Spiderwebs

Prologue to The Gamemakers

With their dark heads touching, sisters Marya and Darya were indistinguishable from one another. Long braids and moonlight limbs intertwined, and they resembled the long, bent legs of a spider. Their torsos were adorned in black brocade with large embroidered roses, like the great belly of a black widow.

The small girl-spider was caught in a web it did not create.

For once, Darya wept, and Marya was silent. Marya tried to soothe her sister. It was often the other way around. Marya cried about everything, for joy and for frustration and for sorrow, like when she got the first taste of rosemary winter cake during the holy days, and when she won or lost at chess. It took very little for the pressure of tears to form behind her eyes. She tried every day to harden herself but all the world had to do was push into her, just a bit, and the softness would spill out, like the chalky flesh of a bruised apple.

“Dasha, think about your birds,” Marya coaxed her sister. Few things made Darya smile like watching her falcons in flight, their giant wings casting shadows over their keeper.

Through thick tears Darya said, “Don’t call me Dasha anymore. Only Mama can call me Dasha.”

Marya sighed and stroked her sister’s arm. “Alright. You can still call me Masha.”

Darya furrowed her brows and narrowed her eyes at Masha’s stoicism. “How can you really believe she is with the Domov?”

Of all the things her sister had said to her, she’d never said anything with such scorn. Masha’s heart twisted in her chest. She couldn’t tell her sister that the gods spoke to her every night, that they responded to her prayers. She recalled their recent visit to her mind, even now; a sweet, delicate, young voice, promising that her mother had passed safely beyond the Veil, protected in the hands of the supreme leader, the Domov.

When she slept, Darya could feel soft hands stroking her hair. She knew that voice and those hands of her patron goddess, a young Domovina — Canan, the apprentice keeper of time, daughter of Time himself, and his wife, Sustenance. Canan and the Solomonova sisters were uniquely linked: they shared a birthday. For Marya, this strengthened their connection; the birth of twin princesses coinciding a new Domovin brought into the Pantheon was no mistake. The Elders had shared the story of this blessed event with Masha and her sister since they were old enough to understand. Every year on their birthday, they were shown the sacred stones — smooth, deeply colored oval stones in all shades, marked with various symbols of the Pantheon — that had revealed the omens, signifying the changes in the Pantheonic and earthly realms alike. 

Masha wanted to tell Darya that if she was quiet, and listened, the gods would speak to her, too. They would comfort her and envelop her in their care and share their secrets with her. For to be devout meant to be one with the gods, a mortal in the presence of magic.

She tried not to wonder why the stones couldn’t have warned the Elders about their mother’s sickness. She knew better than to wonder things like that. She tried not to think of Mama’s face, serene in death, young and unblemished still. Her heart twisted for her father, who now had to rule the empire alone without his beloved Emilya — an Empress who was fair, merciful, clever, a faithful servant of the Domov.

        Masha had nothing with which to console her sister as she sobbed into her shoulder. It was fruitless to draw stubborn Darya into the arms of her sacred religion, today of all days, when she felt nothing but betrayal and sorrow. Masha closed her eyes and prayed to Canan. Once she prayed for more time, more time with Mama in her final weeks of life, endless minutes and hours; today she prayed for less. She wanted the years to fly by to ease the sting of grief. She wanted the day to come where she’d be reunited with her mother. How was she supposed to live without her?

        She waited patiently for the soft hand to stroke her hair, to whisper in her ear. But for once, today of all days, her prayer went unanswered.

The young goddess chewed on her fingernail and watched the faces of two desolate girls swirl in the clear holy water of the marble basin.

        She wanted to kill Domenic for this. How do you kill a god? He was the son of the Domov, and he was untouchable.

        Canan. Where are you? Masha called for her. We need you. Canan resisted the basin, and the urge to swirl a finger through it. If she touched it, Masha would feel the ripples in her hair. The air and movement around her would still. Her heartbeat would slow, and she would calm.

        Canan felt the pressure of the Domovin on her — her parents, siblings, and the Domov himself. Good gods didn’t meddle, they didn’t reprieve their devotees of the hardest of human emotions: sorrow, pain, guilt. But what about when the Domovin themselves brought that upon their followers? Didn’t they have a responsibility to make it right?

        The true test of a Domovin was this: how does a god respond to their followers in times of need, without plucking at the strings of their life? For when gods pluck, the sound reverberated through the world in unexpected ways. And sometimes the strings broke.

        Being the patron of princesses was a great honor. Canan had grown alongside them, meeting the same milestones when they did: first words, first comprehensions of the worlds around them, different as those worlds may be. There was no one Canan loved as much Marya Solomonova, not even her own sisters. Masha was such a good girl, a devout girl. Being a god would be easy if all humans were like her.

        Masha prayed in the prayer room three times a day, and read her Divine Scriptures every morning with the dawn. She lit candles and jasmine incense, to please and honor the Pantheon. She ministered to her sister, Darya, who listened solely out of a deep reciprocating love for her twin.

        Canan knew that she had a duty to make this right. She couldn’t bring Queen Emilya back from the dead — only the Domov had that power — but she could answer Masha’s questions, ease Darya’s pain.

        The one truth Canan knew about faith was this: non-believers need to witness a miracle. If she could bring Darya to the Pantheon, that could placate the damage Domenic had incurred, and would prove her worth as a Domovina. She could explain what happened and what she was doing to fix it. If she brought Darya to her breast, she’d be welcomed into the council of the Domov himself, and she would be unlimited in her abilities to care for the princesses. She would be their loving, benevolent goddess, and they would be her most faithful believers. A relationship like that, intimate and trusting, could change the way Domovin interacted with the mortal realm. A dynamic like that had no precedent. Canan could usher in a new era. Maybe one day, she’d become the Domov herself.

        What better way than to head the call of a princess when she needed it most?

        Canan looked over her shoulder. Sensing no watchful eyes, she placed her whole hand into the basin.

She passed through the Veil threshold in the main kitchen of Onarazi Palace, falling hard on her knees. Why the passage between realms couldn’t be in the prayer room, Canan could never understand. This wasn’t her first foray into the palace; she had snuck in thrice before, once during the winter holidays, just to witness the splendor of the castle firsthand. It was reckless, but it was a welcome alternative to remaining stifled in the cold beauty of the Veil.

        But she didn’t hate traveling through the Palace kitchens; cozy and rustic, the kitchen was always humid and heady with the scents of spices, bubbling cauldrons of soups and stews, and bushy bundles of green herbs from the Palace garden hung to dry from the ceiling. A hodgepodge of round and rectangular wood tables served as preparation space for the Palace cook, an elderly woman who Canan swore was older than the Domov himself, and her small team of assistants.

        The crates of fruits and vegetables and grains made Canan eager to take a knife from the wall and carve into them, create beautiful dishes to feed to the princesses with her own hands.

        After all, she was Sustenance’s daughter, and in her vast marble home in the Veil she was learning to be quite a good cook.

        Canan pulled her long black skirt closer to her body and above her feet, and crept slowly through the kitchen. Onarazi Palace was a huge, domed, ancient palace, designed like the greater Onarazi City itself — the main hall and throne room was in the center of the Palace, and long offshoots led off the center, like the legs of a spider. Below its main level were the kitchens, wine storage, root cellar, and Palace servant quarters.

        She could feel the somberness permeate the Palace. Normally, the Palace was alive with energy, the bustle of servants preparing for visitors or council meetings or holidays and festivals. Canan ducked below a prep table, shielding herself from the cook, who was aggressively kneading a huge mound of dough. Canan was impressed by the woman’s deft handling of it as she pulled it apart to make a dozen small rounds, pressing a wrinkled thumb into the center of each, and filling the crater with an almond.

        She waited until the cook turned toward the stone oven before proceeding. On hands and knees Canan crawled through the maze formed by the table legs, pushed against the perimeter of the main kitchen.

        “Inga!” the cook called over her shoulder. Canan halted, and watched a small woman with a long auburn braid shuffle quickly into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Add garlic to the rice, please.”

        Inga leaned over the table to pull a bulb from the garlic bundles hanging from the low ceiling. Her height made the bundle just out of her grip, and she perched a knee on the edge of the table for additional height.

        She yanked a bulb from the hanging bundle and the table started to tilt. Canan pulled on a leg and it righted itself with a loud thud. From between the planks Canan saw Inga’s confused expression.

        “Clumsy girl!” the cook snapped. “I have no patience for noise today. Watch your limbs!”

        Inga muttered an apology and hurriedly peeled the garlic, placing the entire naked, fragrant bulb into the steaming mound of spiced rice, mixing it all with a large wooden spoon. It smelled heavenly. Canan was tempted to scoop a handful to taste.

        Inga lifted the heavy rice bowl with significant effort and waddled toward the largest prep table. The bowl was much too heavy for the small assistant; Canan was sure that, at any moment, the bowl and rice would end up on the floor, and Inga would be down on hands and knees cleaning up the mess, the cook reprimanding her. There was nowhere else to hide in the kitchen.

        Canan had one option. All she had to do was snap her fingers, and time would still in the whole castle. This was her unique ability, as was one of Time’s sacred keepers.

        She wasn’t ready to use her abilities outside of the Veil. The atmosphere in this realm was different, heavier somehow. She reached for her innate magic, identified the glowing knot of it in her chest. The way to it felt muddied and clumsy, and she wasn’t sure how it would manifest.

        With a labored effort, Inga set the heavy bowl on the table next to the cook. Canan exhaled a sigh of relief, and watched as the cook took a tentative taste, and muttered a resigned approval.

        Canan took the opportunity to slip quietly out of the kitchen.

She sleuthed up the stairs, and down the long hallway leading to the princess’s chambers. In the grand navy room, Masha huddled with her sobbing sister on the floor.

        She watched as Masha lifted her head, as if she could sense Canan’s nearby presence. Canan took one step through the doorway.

        “Who are you?” A deep voice resonated behind her.

        She whipped around and met eyes with the Emperor himself, Nikolei Petrosyan Solomonov. He looked regal even in his sorrow, his broad chest covered in black velvet, a black scarf draped around his head and neck. His gruff, pointed face was weary, but curious.

        Canan put a finger to her lips and straightened, trying to look taller and older than she was. “I came from — beyond the Veil. I’m your daughters’ patron Domovina.”

        The Emperor looked amused but not patronizing, the skill only a father of young girls possesses. Most of Canan’s knowledge of Nikolei was second-hand, overheard from his daughters or by older Domovin. She knew that he was well-respected by the Pantheon, even if Empress Emilya was the truly devout believer. Raised in the southern lands of Savukoi, which Canan had been told was “dreadfully hot” on more than one occasion, Nikolei was part of a long ancestry of carpenters and builders who had risen in the ranks, beginning as masons, and then becoming engineers, and eventually becoming scholars and experts and members of the council in one of the Front’s most ancient cities. His marriage to Emilya, former Princess and sole heir to the Onarazi throne, had begun as one of politics, quickly turning into one of unprecedented love. 

        Despite his origins as an outsider — or more likely, because of them — he had established a reputation as a fair ruler, eager for justice and peace and prosperity. Canan felt the grief emanate from him.

        “Papa?” Behind the Emperor, Canan saw Darya’s tear-streaked face. She met eyes with Canan and furrowed her brows, confused. “Who are you talking to?”

        “I will be there in a moment, my darling.” He turned back to Canan, and said, lowly, “I don’t know if your presence is a good idea right now.”

        Masha, too, was now looking at Canan, perplexed. Canan was tempted to run to her, and embrace her. “I just want to help, to ease their suffering —”

        Before she could finish, a force pulled at her torso, and she stumbled back. The Emperor reached out to balance her.

        As she reached out in response, strong, invisible hands gripped her by the hair and pulled her back through the Veil.

She fell hard against the marble floor of the the Domov’s hall, in front of the Domov himself. The Domov didn’t need basins of sacred marble to travel or find Domovin across the realms. He saw all, of everything, at all times. Canan’s face burned in shame. How could she ever doubt the limitless power of her supreme leader?

        Behind him stood the entire Pantheon. She tried to meet eyes with her mother, who looked stricken. Young Domenic smirked at her, the corners of his lips curled in a sinister smile. She felt rage inside her that she didn’t know was possible to feel at thirteen years old, rage that transcended the confines of her small frame. 

        She felt the whistling of air and movement around her. It was the closest she had ever been to the Domov, and curiosity got the better of her; she tilted her head back to take in the entirety of the Veil’s overlord.

        At the center of a swirling circular mass of black vapor was the abstract form of a man. The black vapor twisted and consumed its inhabitant, and it was impossible to tell where the vapor ended and the man began. 

        She reached out to touch a tendril, but the Domov roared. 

        “You have defied the most sacred edict of the Pantheon, traveling through the realms, exposing yourself to Nikolei Solomonov,” said the Domov, emitting a voice that echoed into itself, deep and reverberating. “You have proven yourself unworthy of your divinity. The consequence to this is banishment from the Veil.”

        The black tendrils of the Domov snaked around her wrist. Canan screamed, begging for a trial, for a second chance, and looked wildly for her parents. No Domovin met her eyes.

        A basin of black marble appeared before her. The Domov pushed her hand forcefully into the basin, the contents of it searing and scalding, and she fell through its depths out of the Veil.