowledge.”
So went their conversation, until, at the princess’s first yawn, the queen declared that the hour had grown late and they must rest until morning. Thus, she dismissed Aeribis, kissing her on top of the head and saying they had ahead of them all the days they would need in order to love each other better. Then she summoned the quiet maidservant and bade her take Aeribis to the room that had been prepared.
“Good night, my daughter,” said she. “Again, I welcome you among your people.”
As she was commanded, the maidservant brought Aeribis to the door of her chamber. But before she would go through, Aeribis asked the girl: “What is your name, that I might thank you for your service?” And she asked this so that she might come to know her people better.
The maidservant lifted not her milky eyes, nor parted her cracked gray lips to speak. But bowing, she moved to take her leave.
Now Aeribis seized her by the wrist and commanded her to stay, saying: “Your name. Speak it, so I may know you.” The maidservant sighed. Angered by her seeming impatience, Aeribis said: “Why do you refuse your princess? Must I be a foreigner even in the land of my birth? Must I be a stranger even among my people?”
In answer, the maidservant opened her mouth. And at once Aeribis was struck to the heart, and great was her remorse. For she saw that the maidservant had no tongue, and her few teeth were broken.
“Forgive me. I did not understand.”
Once the maidservant had gone, Aeribis entered her chamber. And she said to herself: “Truly, the people of Lyvia have felt suffering beyond measure. Each one is marked by death. Mustn’t my own mother also hide such a wound?”
☽☾ ☽☾ ☽☾
In the morning, the queen took Aeribis into the city, that she might see its wonders. Aeribis was eager to leave the walls and see more of her city. But great was her dismay, for the queen would call no guards to accompany them. And so unarmed, they departed. Said the queen: “Take heart, daughter. For in Lyvia, such posturing is not necessary. Today we walk among our people as fellow daughters of the city.”
Aeribis protested, fearful of the dangers that often skulk among city crowds. But soon she found there was truth in her mother’s words. All who saw them made way and stood aside, no force having been shown them. And among the people, there was a most striking peace.
“So it is in all our city,” said the queen. “As you will see.”
And Aeribis found the city much as the queen had said. Crowds did not jostle. Merchants carried out transactions in whispers. Children sang lines of poetry.
Said the queen: “Among all the cities of the earth, where else could you find such peace? Tell me, daughter, have you ever seen its like?”
“Truly not,” said she. “Lyvia has no equal.”
“They call us monsters. They say we are accursed. My emissaries tell me so—those who return. But the living know not our bliss, nor can they. The living heart craves chaos and turmoil even as its lifeblood.”
At length, they came to a shrine dedicated to the God of Whispers. Though small, it was fashioned out of the richest materials. The drapery was spun out of spider silk and hung from ebony canopies by rings of beaten silver. This shrine, the queen explained, was built in honor of Lyvia’s First Mother.
“Listen, daughter, and you will hear her voice. Happy are the faithful, who stood against the enemies of Lyvia and were slain. Their prayers this day are of gratitude.”
At eventide, they came to a cemetery where a troupe of girls had taken up position on a stage built before a mausoleum entrance. They danced languidly, with feathers in their hair and sashes on their withered hips. A crowd had gathered to watch them.
Seeing Aeribis, the dancers broke from their routine and pleaded with her to join them in the performance. Though Aeribis refused them, saying she lacked the skill of dance, yet they came down from the stage and took her by the hands and brought her up to join them. Thus, before the eyes of the crowd, she danced together with them.
Laughing, she stumbled after them through the routine, and the dancers smiled upon her. When the dance was finished, they bowed for the crowd’s applause. Afterward, they besought the queen if Aeribis might remain with them a while. With the blessing given, they took her on a walk about the graveyard. Many questions did they ask of her, regarding her journey across the wasteland and of life in the kingdom of Lansun.
Much to her own surprise, Aeribis found it easy to answer their questions and speak freely, even as she could not with the queen. “Lansun is a country of surpassing beauty, splendid almost as its Sun Queen. And though that good lady raised me as a daughter of her own blood, yet was I treated with exceeding cruelty by the members of her court. Often they accused me as a monster among them—a walking, breathing corpse. One of you.”
And she said this, for in the kingdom of Lansun, her Lyvian heritage had been as a brand upon her flesh. Even the daughters of Thereza, who called her sister, would stand apart from her in the dance, or laugh when a dignitary called her “Monster” or “Corpse Daughter.” And when it was suggested by a drunk or a youth that she be given worms to eat, or a marble bed in the charnel vault on which to sleep, the daughters of the sun would keep their silence.
At once, Aeribis apologized for the thoughtless thing she had said to these dancers, who had shown her such kindness. But the dancers pardoned her. “We are not monsters. Neither are we mere corpses. But the people of Lansun were correct on one account: You are one of us.”
Then they told her who they each had been in life: The tallest, whose nose was missing, had been beloved of a famous painter and was his muse. The most gaunt, whose neck was cut and stitched, had been an heiress. The white-haired, a groomer of horses.
As they spoke, they came to a row of graves, beside which were posed flesh-and-blood Lyvians, who stood unmoving atop plinths, stumps, and rocks, as if they were marble statues. Some were nude. All appeared wracked with sorrow.
One figure, a man with a wound stitched shut between his protruding ribs, clung to the branch of a fig tree. Another, thin as a skeleton, was draped over a marble tomb, her face concealed by her dark hair. A third, who lacked an arm, reclined against the back of a gravestone, his cheek resting in the palm of his remaining hand. All were posed beautifully, as by the practiced hand of an artist.
Seeing this bizarre display, Aeribis asked her companions: “What are these wretches who cast themselves upon the graves and in whose eyes is held such seeming agony?”
And the girls answered her: “Do not speak to them. Neither must you disturb their prayers, for they, among us all, are the most at peace.”
Upon her return to the crowd, Aeribis found the queen speaking with an orator, and she was saying: “The princess must hear our history.” So saying, she bade her daughter and even the dancing girls sit with her before the stage and listen as the orator mounted the steps.
He began with an invocation of the living god of Lyvia: the God of Whispers, She of the Bargain and of Secrets, that she might listen with a benevolent ear to his account, and that she might bless his speech and the ears of all who heard his words. Thus, he began:
“Once, long ago, Lyvre the Stone Cutter, God of Rock and Water, was petitioned by the elders of his faithful people for a great gift. They were shepherds and gatherers. Men and women of simple livelihood. From earliest memory, they had pitched their camps in the hill region, under the shadow of the mountains Amitris, where to this very day the streams carry down fresh water. In the hearts of these people, there was no hint of greed or selfishness, and they were unused to asking any favors of their god.
“But of late, they had come under attack by a tribe of horsemen out of the plains. At each new moon, the horsemen would arrive brandishing weapons such as the faithful had never known. And they would steal the faithful’s herds for food, and their women and children for slaves. Any who stood against them were slain outright. Thus, the faithful asked that Lyvre build for them a city out of stone as shelter against their enemies. For such was his might that he could build in days what the hands of mortal men could not make even in decades.
“Hearing the plea of his people, Lyvre took pity and granted their request. He would construct for them a city of stone that could not die and would stand even against the tides of aeons. But this was no simple task. Taking up his hammer and chisel, he carved the mountains flat, shaping their stone into bricks. And with his ax, he cleared away forests, splitting the logs to make choice timber. In this way, he gathered all that he would need and brought it to the place he had chosen for the city, where the land met the sea. Thus, he set to work.
“The loads of bricks and timber were heavy, and the land was barren and hot. But Lyvre did not rest from his work. He laid out a foundation upon the plains, not only for the walls but also the houses, mills, workshops, stables. He named the city Lyvia, First Daughter of Lyvre, and before the next moon, his faithful came to inhabit it. And they were safe from their enemies.
“But Lyvre was not satisfied. He now dreamed of reshaping the very earth, of cutting it like a diamond with its many facets. Even when Lyvia’s walls rose too high for the arrows of the horseman to ascend, even when the city had spread across the shore like a forest of granite and marble, Lyvre did not rest from his labor.
“Lyvia was his sacred child, part of his divine body, and he would see it thrive. The rough bricks hardened his miraculous hands. The heavy stones tore at the unblemished flesh of his arms. The heavy beams bent even his mighty back. Yet he did not rest.
“From among the faithful, Lyvre chose a wife, whose name was Anahina, and she loved Lyvia and all of its people as a mother loves her children. And she vowed to stand watch over the city and its people until Lyvre had set the final brick into place.
“So to Anahina Lyvre entrusted the city’s customs and its laws—those which concerned public conduct and trade, and also those which dictated proper worship of Lyvre himself.
“And she listened with patient ear to the troubles her people brought before her. And she spoke sweetly and with passion. Truly, she was wise, given not to excesses of cruelty or kindness. Her judgments were fair, for she knew that for everything, even love, there was a price to be paid.
“Lyvre spent little time with his queen and their children, who watched the toil of their holy king as the old towers were dismantled and new ones built up in their places. At dawn, they heard the ringing out of his hammer, and at dusk, they saw him hauling the stones in preparation for tomorrow’s labor. Thus, they came to know and love him.
“It is said that with every swing of Lyvre’s hammer, and with every step of his proud foot upon the bricks, he worked more of his own immortality into the stones of the city.
“In time, Lyvre died, and thus his labor was ended. The queen and her children buried him beneath the city, so as its ramparts rose higher from the dust and its walls spread farther across the plain, it would continue to be supported by the strength of his back. And they mourned him not, for they knew that so long as Lyvia endured, he would continue to live through it.
“As for Queen Anahina, when the hour of her death was at hand, she pronounced her final wish: to be buried outside the walls, so she might hold the whole of Lyvia forever in her gaze.
“Now there was in the mountains Amitris a ruined temple, whose deity even in those ancient days was dead and its name long forgotten. And Queen Anahina was brought within its walls. But behold a miracle! Even at her final breath, she did not die in that far-off place. No, even now she lives.
“Though the old towers have fallen, the temples crumbled, the people been put to the sword—yet does Lyvia endure. Its faithful go on building it brick by brick upon the bones of its first god’s back. So too, its First Mother, in her immortal love, remains true to her vow. She listens to the needs of her people and whispers in their ears. Divine Lyvia has this distinction, unique among all cities of the world: its growth has never ceased, so its death can never begin.”
☽☾ ☽☾ ☽☾
At supper, the queen called her daughter to a veranda at the edge of a fertile estuary. Under the roof of an ornate pavilion, a board was set with lavish fare: roasted lamb well seasoned, honey loaves, sweet meats, and a crystal jar of date wine.
Aeribis was surprised by the arrangement, for it was widely known that the dead took no food, and she had expected to eat her meal alone. But the queen said: “Tonight I would share with my daughter a meal.” So while Aeribis ate the lamb and bread, the queen tapped her empty plate with a finger, and while Aeribis drank her wine, the queen stroked the dry lip of her goblet.
Soon Aeribis forgot the queen’s lingering gaze and her sullen posture, for the sky glowed in roseate hues, and the breeze that came up from the estuary was cool and rich with the fragrance of mud and flowers. Amid these pleasures, she ate until she was satisfied and drank until the wine had loosened her tongue. And she began to speak freely.
She said: “When I used to sit at Thereza’s table, I would imagine myself seated not with the radiant Sun Queen and her luminous daughters, but with you, my mother, and my proud, blessed father. I imagined the stories we would tell each other, and the laughter we would share. Our silences we would share also. The slightest shift of our smiles, the smallest gestures of our hands, would tell all that we might say aloud.”
Now the queen got up from her cushion and pulled Aeribis gently to her feet.
Aeribis stumbled, dizzy from drink, and fell into her mother’s arms, resting her head in the soft perfumed hair. The queen whispered: “Not another word, lest my heart be broken. Rather, sit with me at the water’s edge, and let us see what stars rise.”
Aeribis wanted to go on resting in her mother’s arms, but the embrace did not warm her. The evening had grown cold, the sun having vanished behind the walls of the Lyvian estates, and the desire for a warm bed was in Aeribis’s heart. She said: “There is a chill upon the wind.”
And the queen answered her: “Can you not, for your mother’s sake, endure an hour of cold?”
So Aeribis followed her to the water’s edge, where the tiled steps dipped into the water. Seeing how the queen sat with her feet in that frigid water, Aeribis did likewise, though the cold set her to shivering.
When the sky had darkened such that stars could be seen, the queen leaned close and, with her finger, began to draw the shapes of constellations. “Look,” said she, “there is Havmut the twisting Serpent. And Balaphone the Ox. Over there is the Great Fool, just between those towers.”
And on she went, describing each celestial figure, its name, and the stars out of which it was assembled. But Aeribis was no longer listening. Her stomach ached, and she was weary with cold, even in the arms of her mother.
Meanwhile, the queen went on naming constellations. There was the Hunter of the Seas, the Bladed Dragon, the Worm within the Darkness, and so on. Until, feeling how her daughter shook, the queen brought her up from the water’s edge.
She chastised herself, saying: “How easily I forget the bite of cold in living flesh.” She took the girl in her arms, covering the thin body with her hands as if to warm it. And a dozen more apologies she made as she brought Aeribis up from the estuary to the palace grounds, where there was a bathhouse.
At a word from her lips, an obeisance of maidservants set to work. Braziers were lit. Water was boiled upon the stones. And when the bathhouse was ready, a royal attendant brought Aeribis into the hamam, where she was undressed, and directed to lie upon the heated slab.
And as she rested upon that slab, feeling the prick of cold yet in her skin, she looked about herself and saw the crackling flames, their light diffused by steam and reflected in statues of nymphs and cherubs cast in gold. The air was warm and thick and quiet.
Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes to sleep, hoping she would wake to find that the churning of the wine in her belly had settled, but before sleep could take her, the door to the hamam was opened. Through it came not a maidservant but the queen, and she was naked.
Aeribis turned away from her, and with her hands, she covered her own body, saying: “Are you some servant of mine?” For never had she been to a bath where it was permitted for the nudity of a princess to be seen by any but her private attendant.
But the queen laughed freely, though her laughter was full of tenderness. And she said: “A servant of yours, yes!” She placed her hands on Aeribis’s shoulders. “Tell me, daughter, is not the trunk of the willow one also with the root? Is not that body you conceal with your hands mine, and does not this body I reveal belong also to you? Hide yourself not, but be honest with your mother.” Having said this, she fetched a crystal jar of perfumed oil from a niche in the wall.
And though she was ashamed to be looking upon her mother’s naked body, yet Aeribis could not help but search out her pallid flesh for an unhealed wound such as the Lyvians were known to have. But nowhere on the queen’s back was there any wound to be seen. Neither was there any mark upon her arms or legs, even to the extremity. And when the queen turned around, Aeribis was confounded to see that the front of her was likewise unblemished.
The queen bade Aeribis lay on her stomach, and she obeyed. And she allowed oil to be poured over her back. The oil smelled of almonds and jasmine.
Rubbing the oil into her daughter’s skin, the queen asked: “Do you fear your mother?”
Hesitating, Aeribis answered her: “No. Never was I afraid of you, nor any other Lyvian.”
The queen worked oil into Aeribis’s hair, winding locks around her fingers. “Tonight have we not spoken freely to each other? Have we not made plain our affection?”
Aeribis flinched from the tugging at her hair. “It is as you say.”
“Then why this chill between us?”
Aeribis thought to herself, and at length, she said: “My lady, at a word from your lips, your guards would tear the clothes from my back and cast me naked into the wilderness. My life, as ever, is yours. But pray, have patience if I ask but one favor before I give you my heart.”
The queen said in reply: “A mother’s love is without limit. Ask me not one, but one hundred, or one thousand favors, and I will grant them if it is within my power to do so.”
So Aeribis plucked up her courage. “I ask only to know your name.”
“That is all?” asked the queen. “Daughter, you could ask of me all the gold in the city, and I would give it to you. You could demand the loveliest silk gowns spun in unnamed lands, or the finest jewels brought up from Lyvre’s earth. You could command of me an army. All of that I would make yours, yet you ask only for my name! It is Zola, Queen of Whispers.”
“Zola,” said Aeribis, feeling the shape and weight of that name upon her lips. “Zola.”
And she repeated that name to herself as the queen continued the work of cleansing her. But, upon reaching Aeribis’s hand, the queen paused in her work. There were two pale scars under her daughter’s right thumb, and she was intrigued.
“What marks are these?” said she.
Aeribis answered her: “As a child playing in the Sun Queen’s garden, I stumbled and caught hold of a rose bush to keep from falling. I was pierced by the thorns.” She pointed also to another scar on her palm from that same incident.
Satisfied, the queen knelt down on the bare stones and, having her daughter sit, began to apply oil to the girl’s legs.
“And what of this?” said she, touching a patch of smoothed skin above the ankle.
“An ember, my lady, scorched me there some years ago. A careless servant knocked over a brazier in which hot coals were burning.” She tried to pull her foot out of her mother’s hand, but the queen did not let go. For she had noticed another small scar on the thigh. She touched it, and Aeribis recoiled.
“Enough with your questions,” said she, though at once she regretted speaking up. For the queen would surely be angered. To her surprise, the queen was untroubled. Rather than demand the truth, the queen made her this offer: “If you will not tell your mother out of love, then ask of your queen a trade of equal value.”
“But I have already named for you my desire, and it was satisfied.”
The queen shook her head. “There is a deeper desire in your heart, though shame or fear holds your tongue. I see it plainly. So let us strike a bargain between us.”
Aeribis considered the offer, and at length, she said: “So be it. In exchange for my inmost secret, which this mark has betrayed, tell me why, from among all Lyvians, you alone have no wound upon your body.”
The queen smiled. “A worthy question. Now listen as again I reveal myself to you.
“Eighteen years ago, Lyvia was laid waste by the wild zealots of Odan to the north, who swept across the region as a fire through a forest. They descended upon us in such number that the white tents of their camp occupied the plain to the very horizon, like an endless flock of birds, and their fires lighted the night sky with burning and choked it with smoke. Fearing their onslaught, many fled the city and abandoned it—all but the faithful to our God of Whispers.
“At dawn, the horde breached our gates. The faithful were cut down by the sword. Pierced by spear and burning arrow. Even the very stones of our streets were used as lethal weapons against us. And many wounds were made.
“I alone was spared this violence. As the slaughter began, I rode out through the gates and traveled to the temple of our god, seeking not refuge but aid. For our god is fair, and to her faithful she brings herself low. Thus, I struck with her a bargain that Lyvia might be spared.
“With the fires of her wrath, she laid waste the zealots. With the might of her breath, she scattered their remains as dust upon the plain. With her tears, she restored us, though we had given our lives in her honor.
“But the God of the Bargain gives not her blessings freely. In exchange for her gift, I passed through death, and was bound to her. Thus, I have no wound, though, like all the others, I have died. And now I watch over the city and its people, for Lyvia must have its queen.”
And, revealing the scar on her thigh, Aeribis said: “We are all marked.” Thus, she began her own story.
Several years ago, the King of Iron Sands came to the court of Lansun with his son, the First Prince, to offer gifts of friendship to Thereza, the Sun Queen. For between their two nations, hostilities had newly ended, and a treaty of peace had been agreed.
For three weeks, the Iron King remained at the palace, each night sharing stories of distant kingdoms and hard-won conquests to all who had gathered. In return, Thereza bid her daughters sing sweet songs, and her poets recount tales of gallantry. And the guests of the court were lavished with much meat and wine and sweets. And the court was merry.
It was widely known that the alliance must be sealed by a marriage. The Iron King would pledge his son, the First Prince, to Thereza’s First Daughter, when she came of age. Thus, the peace between the kingdoms would never again lapse into bloody conflict.
But it came to pass that the First Prince desired not any of Thereza’s daughters, but Aeribis. And she was enamored with him. For he was a youth of exceeding handsomeness and mannered ways. On the last day of his visit, he invited her to walk the gardens with him.
“He bade me show him all the beautiful things that were there,” said Aeribis. “And I thought to myself: he means to have me alone. So, I brought him to a meadow, where we sat among a bed of ferns below an old brick wall.
“With words of exceeding sweetness and caresses full of both reverence and longing, he caught hold of my heart as a sparrow in his hands. He said he fain would feel the press of my lips against his and taste their sweetness upon his tongue.
“My heart leapt with joy. I closed my eyes and waited, but received not the promised kiss. In that moment, he hesitated, and he said first I must prove beyond doubting that I lived.
“Great was my shame. I thought: Why must I be put to the test? Can he not see the color in my skin? Can he not feel the warmth in my hands? But he said he knew not the nature of Lyvians, only that their veins ran black with pitch. Into my hand, he placed a knife, that I might show him how I bled. With its tip, I made a single cut here above the knee. And I let my red blood flow, that he might see it and believe me. Great was my pain on account of my wound, yet greater still was the pain I felt at being tested so.
“Satisfied by the manner of my bleeding, the First Prince took me again in his arms and kissed me. But I turned away and wrenched myself free of his embrace. I said it would be better that he pursue the homely daughter of the sun, for surely, her blood was beyond reproach.
“In his anger, he cursed me, called me Daughter of Corpses and Eater of Worms. And he left me alone in the garden to bleed among the ferns.”
Having said this, Aeribis hid her face in shame. But the queen took hold of her. With her hair, she dried her daughter’s tears, and into her ear she whispered words of sweet comfort.
Aeribis said: “He knew what I was.”
“No. He knew whose daughter you were.”
That night, the queen invited Aeribis to sleep in her bed and rest in the comfort of her mother’s embrace. Again, Aeribis did as the queen would have her, and she passed the sleepless night enfolded in her mother’s cold arms and the twists of the silken sheets. Even as the stars wheeled across the sky, she considered what differences there might be between the living and the dead, and with her finger, she touched the little scars beneath her thumb.
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In the morning, the Queen of Whispers brought Aeribis to an inner courtyard whose gate was locked against the servants and guards, and to which none but she held the key. There, a stairway descended into the earth by way of rough steps hewed out of rock.
The steps were narrow, smooth, and sloping. More than once, Aeribis lost her footing and stumbled. But her mother, who walked before her, caught her at every misstep.
Coming to a chamber deep underground, the queen bade Aeribis wait at the landing while she used her torch to ignite a series braziers. As the flames rose, flickering up the walls, a towering statue carved with astonishing skill was revealed at the center of the chamber.
The statue was of a great man, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. He was naked except for a boar’s pelt draped from shoulder to lap. He was seated upon a boulder. In one hand, he cradled his forehead, long hair curled between his fingers. In the other, he held a chisel.
The queen explained that this was Lyvre, First King and Father of Lyvia. And here was his tomb. “Although he laid down his life in labor to build up our city, yet he lives even now in its standing walls, and in you, his living daughter.”
Then she brought Aeribis from the statue to the chamber wall, where score upon score of names were graven in the bricks. And she said: “In this chamber are remembered all the kings and queens of Lyvia, each one descended from the blood of Lyvre, a father or mother of yours.”
Aeribis walked the length of the wall, touching the many names with her fingers. Their number was vast beyond counting, but at length, she came to the final name in the record.
Neander Lyviis.
With her finger, she felt its shape even as she read it, and she said: “What kind of man was my father?”
Standing at her side, the queen said: “He was a noble and mighty king, who loved his people dearly. She of the Bargain found his sacrifice of equal value to my life, and the life of all Lyvians.”
A shadow that moment came over Aeribis, and she said: “Why have I not until this very moment heard his name or of the sacrifice he made?”
The queen answered her, saying: “In Lyvia, we do not ask favors of the dead. Nor do we call upon their names in prayer. But in silence do we remember them.” Then, after a pause that to Aeribis seemed overlong, she went on. “Fortunate man, he has taken his place at your sister’s side.”
Aeribis was struck to the heart. Once she recovered herself, she cried out: “Sister?”
The queen made no reply, but sat down against the wall and bowed her head. “Your sister, my first daughter, died in infancy before you were conceived.”
Aeribis snatched her arm. “What was the name of this sister?”
“Seris.”
Aeribis also sat down in the sand, for her legs were weak.
The queen went on: “An illness befell her. We knew not its nature, though it consumed her even as a hungering fire. The physicians tried their arts, but all our herbs and prayers came to nothing, even nothing; and she did not recover. Thus, I took her into my arms and lay with her in my bed until she was silent and cold, and her spirit had passed on to be with our Mother. Long have I envied your father, for while he rests with Seris in paradise, I have carried on here, alone.”
Now she raised her head to look upon the statue of Lyvre.
“On the night of our slaughter, I heard through the walls of the palace the chanting of the zealots, and the beating of war drums in the camp of Odan. And I felt once more the pain of loss tightening like threads of ice inside my body. I instructed our agents to carry you out of the city, to the court of Thereza, who had long been my friend. We, faithful, would die with our city rather than turn away from our Mother, but I could not let my daughter be put to the sword.
“Now, you have returned to me, and you are at an age that you may lift Lyvre’s burden off my back. Soon the holy day will be upon us, when all of Lyvia will gather at the temple of our Mother to celebrate. I will take you to her, and she will make of you a true queen.”
“So, I will become like you?”
The queen did not look at her. “Already we are alike.”
That night, though she lay alone in her own bed, Aeribis slept not, for she now feared the moment of passing from consciousness into sleep. There was a likeness to death. She got up and knelt at the window, pleading with the gods of the stars, whom she had worshiped in Thereza’s kingdom. She prayed also to the spirits of her sister and father, saying: “Even if I must have nothing and be nothing, spare me this death.” And a cold wind blew against her.
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At dawn, Aeribis was awakened from black and dreamless slumber by a gentle touch. In her weariness, she recognized not the girl who stood at her bedside, whose skin was transparent and whose eyes were dark as pitch. And in her mind, she said to herself: “Is this how I shall look once I am made queen?” Presently, the mist of sleep was scattered from her mind, and she recognized the maidservant whose tongue had been cut out.
The maidservant bowed and gestured toward a basin, next to which stood a brass pitcher full of clear water and a fresh towel for washing. For on the Lyvian holy day, the dead would cleanse themselves and put on fresh robes in order that they might be counted pure in the eyes of their Mother.
The maidservant helped Aeribis to disrobe and wash, then to dress again in a pure white gown that held in all its folds the morning light. The fabric was smooth and sheer, and it swelled in the breeze as a sail unfurled from the mast.
Dressed thus, Aeribis recognized in herself the sacrifice that was to be made, and she fell weeping upon the shoulder of the maidservant. She confessed her inmost fear to this girl who could give no words of comfort in return. And as they made their way through the palace, Aeribis could not but contemplate her escape. How far would she get before the guards seized her? What would the queen say at the sight of her daughter dragged through the palace, thrashing and spitting like a viper?
When they arrived at the courtyard, the queen said to a company of guards that the time of their journey had come. “All of Lyvia shall rejoice. For once, our journey is made, our Mother, She of the Bargain, will make this living girl a queen.” And the holy procession set out in celebration.
The people of Lyvia, seeing their queen and living princess at the head of that company, joined in the procession, which departed through the gates of the city and struck out across the plain.
All about the procession spread the vast expanse—patches of hardened mud scales, flats of gravel and salt crust, stagnant pools of green water. A pride of lions watched with disinterest the passing crowd from the shade of a fig tree.
At the coming of the eventide, still the march continued. But Aeribis, weary and aching from the long journey, walked with her head bowed. Seeing her, the queen commanded one of her soldiers to help the princess into the saddle of a horse. He did as she commanded, and once Aeribis was seated in the saddle, he gave her also a ration of salted mutton to eat and a skin of water to drink, that her strength might be restored.
She said to him: “Tell me your name, and let me also see your face. I would give you thanks.”
At once, he removed his helmet. “My name, princess, is Linis.” And he was the very soldier who had first brought her from the city gates to her mother’s palace.
Thanking him for his service, she asked if he would stand at her side once the change was made and she had become his queen. And he said he would remain ever at her hand. Then: “Rest now. I will hold the reins, and I will keep the horse steady.”
Aeribis closed her eyes but did not try to sleep, for she knew these were the final hours of her life. And she was troubled by a great many questions. How was she to be slain? In what manner would she be returned to life? What would be the pain as she passed from life into death, and from death into life? But she spoke not these fears, for surely the mystery of death was a burden lighter than its truth.
And in the morning light, she saw the sacred peak rise like a storm cloud above the plain, and she was sick with dread. Twice she vomited. The hour of her crowning was at hand.
Upon the noontide, they arrived at the temple grounds, a place sacred to the God of the Bargain. The company went on through a pair of broken gates into an overgrown courtyard, where the roots of mighty trees had parted the paving stones. Here, the procession made camp.
Helping her daughter down from the horse, the queen said: “Blessed child, I know you are frightened, as I too was afraid. But our god gives only blessings, and she takes only what you are able to give.” So saying, she took her daughter’s hand, and they began to climb the fractured stairs to the temple’s entrance, embedded in the mountain’s face. Even now, so close to death, Aeribis resisted not her mother, for she would face her death with dignity.
At the top of the stairs, they entered through a crevice into the holy nave, a cavern overgrown by ferns and green moss. At its center was a spring of clear water overshone by the sun through a fissure in the rock. So deep was the spring that no eye could penetrate it.
Said the queen: “This place was ancient even at Lyvia’s birth. Feel you not its terrible age?”
Aeribis came to the water’s edge, and with her eye, she searched the depths in vain.
“Where is the god?”
“Look deeply, deeply, and you shall find her.” So saying, the queen lifted the gown from Aeribis’s shoulders and let it drop to the stones. The girl’s linens she unwound. Then she herself undressed. Now naked, she drew from a scabbard she had carried with her up the mountain a long-bladed dagger. Taking Aeribis’s hand in hers, she went out into the water.
“Daughter, close not your eyes, but endure with me what is to come.”
Aeribis shook throughout the whole of her body, and openly did she weep. But, obedient even at the point of death, she raised not a hand against her mother even as the blade was lifted, poised now to strike her down to bloody death.
Softly did the queen whisper to her, and she said: “My heart is filled with gladness, that my daughter should weep for me.” So saying, she touched the sharpened point of the blade to her own wrist. And she cut herself deeply. And her blood, as black as pitch, flowed smoothly down to the water, where it billowed outward like a tempest cloud.
“O God of Whispers,” said she, her voice trembling and sweet like music. “O Mother, accept this libation poured out for you. Drink of it and grant your living daughter that which she asks. For a god, it is no hard task. For a mother, it is a work of love.” Then she said: “Now, daughter, do you see my wound?”
And even as Aeribis retreated in horror from the billowing out of her mother’s lifeblood, suddenly a hand seized her by the leg, its hard fingers pressed firmly into the soft flesh. Then she was pulled underneath the water’s surface.
She clawed at the water, reaching out for the rock that had, until a moment ago, been firmly beneath her feet. But her hands found no purchase. And she was lost in the darkness of her mother’s blood—a darkness so complete that she saw not her hand before her eye, nor any glimmer of sunlight above. And she knew not whether she ascended toward the sky or sank down into deeper and yet deeper darkness.
Then, listen, up from the depths there arose a voice, and the voice was barely to be heard. Quieter it was even than thought. For the voice was the Whisper, and the Whisper said:
Tell me, living girl, your desire.
And though these words came clearly to her ear, yet there was no voice in the water.
And though her throat was choked, yet Aeribis was able to ask the Whisper whose voice it was.
And the Whisper answered her:
I am the First Mother of Lyvia, She of the Bargain.
Aeribis asked what had become of her mother, whose blood she could taste in the water.
And the Whisper said:
Who is your mother?
Zola, said Aeribis. Queen of Whispers.
And the Whisper said:
Like all of my daughters who preceded her, she has returned to my side.
Aeribis feared the meaning of these words, but knowing no other way to emerge from the darkness, she told the god her only desire: To live.
And the Whisper said:
What you ask is nothing, yet high is the price that was paid. What bargain, then, shall we make between us?
Aeribis answered that she must be queen unto her people, but she wished not to join them in death. If the deal be not fair, then let her also be granted a portion of the Whisper’s grace, that she might be made a worthy queen.
Thus, the Whisper made her this offer in reply:
In exchange for the payment made, you will become most beloved of my eye. I shall from this moment become wholly yours, and I shall cling in your ribs and flow in your veins, and you will share with me this living flesh until the hour of your death, when you will become wholly mine. Therefore, keep for a time this life of yours, O my daughter.
Aeribis felt on her cheek the touch of unseen fingers as hard as stone. She hesitated, yet accepted that hand in hers, then on her lips a kiss from strange, cold lips. Through that kiss was a chill breathed into her. And the Whisper said:
Go and reveal yourself before them.
Like a newborn, Aeribis emerged from that blackened water into air illuminated by the pure light of the sun, and she choked and gasped for breath as she climbed onto the mossy rock, naked and wet with her mother’s blood. Black water dripped from the tips of her fingers. Her hair and arms and legs were dyed the color of soot.
She remained until the eventide there in that chamber older than memory, at rest upon the porous rock. And though her body dried under the sun, yet the stain of her mother’s blood could not be removed from her skin. And never would it be. For this reason, she would be named Queen of Ashes.
She pushed the body of Zola—once the Queen of Whispers—out to the middle of the spring, where it drifted atop the bottomless darkness. And unto that body, she spoke: “Be at peace.” Thus, she departed from the sanctuary, leaving behind even her dress and linens.
According to the god’s command, Aeribis stood atop the stairway in full view of the crowd. She was joined by Linis, her guard, who offered her his cloak. But she refused him and descended before all the eyes of Lyvia, saying: “See me, brothers and sisters, and know that I keep no secrets. I am alive, and I am the same as you.”
Thus, she went among them, so that all the dead who had gathered there might bear witness to their living queen. And they bowed their heads, saying one to the other in whispers that here before them was their mother.