Ash Rising Page 3

  “And if I don’t want to be married off?”

  “It is your Path,” she said, blinking in surprise, as if that explained everything.

  “And just who is this girl? If you know so much, Pathfinder, give us her name and residence, this mystery woman and we will summon her directly.”

  The pathfinder only crossed her arms and took a step back. “I will know her when I see her,” she replied stoutly, before turning to the man of more importance. “Your Majesty… as I have said, the missive -ah – the invitations have been sent. We must prepare the palace.”

  The king began nodding but caught the thunderous look on his son’s face. “Might we, ah, might we know something more about this ‘mystery girl’?”

  The Pathfinder might be able to evade Rize, but not at least his father. She bowed, a sizeably smaller bow this time. “Your majesty I –”

  The Pathfinder was interrupted by a mighty crashing sound, as a raven carrior dove through the cavernous hole where half of the groin-vaulted ceiling had been. It thundered to the floor near the shattered apse and turned its massive head, eyeing the three beadily. Its birdlike logic ignored the somewhat subdued colours of the prince and king, turned to the juicy shimmering oranges of the Pathfinder and went for her.

  It took all of three seconds. The giant raven grabbed the Pathfinder in one large claw while the other propelled its bulk off the ground, lurching into the air flapping, crashing through the ceiling as it went and creating yet another hole for the cathedral. No one had time to react, to speak, not even the Pathfinder.

  And there the two-remaining stood, in silence, for some time.

  Eventually, Rize decided someone should say something.

  “What are we going to do?”

  The bird cocks its head to the side, savouring the now rare feeling of being filled. Bright, festive orange tatters are all that remain of the meal, it had wolfed down huge chunks whole through the gaping blackness of its toothless mouth, leaving the flesh to break down slowly in its newly enlarged stomach rather than dismembering it piece by piece.

  The bird does not know it, but somewhere deep within its brain the fires of recognition are stirring. Without the frontal cortex capable of processing conscious thought, the bird is remembering somewhere deep within. The particular orange of this two-legger has sparked what the two-legger would know as a hippocampus to recall the past. For this bird is a raven, was a raven and had in the past when it was small eaten from the stretched-out white hands of the two-leggers in orange.

  Many birds are not good with these featherless faces, but this one remembers. These ones in orange had stretched out deformed wings with feed. The base of the bird’s skull tingles with the fact that it became its large size because of some of that grain, new and strange-tasting grain that the two-leggers had developed rather than pulled out of the ground. It had made plant flesh enormous, the raven had seen that too – vegetables it had once fed on fifty times larger than itself now, looming down. Most of the other birds had grown by feasting on the engorged, bitter plants. Then, grain from a two-legger for this one and the feeling of bones breaking as some invisible bird-god stretched it outside of itself to fill more of the earth and more of the air.

  The bird cannot consciously recall all of this, but flesh always remembers. And so this feed is particularly sweet as the bird takes in what once loomed high over it and swallows down and down.

  Chapter Four

  Unheard-of Madness

  Two hours later the piece of parchment arrived on the kitchen table at Rhodopalais.

  Ash held the piece of parchment almost at arm’s length, as though she expected it to burst into flames. It was a Pathfinder’s message and had arrived somehow when no one was looking in the later hours of the morning. Who knew how the Pathfinders enchanted these inanimate things to send messages all over the kingdom? All they knew was that it had been lying on Old Merta’s working kitchen table, spotlessly white, sometime before what would in more plentiful days have been lunch.

  It was the second miracle in two days, after the Expansion pumpkin, for it was a rare day indeed that saw Ash, Vanita and Old Merta all gathered around the same table.

  “A Pathfinder’s message,” Old Merta whispered unnecessarily. “In real ink!”

  Soon everyone was crowding around the table, peering at the enchanted thing, although only Ash and Vanita could read it.

  “What’s it say?” asked Tansy again.

  “By royal decree of the palace,” Vanita read aloud. “All ladies of noble birth and marriageable age are required to present themselves, two nights hence, at the palace for a royal ball.”

  “How kind of them,” Ash muttered. “The Pathfinders can send inanimate objects flying through the air. Do they send the palace’s own food? Why no, but they ensure that we catch up on our reading. Anyway, she carried on, “it makes no difference,” Ash, looked at Vanita, who rolled her eyes. “How are they going to enforce this stupid decree? It’s a death sentence, to try travel across the plains and the countryside, especially at night with the owls out. I wonder how many ladies they think will arrive, still breathing. Six?”

  “Imagine,” said Vanita in a small voice. “To go to a ball would be fun, but they would never get to the ball, would they? Poor girls.”

  “Not a chance they would,” said Old Merta softly. “In b’tween the owl carriors and the bandits and marauders, they would either die quick or die slow. Not a tree to hide behind, not a thing to fight with and ladies too.” She shook her downy white head. The kitchen went quiet as they all thought of it.

  Ash cleared her throat. “Can you believe these Pathfinders?” she said a bit too loudly, more to change the subject than anything else. “Who do they think they are?”

  It hadn’t been a question, until Tansy reverentially made the single line with her hand in the air that was the sign of the Path faith.

  “Tansy!”

  “What? There is only one Path, Miss, s’true.”

  Ash snorted again. “I make my own path. I won’t be a puppet for those orange harridans.”

  “But they predicted the birds, Miss, everyone knows so. They are real powerful.”

  “They are real alright. Real charlatans. No one had ever heard of The Faith three years ago and now? Now they happened to predict carriors, so says whoever – and so they have guaranteed protection and shelter and food in a time gone dark. And how many times do I need to tell you to not call me Miss!”

  “Sorry Miss.”

  “A ball?”

  The room hushed again. Stepmother was standing in the doorway, wearing a fussy green dress the same colour as her flinty eyes. “A ball, you say?”

  No one spoke, each trying to recall the last time Stepmother had come down from her rooms. Or the last time she had come into the kitchens. She looked around at the wooden table, pots and desultory dried herbs almost in surprise. It certainly was in better order than her quarters.

  “What is all this about?”

  “An ‘invitation; came from the palace this morning sometime,” Ash stood and handed her the offending document. “It wants ladies to cross the plains and go all the way to the palace. At night. For a ball, of all things.”

  To her surprise, Stepmother did not stay at the threshold, but minced gingerly into the kitchen, glaring at Vanita until she rose from the single chair at the table. It was only then that Ash noticed that her stepmother had a very tattered, woebegone roll of patterned parchment in her hand and her green eyes were aglow. As she sat down, she smoothed the rolled paper out and Ash groaned aloud, knowing exactly what story she was going to tell. She must have heard all the exchange after all and scampered around her rooms to find that thing before bringing it down here to tell the story yet again.

  If Stepmother had noticed Ash’s exasperation, she didn’t show it. “You girls know that once, many years ago, the story of Cinderella actually came from our kingdom.”

  “Merta is a hardly a ‘girl’ and is older than
you, Stepmother,” Ash cut in, but her stepmother didn’t even pause. “The story of Cinderella is perhaps our land’s most famous story. The one where a girl who is good and sweet can become the princess and leave the horrors of life behind her.”

  Ash thought about interrupting again and saying that that certainly had been their most famous story – until they had started producing bloodthirsty giant birds. But when she looked around, both Vanita and Tansy had dreamy looks on their faces, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

  “Did you meet her? Was she awful pretty?” asked Tansy.

  “She was certainly well matured by the time I caught a brief glance at her. She was advanced in years and I was but a teenager. We didn’t speak.” Stepmother sniffed. “She seemed awfully uppity for someone who had been a servant wench, but those cheekbones, even at her age, could not be faulted.”

  “And she changed her life,” sighed Vanita. She ma-hade things beautiful ah-gain.”

  Ash snorted. “She got married, that’s all. I missed the part where she had to fight off enormous birds or go three days without food. All she did was look pretty. Where’s the bravery in that?”

  “Oh, but she was brave,” said Stepmother. “It was unheard-of madness, to dream a dream so big in her time. To dare to go to a ball when she had been forbidden by her owner. For the time, it was easily the single most reckless thing a girl could do and yet she reaped a reward no one would have even imagined before the story.”

  With a small ‘hmm’, she rolled the piece of old parchment up carefully, laying it next to the shining white new one from that day. The lined and sunken green eyes skimmed over the cream parchment, then flicked up to rest upon her daughter.

  “Vanita, you still have one good gown, do you not?” she said in a calm voice, not at all like someone who was asking their daughter to die.

  Chapter Five

  Blood Sister

  Ash was remembering.

  There had been a day not long after her father had brought his new bride to Rhodopalais, when a six-year-old Vanita had decided to follow Ash when she went out to play in the woods. The little girl had fallen behind, on her little legs and had made enough noise to be an elk with her stumbling around. When Ash had turned and glared at her and said she had better find her own way back if she wasn’t going to apologise for following, she had surprised Ash by immediately and humbly apologising, looking up at her new sister with big eyes.

  Ash would not have said sorry, but Ash would have been able to find her way out of the woods alone too. For some reason, the thought of Vanita on foot and in the dark in her finery on the way to a ball miles and miles away reminded her of that day.

  Ash looked at her sister. The blood drained from Vanita’s face. Ash could see it leaving, the rosy flush fleeing down her neck until she was corpse-white with shock. For her part, Ash felt as though an ice-cold rock had dropped into her stomach without warning.

  “Mother, no… Please. No…”

  Stepmother silenced her with a wave of her hand. “Go and fetch your gown. I will want it repaired by Merta and perhaps Ash can take it in where it’s loose.”

  At the mention of her name, Ash came back to herself. Shaking off the cold heaviness, she stepped to the side, blocking Vanita out of her mother’s line of sight and squared her shoulders. “Stepmother, have you lost your mind? We have no coach; the horses have been eaten… What do you propose? Vanita go walking half a hundred miles to the palace? She’ll die.”

  Stepmother didn’t seem to hear this. “I know you have a gown, Vanita. I kept it and packed it away myself, just in case. Go and fetch it.”

  Vanita’s usually sweet voice answered her mother, hard and dull. “Why are you doing this?”

  If Ash did not warrant a response, then at least her daughter did. She turned to face Vanita and jutted her bony chin out, almost into her face.

  “Because that ball is our survival. If you go, he will most certainly marry you, that boy prince. An easy feat for my Vanita. With the protection of the palace, we could leave this wretched place and be safe.”

  “This wretched place is my home!”

  Stepmother looked at Ash as though a speaking cockroach had tried to engage her in conversation. “It’s not my home.”

  An older, more weathered voice broke the knife-like silence.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying it seems a little… odd… sending the Miss to her death being out alone at night, with the point of saving the Miss.”

  Ash turned and stared. She had never heard Old Merta question Stepmother before. Clearly, Stepmother hadn’t either and being spoken back to by not one but two servants was evidently the last straw. She scrunched her previously dainty hands into fists and began to shout.

  “Vanita can go to the ball, or she can find another place to live! I shall turn her out!”

  A small gasp from Vanita and without thinking Ash took her by the arm and shepherded her out. Before she knew it, they had exited through the servants’ entrance and were standing in the garden, Vanita yanking on her arm violently.

  “Ash! We’re not supposed to be outside!”

  This brought a prick of guilt – when was the last time Vanita had even been out in the daylight, or even near a window without being scolded for it? Just because Ash was marginally used to overcoming the ever-present fear of the birds didn’t mean Vanita was.

  Still, all she said was: “Well, good, it’s something to keep our minds distracted for a while.”

  “From what Mother just said, you mean.” Vanita sighed, remarkably sanguine despite looking up furtively every minute and turned to look around at the house exterior she hadn’t seen in so long.

  “Ash, you really need to work on your spelling. ‘Nobil pigs R 4 eeting’? Seriously?”

  “Oh, that. I came out this morning and it was that way. Someone must have captured one of the last of the noble house’s horses and felt rich enough to splash around some blood, wasting it on that stupid effort.”

  “Hmm, yes, or it was the noble themselves that provided the ink.”

  Ash hesitated. So often she tried to protect her half-sister from the uglier facts of life. Vanita had a ready smile, always and looked like she was made of bone china. But not too much escaped her gaze and she could surprise at the strangest times with a cutting, wry sense of humour.

  Today was one of those times. “Poor nobles… Ah, us paragons of literacy. I don’t know who I feel most for - the one who was used to paint the ‘4’ or the one who became the ‘R’,” Vanita said drily, looking at the bloody scrawl steadily. Then, as if suddenly remembering what had just happened inside, she sighed.

  “Vanita! Vanita, are you safe?” Stepmother called out shrilly from inside.

  “Come out and see for yourself,” Ash yelled back, but got no answer.

  “We probably should go back inside anyway. She won’t just forget, you know, or change her mind,” Vanita said quietly. Ash nodded. “Shall we?” she tried for lightness, holding out the crook of her elbow solicitously. “We can get you away from the locals’ spelling lessons?”

  Vanita smirked. “Sure thing, blood sister” and took Ash’s arm.

  Stepmother had been pacing and ran to the doorway when they were safely inside.

  “Silly girl, to take her out like that! I was worried sick.”

  “Do you not remember what you just threatened to do ten minutes ago if she didn’t go to your stupid ball?”

  “And I meant it. I love you Vanita but, if I have to, I will throw you out this house myself.”

  At this, Ash broke into a harsh laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Throw her out? I would like to see you try.” She looked over Stepmother’s frail form, letting her see her eyes wandering over the slack and ageing muscles that were never trained in survival to begin with. “If you so much as try, you shall have me to deal with, ‘Ma’am’.” She took a step closer. “I would love to see you try,” she said quietly, feeling the hot blood pump through her vital, ei
ghteen-year-old veins. The old cow, to her credit, didn’t look away. When Ash was sure she had made her point, she turned away and raised her voice again. “What do you say, Vanita?”

  When she answered, Ash was gratified to hear no wheeze or falter in her half-sister’s voice. “Go to the ball yourself,” Vanita said and walked out the door.

  Ash waited until Vanita was safely out of sight before she backed away from her Stepmother, who was still looking at her unblinkingly. “Besides, what does bravery look like now, Stepmother? Getting prettied up in the hope of getting married when everyone was swanning around at balls? No. It looks like surviving. Times have changed.”

  Ash’s stepmother did not answer at once, merely looked down at that morning’s decree from the palace. Something in her posture sagged and she closed her eyes for a second. Her gnarled, bony hands brushed over the decree, then gently placed it side by side with her worn old invitation handed down from her mother, the invite to the very same ball Cinderella had gone to all those years ago. Her eyes looked up again to meet Ash’s.

  “And yet here we are.”

  ***

  All the excitement would have tired Vanita out, though she wouldn’t say anything. Quietly, Ash went up the stairs. Vanita tired easily – always had and especially much these days.

  Vanita’s room. Ash didn’t much mind herself sleeping on the floor and Stepmother had kept most of the nice things for herself, but whenever she saw the dilapidated remains of Vanita’s room she felt annoyed at that bloody Project and the life they now led. The floorboards were dusty, the starburst patterns of inlaid wood hardly visible anymore beneath the lumpy old bed. It had once been an impressive canopy bed of powder blue with gilt detailing, suitable for a lady, but now its canopy was just tattered lengths of cloth. She would clean it, she would. Give it a thorough scrub and find some less-important curtains or cloth in the attic and change those canopy bed drapes. Soon. Tomorrow. But right now, she needed to check on Vanita and then go downstairs and help Old Merta with deciding how to best carve up the pumpkin.