The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 18: The Doyenne's Counsel, Part 4

 Barthim stared at her, dumbfounded. Ammas said nothing, though there was no surprise on his face. He'd have advised Barthim not even to mention the Siraneshi witch-women in Othma's presence, but it might have made no difference. Unmoved by Barthim's clear discomfort, the Doyenne now favored Casimir with a warm smile.

"You are sworn to Ammas's service too, my boy, in a different way, of course. Tell me how it came to pass. I never thought Ammas would find an apprentice, not with our trade fallen as it is. But he was ever resourceful." She turned her chair so she could face Casimir directly, the light in her good eye more open and welcoming than it had ever been for Barthim.

After an anxious look at Ammas, who smiled and nodded, Casimir began to speak, slowly and haltingly of how he had grown up at the Prideful Lioness, how Ammas had set up shop next door, and the things he had seen over the years. He told her about Lena, and how Lena's father had fallen ill, and how that illness proved to be a possession. He told her about the exorcism. He even told her how afraid he was of Ammas until that day, at which the Doyenne laughed delightedly.

"Oh, he's been keeping up with his trade then. Casting a fearful shadow is part and parcel of the cursewright's art. It keeps away the frivolous customers."

"Among other benefits," Ammas chuckled. Othma nodded approvingly.

"So your mother was one of the whores who worked at this brothel? But you did not know her?"

"A Lioness girl," Carala interrupted softly.

Othma regarded her sharply. "Beg pardon, your highness?"

"Casimir's mother was a Lioness girl," she said a little more strongly, forcing herself to meet the Doyenne's gaze. "I do not care for that other word."

"But it is a true word, an honest word, just as tyrant or monster is a true word for the man you call your father," said the Doyenne with a fiendish smile. "Putting a pretty lioness's mask on it doesn't change the truth, just as no crown or polished throne will change what the House of Deyn has become."

Carala flushed deeply but did not drop her gaze. "All the same, I would have this boy's mother spoken of more respectfully."

Casimir looked into his stew bowl, biting his lower lip, finally looking to Ammas for guidance. His master only shook his head. This would have to play out between the princess and the Doyenne.

Othma was staring curiously at the princess, toying her spoon through her stew. "And is this an imperial decree, your highness? Am I being ordered to speak the way you prefer?"

Carala shook her head. "No. But I like this boy." Casimir flushed with pleasure. "It is -- a request, if that pleases you better. I hope a polite one."

Othma merely looked at her, still tracing patterns through her stew with her spoon. "A polite request from a Deyn," she said at last. "Wonders from the worlds beyond. Very well." She turned her attention back to Casimir. "This Lioness girl who was your mother. Was it she who was from Summervale or Aznia, or your father? Your skin is dark enough for it to be one, but not both, I think."

"She was from Summervale," Casimir nodded. "I don't know if my father was or not."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Othma said softly. "Poor lad, you're far from the first apprentice to come from such a place. But it makes you stronger. The way your mingled blood makes you stronger. You are shadows and alchemy, whatever the fine lords and ladies of the courts of this world might sneer so they may feel more pride in their own meagre doings. When the day comes where someone might try to make you feel shame for not knowing your father's name, remember the princess must always know her father's name. She must live with it every day. Remember when some highborn creature like she is pretends to greatness because of a name that not all names are worth being proud of. Your name is your own, and it will be as great or vile as you choose to make it."

Casimir had no idea how to respond to this and so merely nodded, hoping the expression on his face was thoughtful. Carala, who knew only too well she was the real object of this little lesson, watched the Doyenne impassively. There had been plenty of meals at the Chalcedony Palace's high table where she knew better than to answer some barbed rebuke, or to step in for the defense of her siblings or her mother. The others, even Ammas, were mere spectators.

Untroubled by Carala's stony expression, Doyenne Sulivar pushed her chair back from the table and waved Casimir over to her. After another look to his master, who nodded with an encouraging smile, Casimir rose from his place and went to Othma. The Doyenne touched his cheek much as she had her former student's when they had arrived. "I had a grandson, you know. Fairer skinned than you, about your age. His name was Nelahn. A student at Witchlight Tower. Do you know Witchlight Tower, boy?"

"Ammas made me write about it."

"A fine lesson, I am sure. Do you know what happened to it?"

Nervously Casimir looked at Ammas, who nodded again, though his face had turned tight and grim. His hand lingered near Carala's. "It was -- torn down. The Emperor destroyed it when he dissolved the academies."

"Yes," Othma said softly. "Torn down, its beautiful crystals smashed, its light extinguished forever. And the scholars, the Doyen, the students, one and all, burned at the stake. Even my Nelahn, who was too young to have hurt anyone."

"That is not true," Carala said in a strong, clear voice. Her eyes blazed at Othma, who only regarded her with a soft smile.

"Is it not, your highness? If my memory serves, you were not even conceived when this happened. Or perhaps you were conceived that very night. No doubt your father was in a mood to celebrate. And such a celebration!" Her good eye flickered with an almost unnatural hatred, her lips curling into a sneer. "An eleven year old boy, crisping and blackening as the fire devoured him, screaming and howling, not in the least understanding what he had done to deserve such a death, not even understanding what death was. That was the music that accompanied your conception, your highness. I am sure it pleases you still."

Denisius shifted in his seat, glaring at the Doyenne. Vos shook his head warningly, but he needn't have bothered. Othma was wholly unconcerned with anyone at that table but the Princess, her student, and Ammas's apprentice.

Carala's voice remained clear, but an uncertain stammer had crept into it, and it had become almost impossible to keep her gaze steady on the Doyenne's face. Somehow she managed it. "The -- the child students of the academies were spared, when it was possible, they were -- "

"The ones who weren't burnt alive or thrown to hounds or drowned like unwanted cats were sold as slaves to the Sultan's kingdoms. A 'gesture of goodwill' is how it was described."

"That -- no -- they would not have become slaves, they were sent to orphanages, to temples, to -- to noble families -- "

"Ammas, her face is as beautiful as her mother's but from her mouth drips nothing but her father's lies. I wonder if you have been misled in some fashion." Her good eye roved away from Carala as if she were beneath even her slightest notice, fixing on Ammas with a strangely compassionate gleam. "Best to leave off whatever course you've decided. It will only bring you sorrow."

The cursewright's hand now touched Carala's. He could feel her trembling; could almost feel the shock and disbelief flowing through her veins as she stared at Othma Sulivar, whose face showed only a species of pleased contempt. "I have sworn a vow to this woman," Ammas said softly, meeting his old teacher's eye. "Whatever her name, whatever her father's crimes against us -- against me -- it is irrelevant to my service."

"So be it. It's your folly to make, not mine. Now!" Othma said, clapping her hands together. "The Princess is your client, Ammas, as you have made so very clear. Let her stand before me so I may discern her ailment."