Chapter 20: Jadis
Fortune favors the ephemeral.
After my brother's acclamation as Emperor of Charn, he'd ridden the whirlwind. The goodwill of others, the favor of the army — these were the things that Ipamir's rule rested on. He'd forgotten that friends who give you the throne can just as easily take it away. Not a surprise, since Ipamir had never learned the talent of command…
…which is why they'd chosen him, of course.
But I was perfectly willing to help him, wasn't I? Charn's two clans were no obstacle. I handled the Cinxir and the G'Macalza for my brother. We won the Cinxir over with titles, offices, and lands; they became my brother's vassals. Naturally, the G'Macalza resented our favoritism. They rebelled as I'd expected them to, and I crushed them. Duly chastened, the patriarchs of the G'Macalza accepted our gifts and bound themselves to our service with spells and oaths. The clans had acclaimed too many Emperors for my taste, and frightened my brother as well. A timid boy, really, when not with his concubines.
But how could he repay me? Not with the Imperial lands. Our siblings wouldn't stand for that.
So I went to another sister, who died a few days later from Jugiza with a Falschin chaser that gave her prophetic visions before her body stopped working. Her name escapes me. In any event, she wanted Linshiol in the picture, so I ordered Ipamir to grant Linshiol another husband. It worked: Linshiol saw a chance to ally herself with Momao, my only talented brother. She sent him a marriage proposal.
In return for my "help", Linshiol sent me soldiers. I used them to seize the Nobloh Nanbah, with its endless fields of wheat and well-fed serfs. The soldiers of the Cinxir went unwillingly to their posts when we stormed the last bastion. I realized then that I couldn't trust them.
When I turned to conquer Ondoh, though, Linshiol barred my way.
Fine. I turned back to my new province and started reforms. The nobles there cared more about robbing their people than creating a strong state. That I could cure. I appointed a governor. He was an old soldier who'd bathed Charn's streets with G'Macalza blood; just the sort of man to make the Nobloh Nanbah's nobility scream. He did his job marvelously. Too well, in fact: my new subjects began to hate me for it. That, too, I could cure. After the purge, I set up a regular court of law and ordered my former governor decapitated in the town square and fed to the dogs. That satisfied the nobles.
When I received news that Momao's marriage negotiations with Linshiol had broken down, I sent a proposal of my own. Ipamir wouldn't survive much longer, and I needed to consolidate. With most of my internal enemies dead, I concentrated on the college of priests who would acclaim the next emperor. If I could just control the nomination process—
Ipamir died.
I scrambled. Momao had driven Linshiol from Charn proper, but that left me with a single province between two hostile armies. Worse, I fell ill. As the college of priests argued over the next emperor, I shivered under six layers of blankets and had feverish dreams where black-and-white cubes fought against old legends that had transformed into clouds. (Don't ask me why; I don't know). My own candidate lost the nomination just as my fever broke.
That left Momao's candidate and Linshiol's. Unfortunately, Momao chose that moment to get assassinated.
Time to negotiate.
The Temple of Tash declared a week long truce.
For as long as any Charnian could remember, the Temple had provided the emperors with magicians. Charn's priests controlled knowledge. It was as simple as that. Priests interpreted the law, wrote the histories, performed the surgeries, composed the poetry. (They also claimed that their spells could cause an army to wither, but I'd always dismissed this as sales talk).
Like all monopolies, the priesthood was at its strongest when the State was divided. They sold their disciples to the highest bidder, and with a succession war in full swing, even candidates who hadn't yet read the future in wrens' songs or in the movement of mists could fetch incredible prices. Princes came from across Charn for this. Most sat in special boxes despite the indoor venue, draped in gaudy silks and taffetas. Affa was among them, sitting somewhat awkwardly in a crowd of priests. Two feelings coursed through my younger body: bitterness and desire. My older self had outgrown both.
Careful with your money, Edmund. The old men are shysters, you know…
I'll manage, thanks.
I laughed.
Books hung on every wall, secured in leather satchels attached to pegs. Their covers hung open, revealing pages that blazed with color: woad, indigo, lapis lazuli, white lead, and yellow ochre. The covers were carved ivory. Unlike the Narnians, though, my people had enough taste not to inlay their manuscripts with gold. Most of the students made do with wax tablets.
Eustace would love this place…
Who?
A relative. Anthropologist's son.
What's a—
Never mind. Forget it.
We watched the debates first. Priests-in-training played word games. They argued in extemporaneous quatrains about the Powers Above, the demons that spoke to us through our weapons, the inviolability of oaths sworn on the wind and rain, and other pointless things. Younger candidates took notes. Two hundred styluses scratched tablets. The nobles yawned, ate figs, and stroked the hair of their concubines.
Finally, the magic began. The change was immediate; noblemen leaned forward, scratching their beards. As the priests closed one eye and recited the glám dichenn, their buyers appraised them with the same glances that they gave fighting birds. I felt excitement building in my chest, and remembered that I hadn't seen real magic in millennia. That, and I'd forgotten just how real my younger body could seem in the days before I'd bitten the Apple.
Unfortunately, Edmund chose that moment to catch my eye; he nodded toward an exit on the far side of the hall. I followed him. As we stepped through the doorway, I heard a bull scream as one of the priests spoke the aer over it.
Ah, well. Another time, perhaps.
We passed through a room for the youngest members of the Temple—the candidates who'd only just begun their twelve years of study, and who hadn't yet memorized the Three Hundred Stories. A lacquer slab hung at the front of the room, displaying the Charnian alphabet and each glyph's corresponding numerological information. A plate of pastries shaped into glyphs waited on a brass platter for the best students.
Edmund tapped Affa's fingers on the desk as he passed, running them along the rim of an inkpot carved from an ox's horn. He opened a second door that lead outside. I followed him to the Temple garden.
It was warm, unlike most of Charn's nights. The priests had let the garden grow wild, to remind the plants of the forests we'd cut them from. Rowan berries hung in red bunches for the younger candidates. Fungi of all sorts crawled up the bark while domesticated stoats poked their heads out from tunnels near the roots. Their eyes glowed purple from the tree spirits that possessed them—even the immobile spirits in trees enjoy getting out now and again, or so my tutors told me. The younger, stronger specimens patrolled near the jugiza, ready to kill the red moles that could feed on the plant without getting poisoned.
"Well…Affa?" I said.
"You've, um, wanted…me for a long time, haven't you?"
That feeling again: a sinking sensation in my chest. In the branches of a yew tree, a two-headed Sonf bird watched us. Its plumage stood out in the moonlight, feathers alternating between lavender and green like a checkerboard, except for the feathers on the long white neck that lead to its male and female heads. Zardeenah had fashioned Sonf birds from the mud in the Older Times as a symbol of fertility. Of all the birds in Charn, only the Sonf could bear young without mating.
What are you up to, little king?
He didn't reply. 'Affa' did, though.
"What if we could work something out?" he said.
I tried to laugh at him, but my younger self didn't cooperate. Her eyes widened. A thrill of something halfway between fear and hope flowed through our body. She was remembering the heady warmth of the air on another night. While I struggled to crush the feeling, she replied.
"What do you mean?"
He chewed his lip.
"You remember that time in the garden?" he said. "Where I read love poetry and you said—"
Aha!
Finally, I felt a surge of anger from my younger body. I answered for both of us.
"I know what I said," I snapped. "And you left us—me—for Linshiol."
"I had no choice. You know that."
…Which was true, and both of my selves knew it.
He shrugged. It was the sort of helpless gesture that Affa always managed to pull off perfectly. Artlessly. In the court of Charn, that was a rare thing indeed. My younger self was mollified slightly. I knew better. Affa was never the lovable clod I'd imagined him in my youth, and anyway, I knew who was pulling the strings. But if I was having trouble controlling my body, why wasn't Edmund…?
Affa giving you trouble, little king?
Not really. Seems he wants this as much as you did.
Liar.
The moonlight must have touched the laiad vines, since they began their nightly song. It sounded like a whispered sigh, yet musical for all that. They say that those who listen too closely give in to their desires: even as a child, I'd heard rumors about the swaying dances that the priests held in the moonlight under their spell.
I tried a different approach.
"Did Linshiol send you?" I said.
Edmund hesitated. Or Affa. Whoever he was.
"Not exactly."
Another spark of anger from my younger body. Goo-o-o-d. I could work with that.
"Ah," I said. "And you heel like a good little dog, don't you? Are you supposed to seduce me, then? Hm?"
I swaggered up to him and touched his cheek.
"You and Linshiol think I'd trade a night or two for the throne?" I said. "You are a fool if you believe I'll—"
"How long would it take you to beat Linshiol?" he said.
"I...what?"
He kept walking, and I followed him. We stepped through a small grove of hubar: tall plants with stalks a yard high, each carrying a bulb that glowed like a tiny green lamp. Generally friendly. They flickered cheerfully as we passed, and each in turn touched us with the Sight. It felt like a massage.
"How long?" he said. "Assuming you can gather up the wreckage from Momao in record time, I figure at least a year of campaigning. Add another to consolidate your rule here in Charn, and you've given us plenty of time to fortify Bramandin…which, incidentally, means you'll need one more year to assemble enough troops to take us out. Oh, and another campaigning season beyond that. And what if we win? "
"If you win, I'll use the Deplorable Word," I said.
"Exactly. And then I'll be dead."
A flurry of calculations ran through my younger self's mind. Purges, marches, countermarches, logistical magazines, army assembly. When I caught a wisp of her thoughts, I would have felt a tingle of fear—if I'd had control of our body. I didn't.
Affa's right…
Of course he's not! I snapped. This is Linshiol talking.
The suggestion bounced off like a rock against plate armor. Unfortunately, her connection with me was never conscious: my thoughts came as suggestions or possession, not dialogue. Her thoughts only seemed like a conversation because I interpreted it that way, and the process wasn't mutual. In any event, she pushed me to the outer edges of her mind. I heard her words as if they were spoken through water.
"Affa, are you…taunting me?"
"No," he said. "I'm suggesting an alternative."
My younger self jumped for the bait with nauseating eagerness. That she managed to maintain a nonchalant tone didn't give me any consolation.
"What do you have in mind?"
"How long d'you think Linshiol has?" he said.
"I…I'm not sure what you—"
"A few years," he said. "I've seen her horoscope. You'll get the throne either way."
Edmund, stop it!
Sorry. Can't.
By now, I'd managed to beat through most of the mental defenses in my way. I planted a whisper of suspicion. Unfortunately, she didn't keep it to herself.
"Prove it," I heard myself say.
Edmund/Affa spread his arms out, gesturing to the garden around us. In the yew tree's branches, the Sonf bird purred. Imagine a dove's coo, but more trilled.
"We're in the Temple, aren't we?" he said. "You know the formula: 'I swear by Tash, the Irresistible, the Ineffable. May I die if what I've said is false.'"
He didn't die, of course. A jolt of emotion I couldn't quite identify shot through my younger self, and my own panic added to it. She struggled to keep her voice level.
He's not Affa! I screamed.
"You're...telling the truth," she said.
Idiot! The real Affa died with Linshiol. He left you—Us! He's dead! They're all dead! They've been dead for—
"Yes," he said. "I'm telling the truth. So let's talk about this. Linshiol doesn't know that I'm meeting with you. If you allow her to take the throne, she'll live her remaining years believing she's won. Once you seize power, you and I…um…we could…"
It was delicious, really. Something I might have devised myself if I'd been Affa. And my younger self agreed. I'll give Edmund credit: the manipulative bastard had managed to strike just the right note. Oh, I'll grant you that Charn and Affa would have been tempting enough offers on their own, but the prospect of ascending the throne while my sister lay on her death bed thinking she'd beaten me…that was savory.
…And I would lose.
Except for one thing. My younger self narrowed her eyes.
"You'd betray her like that?"
"It's not betrayal," he said. "My wife wants the throne, and so does the woman that I…I love…well, that I've…always loved, I guess…"
— A brief spike of emotion here. The halting speech, the not-quite-obvious stammering, the awkward shyness that fit my expectations so well…I wondered why my younger self couldn't see it for what it was. My fault. My fault! Narnia's king had been dangerous enough without Affa's sixth sense about other people's emotions. And that human abacus knew just how to use his pawn, didn't he just? I kept beating at the walls of my younger self's subconscious. For all the good it did me, I might as well have rammed my head against Charn's main gates.
"…and anyway, I'm not going to let Charn get destroyed," he finished.
My thoughts merged with my other self again. A lever. At last, a lever. I grabbed it.
"So you're not doing this for me," I said. "It's for Charn, isn't it? Always the honorable one, weren't you, Affa?"
"I…"
"You've sworn that Linshiol's going to die," I said. "You haven't sworn that you love me."
Wriggle out of that, little king.
If Edmund wanted to swear the oath, he'd have to relinquish control and let Affa swear it. If Affa loved me in the first place, which I doubted, it would still take a few moments for Edmund to regain control. That would give me time to—
I saw a scowl spread across his face. Disgust?
A pause.
"I…do."
The reply had come quickly, and the mask never broke. Edmund had been planning it for a while, then, and regained control faster than I thought. Was I that predictable? Or perhaps—
Never mind. I already felt my younger self turning to gooey mush, and needed to concentrate on fighting it. I thought of my mother's death, and Iaida's, but the mind sharing my body hadn't been there when Tash had promised them to me. When I wasn't in direct control, she only felt my presence as a vague feeling. Instinct.
She brought herself closer to Affa's lips. Tentatively.
Edmund, stop this.
I'm afraid that's not possible.
…Please stop this.
Sorry.
Those feelings again: tingling lips, breath quickening, warmth, the sensation of melting into another person. All the other vile—
Linshiol would win. Edmund would win.
No!
She ignored me. Her heart hammered in our chest. Her tongue touched his. With my last ounce of willpower, I pushed through the barriers and shaped my warnings into thoughts. Or something close to thoughts.
He—Wait! I screamed. The Deplorable Word—Affa died on the same battlefield! Ask him for his own horoscope! You won't get him. Ask—
My younger self's thoughts wafted back to me in a lazy drawl.
Mmmm…What battlefield? What—Ahh…yes, that feels nice…don't…care…anyway…
We stopped.
Everything stopped.
A white rift tore through the center of the garden, and then the world began melting. The trees oozed onto the ground, and the ground flowed into an expanding sinkhole on the far side of the grove. Weasels, flowers, birds, and anything not deeply rooted spun through the air as if a whirlwind had caught them. The statues shimmered. They dissolved, and I felt myself dissolving with them.
I blinked.
Candlelight. Evening. I smelled the musty odor of old wicker and yew beams. I felt a chill, too, and squinted at a circular hole above us that must have been a chimney. The room was circular, I think. I nearly bumped into a support pole that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Narnia again.
That's when I realized what had happened. My chest constricted. I fought it down. As my vision adjusted, I walked toward a five-foot-ten-inch blob that became Edmund. He was still rubbing the sand from his eyes when I grabbed his throat and backed him against the wall.
"You hypocritical bastard," I hissed. "You want me, hm? Do you?"
I wiped a hand over my face and then smeared the kohl and rouge on Edmund's lips. My vision had cleared enough that I saw his eyes widen. And was I shouting…?
"I've seen your thoughts," I said. "Oh, yes! You think I haven't? Well, you bought me with my sister's life, didn't you? And my MOTHER'S? Aren't you going to take your prize, then, you disgusting little—"
Edmund cringed. For the first time in a long while, he reminded me of the boy who'd cowered in my dungeons. I savored it. Drank it in. I grabbed his hand roughly, ran it over my own cheek, and then down my shoulder to my hips. He was shaking. I drew close, next to his ear. Edmund pulled away. I didn't let go. Tash was hooting and clapping in the background. His four hands banged together like a small crowd.
"You think my dreams were bad before?" I whispered. "You'll never sleep again. I can promise you that. I'm going to give you nightmares like you wouldn't believe—"
"Tash!" Edmund said.
Tash's hooting ceased. That was what stopped me from expending what little power I had left to produce waking dreams until my reserves gave out and I faded into nothingness. Silence from the Deceiver. Involuntarily, my grip loosened.
"Eh?" Tash said. "You have Jadis, boy. What more do you want?...er… Not disappointed with the product, surely? Shall I—Mmmm….Aha! Ha!—Shall I prepare her for you, 'little king'? I'd ever so enjoy it."
It had seemed casual…at first. And then I realized that it was forced. But what…?
"You forgot to free her mother and Iaida," Edmund said.
Wait, what?
Edmund's voice had sounded soft and gargled. I released his throat completely, but never mind; Tash had heard it well enough. Tash's tongue flicked out like some frenzied earthworm and dappled his beak with saliva.
"Er…Come again?"
Edmund rubbed his throat and coughed. His voice sounded firmer now.
"You know what I mean," he said. "In the real Charn, Jadis killed everybody and Linshiol died before getting crowned, right?"
Tash looked away, and snorted.
"You're going to make me spell it out for you?" Edmund said. "Fine. Linshiol would have only lived a few years anyway, and if Jadis's magic hadn't killed her, something else would've. I gave her as much time on the throne as anybody in her situation could expect. As for Jadis, she didn't get the throne in the real Charn until Linshiol died anyway, did she? This way, she rules over living subjects. Both are better off."
Tash scraped the bottom barb of his beak into the roof of his mouth until it drew blood. Drops fell to the floor in a series of wet plats.
"If you think about it, they both won," Edmund said. "Except for Affa. Couldn't fix that, unfortunately. And since your agreement conditioned our prizes on winning rather than destroying the opponent..."
Silence. Tash's wheezing broke it. It might have been laughter, but I doubted it.
"Well," said Tash. "Mmm-hm-mmm. Enjoy my progeny, then…King Edmund."
Edmund actually paled. Under normal circumstances, it would have earned him an indignant slap, or something similar. Not now, though. Still innocent, that boy, and always in irritating ways.
Tash's beak clicked. He raised his eyefeathers, giving one of those odd smiles with his eyelids that looked like a wink. His hand twirled mock-dramatically in front of his face, wrist limp.
"Oh-h-h-h…" he said. "Dear me, boy. Haven't heard the rumors, hmmm...? Well! Let me enlighten you! They say there's demonish blood in the House of Charn, you know. Didn't think I had all my fun with the last generation, did you?"
When I opened my mouth to reply, Edmund held up a hand. I stopped.
"Later," Edmund said. "We'll discuss this later. Or never, preferably."
Tash's hand stopped twirling, and he swept it—along with the other three—across the ground in a low bow. He leered at me.
"Well…Goodbye, my dear," he said. "And good riddance, of course. You were fun while you lasted, I guess."
He turned to go. Tash's nails tick-tacked over the floor and rug, which they slashed as they passed. Gray stone peeked through the tear.
"Tash…" said Edmund.
The demon stopped at the door, patting the threshold with his palm. I noticed that Edmund was rolling a game piece from hand to hand. The Just King smirked. Through sheer force of will, probably.
"What?" Tash said.
"…You lose."
Tash's shoulders stiffened. He didn't turn around, but his claws tightened across the wooden frame. They dug four furrows with a harsh ripping sound, and the splinters tapped on the ground. And then Tash the Inexorable, the Irresistible, the Power Behind the Throne of the God-King…vanished. I noticed for the first time that my mouth was open.
Three seconds later, Edmund collapsed. He lay on his back on the bed, shuddering, and rubbed his hands over his body. Frantically, as if he was trying to kill ants that weren't there. I knew the feeling—tingling, only sharper; the sensation of something black and chalky in your bones that makes you want to peel off your skin and wring it out. He gagged, but couldn't vomit. With time, it would fade. It would never leave.
He stared at the floor, which was just as well, since I found that I couldn't meet his eyes. My own hands were shaking just as hard. I wiped off the rest of my makeup and waited until his breathing finally slowed. It took a long time before Edmund looked up, and when he did, it was a hollow sort of expression. His pupils hadn't yet shed the glassy look that came from staying too long in Charn's games. Dark rings had formed under them. I assumed that he expected me to say something, so I did.
"I…Edmund, that was—"
"Sorry," he said.
I narrowed my eyes.
"What?"
He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Kissing," he said. "Romance. Manipulation. Whatever you want to call that four-way telepathic mess. I'm sure it was as uncomfortable for you as it was for me, but I needed to...What?"
I must have stared at him for a good ten seconds before I rolled my eyes. I was too tired to laugh.
"Oh, certainly," I said. "Heavens forfend that you stoop so low as to kiss a woman."
Edmund tilted his head slightly to the side.
"Wait a moment…You don't—"
"I—Of course not," I said. "You're right, as usual. Disgusting but necessary. Thank you for ending it so soon."
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard Tash cackling.
Edmund frowned and deflated even further into the bed. He exhaled as he kicked his boots onto the table.
"Well," he said. "Much as I'm enjoying this windfall of ingratitude, I have a duel coming up and Fyren's probably going to kill me. I'd appreciate it if I could spend my last few hours alone."
I realized then that I'd miscalculated, and felt a sliver of regret. It didn't last long, of course, but…
"Edmund?"
"What?"
I paused at the door, running my hand along the frame before I turned back. The splinters from Tash's claws nicked my finger. Even spirits can't avoid the Dark One's handiwork.
"...Thank you," I said.
He shifted in his seat.
"You're welcome, I suppose."
I forced a smiled and dipped my head to the King of Narnia before closing the door. He deserved that much, at least. For the next few hours, his sleep was filled with nightmares, but they weren't mine.
The duel came the next morning.