The Lioness of Shadi

28 - The Prince of the Closed Fist

Grief stayed with Ilati like a ball of thorns in her chest, every movement sending a new lancing thought of pain through her being. Eigou's bandage over the burned writing on her arm did nothing to salve her heart. She'd even tried leaving the bed for the sunlit gardens attached to the visitor's quarters in the hopes that golden light would ease the shadows, but they followed her wherever she went, growing as the shade of the setting sun spread. Her eyes burned every time she thought of her mother's tortured spirit, unshed tears building without falling.

What daughter is so cruel that she could do such a thing to her mother?

Ilati sat curled on one of the benches under a citron tree, its straggling branches and evergreen leaves offering shade even as its almost-ripe green-to-yellow fruits weighed it down. She remembered a tree like it in Shadi's famed hanging gardens and the way servants would take leaf and fruit alike to put among her family's clothes to keep away moths. As a little girl, she loved the scent and would bury her nose in her mother's dresses just for the smell. The fruit was bitter, but a powerful antidote for poison, as it would make someone retch miserably and bring up any toxin swallowed.

The priestess rose unsteadily and plucked a single leaf from the tree, crushing it in her hand to release the smell: sharp and citrus, fragrant and clean. So many joys of that old life were gone forever and even this haunted her with the reminder. Yet, how could she let go as the lone survivor?

Soon all that Shadi was would disappear in the minds of the world until it was nothing but a fable. The idea hurt Ilati more than she could possibly put into words. But what could she do? Weeping was beyond her. She cleared her throat slightly, the smell of the citron leaves stirring something in her. For the first time since Shadi's destruction, Ilati felt words rising in her heart. If she could not weep, she could sing her grief. The notes came spilling out like liquid gold, hanging suspended in the air like a spirit of sorrow itself. She needed no instrument, pure and as perfect in her pitch as she had ever been.

"You fade like amaranth severed from its stem,
more beautiful than any jeweled gem,
yet your daughter recalls as if yesterday
the gleam of gold across your doorway.

You fade, you fade, you fade.
Yet I remember, I remember, I remember.

You fade like scent of frankincense burned out,
like copper dreams of chained men lost in doubt,
yet your daughter recalls as if she just departed
emerald green of sweet barley freshly started.

You fade, you fade, you fade.
Yet I remember, I remember, I remember.

You fade like petals cast into sacred river
at merciless whims of current running silver,
yet your daughter recalls your beloved faces
and endlessness of your garden graces.

You fade, you fade, you fade.
Yet I remember, I remember, I remember..."

She sang of the broad avenues and countless joys she knew so well, the temple festivities, the vibrant life of her home: the potter's wheels, the forge hammers, the women singing to their children and lovers as they washed their laundry, the cries of merchants hawking wares, the delicate chimes and gongs of the priestesses as they honored their patron. This time, she did not linger in her bitterness towards Zu: she neglected the goddess altogether, because this was for her sisters, not the one who had abandoned them.

Ilati caught a soft sound from a side entrance to the garden and turned, her breath seizing in her chest as she ended the last note abruptly. She was no longer alone in the garden and it was not one of her companions intruding.