Sharon Mock - Attar of Roses.pdf - Sharon Mock - widez2

The shadow of my father's citadel falls over me and still I tremble. Still I

look perpetually over my shoulder as though you follow me, you who are

banished from this land forever. In my fever I think that it is you who dries

the leaves on the trees, blows away the petals of the rose. But no, it is only

autumn, nothing more.

My father will be heartbroken. And you, you cannot lend me words to explain

what I have done.

They say that when I was born, blossoms spread on the rose bushes outside my

mother's birthing chamber. They say that where I step, blood-red petals spring

from the earth. The first, my father tells me, is a legend. The second has

been known to happen on occasion, though only by my design.

I was born deep in the northern mountains, far from the great confederacies,

where my father nurtured his magic without interference. His was the power of

earth, roots of stone and springs of water. My gifts, on the other hand, were

merely decorative—grace and beauty and youth forever born anew in spring.

Sorcerers traveled from the tradelands to court me, Rosalaia, Blossom of the

North. I would have none of them. My father sent them all away. Far better for

me to grant my grace at my father's side, take my consorts from the young men

of the city, make our land a well-defended paradise.

For centuries I believed that this was the life for which I was intended.

My father hated the west. Great sorcerers ruled great nations through conquest

and slavery, not the treaties and alliances that governed our more civilized

lands. He never spoke of the reasons for his enmity, so I assumed the lords

had offended him in some way.

We could not afford to abolish all intercourse with the western nations. When

caravans and emissaries arrived at our citadel, I was banished to my chambers,

forbidden to set eyes on the barbarians. But I knew the secret passages of my

father's citadel at least as well as he did, and when I tired of my ignorance

I slipped out to catch sight of one of these westerners for myself.

I needed no lantern to navigate the darkness. I had played here often enough

as a child, and used the passages when I wished to go down to the city, though

my father would not have cared if I had left by the front door. As though by

instinct I found myself at the ledge that overlooked the audience chamber.

The spyhole was camouflaged within the whorls of my father's throne, so I had

a perfect view of the westerner. He had not the courtesy to clean himself

before the audience. He wore traveling clothes dull with dirt, and his

yellow-white hair clung to his narrow head. He spoke of grain monopolies in a

tedious drone, and my father responded with far more courtesy than the man

deserved.

Then, as my father consulted with his minister, the westerner's gaze came to

rest on the throne. It was as though our eyes met, though reason said he could

not see me. Still my heart rushed and pounded, my knees gave way, and I had to

wait until my strength returned before I could retreat to my chambers again.

I should have known, even then. The citadel obeys my father's will. He could

have kept me in my rooms, the very stones locking me away. Yet only now do I

realize he cared not what I saw, as long as I remained unseen. All he wanted

was to keep me hidden from you.

That winter a solitary emissary came to our citadel bearing a seeing-stone.

When my father gazed into it, he saw a path of fresh green grass cutting

through the snow, a constellation of southern armies set upon it.

You knew of my existence, the girl who made the roses bloom. Even in the

civilized east, the Avenarch had many allies. You asked for my hand in

marriage, and made certain my father could not refuse.

My father came to me with the terms you had set. His eyes were red, his face

worn and polished as river stone. He had aged a hundred years since I had

greeted him that morning. He lay the scroll in my lap and shook his head. "You

don't have to do this, my daughter," he told me in a voice stung with grief.

I read over the scroll, the promises of extravagant dowry, and did not

understand.

"You could flee. Across the ocean, where his agents...."

"Why should I flee?"

"Look to the west, beyond the mountains. See the powers that lie in that

accursed realm. Then you'll understand."

I did as my father bade. Shut my eyes, let my perception travel westward along

root and bough, out of my father's holdings, through snowbound passes and wild

forest. The sweet scent of loam and sap took on a cloying edge, the promise of

rot. Rosalaia. The wind whispered my name like petals on silk. Come to me. Let

me look at you.

Fear overcame my arrogance then, and I opened my eyes. The smell of dead roses

clung to the back of my throat.

"It is a travesty," my father said. "I would not give you to him for all the

world."

"Then why don't you send him away like the others?"

With trembling hands my father passed the seeing-stone to me. I saw, then, and

knew what would happen if he refused you. Your eastern agents would kill him,

claim our holdings and our powers for their own. Then—and here was a message

intended not for my father but for me, and only having heard your whispered

voice could I perceive it—then your agents would hunt me down and bring me

back to you, to serve not as betrothed but as slave.

I looked up from the stone, into my father's face. "I will go to him." I kept

my voice steady, full of solemnity and sorrow. Yet my heart leapt with

exultation. Here was what I had been born for, here was the life that awaited

me, rich and decadent, flowers twining in the bones of a corpse.

He shut his eyes, pressing back tears, valiant as stone. He handed me a golden

locket, and out of respect I did not open it, as much as I desired to see your

face. He turned from me, stopped at the doorway, hands grabbing the lintel.

"He has outlived dozens of wives, my daughter," he said. "Do not think you'll

be the exception."

On the day I was to leave my father's citadel, word came that you were dead.

Another sorceress had slain your body, sundered your spirit, set herself up as

queen in your place. My father wept for joy at the news. I did not weep, not

in my father's presence, lest he perceive the nature of my tears.

I knew I should have been glad for my reprieve, for your love would have

consumed and destroyed me. You never promised me anything different. But you

had chosen me, plucked me from my father's vine, whispered to me secretly

through those long nights. I slept with

your locket under your pillow to dream of your fair face. With you gone, my

purpose was gone as well.

Decades passed. The sorceress who had murdered you in turn let her own life be

forfeit, gave the land over to men without magic. The new regime banished all

sorcery, replaced true power with common machines. Many refused to deal with

such barbarians, but my father had no such scruples. He was happy to trade

with the west, now that my betrothed posed no threat.

The breach of my engagement changed me. I was no longer the first blush of

spring but the decadence of midsummer, bees among the roses, fruit ripe on the

vine. My step was heavy, and the scent of crushed petals lingered as I

passed.

One midsummer there came another man from the west. He was nothing like you, a

trader and a trader's son, not a thimbleful of power in him. Yet he was

handsome enough, bright and cheerful. My every movement fascinated him. He was

in love with magic, drunk on it,

as only those born outside its grasp can be.

I let Parlan woo me, encouraged him with fair words and smiles, let my heart

warm with the thought of his presence. He knew nothing of my true age or

nature. Never did I speak of you to him. Enough that he knew I had been once

betrothed, widowed before I wed. I could not tell him that my betrothed had

died in his grandfather's day, that his homeland made a holiday of your

annihilation.

When the time came for him to return to his homeland, he asked me to come away

with him. I agreed, let him spirit me away in the night. I told myself I was

lonely, too lonely to spare a thought for my father. My heart had been sworn

to the west, I had to see for myself the fate I had escaped. I must have known

I lied to myself, even then, but the truth was too shameful to admit.

Parlan promised me his hand in marriage. I knew the offer was empty, even if

he did not. His family had power and standing; he'd not be allowed to marry a

woman from the sorcerous East. But I said nothing, for I wished my lover to

see me as less than what I was.

As soon as we approached within ten leagues of my lover's homeland I

understood why he had fallen for me so. The air stunk of smoke and oil, and

the sun's rays struggled weakly through the cloudless sky. Trees dropped

leaves and branches, crops grew pale and lanky

as though starved of energy. Animal carcasses littered the ditches, feeding

unfamiliar and misshapen vermin. Of course, I thought. You had drawn your

strength from the currents of nature, just like me. Your murder had turned

this land against itself.

I did not know. I was still innocent. I had no way to see the truth.

At night I wept despite myself, wept at the thought of being trapped in this

blighted land. I told Parlan it was homesickness. Close enough to the truth. I

had lived too long in my father's artificial paradise. I'd grow accustomed to

this place in time.

I never did meet the man who was supposed to become my father-in-law. Parlan

set me up in an apartment in a fashionable district of the city and went to

share the good news. He returned, predictably, in tears, one cheek red. "He

won't hear of it. He says he'll disown me! Oh, Rosalaia, my only love, I will

do right by you, I swear it, I'll find work, I'll—"

I placed my hand on his cheek to silence him, to guide his handsome face

toward mine. "Hush," I said. "You will not lose me. You need not think of my

honor. Don't you see, I gave

it all up when I followed you?"

He wept and cursed, but in the end his courage did not match his intentions.

His father set up a hasty marriage to a woman below his station, one who could

not afford to dishonor even a loveless marriage of convenience. In exchange

for this public show of respectability

Parlan was allowed to keep me as his mistress. I cared nothing for my

reputation, nor for the gifts my lover brought to assuage his guilt. It was a

small price to pay for being here, in this

hateful city that would have—should have—been our shared domain.

It was the cusp of autumn when the stranger came to my door. A woman as tall

as a man, dressed in a plain gray suit, dark hair unfashionably short. Even

for a westerner she kept close self-possession, so that I could not read the

simplest thing about her. But I was not easy to intimidate, and I greeted her

with an innocuous smile.

"You are Rosalaia?" the woman asked, her harsh intonation robbing my name of

all poetry.

"I am. Have we been acquainted? For I fear—"

"We have not."

Surely she was an agent of my lover's father, come to send me home. I stood

aside and let the woman enter. She stepped only far enough to allow the door

to close, then looked me over with eyes of a blue so pale they might as well

have had no color at all.

"Why are you here?" she asked me.

I cast my eyes downward. "I realize I have been too foolish and too forward,"

I murmured, my accent thicker than I usually allowed it. "Forgive me. I have

been in love. Surely you must understand this."

I'd meant it as a stupid aside, the words of a coquette. Yet the woman stared,

cold and sharp, as though I'd touched truth. It made no sense; this was not

somebody to be made the fool by love.

"This isn't a place for you, princess. You should go home."

Princess? What had Parlan said about me? Didn't he understand the danger? "You

mistake me—" I began.

"No. I do not." As she spoke she let her self-control loosen so that I might

see what lay beneath. Energy, subdued, controlled. Iron and fire and human

will, each in precisely measured components. The woman before me was a

sorceress in her own right. And her skill

and power put my own to shame.

I gave up playing at innocence. "I don't understand."

"There is a reason," she said, "why sorcery has been abolished in this land.

You might believe it is to protect the powerless from those who would exploit

them. But perhaps it is to protect the sorcerers from themselves. Go home,

Rosalaia. You've seen what the Avenarch did to this land. There's nothing for

you here."

I looked at her curiously. Did she know of my history? The sorceress who had

overthrown the Avenarch was dead, executed under the new laws of this nation.

But sorcerers are notoriously difficult to kill.

"And if I choose to stay?"

She shut her eyes, and when she opened them again, she no longer met my gaze.

"Then I suppose I'll clean up after you when you're done."

The years in that blighted land passed long as centuries. I saw my lover more

and more seldom, and out of respect for him I took no other man. He had given

me what I wanted, and I had only myself to blame if I was dissatisfied with

the results. The words of the western sorceress lingered in my mind. I could

not say why her visit had aroused such fear. Yet I dared not indulge myself

even with flowers in winter, lest I draw suspicion.

After several years my lover came to me, his eyes red with the tears that came

so naturally to him. "My wife is with child," he told me.

I turned away. I knew he lied. He'd tired of the forbidden and exotic, that

was all. To be thrown aside for a common woman stung my pride. But the poison

of the land had taken hold of my veins, and I could not stir myself to anger.

"Go to her," I said. "She needs you now."

"Rosalaia," he gasped. "I'm so sorry—"

I had no doubt. Pity tempted me to turn and comfort him. He'd never been

strong of will, even at his best. He'd be better off without me.

I was grateful to him, I realized, grateful even for the lie. He had set me

free. My thoughts grew clear again, and I knew what I had come to this land to

do.

Would you not think they would make the site of your downfall a monument, the

spot where your blood soaked the soil a place of pilgrimage? They have not.

Instead they have locked it away, set guards around the perimeter to keep your

legacy inviolate.

Sharon Mock - Attar of Roses.pdf

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