—Sena
* * *
THERE was a knock on the door which was good because Caliph felt sick and hollow and dark inside. He couldn’t take any more. He closed the book, pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room. When he opened the door he was surprised to see the priestess of Nenuln standing there looking better—physically.
He was less surprised to see that she also seemed to be lacking a sense of humor. Her face was pale with terror and Caliph was just about to open his mouth and ask what was wrong when she blurted out, “What in Palan’s name are you reading?”
21G.L.L.: Great Cloud Rift, literally the Crack of the Devourer.
22U.T.: 
.
23Another pseudonym for the unnamed book (the Cisrym Ta). Gymre Ta means book of war.
CHAPTER
29
Sena saw across time. The thing before her was from the sea and it reminded her of Tenwinds.
Pplarian bioengineering, the nautrogienilus with its shell—so like patinated steel—was framed perfectly by the room’s striking white iridescence. It formed a brutish pelagic curl that had been bolted to the floor.
Other echoes of Pplarian shape-crafting had spilled out of the north, squirmed through careless fingers and floor drains into subregions of evolution. They cropped up again in the wild, emerging from bogs and silent tarns.
The monsters.
Smell-feasts, ganglolian and other slippery masses. But this thing with its shell and mollusk flesh, its rich briny stink, took her back to Tenwinds in a visceral and unexpected way.
She could smell the oily ocean, taste the salt again and the fishy wetness that spluttered endlessly. And memories of Tenwinds meant memories of Aislinn.
It was because she had been so strong that the one instance of her crying forever echoed in Sena’s head.
The moments had crystallized. It was as if she was still there. She could replay the sequence endlessly: remember Aislinn dragging her toward docks cobbled out of stone and oxidized metal plates found long ago above the salt flats, where some goliath machine had been cannibalized.
Eerie, alien-looking apertures not quite suitable for human frames had been reinvented as arches beneath the wharf. Remnants of odd markings and irregular rivets still rusted across vast sections of tramontane metal. A bolt the size of a rowboat rested on its side above the piers. Scavenged a hundred years ago from something now covered over, it had long been the symbol of Greenwick Harbor.
The boards by the ocean were slippery and dark, anchored to the ancient perversion of metal and crusted with whitening barnacles. Spidery orange thewick crabs scuttled helter-skelter.
Aislinn’s cold hand gripped Sena by the elbow. Sena remembered the feel of her arm flapping over her head like a flag as her mother pulled her toward smells mixed by waves.
Back in the center of the village, the clock tower glowed; its illuminated face displayed the hours the two of them had been charitably allowed. Now Aislinn sought passage to the mainland while the town growled, no longer welcoming with its shops of cinnamon and fish.
Tenwinds’ courtrooms had debarred Sena but they had swallowed her mother. For endless hours—for days it seemed—Sena had been sequestered in hallways where squares of light inched over walls devoid of decoration. She had listened to solemn adult voices seep under doors until the droning had put her to sleep, head on her doll, alone on the hardwood floors.
Now, as her mother marched her down to the docks, her strongest memories were of Shamgar Wichser, the somber-faced admiral-mayor whose shadow emphasized the question mark of her father’s body dangling in Tenwinds’ square.
The coast was wintry. The pebbles crowned in ice. Out of season for a trip to the mainland.
She could feel the fear pouring out of her mother’s palm as cold sweat, a clammy toxin Sena absorbed through the skin. It made her six-year-old heart bang like a caged finch.
Together, they boarded a long dark shape lit with rows of golden lights floating in the harbor. Its iron sails snapped. Smoke retched into thin icy air. Her nose felt like a lump of clay. She looked back at her home as the vessel pulled away. The sodden gray buildings seemed to share her sadness; sparse leafless trees clutched the sinking sun like a bright fruit, a gift if only she would come back.
Sena never went back. Her mother took her to Mirayhr.
What Sena brought with of her father was his curly blond hair and an infectious smile. “The spitting image,” her mother always said. For a while, Sena still sang the nonsense song, “Daddy, Daddy I love you. Like an oyster-oyster I do-do-do.” But days and weeks choked it slowly until the melody disappeared.
Aislinn’s name sounded cold, like one of those olden cities gone beneath the Loor. But even though her voice often matched the temperature of her name, Sena loved her. At least until they reached the mainland.
There, love was something the Sisterhood snipped into usable squares. The Sisterhood patched itself with love conscripted from its members: to bolster the organization, to control its enemies, to bait, seduce and kill.
At Skellum, Sena drew pictures in class of her mother and her, holding hands. She wrote in large inept letters above their circle-smiling heads, Mamma and Me. But when the preceptress discovered the drawings, Sena received seven lashes with a ruler across the wrist.
“You do not love your mother. You love the Sisterhood.”
Seven strokes across the wrist and when Sena cried: one across the lips. It had happened several times.
Sena slowly realized that none of the other girls had mothers. They slept in the nursery under the watchful eye of an Ascendant. But that difference between herself and the other girls ended when the Coven Mother, Megan, ordered Sena from Aislinn’s care. It was necessary, Megan said, for Sena to focus on her studies.
Sena was a good pupil despite—or perhaps because of her anger.
She learned quickly to recognize weakness. She was instructed vigorously in the arts of sex, manipulation and murder. All this, the Coven Mother claimed, was necessary for strengthening the Houses. For preparation of the war.
“What is the war?” Sena asked her mother one day while sharing a rare lunch on Parliament’s lawn. They had taken off their shoes and Sena had just realized that they had identical toes.
“Shh—” Her mother’s eyes had scanned the lawn without any movement of her head. “There is no war. Megan thinks it’s our business to protect the world from myths. She takes it far too seriously.”
“But aren’t you friends with Megan?”
“I try to be, baby-girl. But you know, we’re here because we have no place else to go. And never tell anyone that. That’s just between you and me.”
“I won’t, Mamma.”
In the end there were no bonds strong enough, not even between mother and daughter, to prevent the Sisterhood’s relentless training from tearing them apart. And finally, at long last, Sena realized that she hated her mother for bringing them both to Mirayhr: a dichotomy that ever after haunted her when Aislinn was found guilty of faron—the betrayal—and sent to Juyn Hel to burn.
And so …
Following in her mother’s footsteps, Sena had looked for companionship outside the Circles of Ascension, beyond Houses One through Eight. She had not done it out of desire for love (because love’s stuffing and toy-sized springs had been broken long ago) but out of rebellion. Out of hatred for the Sisterhood, she had warmed Tynan’s bed. And Caliph’s.
* * *
SHE looked at the double keel shell lined with tubercles that reminded her so vividly of a shattered childhood by the sea. The shell’s silver-indigo curves of gleaming carbonate had been anchored to the floor. Thick bolts held it upside down, foot in the air, diaphanous pink tentacles flailing like a bed of leeches. It was very much alive. The tentacles looked inexpressibly soft. Yet parlous.