On my eighth attempt, my eldest daughter grew so fearful for her cousin’s life that she defied garden law and read her own fate. I know little of what she saw in that rendition of my painting, but she ran from the garden, leaving the knife behind. My daughters were never the same after that. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
Morta kept the stock snug against her shoulder, feeling the grain of the wood and smelling the scent of the varnish. She licked her lips, closing her left eye and centering the reticule on the target. Her pulse quickened and her nostrils flared, a wild flame reflected in her blue eyes. She squeezed the trigger, and the instrument bucked, digging into her collarbone, her ears ringing from the sound of thunder. She screamed, falling backward and landing on her butt, the barrel of the rifle scraping the ground.
Morta wrinkled her nose, blushing fiercely, finding her feet, and brushing the dust off her skirts.
“Precise but far from accurate, my lady,” Igor said from the far corner, his body well suspended above his knees.
“No shit. Thanks for the tip.”
Useless tin can.
She kicked the butt of the rifle, placing her hands on her hips and staring at her conduit.
Good gawds. When did he get so tall? Last year she’d been carrying him around in her arms, but now they could reverse the roles, and were those a few extra limbs? He reminded her of a long-legged spider made of spinning bits. The kind of arachnids she counted before bed, swooning beneath their colorful but deadly patterns—the sharp poisonous hairs of a groomed thorax, tube-like fangs, and beady black eyes.
Morta sighed, a pleasing grin spreading across her face.
She imagined herself helplessly trapped in his overpowering embrace, the feel of a cool liquid venom dripping against her exposed neck and running in little rivers down her body—tarsus, spinnerets, and a red-hot booking lung.
Oh, yeah, that got her blood pumping.
There’s something wrong with you, little girl.
Shut up, Atropos. We need a steed, and I can’t think of one better than a scarlet hourglass.
Suit yourself but leave Igor out of your twisted fantasies.
Morta bit her lip.
What was wrong with a little roleplay? If Nona’s shitty romance novels were anything to go by, women loved submission and, she had to admit, the idea of being humbled forcefully was exciting.
She cleared her throat, looking up at the spinning red rivets in Igor’s joints. “I’ll catch up to you,” she said under her breath.
It wasn’t fair. Girls were supposed to grow up faster than boys.
Morta picked the rifle off the floor, letting the stock drag against the ground as she eyed the rust-colored burns on the barrel. She breathed deeply, the acrid scent of spent gunpowder tickling her throat.
“Please handle that with care, lady Morta,” Igor said.
“What?” She looked over her shoulder, smirking. “Worried I might die?”
“Merely concerned about the habits your sisters pick up observing such reckless behavior.”
Her brow furrowed. “You mean stuff like this?” She rested her head against the muzzle and caressed the trigger.
“Yes.”
“You’re no fun.” Morta frowned, tossing the rifle onto her workbench and stumbling to climb the stool, standing on her tippy toes to reach the seat. “You could at least sound concerned.”
Igor came behind her, grabbing under her armpits and lifting her onto the stool. “I’ve become accustomed to your…” He cleared his throat. “Unique sense of humor.”
Unique, that was one way of putting it. He probably also knew that dead things couldn’t die, but, well…
Morta hung her head.
Maybe Igor was right. Her sisters were becoming reckless. Decima proved that after her last stunt, and Nona, gawds above that girl, playing in the furnace, balancing on beams, and climbing chimneys. What in the tower’s name was she going to do with that menace? Her little sister was growing up too fast and running before she knew how to walk. She was a half-blood, surely that meant…
Morta shook her head.
No, she wasn’t going through this again. Nona was a daughter of fate and wasn’t susceptible to mortal frailties.
She licked her lips, pulling the bolt on her rifle, a single cartridge bouncing against her cheek. She held the trigger and slid the bolt off the stock, revealing the chamber, coarse residue, powder burns, and chemical stains.
This is why she hated military surplus.
Morta ran water through the barrel until it dripped from the muzzle and wrapped the bolt in an oily rag. She tore a white towel, dipping it in a bore solvent and affixing the cloth to the tip of a long thin rod. Keeping the chamber level, she threaded the rod through the barrel back to front, taking care not to scratch the crown.
Igor hovered over her as she worked, his ominous shadow cast against the workbench.
“Um, do you mind?” she said, brushing the interior. “I can’t see with you looming like that.”
He didn’t respond, the metal slats along his lens pulling back and the gears in his neck spinning red hot.
Morta dropped the brush, touching his shoulder. “Igor, what’s wrong?”
“We have to go, my lady,” he said, breaking his trance, his hands trembling.
She spun around on the stool, knocking the bolt from the table which clanged against the ground. “Igor, what’s going on?!”
“It’s your sister,” he said, lifting her into his arms. “She’s been hurt.”
— ✦ —
Nona lay on the chopping block, her face contorted in pain and her arms trembling. Her summer gown was covered in blood, a piece of rusted metal sticking from her abdomen. Iron fingers and tendrils jut from the angled gurney and stroked her hair. She curled her toes and bent her knees, squeezing her eyes shut and whimpering quietly as it probed her swollen wound.
“It’ll be okay, Nona,” Clotho’s voice came from her lips, the metal arms of the crib pinning her down with needles hovering above the bed. “I know what I’m doing.”
Tears ran down her cheeks and mixed with the blood under her chin. She bit down on her lip; the Gnatu twisting the rebar diagonally.
Morta stood slack-jawed, balling her hands into fists, her face bright red as she watched her younger sister forced against the bed, her belly poked and prodded. There was so much blood. She felt queasy, her knees shaking.
How much could Nona lose before… Before…
Decima grabbed Morta’s hand, sniffing loudly, dry riverbeds covering her cheeks. “She’ll be okay, won’t she, sister?” She squeezed Morta’s hand, her claws scratching her knuckles.
“I don’t—I can’t—” Morta pulled her hand away, her knees knocking together.
Nona screamed, kicking and clawing wildly at the bed. The Gnatu scrambled around, holding her legs against the mattress.
“Let my sister go,” Morta said, stepping forward. “Let her go!”
“Leave, Morta!” Clotho shouted, Nona’s lips moving in response. “She’ll be alright, I promise. Take Decima and leave. You’re getting in my way.”
“Fuck you, Clotho! Give my sister back to me right now!” Morta lunged at the metal crib, but the Gnatu responded quickly, wrapping around her ankles and causing her to stumble onto the floor. “Get off me, you bastards!”
“Remove her, immediately!”
The Gnatu swarmed like a disturbed ant mound, covering Morta’s body. She struggled in vain against a metal cocoon, her bare feet kicking from the opening in the back.
“I’ll kill all of you!” Morta chipped her tooth, biting the arms that restrained her. “I’ll kill all of you! You’re hurting her! Let my sister go!”
The Gnatu dragged Morta out of the room kicking and spitting, but she got one of her arms free, grappling with the doorframe. “No, no, no!” They pulled hard, and she let go, clawing at the floor, leaving marks on the tiles.
Igor appeared from the shadows, lunging at the Gnatu surrounding Morta, and tossing them aside as if they were kindling. The tiny machines scattered against the walls, bits and pieces raining down from the ceiling. They backed off, shaking, their lenses spinning until their shutters were wide open.
“You’re late. You promised you’d only be gone for a moment,” Morta sniffed. He lifted her into his arms, and she sobbed against his shoulder. “They’re hurting her, Igor.”
“Your sister will be alright, Morta.” Igor rested his hand on her head. “Trust Clotho as Charon and I do.”
Her grip tightened on his collarbone. “Fine, but if she’s missing so much as a hair on her head, I’ll kill them.” Morta closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
Decima trailed behind them, hovering under Igor’s shadow. “Um,” she said. “Can you carry me too?”
Igor knelt over, allowing Decima to rest on his other shoulder, her feet draped over his elbow like a serpent’s tail. She smiled, kissing his cheek.
“Traitor,” Morta growled, pinching the spinning bits between his shoulder bones.
“Lady Morta, I am your conduit, designed to interpret your will. Do you truly find my actions so strange?” he asked.
Morta blushed, burying her face.
“I’ve observed you these many years and know well there is nothing more precious to you than your sisters.”
— ✦ —
“We shouldn’t be here,” Decima said. She hid under the pew, her red eyes glowing fiercely as she watched the Isomerase.
Morta dug her fingers into the bricks along the lip of the Origin Well. “Show me my fate,” she said.
The Isomerase responded, shifting along the central dogma of fate and caressing the many charged metallic beads that bound mortal fabric. It changed course, turning away and tracing along the faded numerals of the invisible clock.
Height, width, and time.
It plucked something far removed from the three-dimensional realm dabbling in a place Morta couldn’t see—a realm reserved for the gods banished amongst the stars who crept upon the doors of paradise. The Basilisk and its eyeless gaze seated upon an abyssal chariot, and the Great Devourer, caressing each peninsula with its many tongues and lulled into complacency by the daemon sultan, Nu Geb.
Morta shivered, a deep cold coming from the rib vaults as the Isomerase emerged with a red fabric bundled around its knuckles. A faint whisper came from the depths of the Origin Well, as if something stirred awake, hungry.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Decima whimpered, covering her head as if the ceiling were about to collapse. “Remember what Bastion taught us! We cannot read our own fate! It’s what condemned our father!”
“If you will not help me, then go back to bed!”
Morta’s fate was unlike anything she’d ever seen. It glowed with an otherworldly red light and was made of a silky, but firm, fabric that shimmered like a distant mirage. She ran her fingers along the mysterious patterns that came alive, dancing around her like wild stallions or the drifting petals of plucked water lilies.
“That’s not fair, Morta!”
“Life isn’t fair. How many tapestries must you watch me cut before you learn that simple fact?” Morta’s diode came to life, her left eye glowing azure blue.
No longer would she go through life blindly. She’d protect her sister, and that started with knowing her fate better than the gods above, and if she didn’t like her future, well, she’d just change it.
Morta bit her lip, grabbing and yanking the tapestry towards her. She pinched the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, teasing out the fibers and reading between the lines.
After all, what was the worst that could happen?