The following year, Alor was betrothed to an heiress from Felinda—Jadis did not recall her name, though she supposed it mattered little—so he was, now that he was of age, living on his own in the suzerainty of his promised in-laws. Finis mildly wept at his departure, but within a few days she had regained her usual adolescent vibrancy; if anything, Jadis observed, she seemed livelier than ever. Jadis was largely ambivalent at Alor’s leaving: they’d been closer before Finis was born, and before they were segregated by gender in many daily activities. She suspected Alor had been somewhat distracted by pubescence; his attraction to the female form was more than apparent from his early teen years, and Jadis had that in absolute quintessence. She did not dare think Alor might have had incestuous thoughts; but she certainly took notice that her womanly development coincided with her dear brother’s becoming a bit less dear. She accepted it, whether it was true or not—the very idea was vaguely amusing.
Pesul Qur’s estate was not terribly expansive, as lordly holdings went, but it was beautiful in the summertime. The River Maundha featured as its southwestern border, a glimmering turquoise-hued snake—a headwater of the River Šoleum, fed by springs and rains in the wild ranges of The Mbute to the far south. Bright tracts of saffron and hemp grew in rows in the estate’s easterly side, beside orchards of pomegranates whose outmost extremities served as the northeast edge: old cobblestone walls and footpaths lined the far sides of the fields and trees, little-trod by any above the status of slave or farmhand. Modestly-sized barns sat at the anterior end of the fields, with dusty dun trails issuing forth from them and amidst the vegetation like a lattice.
The villa where Lord Tujur’s family resided was situated squarely in the axis of the estate: a brick convolution of wooden supports and odd, angular architecture that overall gave an effect not unlike a microcosm of a city—forcibly and implausibly stitched together into a tortuous body by corbelled archways and galleries. It was not the largest or prettiest of the lordly manors of Charn, but it was undeniably striking nonetheless. The roof was like a scaly black shale pitched over sharply defined fire-burned bricks—which in places (mostly tucked away below the eaves) looked almost as though they had been constructed accidentally by some natural phenomenon; or perhaps the masonry was merely an illusion altogether; a trick of the light that made a haphazard little village of brick and stucco look as if it were all one building.
Ornate eaves jutted out acutely at particular corners of the edifice, like huge upturned claws—gargoyles shaped like tigers and therianthropes perched on dormers and in relief on the gables, like sentries. The western tower was the most imposing feature of the house: like a bristling pine of rock and roof-tile, tessellated sparingly with faded indigo arabesques and mosaics of malachite ferns spiraling skyward. The spire was like a twisted vertical stack of brick huts, shored up by tiers of timber and plaster, with black-tiled pentagonal eaves in ascending intervals—five in all, for Bram and his fivefold nature. In truth it was simply more structurally sound with such a quintuple design: but Jamäis hated the thing, calling it ‘ungodly’, and was persuaded to allow its construction wholly on the provision that its architecture honor her god.
The head of the western tower was shaped as if it were a brass-plated drop of rain, caught midair by a god and wrung from both ends like a wet cloth; pear-shaped and topped with a finial, with defined curving ridges in its surface that created little rivulets that glistened and spiraled downward beautifully during spring cloudbursts. It reminded Jadis of a flower bulb; she and Finis supposed that the tower was meant to look like a huge stylized bulb and stalk, with tiered roofs for leaves; the patina of verdigris that mottled it, and its malachite crosiers surely advanced the resemblance.
Rosewood stables were aligned perpendicular to the villa house, past a lawn of topiary and statuary that seemed deliberately modest in contrast to the fineries of the manor at its side. A canopied pavilion—a recreational sward—served as the upper part of a posterior lawn at the house’s back porch: a veranda used mostly for parties and diversions for guests. Polo and archery were ideal on the long grassy game-yard, while drinks were often served among the columns and carvings of the terrace at the villa’s tail. The sunshade tenting over the pavilion was embroidered with white and gold interlocking geometries on a field of plum—evoking perhaps stylized gemstones, cut and kaleidoscopic. Finis thought maybe they were snowflakes; Jadis didn’t see it.
At the far western reach of the estate, obscured amid ancient teak and willow in a blanket of verdure was Jadis’ secret courtyard. Seeming to grow organically from the earth of the hillock, old structures were strewn across the hidden site; apparently the ruin of some forgotten pagan sanctum, or cemetery. What Jadis had identified as a crypt—whether for god or human, she could not tell—was the primary feature of the courtyard, encircled by a sandstone gallery converging on a blind door sealing what Jadis presumed to be an abandoned mineshaft set into the hill’s side. Stray bits of cairngorm and chalcedony were littered about the hurst, fragmented by time or upheaval; Jadis sometimes tried her hand at lapidary craft, fashioning necklaces and anklets for herself and Finis in her spare time from the forsaken shards of quartz.
Most of all, Jadis adored the scenery: a seldom-sighted bight in the Maundha was at the back foot of the grove, sheltered over by wisteria and willow and bulrush in abundance; rounded, moss-laden boulders ringing about the hillock’s flanks like a garland; walls interwoven with the mighty roots of banyans and willows bulwarked around the hurst, all embossed with faded bas-reliefs; the serene face of a meditating figure chiseled into the lentil of the crypt façade; vines and roots and moss and buds in wild overgrowth atop the archaic complex. The sun broke through a parting in the trees beautifully in midsummer, raining golden beams upon the water’s edge in dappled streaks through the foliage, and casting a luminous glow off of the rock of the courtyard. Showers of rain could not begin to tarnish the otherworldly beauty of the site—serving only to darken the colors, and make the plants shimmer pleasantly.
Even Finis didn’t know that the pretty little spot existed—it was a sanctuary known to and visited by Jadis alone; if ever talk arose of cultivating the west woods into new fields or farmhouses, Jadis was quick to dispel it in some way or another—usually by simply diverting the subject, or otherwise by expressing her fondness for the picturesque holt (though never divulging the existence of her cherished glade). It was only a matter of time before Finis stumbled across it—Jadis was frankly amazed it had eluded her thus far—but there seemed less and less chance for Finis to explore the remaining undiscovered corners of the property now that her piety increasingly encroached on her time and energy.
✷ ✷ ✷ ✷
Midsummer’s Day, Jadis and Finis sneaked off from a festive party hosted by their parents—even Finis, devout as she was, had little stamina for the solstice feast and its tedious, protracted speeches and ceremonies. They stole away from behind the stables—the fires and voices of the dozens of guests still easily perceptible under the pavilion canopy—taking Finis’ pet macaque, Lank, and bowls of curried rice and lamb with sweets of brandied sugar and bread spiced with basil and olive oil. They cackled gleefully as Jadis liberated a chillum and a flask of watered dandelion wine from the stable storeroom: stable vices for the stable boys, they bantered. Jadis spilled some of the cask of the chillum on her sari, prompting the laughter of Finis and the chattering of Lank; Jadis was less than enthused, but in a sufficiently mirthful mood to snicker as well. Finis squealed in surprise as Jadis let loose her breasts, the warm evening air doing little to help the expensive cloth of her garment to dry; it felt quite nice on her bare skin, however.
“Injustice!” Finis jested, “We are of one mother, yet your bestowments are so much ampler, compared to mine! Injustice I say!”
“Ha!” Jadis aspirated, “You are not yet full grown, sweet Nis: wait a little, and we will see what you’re bestowed with, in time. Surely more than mother! Although surely less than I, no doubt…”
The sisters cackled again. After a few more minutes Jadis had cleaned her sari sufficiently to wear, and the two were mildly intoxicated: pleasantly so, but not to the point of disorientation. It wasn’t often that Finis partook of intoxicants—being that they were universally proscribed for Bram’s faithful—but Jadis appreciated that they’d lessened her sister’s usual inhibitions, reverting her closer to that jovial state that’d seemed perpetual once upon a time. Nowadays the blissful, free-spirited Finis could flourish only on occasions of indulgence, away from the stifling confines of the sacred. Finis certainly wasn’t in a habit of making titty jokes these days.
They made their way in the dimness over to the western wood, by the light of a small lamp Finis had brought—they didn’t need it until they were sufficiently far from the bonfires of the solstice festivities; there was enough oil in it for hours, and then they had a tiny glass vial of seasoning oil as well that was meant for the bread, but would suffice for fuel if it came to that. The holt was a bit creepy in the night—a gallery of gnarling teaks and peepuls, rosewoods and eucalypts that appeared almost endless in the low light. Lank arose and scurried among the branches like a monkey possessed, while Finis collected orchids and marigolds in a small bouquet.
“I didn’t know such blossoms grew here,” Finis commented, picking another vibrant marigold from its root, “is this where you are when you can’t be found?”
“So it is,” Jadis responded warmly, bending down to pluck a little blossom of white jasmine from among its florets, “it’s the only place in Pesul Qur I can be alone with myself.”
“And why should you want to be alone?” Finis queried, Lank descending out of a eucalyptus and making a few chattering sounds. Finis took the jasmine that was in Jadis’ hand, and placed it daintily in her sister’s beautiful cascade of sable hair.
“You must know mother can be vexing at times? To say nothing of you.”
Jadis chuckled throatily at her own words, gleefully—and more then at Finis’ feigned look of indignation.
“Mother wants only to please the gods: and prays more than anything for our favor in their sight. No doubt you know that?” explained Finis.
“Of course I do. I’m just less optimistic about the chances of heaven bringing down blessings upon us than she. Or you, I suppose.”
“You think we are undeserving of favor?”
“I think if there are gods they do not distribute favor to mere creations; or if they do, it is the favor of an artisan for his favorite artifice. Whatever vouchsafe may be provided, I should not be quick to think it favor—but fuel for an efficacious tool, to further its service. That lamp of yours might be quite zealous in giving up its light to us: but if we then grant it oil, is it a blessing? Why should mother’s zealous flame burn any more intensely than that: that a god should take notice and condescend?”
“But perhaps we are not mere objects to the gods! Mayhap we are their trusty servants—surely they warrant favor for loyal service? Or, as we are direct creations of the divine: mayhap we are their children—surely a parent might condescend to favor its daughter who has behaved rightly?”
“Such a parent, that would offer favor to one child and bring down disaster upon another! Like an Mbutese who grants his favorite son the patrimony, but sells his prettiest daughter as a harlot! I ask you: what sort of parent is that? What gods?”
Finis uttered a mild oath—Jadis raised an eyebrow at her sister’s uncommon profanity.
“Gods be clement…” Finis murmured, making an appropriately penitent sign with her right hand, “Forgive me, sister. I should not have sworn.”
“Go right ahead,” Jadis chuckled, halfheartedly making an obscene gesture—though she was not so indecorous as to let it remain for more than a second. All the same, Finis was plainly dismayed: forming another contrition, on the behalf of her profane sister. “I’m sorry, Nis. I shouldn’t be so sacrilegious when you’re with me.”
“It would be ideal if you were not sacrilegious whatever.”
“I know. All the same: if gods can’t withstand words, what good are they?”
“They are the ultimate good!”
“I know, I know… I only wish that ultimate good required less of their spite.”
“Who are you to wish the gods suspend justice? They must punish iniquity: or else they would be no good. Only they see from on high, into the hearts of men.”
“Are women then exempt from their judgment?” Jadis chortled.
“Sister! You know very well what I meant!”
Jadis cackled again. She sighted a familiar banyan up ahead, grinning.
“Yes, yes. Men or women, heaven judges all,” Jadis replied, “right or wrong.”
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