Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret Read online

  Irene smiled. “It’s my belief that a strong-minded and able young woman needs no husband, only the courage of her own convictions,” she said. “There are hundreds of girls who can perform the role of wives and mothers. There are only a few with the capacity to rise above that and do the extraordinary. You could be one of those, Paula. Give it some thought. Now I will ask Ariadne to fetch your manuscripts. You may work here. Just be careful the wind does not carry the papers into the garden. Everything’s wet today.”

  Stoyan wasn’t happy. Whatever he had overheard had caused him to close in on himself completely. I gestured to him to come over and sit by me at the table, but he was slow to respond. Our hostess had moved away along the colonnade and was speaking to a group of women gathered there.

  “Please, Stoyan,” I murmured.

  With visible reluctance, he squatted down beside me, peering at the fragment.

  “This is the goddess with her bees.” I showed him the tiny image. “I do think she looks a little like a tree, with her hair as foliage.”

  Stoyan spoke in a sharp whisper. “I am out of place here. I am a guard, not a scholar.”

  “Never mind that,” I whispered back. “Tell me what you can see.”

  “Pictures, kyria. And words I cannot read. You do not require me here to tell you what you can see for yourself.”

  “I can’t read this either. It’s in Persian. Look closely. I want to know if you notice anything unusual.” When he made no comment, I added, “I’m sorry if she upset you. I can’t do this without you, Stoyan.”

  While he examined the ornately decorated pages, I got out my writing materials and made another copy of the hidden symbols, this time on a loose sheet of paper that I had divided up into thirty squares. I did not try to put them in the shape of the tree, only to copy each faithfully. Back at the han, I would cut the sheet up and assemble the pieces to form a more lasting version of our completed puzzle. I needed the sand tray for Stoyan’s writing lessons. I was determined to make him realize he was capable of learning. He was bitter and angry about his lack of scholarship. There was enough sadness in his life. No point in adding to it when the solution was so easy.

  Stoyan’s attention had been taken by the miniatures on the other fragment, the one I had found first. “This looks like a game of combat,” he whispered to me, indicating one of the images. “This being, who seems part man, part jackal, tosses the other, with his horselike head, over his shoulder and onto the ground. These others—men in women’s clothing?—applaud the bout. I think this figure holds a circlet of leaves to crown the victor.”

  “Cybele’s spring ritual,” I murmured. “They enacted it every year when her lover was reborn. They used to…Well, never mind the details.”

  “If you look closely, you can see similar forms in the border—look here and here.”

  The border was intricate. Its scrolls and twists and spirals embellished not only the little squares and triangles that made up the tree puzzle, but also images of men and animals. The colors were vivid: rich strong blue, vibrant red, a touch of gold leaf here and there, a deep olive green. “In this picture,” Stoyan said, “a woman converses with a cat. The creature has one blue and one yellow eye. In the next is a hawk-headed man swinging from a rope and a dog-faced one waiting to catch him.”

  “Maybe the spring ritual involves a series of tests.” I peered at the tiny image. “You know, strength, agility, and wit or something like that.”

  “I wonder if—”

  The words seemed to freeze on Stoyan’s lips. When I glanced at him, he was staring at me with such horror that I looked over my shoulder to see if a monster had suddenly appeared. Irene and most of her group had gone inside the house, leaving only two women sitting farther along the colonnade quietly reading. Stoyan had turned ghostly white, his eyes like saucers.

  “Wh—” I began, and a moment later had the sensation of floating out of my body, as if in a dream, so that I was looking down on my own seated figure and that of my companion from some point in the air above myself. But the person on the chair was not Paula in her demure gown and headscarf. It was a woman clad all in black, seated exactly where I had been a moment ago and fixing her lovely violet-blue eyes on Stoyan. Her embroidery trailed across her knees. On its surface, girls danced in a line. The fourth was slim and pale with wavy brown hair and spectacles on a chain around her neck: myself, executed in neat stitches. As for the real Paula, I was no longer part of the world of Irene’s house but in some other realm, held separate until Tati had said or done whatever it was she needed to.

  “Where’s Paula?” Stoyan’s voice was a strangled whisper. “What have you done with her?” He was reaching for the knife at his belt. “Answer me!”

  Frozen, suspended, I could not speak. I could not tell him to be calm and wait.

  “Listen to me!” my sister said. As she spoke, Stoyan whipped the knife out of its sheath and stood up, blade ready to strike. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Every part of me was screaming to intervene, to stop him from doing something terrible, to warn Tati…. And yet I knew I could not. The powerful charm that held me immobile would not be released until this had unfolded in its own way. Along the colonnade, the two women now stood frozen, staring. One had her book clutched defensively to her chest.

  “What is this?” Stoyan hissed. His voice shook, but he held the weapon perfectly steady. “What do you want with us?”

  “You have to listen, Stoyan,” said Tati, and she slipped the veil from her face so he could see that she was young and beautiful and as pale as frost on the hawthorn. “I can’t stay long and I’m not allowed to talk to Paula, not properly; it’s one of the rules. Each of us has a quest to fulfill, you and Paula and I. If you succeed, you will earn three rewards: one for courage, one for steadfastness, one for openness. Earn them well. Use them well. And please keep my sister safe.”

  “Your—” Stoyan began, lowering the knife slightly, and a moment later I felt myself descending, becoming flesh and blood again, and there I was sitting at the table, looking up into his face and trying to still my trembling hands.

  “I…I saw her,” I stammered. “I could hear her. But I was somewhere else…. Stoyan, sit down, you look as if you’re about to faint.”

  “Paula!” He reached out a hand, touched my arm, my hair. He was as shocked as I was. “You are safe, unhurt? By all the saints…I do not know what to say.” He sheathed the knife, glancing along the colonnade at the women, who were now conferring with apparent urgency. I imagined them running to Irene or to Murat and telling a tale of how my bodyguard had been waving weapons around on the premises. I didn’t know exactly what they’d seen, but I’d need to reassure them or this could become very unpleasant.

  “I’m sorry,” I called, getting to my feet. My legs would scarcely hold me. “My guard thought he heard an intruder in the garden. Please don’t be alarmed.”

  The women did not look convinced.

  “Are you sure you are safe, kyria?” one of them asked in halting Greek. “It seemed…” She glanced at Stoyan. “I thought the young man meant to harm you. That was the way it looked. Should I call Kyria Irene?”

  Stoyan gathered himself, bowed respectfully, and called something to them in Turkish, his tone placatory.

  “Really, we’re fine,” I added. As the women seated themselves once more, I lowered my voice. “Stoyan, that was my sister,” I told him. “Tatiana. I thought you were going to kill her.” Something occurred to me; something odd. “What language was she speaking?” I asked. I had understood her and so, it seemed, had Stoyan. Since Tati had never learned Greek, that ruled out the only tongue Stoyan and I had in common. Had she spoken in the strange language of the Other Kingdom, universally understood yet so ephemeral we could never remember it in our own world? It shocked me to recognize how far my eldest sister had drifted away from her old life.

  “That doesn’t matter, Paula. We should leave right away. This is dangerous. What if you ha
d not come back? If these forces draw you into another world, a realm beyond the earthly and human, I cannot follow you there.”

  “It sounded as if Tati expected you to do just that. She was giving you a mission to accomplish. You are involved whether you like it or not. The fact that you could see her and those women couldn’t proves it. If they’d noticed me disappearing and being replaced by someone completely different, they certainly wouldn’t still be sitting along there.”

  “I have a mission: protecting you while you are here in Istanbul. My instructions do not extend to dealing with manifestations like this. Against such a threat, I have no weapons.”

  “I think Tati was saying you do. Courage, steadfastness, and openness. Those are the weapons you need.”

  “For what? Why does this sister not tell us plainly what is required of us?”

  I thought of Drǎgua, the witch of the wood. “She may not know,” I said. “The folk of the Other Kingdom never play simple games. If she could meet us properly and explain it clearly, she would have no need to appear and disappear or to remove me while she spoke to you. Perhaps she’s not very good at these manifestations yet. I mean, six years ago she was an ordinary human girl like me. But the longer she stays in that other world, the more like its inhabitants she becomes. That’s why her sweetheart, Sorrow, can never come back—he was taken by the Night People when he was only about ten and now he’s…different. The quest they set for him was extremely difficult. That’s the way these things work: The greater the reward to be won at the end, the harder the mission. Quests can win people happiness, peace, knowledge. The stakes are high, because these missions affect many lives—they can alter the course of history. In the process, people can get badly hurt. They can die.”

  “You cannot be saying that our paths are set down for us by these beings?” Stoyan sounded deeply troubled. “They sound capricious. I cannot believe my destiny is in the hands of such wayward creatures. What of God? Or, indeed, of gods in general, Cybele included? Do these forces work together, or do they wage ceaseless wars, with human souls as the price?”

  “I can’t answer that. All I know is that we have our own quest, you and I. And Tati. I don’t know how it all fits together. Maybe it won’t make sense until the end.”

  “What if we will not play this game?”

  I shivered. “When it happened to our family before, we would have lost everything if Jena hadn’t played, and played well. I don’t know where this is leading us, Stoyan. But I must go on. I can’t ignore Tati. She’s my big sister.”

  “Paula,” said Stoyan, a new note in his voice. He was looking at the miniature of Cybele, his eyes narrowed.

  “What?”

  “See there,” he murmured, pointing. “Your goddess bears some writing on her skin.”

  The squat figure stared out with her enigmatic smile and her blank eyes, hands on hips, legs crossed beneath her generous body. Stoyan was right. If I looked very closely through my spectacles, I could just make out that what had seemed to be a vine or cord flowing across her belly and around her hip was in fact a stream of minuscule writing.

  “I wonder what it says,” I murmured. “I don’t recognize the style of letters at all. It must be something very old. Or a code of some kind. This is so frustrating! Bits of clues, half signs, hints and suggestions, but nothing to tie it all together.”

  “She said—your sister—that she could not explain it to you. Why would that be, Paula?”

  “It’s typical of the Other Kingdom. A witch used a spell of silence on our second cousin Costi a few years ago. It was pretty cruel. It meant he couldn’t explain to Jena who he really was. By the time he got his voice back, they were so angry with each other they weren’t talking anyway. It did all get sorted out eventually—they’re husband and wife now. There’s always a reason for the use of these charms.”

  “What reason could there be for allowing your sister to speak to me but not to you, Paula?”

  “I could think of a few. To show you that you are part of all this, that you can’t hide behind your status as a hired guard. To make my quest harder for me and Tati’s for her. The folk of the Other Kingdom make us suffer so we learn our lesson better. Whatever lesson it is. I hope I find that out soon, because I hate it when I can’t make sense of things.”

  “How long do you wish to stay here? The Mufti’s party may be finished at the han by now.” Stoyan was looking seriously unsettled; I could see he was longing to leave.

  “We need to stay a little longer at least. Irene would think it impolite if we rushed off, and if those women tell her you were waving knives around, we might face some awkward questions. Stoyan, I wonder if Irene could translate that tiny writing?”

  “You do not believe this may be in some way secret?” Stoyan offered this with diffidence.

  “The manuscript does belong to Irene,” I pointed out. “Now that she’s told me she knows about Cybele’s Gift, there seems no risk in asking her. I won’t mention the vanishing inscription—‘Find the heart’ and so on. I think that probably is something I’m not supposed to share with anyone.”

  “You shared it with me.”

  “That’s different,” I said.

  I waited until Irene came out to suggest coffee before showing her the manuscript. As soon as Irene appeared, Stoyan moved down into the garden, where the rain had eased off again. He stationed himself just far enough away so he would not be able to overhear our conversation. My hostess bent over the table, dark eyes sharp with interest as she examined the manuscript. I heard her suck in her breath.

  “Astonishing,” she murmured, “that such a piece was in my collection and I did not know…. You found this quite by chance in one of the boxes?”

  “That’s right.” It was clear from her expression that she had never seen this before. “I have a strong feeling that it’s an image of Cybele. But of course I can’t translate the words, neither this part on the figure nor the main text of the manuscript. I was hoping you might be able to help.”

  “I do not recognize this alphabet at all, Paula.” Irene moved her graceful fingers over the miniature, not quite touching the band of tiny letters. “But I can translate the main text for you, of course. And the name of your earth goddess is certainly here. Let me see….”

  It was an account of the death of Cybele’s lover, Attis, a tale full of high emotion. Irene’s voice quivered as she rendered it, as if the scenes of blood and sorrow were unfolding right before her eyes. I’d been right about the other sheet, with the pictures of strange games. It concerned the goddess’s spring ritual, held to celebrate the rebirth of this lost lover. Just before the writer described the actual details of the ceremony, Irene reached the end of the fragment.

  “Fascinating!” my hostess exclaimed. “What a remarkable find, Paula! And how extraordinary that you were the one to stumble on this when your father is on the brink of acquiring this artifact…. I cannot believe it.”

  I could hardly point out that I was sure forces from the Other Kingdom were putting clues in my path. “Yes, it is quite surprising,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I had been hoping there might be some information about Cybele here, something that could come in useful. I’m happy that I found this.”

  “Thank you for doing so—I must make cataloging the rest of these papers a priority, I can see. If you remain in Istanbul a little, maybe you would assist me.”

  “I’d be happy to do so.” Flattering as this was, it was starting to look unlikely that I’d have the opportunity. Whatever quest the powers of the Other Kingdom wanted me to complete, I doubted very much that it would involve cataloging.

  Over coffee, Irene questioned me on what I planned to wear to the supper and how I would dress my hair—she suggested putting it up so I would look older. I found it difficult to show interest in such matters. Stoyan was looking worried, and I was feeling confused. Tati’s words to Stoyan had suggested urgency; the supper was tonight. And still I couldn’t put the pieces tog
ether. I believed in the mission. I believed we had a task to accomplish. I just hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer before I worked out what it was.

  It was nearly time for the midday call to prayer when we got back to the han, and the Mufti’s party was long gone. It seemed they had not discovered anything of interest, though their search had been extremely thorough. Father and Stoyan spent a good part of the afternoon restoring order in the chamber where our remaining cargo was stored, while I tidied up the living quarters, which had been turned upside down. It looked as if even my storage chest had been searched. I did not like the thought of those guards handling my clothing and my little personal things. Nothing seemed to be missing. Father did not say where he had hidden his papers, but they were safe. He had been a merchant for many years and knew how these things were done.

  The invitation to the blue house had said we should be there as soon as convenient after the evening call to prayer. Timing was everything. To arrive early was impolite. To be late was to give the other merchants an advantage, for whoever reached Barsam’s house first might gain a brief opportunity to speak with the Armenian in confidence. As it happened, all the merchants had the same idea, so we arrived en masse. The exception was Duarte da Costa Aguiar, who, with his usual flair, had managed to get there before anyone else. He was seated cross-legged on a cushion in the courtyard, chatting with our host to the accompaniment of murmuring fountains. Lanterns cast a warm light over the stone pillars and soft greenery of the enclosed space. Discreet servants, all male, moved about silently. There had been armed guards outside the gates. Before they had let us in, we had been required to answer a set of questions to prove our identity.

  Barsam rose to greet us. He was wearing an embroidered caftan of pearly gray silk; his hair and beard matched the fabric. When my father introduced me in Greek, the Armenian murmured a greeting in the same tongue. I responded courteously, thanking him for his hospitality. The moment Barsam turned to speak to Irene, Duarte took my hand, bowed over it, then with a look in his eyes that was plain mischievous drew me away from the group of folk exchanging pleasantries.