"You tell the others I was not worthy of her." As the Directrix's mouth fell open, he pointed his finger at her. "That's a goddamned order. You tell them... she is too good for me. I want her elevated to a special rank... I want her f**king enshrined, do you understand me? You do right by her or I'll bust this place into ruins."
While the Directrix's mind clearly scrambled, he helped her sort shit out by reminding her, "This is my world here. I call the shots, do I not. I'm the strength of the goddamn race, so you do what I tell you. Now nod."
When she did, his chest eased up. "Good. Glad we agree. Now, do we need to do another ceremony?"
"Ah... ah, when you said the words t-to Cormia, you bound yourself to all of us." She put her hand on her medallion again but this time he had a feeling it wasn't with joy. More like she needed a little reassurance. "When will you... be coming here to stay?"
He thought of Bella's pregnancy. He couldn't miss the birth, and with the way things stood between him and Z, he might not even be told. "Not for a while. Could be up to a year."
"Then I shall send the first of them to you on the far side, shall I?"
"Yeah." He turned away from the nursery, feeling like he still needed more air. "Listen, I'm going to walk around a bit."
"I'll tell the others to leave you to your privacy."
"Thanks, and I'm sorry for being such a hard-ass." He paused. "One last thing... I want to talk to Cormia. I'm going to tell her."
"As you wish." The Directrix bowed low. "I shall need a couple of days to ritually prepare - "
"Just let me know when you're sending one of them over."
"Yes, your grace."
When she left, he stared out over the white landscape, and after a moment, the expanse changed before his eyes, shifting into another view entirely. Gone were the well-ordered, colorless trees and the grass that looked as if it were covered in fine snow. Instead, he saw the choked gardens of his family's home back in the Old Country.
Out behind the vast stone house he'd grown up in, there had been a walled-off garden about two acres in size. Split into quadrants by pebbled walkways, it had been intended to showcase specimen plantings and offer a place of natural beauty to calm the mind. The masonry wall that corralled the landscape had been marked by four statues at its corners, the figures reflecting the stages of life, from an infant in his father's arms, to a strapping young male standing on his own, to that male holding a young in his own arms, to him seated in his aged wisdom with his grown son standing behind him.
When the garden had first been constructed, it must have been truly elegant, a real showplace, and Phury could imagine the joy of his parents as they had looked over its splendor as newly mateds.
He had known none of the perfections promised in the fine bones of the layout. What he had seen of the garden had been only the chaos of neglect. By the time he was old enough to be aware of his surroundings, the beds were overgrown with weeds, the reflection benches were wading in algae water, and grass had overtaken the walkways. Saddest to him were the statues. Ivy tangled around them, consuming them more thickly each year, the leaves obscuring more and more of what the sculptor's hand had wanted to show.
The garden was the visual representation of his family's ruination.
And he had wanted to fix it. All of it.
After his transition, which had nearly killed him, he had walked away from the shambles of the family home, and he could remember the leaving as clearly as he saw in his mind that wretched garden. The night of his departure had been marked by an October full moon, and he had packed some of his father's old, fine clothes by its brilliant light.
Phury had had only a loose plan: to pick up on the trail his father had let grow cold. On the night of Zsadist's abduction, it had been clear which nursery maid had taken the young, and Ahgony, as any father would, had gone after her with a vengeance. She had been smart, however, and he had found nothing concrete until about two years thereafter. Following tips and leads and the ramblings of gossips, the Brother had scoured the Old Country and eventually located Zsadist's baby blanket in the things of the female - who had died only a week prior.
The near miss was just another page in the tragedy.
It was at that point that Ahgony had been informed that his young had been picked up by a neighbor and sold into the slavery market. The neighbor had taken the money and run, and though Ahgony had gone to the nearest slave dealer, there were too many parentless infants being bought and traded to track Zsadist down.
Ahgony had given up and gone home and started to drink.
As Phury prepared to take up his father's search, it seemed appropriate to wear the suits and silks of his elder. Important, too. Appearing the penniless gentleman would make it easier to infiltrate the great houses, which were where slaves were held. In his father's old wardrobe, Phury could be just another well-mannered vagrant, looking to pay for his keep with his wit and his charm.
Dressed in twenty-five-year-old fashion, and with a battered leather clothing case in his hand, he'd gone to both of his parents to tell them what he was doing.
He knew his mother was in her bed in the basement of the house, because that was where she lived. He also knew she wouldn't look at him as he entered. She never did, and he hadn't blamed her for that. He was the exact replica of the one that had been stolen, the walking, talking, breathing reminder of the tragedy. That he was an individual and separate from Zsadist, that he mourned the loss as she did because he'd been missing half of himself ever since his twin had been taken, that he needed nurturing and caring, was beyond her because of her own pain.
His mother had never touched him. Not once, even to bathe him when he had been young.
After knocking on her door, Phury had been careful to tell her who it was before he entered so she could brace herself accordingly. When she didn't answer, he opened the door and stood in her doorway, filling the jamb with his newly transitioned body. As he'd told her about what he was going to do, he wasn't sure what exactly he expected from her, but he got nothing. Not a single word. She didn't even lift her head from her tattered pillow.
He'd closed the door and gone across the way to his father 's quarters.
The male had been out cold, dead drunk among the bottles of cheap ale that kept him, if not sane, then at least non compos mentis enough not to think too much. After trying to rouse him, Phury had scribbled a note, left it on his father's chest, then gone upstairs and out of the house.
Standing on the pitted, leaf-strewn terrace of the family's once-grand house, he had listened to the night. He knew there was a good possibility he would never see his parents again, and he was worried that the one doggen who remained would either die or get injured. And then what would they do?
Staring out over the majesty that had once been, he sensed his twin was somewhere in the night, waiting to be found.
As a streak of milky clouds drifted free of the moon's face, Phury had searched deep in himself for some kind of strength.
Verily, a low voice had said inside of his skull, you could search until a thousand morns arrive, and even find the breathing body of your twin, yet it is certain you shall not save what cannot be rescued. You are not up to this task, and moreover, your destiny decrees that you shall fail no matter the goal, as you bring with you the curse of the exhile dhoble.
It was the wizard speaking for the first time.
And as the words sunk into him, with him feeling far too weak for the journey ahead, he took his vow of celibacy. Looking up to the great shining disk in the blue-black sky, he'd sworn to the Scribe Virgin that he would keep himself apart from all distractions. He would be the clean and focused savior. He would be the hero who brought his twin back. He would be the healer who resurrected the sad, tangled mess of his family and returned them to their former state of health and beauty.
He would be the gardener.
Phury came back to the present as the wizard spoke up. But I was right, was I not? Your parents both died early and in misery, your twin was used like a whore, and you're a head case.
I was right, wasn't I, mate.
Phury refocused on the eerie white expanse of the Other Side. It was so perfect, everything in order, nothing out of bounds. The white tulips with their white stems stayed within their beds around the buildings. The trees didn't breach the forest's edge. There wasn't a weed to be seen.
He wondered who mowed their lawn, and had a feeling the grass, like all the rest of it, just grew that way.