The Old Magics

The Old Magics are fading. When they are gone perhaps Atisa will finally know true peace.

Three hundred years of purging has decimated the four nations. A history bloated with the rot of greed, fear, obedience, festers in uneasy silence. The thaumaturges who made Magics are long dead. Those few who carry some trickle of the old world within their blood, do not know how to wield it, and those who dare try, are hunted, executed.

The Old Magics are forbidden.

It is something on which the nations agree.

It is the only thing on which the nations agree.

#


The communal bedroom of the Gillie Orphanage toils towards tininess. The cots hunger for more stuffing much like the little bodies in them. The House Mother’s voice is soft, even at her age. It is a slave to soothe these unfortunates’ circumstances. When she stands, the children protest as they always do before settling into their thin blankets again.

“One day, children, one day they’ll return to us,” the House Mother says.

“Won’t they hate us all?” Yuilli asks, his voice thick with sleep.

“No, Yuilli, they’ll protect us.”

The House Mother waits with a raven’s attention, as the children drift off. When none toss or cry out in their dreams, she turns to leave finding Rowa, the House Mother’s Second standing between the door and the darkness beyond. Rowa, ever patient, waiting for the woman who raised her, who had stood over her bedside on many a similar night. Rowa’s veil is a movement of shadows against the flicker of her struggling candle.

“House Mother Tafeem,” Rowa says, the words strung tight with foreboding. “They’re here.”

Outside the children’s room, all is wretched darkness. The young woman, with her single candle, moves silently down the long hall, turns a corner and takes the light with her. House Mother Tafeem has walked these halls for twenty cycles and needs no light to show the way. When she rounds the corner, Rowa is standing there and at the edge of the candle’s glow are two men. They wear the Infini Guard black uniforms, sharp metal at their chests and hips. The House Mother points at their hungry weapons as she passes them and sweeps into the entry hall.

“Are you concerned the children’ll start a rebellion after they’ve napped?” Dismissively, she reaches for her coat by the door and shrugs it on, her back to them. “Or perhaps you worry I’ll talk you to death?”

Neither guard responds and Rowa follows them, pushing past.

“Please Tafeem, don’t anger them further. I’ll get you help,” she whispers, her voice revealing her youth in the way it quivers like her candle.

“Take care of my children, Rowa. That is all you must do.”

“I will, Mother. Until you return.”

The soldiers crowd the two women, urgency pressing them. They grip the House Mother’s arms, the contact pulling a gasp from Rowa.

Tafeem turns back, unhurried, her veil billowing, threatening to blow up from her face and reveal her.

“Remember, Rowa. A neap tide heralds the King.”

The guards rip the House Mother through the door, dragging her out into the night, the grey of her cloak, the black of their uniforms, swallowed quickly by the deep bruise of the night. The candle in Rowa’s hand flickers against the wind from the open door before it finally goes out.

#

Everything about the Regent Alcazar is designed to be precise. No flourishes, no decorations. The stone is grey, the floors are grey. Another nation’s representative had commented on the grey eyes and grey hair of the Bamul. It was not meant as flattery.

As Ba-Sahar takes the path through to the kitchens, she feels that grey of her world press in. With her fate looming too close and the thing in her, always at odds with itself, this morning the bleakness of her home is oppressive.

The kitchens, however, are always warm. The ovens, already burning as the servi busy themselves preparing the day’s meals. The collars of their robes are wilted, their long sleeves pinned into their gloves. They move as one amidst the stone and steel and fire. There’s a rhythm, a dance between those who have grown used to the company of each other, those who know with absolute clarity, what their task requires of them. Ba-Sahar slips through, snatching the two baskets of warm rolls Ama always prepares for her. Ama, however, stands broad and sturdy, on the threshold blocking the exit, her grey robes dusted in flour even at this early hour.

“BaNim.” Her usually kind voice dips into reprimand. “You should not be going to the Work House today.”

“Then you shouldn’t have prepared these for me,” Ba-Sahar counters, holding the basket aloft. She knows Ama won’t stop her, cannot stop her. The woman’s heart is as warm as the rolls she bakes and equally as soft. “I’ll not linger. I give my word, Ama. But bellies don’t grow less empty because the stars have tales to tell.”

“No. I imagine not. But they can feed themselves this day and the next, all the same.”

“If that were true then I wouldn’t need go at all.” Ba-Sahar flashes Ama her best smile, hoping the woman doesn’t see the strain threatening at its edges.

“I know you mean this as a kindness, BaNim, but you not only put yourself in harm's way but those women and children too.” The roughness in Ama’s tone is unusual. Ba-Sahar has failed to consider, in the angst about her coming fate, what that fate might mean for others too.

“Ama, you know I will never do anything to cause the Work Houses, or you, suffering. I’m always careful. Besides, this might be the last time for some time to come.”

Ama has worked here since Ba-Sahar’s mother was a girl. The old servi is coming onto her sixtieth cycle and though her skin wrinkles, her hair has turned white, she can still swat the flies off a horse’s ear. The thought makes Ba-Sahar smile in earnest. Visiting the Gillie Work Houses was her mother’s habit. It’s one of the last things Ba-Sahar does in her mother’s memory. Tomorrow, if the reading of her signs brings ill news, she will be put under guard, undoubtedly. Her already tiny world will shrink into oblivion.

“Be careful, BaNim. Beyond these walls, all the world is empty bellies and some hunger for more than just warm bread.”

Whether Ama knows it or not, the same can be said about those within the Regent Alcazar’s walls as well.

Instead of a bitter acknowledgement, Ba-Sahar bows slightly and Ama clicks her tongue in disapproval, the old servi’s cheeks reddening. 

Outside, the morning is cool for this time in the cycle. Indeed, a clear blue sky stretches overhead. In the old tongue, Sahar means daybreak. Names have great ceremony to all the nations of Atisa, none more so than the Bamul. But all her life has been built on irony. Ba-Sahar is a bad omen, next in line to serve as her nations BaNam, while being born under the star of the Briar Rose.

It means she heralds war.

Tomorrow is her twenty-second solar cycle, the day of her twenty-second rebirth, the most important rebirth cycle for Bamul. Her path will settle, Ba-Sahar’s signs will be read, her fate sealed.

It is this uncommon event that brings the leaders of all four nations together within the walls of the Regent Alcazar. They have been here for three weeks, their discomfort never easing. The dining hall is mostly silent during special meals. Even as they hold the land in centuries of tenuous peace, a peace that has often been reestablished through bloodshed, much ill-will keeps them divided. Many of these men and women have shed the blood of those sitting across from them, taken lives, imprisoned, tortured and executed members of one another’s courts. Only politics stays their blades, only the treat of more bloodshed curbs their hate.

The Bamul are a desert people, full of restraint, conservative in all things including their words and emotions. The Athal, having made their homes in the ice and cold of the North, are hard people like their land. The Kizi live in the South and are a peaceful nation content to live quietly amidst their forest-homes. The Snake nation occupy the East. They are the strangest of the nations, the most reclusive. It has been said that in the Old World, the land of their nation was most scorched by the Old Magics. It’s believed that one in every three was born to thaumaturgy, and during the years of purging, their people were decimated. Even now, the Snake nation representatives number half of the other nations. Still, much of what the nations know about each other is speculation, as they rarely venture beyond their boundaries and even then, only on invitation. To cross a boundary of any nation without invitation is punishable by death. Even in the dining hall, the representatives huddle so closely together that they carve their territories within the stone floors of the room.

Though Ba-Sahar has never even left the Alcazar, though the opportunity to learn from those who have come so far to be here is overwhelming, she’s found it difficult to indulge her curiosity. As the cause of their convergence, the whispers follow her like shadows. Sometimes those shadows move, have grey eyes, snatch her from hallways and drag her to parts of the Alcazar that few know about. But out in the Regent Gardens, with the morning air fresh, the day so young it might still be called innocent, it’s easier to breathe around her bruised ribs. Here, there are not so many shadows.

In the centre arbour, where her mother’s magnolias still bloom all cycle long, Ba-Sahar sees the Kizi nation Shaman. Obu, as she has come to know him, sways about, brushing his hands over the white blooms, pausing at one or the other as if in conversation. Even in Bamul robes, he is so very Kizi. The green lines that mark his dark cheeks and journey down his neck are given to all Kizi on their sixteenth cycle. It symbolizes their eternal connection to one another and to the land of their home, a place so riddled with rivers and lakes that it’s more water than soil. There were rumours that the Kizi still use thaumaturgy to shape both their lands and themselves. Obu is a reed-thin man made seemingly of more air than flesh and Ba-Sahar wonders for a moment if there might be truth to those rumours. If Obu has the Old Magics running through his veins, if he’s caught and found to be a thaumaturge, he’ll never see his home again. He’ll die here. Instead, she considers his nature. A kind man, less guarded with her than others, he seems as harmless as the magnolias that draw him in. The Kizi nation representatives spend most of their days outside, often sleeping in the gardens at night, their connection to the land, deep. They move as branches on the wind, softly, disturbing nothing as they come and go. She passes him in much the same way, quietly leaving him to what sanctuary he finds so far from his home.

Though the guards are more vigilant with the representatives within the Alcazar, it’s easy enough to find her way around them. Ba-Sahar has been escaping the grounds since she could walk. She finds the Eastern wall poorly watched. It backs the canals with a single forgotten gate buried beneath an overgrowth of ivy. Through the gate, on the other side, a small earth path opens into the abandoned grounds of the old tannery and the air starts to taste of freedom.

The Inner Alcazar is still home to the Consuls, higher-ranking members of the Infini Guard, officials and important members of the Bamul nation. The homes here are, like the Regent Alcazar, grey stone and flat lines, unadorned, unimpressive except for their sizes, and the streets are wide, orderly, less populated. If someone were to look too long in her direction, they might recognize her, even hidden away as she has been within the Regent Alcazar. She pulls the dark hood of her robe forward, further hiding herself within it.

The sun has not yet cleared the tops of houses when she arrives at the other side of the Inner Alcazar where she finally relaxes. This far out, in her Bamul grey robes, she is just another passerby. Here, houses begin to shrink, grey stone becomes weathered, gardens turn to vegetable patches, practicality replacing luxury. The streets grow muddy and littered, crowds thicken, clothing dirties. Here, the press of living is more palpable. Here she feels safe. Here she becomes someone else entirely. Not Sahar, not Ba-Sahar, not BaNim, not future BaNam, not the Briar Rose. Here she sheds all the names of her shame, and wears another name, becomes another person altogether.

She shuffles into the market that separates the Inner Alcazar from the Lower Alcazar. There are beggars, street urchins, pick-pockets, but there are also vendors, men and women selling fish and incense. A reaper, his robes dirty with ash, holds up a piece of swahila. The smell is acrid, piercing her veil and stinging her eyes. The fruit grows on dragon trees, ripening only through the burning of the tree. The Bamul use it as spice, its smokey flavour a delicacy that Ba-Sahar has never liked. Too much of it steals away the mind. In the Lower Alcazar, it’s used more for the latter than for spice. Ba-Sahar’s pace slows as she inspects the fruit, the garments, the grain of each stall, the warp and weft of life stitching her into their world.

Too soon almost, the Work House appears in the distance. In the Lower Alcazar, there is no stone, just clay. The Gillie Work Houses are brown and derelict, with few windows to let the light in. Boarding lodges for orphaned children and women who have lost their husbands to sick or worse, they are not terrible places if one ignores their inherent tragedy. In many ways, all of life is wrought with enduring one’s circumstances. Those with power, with wealth, seem no more content than those without.

The children notice her arrival first, dropping their tiny needles and grey fabrics. The women are more contained this morning, even as the children start peppering Ba-Sahar with questions. Some of the older women at the back of the room bow.

Though Ba-Sahar has repeatedly claimed to be one of the Regent Alcazar’s kitchen servi, it is clear they know otherwise. Still, no one calls her BaNim. Here she is Miske, something her mother called her as a child, in the old tongue of her birthplace. Little mouse, málo miške, for how Ba-Sahar would sneak about, crawling away, under beds and chairs and around table legs.

A little hand reaches for the sleeve of her robe, tugging.

“Miske, you been boiling meats for the Athals and Snake nation? Do they have sharp teeth, like the dogs in the regent kennels?”

Ba-Sahar smiles gently, the girl’s tinkling voice, giving away her innocence.

“I should think their teeth are no sharper than yours, Merret. But they certainly miss their meats. They say so often enough.”

The children think this is very funny. A wave of giggling ripples through the room.

“Do the Snake people hiss?” Another boy asks.

“They do not. Mostly, they’re just like us. They walk on legs and ask many questions. They think we’re odd with our grey robes and grey eyes.”

“But we’re not odd,” Merret says, defence quick in her tone.

“Then I imagine they might feel just as hurt as you do.”

“Sorry, Miske. I wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings,” the little girl coos.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s good to be curious. It’s even better to be kind. We must find a way to be both, in all things.”

The girl nods and sits on the floor. The others follow, all folding their legs. Most of the children here are too young for robes, so they sit in thin grey tunics that are either too large or too small for their bodies.

“It’s very good of you to visit us, Miske. With so many guests in the Regent Alcazar, you must be extremely busy,” House Mother Rowa says, as she approaches. Ba-Sahar has never seen the House Mother’s features, not an uncommon thing for the Sisters, who, unlike the children, wear veils at all times. Instead, Ba-Sahar has learned to recognize Rowa by the wax that always coats her gloves and spots her robes. Reaching for the baskets, she passes them to the veiled woman.

“Rowa, it’s good to see you so well. The Regent Alcazar’s always a busy place. It can manage for a while,” Ba-Sahar gestures towards the work tables. “Tell me all I’ve missed these last days. Has Yuilli stitched any new robes to his again?”

The children all laugh once more, and Yuilli straightens. He’s grown taller than all the others by nearly a full head, coming on sixteen cycles. Soon he’ll be too old to remain in the Work House. What will happen to him, out on the streets, has already happened to so many before him. He’ll find work quickly or he’ll steal until he is caught. Then he will be thrown in the Reformations. Already, Rowa has told Ba-Sahar that he spends days away from the Orphanage, returning with blood on his robes, a limp in his step, more often than not, shirking the Work House rules. He flashes Ba-Sahar a wry grin, his face full of amusement.

“That was last week. But I used the wrong thread on the hems, had to spend an hour pulling it out. I should weave baskets, probably.”

There’s more laughter as everyone eats and shares stories. Rowa sits beside Ba-Sahar, and the two women shift in closer, their friendship formed over the last few years. 

“I’m glad to see you finally settling into your new position as House Mother, Rowa. The children needed it as much as you,” Ba-Sahar says.

“It just seems wrong,” Rowa says, her voice edged with a strange tone, almost like agony. “I still wake at night sometimes, thinking I hear Tafeem in the halls. Perhaps, now that will stop.”

“I, too, dream of her. Even now,” Ba-Sahar replies. She feels such guilt at her failure. The old House Mother Tafeem had been family to them both. Tafeem raised Rowa within these same halls, and Ba-Sahar’s mother and Tafeem were like sisters. It’s how her mother started coming to the Gillie Work Houses and Orphanages. When Ba-Sahar’s mother died, it was Tafeem that Ba-Sahar ran to, it was Tafeem that held her little body, rocking her through that terrible night. It was the last time anyone ever held her. “But I’m glad you are House Mother. It suits you. And the children love you dearly. Tafeem would be proud.”

Rowa fidgets, like the words slice into her, making her restless, until she finally stands and moves away. Ba-Sahar is surprised but before she can ask, Rowa’s Second, Mira, whispers something to Rowa who retrieves a large box from under the tables.

“It’s good luck you came today. We’ve made a robe for the BaNim in honour of her twenty-second rebirth. We hoped you could see it to her.” Ba-Sahar is so surprised that the box hangs in the air, in Rowa’s outstretched arm, a moment longer than is polite. “We would never expect her to wear it, of course. It’s more a symbol of our gratitude.”

Without thinking, Ba-Sahar opens the box, running her fingers across the impossibly soft fabric.

“What’s it made from?” She half-whispers.

“Woven silk. I found it during a trip to the Isthmus,” Mira says. “The Kizi nation harvest the silk from the cocoons of worms and the material’s very rare.”

“We will repay you for the fabric. It must have cost you greatly.”

“No one knew how to weave it in the Isthmus, so the seller gave it away. It took us some time to master, but no cost.”

There has never been anything so supple. Ba-Sahar cannot stop touching it. On the inner sleeve, something has been stitched and when she folds it back, it’s the dark-grey image of a rose. She does not understand. Why have they stitched it into the garment, or why they would give such a precious thing to a BaNim that may doom them, stitch the symbol of that doom into a hidden spot like some secret to be celebrated. All her life, her people have lived in fear of her, in fear of an heir that will bring war.

“I don’t know what to say. Your thoughtfulness is too great. I know the BaNim will treasure this robe. I’m sure she’ll wear it to her rebirth ceremony tomorrow night. You’ve done her a great honour.”

As quickly as the words leaves Ba-Sahar’s lips, Rowa scrambles to her feet.

“No! The BaNim mustn’t. This is just a gift. A gift and a token. She cannot wear silk robes in public.” Ba-Sahar understands Rowa’s concern, her worry justified. What she cannot know, is that there is no punishment that Ba-Sahar has not already received, causing any threat of reprisal to lose its sting. Instead, she promises to advise the BaNim to be discrete. Still, the women fidget, unease filling the room.

“Has something happened? You all seem somewhat distressed,” Ba-Sahar finally asks.

There’s a long silence, as they turn to one another. Finally, Mira sends the children and some of the younger women back to their work tables. When only the older women remain, Rowa speaks.

“The Infini took two children from each of the Gillies two nights past. Snatched them from their beds. They were…” her breath hitches as she tries to speak.

“They were punished.” Mira finishes.

“Punished? Children? What for?”

“The Infini say the Gillies are sheltering thaumaturgists. It’s a warning.” Mira throws her head around to ensure none of the children hear her words.

“They took their hands,” Rowa says. It’s barely a whisper but the words echo in Ba-Sahar’s chest. She staggers, racing to search the faces and count all the children here this morning. Rowa, as though understanding, answers the unasked question. “Ithia and Shim. They’re with the healer. They were lucky to survive. Three children did not.”

Tears slide down Ba-Sahar’s cheeks behind her veil. She has nothing to mark Shim by, but Ithia she knows well. The girl just finished her twelfth cycle. Now, these children will be crippled for life. Three are dead. Anger twists Ba-Sahar’s emotions and she bites into her cheek to contain it, the taste of copper coating her mouth. The women stand silent, their tongues thick behind their teeth as though they have more to say but cannot find the words to comfort themselves or her.

“I will tell the BaNim. She will send her healer for the children. She will send medicine. Anything you need. I…” Ba-Sahar chokes on her grief, her rage. “I’m so sorry. I’ll send help.”

She stands and bows, just as Rowa steps forward. The women gasp, and Rowa staggers back from it, several of the older women press their hands to their veiled faces so that they may not look on Ba-Sahar’s deference.

#

Outside the Gillie Work House, Ba-Sahar’s feet refuse to point her back to the Regent Alcazar. Instead she tumbles, thoughts and body, into the throngs of the Lower Market, clutching the box with the silk robe to her chest. Where earlier, she had seen everything through the eyes of freedom and wonder, now she notices the things she missed. She sees the way the people keep looking over their shoulders, how their steps are heavy, their eyes and cheeks sunken and tired. Children clutch the robes of their parents. The stalls of fruits are sparse, much of what sits out looks rotten, robes hanging limply off shrunken frames. Starvation and fear in the gazes of those around her, clinging to them like a thin coating of sweat, sticky and discomforting. 

Having lived a life of fear, thinking it her lot, she is surprised to see it here. How many times had she walked through the city never witnessing her suffering reflected in the hunched bodies of her people? The crowd around her shifts, like fish in a stream and she lets them carry her, following their ebb and flow, sinking further into her thoughts.

Her father, Ba-Shim is the BaNam, her older brother, Ba-Nils, is under council to become the head of the Infini Guard. Whatever the Guard do, they do under the order of her father and brother. 

It has been easy to accept their cruelty to her, know them as the inflictors of her pain. Her broken bones heal quickly, her bruised skin always hidden beneath robes. Still, their punishments were only for her because of the Briar Rose, the shame, the ill fortune she brought on her family, to her people. Now, she crashes into the reality that her family’s cruelty is more insidious. That she shares a roof, blood, with those who would maime children.

The desert heat eats through the market space, sweat starting to soak Ba-Sahar’s robes as she wanders with the crowd, the swelter betraying the passage of time. The morning is lost to sorrow and betrayal, its ending marked by the sun’s climb and the harshening shadows bending beneath its wrath. Around her people start whispering, their voices growing anxious, their bodies tense. Something in the eddying tensions draws her back to the world. The market is changed, sellers and buyers moving away from the stalls, spilling out of the market and into the square. Ba-Sahar follows them, still battling the rawness inside her chest. The shade shifts, her eyes trying to adjust to bright sunshine, the light jarring her back to self. She casts her sight around, noticing the people all facing in the same direction, a hushed sound sweeping across the square. Turning, she follows their wide, shocked expressions.

There, under the noonday sun, pinned to slim wooden flogging posts, are eight pairs of hands. The posts sit in a circle and at the centre is a large wooden structure, two beams crossing one another. On the structure, is strapped a woman. Her robes are bloodied, torn, filthy. They hang off her limply, nothing left of her to keep them up. Her veil puffs in and out with her irregular breaths, the only sign of life. The veil identifies her as a Sister.

The crowd Ba-Sahar follows starts to make a circle, shaping themselves into an audience, and she sees, for the first time, the black uniforms of Infini Guards scattered in the square. One figure among them cuts a familiar stance, his shoulders straight, his frame rigid. When he turns to face the crowd, Ba-Sahar finds herself staring at her brother, Ba-Nils.

Every muscle in her body snaps to attention, moving her deeper into the crowd, away from his line of sight.

All around her, people press in, they start to hum, soft throaty vibrations of sound with no single owner. It’s the song of her people, a song they once sang for Ba-Sahar’s mother, a song symbolizing honour. They are honouring the woman on the beam, and they do this even as Infini Guards stand amongst them.

“Enough!” Ba-Nils shouts from the centre of the square, and terror halts Ba-Sahar’s steps. “This woman is not your friend. She’s thaumaturge, she is a corruptor.”

The hums die down, though not completely. Across, on the opposite side of the square, three veiled Sisters stand huddled close. Beside them, is Yuilli. One of the women brings her hand to her veil in a sob, and even at a distance, Ba-Sahar sees the glove covered in wax. Rowa. For a moment, Ba-Sahar’s eyes dance between the new House Mother and the woman on the beam.

“You forget. And we understand,” Ba-Nils’ voice covers the square, false compassion dripping off every word. “In feeding your families, in going about your days, the past feels like a harmless thing. So we must remind you. The past is a warning. Do not forget again.”

With a single nod, two Infini Guards with torches step forward. The hum of the crowd finally silences, an oppressive quiet wrapping itself around the square. Open flames lick into the straw base of the beam. The woman strung up lifts her head. In the movement, Ba-Sahar’s suspicions are confirmed. House Mother Tafeem starts humming the song. Her voice is weak, carrying on the midday air. Flames consume the straw too quickly. One by one, voices from the square start to join the old woman, once again covering the square, a slap in the face of the Infini Guard, in the face of her brother’s order.

Ba-Sahar feels the heat crawl over her, singe the air in her lungs, start to push under her skin. Her hands press the flimsy box into her stomach, her emotions churning. So fast, too fast, the fire catches to Tafeem’s robe hems, her feet. It climbs her with a hunger the people in the crowd likely understand better than Ba-Sahar.

Tafeem does not scream but her hum grows unsteady, discordant.

The flames catch her veil, instantly melting the thin fabric from her face.

And there, strapped to a beam in the middle of the Lower Alcazar, before the people of her nation, her face is revealed, the last shred of House Mother Tafeem’s dignity, taken away.

Ba-Sahar has never seen the woman’s face before. Tafeem’s skin is mottled with bruises, lined with age. Her hands pull at the restraints trying to cover herself but she cannot free them. All around Ba-Sahar, people in the square turn their backs. It is not an act of disrespect but rather, a final mercy. They refuse to look at the old woman, to bring her further shame.

Finally, Tafeem wails, a deep crippling sound, pulling the strength from Ba-Sahar’s knees, making her falter. Ba-Sahar, alone, stands facing the burning woman, both of them sobbing, both of them dying. The crowd hum is so loud now, so loud, it swallows the woman’s pain as she grows silent, her face vanishing behind black smoke. The crowd keeps their backs turned, their song never faltering. When Ba-Sahar pulls her eyes from the woman’s body, there is one other, standing across the square, who has not turned his back. Yuilli, his height stretched, his eyes swimming. Yuilli’s head drops from the body of the old House Mother, and through the crowd, he turns slowly, to face Ba-Sahar. As he stands there, all his attention on her, the BaNim of his people, Ba-Sahar feels it in her bones. He knows who she truly is. His gloved fists clench and unclench, his rage crossing the square, coming for her.

He is right to hate her, to hate her family.

Ba-Sahar’s rage coils, whips inside her. Sorrow sparks and the furnace within her chest catches. She turns, clawing her way through the crowd, feeling the stitching of her very being start to pull apart. The emotions crash against her ribs. She swallows over and over, willing it to pass. Instead, the song follows her, the macabre sound mixing with Ba-Sahar’s memory of Tafeem holding her, comforting her so many, many years before. She runs, so fast, not fast enough. Ba-Sahar’s skin feels like it starts to boil, the tears blurring her vision, like acid in her eyes. 

Her family are monsters, and so is she. 

Inside the Regent Alcazar, the heat under her skin bubbles and spits as she races towards the abandoned argan grove. The trees are young, planted only two cycles past. They will not bear for many cycles, so no one comes to this grove.

Ba-Sahar’s teeth feel like metal in her mouth, her fingernails peeling back. She can barely stay conscious as she sinks to her knees, tossing the box away and ripping her gloves off. Beside her one of the younger trees rustles in the wind and the sound of the leaves brushing against one another is sand rubbed into the wound of her bleeding emotions. Slumping forward, she presses her fingers into the dirt. She wails, all her rage, all her pain flowing through her, a river filled with poison.

All around Ba-Sahar the earth contracts, grass curls, wilts, turns brown, then black. Two trees, only moments ago, bright green and full of life, begin to rot, desiccating instantly. Dead leaves turn to dust, swirling in the soft breeze.

The energy spent, Ba-Sahar falls over, bringing her knees to her chest, just lying there, a husk now that all the vile of herself is purged, the ground around her having taken all her wrath, all her sorrow. 

For ten feet in every direction, everything is dead.