The Old Magics

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

And there aren’t any now. 

Even the dust of their crumbled bones has been carried away by time.

What is left of the Old Magics is fading. When they are gone, and they will be gone soon, perhaps Atisa will finally know real peace.

Three hundred years of purging have decimated the four tribes. A history bloated with the rot of greed, fear, obedience, has been willed into silence. The thaumaturges who made magic are long dead. What few still 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 tribes agree. 

It is the only thing on which the tribes agree.

#


The communal bedroom of the Gillie Orphanage toils towards tininess, the cots needing more stuffing much like the little bodies in them. The House Mother’s voice is soft, a salve smoothing over the children’s unfortunate 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 eat us?” Yuilli asks, his voice grown thick with sleep.

“No, Yuilli. They will protect us.”

The House Mother waits, watching, as the children, one by one, settle and slowly slip into sleep. When she turns, Rowa, the House Mother’s Second, stands between the door and the darkness beyond. Her veil is a movement of shadows against the flicker of her struggling candle.

“House Mother Tafeem,” she says, and her words are strung tight. “They’re here.”

Outside the children’s room, it is dark. The young woman and her single light do not wait for the House Mother. Rowa moves quickly down the long hall, turning around the corner at the end and taking the little light with her. House Mother Tafeem has twenty years of walking the halls of the orphanage, she needs no light to show her the way. When she takes the corner, Rowa is standing there, and at the edges of the candle’s glow are two men. They wear the Infini Guard black uniforms, sharp metal at their chests, their hips.

House Mother Tafeem walks past them toward the entry hall, pointing at their hungry weapons.

“Are you concerned the children’ll start a rebellion after they’ve napped?” Dismissively, she reaches for her coat by the door, 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. She leans into the House Mother.

“Please, Tafeem, do not anger them. I’ll get you help,” she says, 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,” the House Mother says.

“I will, Mother. Until you return.”

The soldiers crowd the two women, urgency pressing them. They grab the House Mother by her arms, the contact pulling a gasp from Rowa. 

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

“Remember, Rowa. There weren’t always dragons in the valley.”

The words send the guards into a rage. They 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 into the deep bruise of 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 tribe’s representative suggested that even the skin of the Bamul tribe must be grey. It was not meant as flattery.

As Ba-Sahar takes the path through to the kitchens, she feels the grey of her world press in on her. Perhaps her fate looms too close or perhaps it is the thing in her that is always at odds with itself, but this morning she finds the bleakness of her home oppressive.

The kitchens, however, are always warm. The ovens are already burning as the servi busy themselves preparing the day’s meals. Their veils are tucked into the collars of their robes, their long sleeves pinned into their gloves. They move as one amidst the stone and steel and fire. 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 already 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 should not have prepared these for me,” Ba-Sahar counters, holding the basket aloft. She knows Ama will not 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 do not 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 says. The poverty spreading through Ibera over the years now reaches the Regent Alcazar steps, and as BaNim, Ba-Sahar cannot look away.

“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 edge to Ama 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 would 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 been here since Ba-Sahar’s mother was a girl. The old servi must be well into her sixtieth cycle now, and though her back curves, her pace slows, she can still swat the flies off a horse’s ear. The thought makes Ba-Sahar smile. Visiting the Gillie Work Houses was her mother’s habit. It is 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.”

Ba-Sahar bows slightly and Ama clicks her tongue in disapproval. 

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

It means she heralds war.

And tomorrow is her twenty-second solar cycle, the day of her twenty-second re-birth, the most important re-birth cycle for her tribe. Her path will settle, Ba-Sahar’s signs will be read, her fate sealed.

It is this uncommon event that brings the representatives of all four tribes together within the walls of the Regent Alcazar. They have been here for three weeks, their discomfort never easing. Except for the Athal tribe, incapable of containing their volatile temperament, the dining hall is mostly silent at meals. Even as they hold the land in centuries of tenuous peace, a peace often re-established through bloodshed, much ill-will keeps them divided. The tribes are as different as the lands they occupy, rarely venturing beyond their boundaries and even then, only on invitation. To cross a boundary of any tribe without invitation is punishable by death. Even in the dining hall, the tribes huddle so closely together they carve out their territories within the stone floors of that room.

As the cause of their convergence, it is hard to be within the Regent Alcazar. The whispers follow her like shadows. But out in the Regent Gardens, with the morning air fresh, the day so young it can still be called innocent, it is easier to breathe.

In the centre arbour, where her Mother’s magnolia’s still bloom all cycle long, Ba-Sahar sees the Kizi tribe Shaman. He sways about, brushing his hands over the white blooms. Even in Bamul veil and robes, he is easy to spot. He is a reed-thin man, made of air almost. To Ba-Sahar he is a kind man, less guarded with her than others. The Kizi tribe 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 can find so far from home.

Though the guards are more vigilant with the tribe representatives within the Alcazar, it is 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 the 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 tribe. 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 looked too long in her direction, they might notice her familiar gait, some movement about her that would mark her as BaNim, so she is careful to take longer strides, quickening her steps, swinging her arms more widely. 

It takes half an hour to make her way to the other side of the Inner Alcazar where she finally relaxes. This far out, in her Bamul grey robes and veil, she is just another passer-by. Here, houses begin to shrink, grey stone becoming weathered, gardens turning 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 is safe. Here she can be someone else entirely. Not Sahar, not Ba-Sahar, not BaNim, not The Briar Rose. Here she can shed all the names of her shame, and wear another name, become another person altogether.

She shuffles into the market which 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, 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 can steal away the mind. In the Lower Alcazar, it is 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.

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 her with questions. Some of the older women in the back 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 Samara.

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

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

Ba-Sahar smiles under her veil, 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 for covering ourselves in veils.”

“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, Samara. 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.

“It’s very good of you to visit us, Samara. With so many guests in the Regent Alcazar, you must be extremely busy,” The House Mother says, as she approaches.

Reaching for the baskets, Ba-Sahar passes them to the House Mother. If she did not know the woman’s voice so well, she would know her by her gloves, always covered in wax.

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

The children all laugh once more, and Yuilli straightens. He is grown taller than all the others by nearly a full head, coming on sixteen cycles. Soon he will 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 will find work quickly or he will 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.

“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 is more laughter as everyone eats and shares stories. Rowa sits beside Ba-Sahar, and the two women shift in closer, their closeness 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 still seems wrong somehow. Like any day, she might come back,” Rowa says, her voice much lowered. “I still wake at night sometimes, thinking I hear her in the halls.”

“It’s been five years, Rowa. I only wish I could’ve helped more, found out something,” Ba-Sahar replies. She feels such guilt at the 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 is how her mother started coming to the Gillie Work Houses and Orphanage. 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’re House Mother. It suits you. And the children love you dearly.”

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, the Work House Mistress, Humira, whispers something to Rowa who retrieves a large box from under the tables.

“It’s good luck you came today. The children, women, Mistress Humira and I have made a robe for the BaNim, in honour of her twenty-second re-birth. We had 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.”

Ba-Sahar opens the box quickly, 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,” Mistress Humira says. “It’s said that the Snake tribe harvest the silk from the cocoons of silkworms and that the material’s very rare.”

“I 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. On the inner sleeve, something has been stitched. When Ba-Sahar folds it back, it is the dark-grey image of a rose. She does not understand why they have stitched it into the garment, or why they would give such a precious thing to a BaNim that may doom them. All her life, the people have lived in fear of her, in fear of the BaNim that will bring war. Yet here, these women have done this kindness.

“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 re-birth ceremony tomorrow night. You’ve done her a great honour.”

As quickly as the words have left 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,” She finally asks.

There is a long silence, as they turn to one another. Finally, Mistress Humira 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.” Mistress Humira finishes.

“Punished? Children?”

“The Infini say the Gillies are sheltering thaumaturgists. It’s a warning.” Mistress Humira 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 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 does not have anything to mark Shim by, but Ithia she knows well. The girl just finished her twelfth cycle. Now, these children are 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 are silent, their tongues thick behind their teeth. They start to sway on their feet, huddling together like it will give them comfort.

“I will tell the BaNim. She will send her healer for the children, House Mother Rowa. She will send medicine. Anything you need. I…” Ba-Sahar chokes on her grief, her rage. “I am so sorry. I will hurry back and send help.”

She stands and bows. The women gasp, Rowa and several of the older women press their hands to their 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. Where, earlier, she had seen everything through the eyes of a child, now she notices the things she missed, the way the people keep looking over their shoulders, how their steps are heavy, tired. Children clutch the robes of their parents. The stalls of fruits are sparse, much of what sits out looks rotten, robes hanging bulky off shrunken frames. Her people are starving, they are afraid. 

She is afraid, having lived a life of fear, thinking it her lot. How many times has she walked through the city never seeing her suffering reflected in the hunched bodies of her tribe? 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 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 family. 

It was easy to accept their cruelty to her, know them as the inflictors of her pain. Her broken bones healed fast, her bruised skin always hidden beneath veil and robe. Still, hope always lingered, that their punishments were only for her, because of the Briar Rose, the shame, the ill fortune she brought on her family, on her people. Now, she flops into the reality that her family’s cruelty is more insidious. That she shares a roof, blood, with those who maimed children.

As though the world would peel open her eyes, refuse her any place to hide, the crowd she let sweep her up, spreads out of the market and into the square. The shade shifts, her eyes trying to adjust to bright sunshine, the light pulling her mind to the surface again. She casts her sight around, noticing the people all facing in the same direction, a hushed sound sweeping across the square. She turns, she looks.

There, under the noonday sun, pinned to slim wooden flag 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 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. The authority of his position at the foot of the woman’s post identifies him as Ba-Sahar’s brother, Ba-Nils.

Every muscle in Ba-Sahar’s body snaps to attention. She quickly moves deeper into the crowd, away from his line of sight.

All around her, the people of her tribe start to hum, soft throaty vibrations of sound with no single owner. It is the song of their 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 Guard stand amongst them.

“Enough!” Ba-Nils shouts from the centre of the square. “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 women and a boy stand huddled closer than the others. 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.

Something starts to slip into understanding, Ba-Sahar’s eyes dancing 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 last soft hums of the crowd fall silent. 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, now the single voice in the square. She is weak, but it carries on the midday air. Flames consume the straw too quickly. One by one, voices from the square start to join the old woman again.

Ba-Sahar feels the heat crawl over her, singe the air in her lungs, start to push under her skin. Her hands press 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 tribe, her face is revealed, the last shred of the old House Mother Tafeem’s dignity, is taken away.

Ba-Sahar has seen a face before, but Tafeem’s is different. Her skin is splotched with bruises, lined with age. Her hands pull at the restraints trying to cover herself but she cannot reach. 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, so loud, slowly swallowing 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. The boy from the Gillie Work House, his height marking him even from this distance. 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 turned 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.

And 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 wailing sound of the old woman 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 feel 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 seasons past. They will not bare 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. 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.