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The house Arphazêl grew up in, deep in the pine forests of inland Umbar, was a house typical of the nobility—low and sprawling, built of hard stone and washed with lime until it gleamed in the sun like snow or polished steel. The interior saw floors inlaid with cool blue tiles that Arphazêl and the other children of the house lied upon when they were sick with fever, to leech the excess heat from their bodies. The furniture, low beds and tables, were constructed from prized fragrant cedar wood out of the south, and the sheets and cushions were pale blue, dotted with white roses embroidered from thread that gleamed like spider silk.
It all, Arphazêl thought, made a striking contrast to her house’s colors, black and silver, which she was required to wear no matter where she was, even in this remote estate far from the city her uncle ruled. Ah, well. Arphazêl might have been required to wear black in such blistering weather as her home’s, but she was not required to go outside. Indeed, she was not encouraged to go outside—not only would her skin lose the dark cream-pallor that set her apart from the common girls if she took too much sun, but noblewomen weren’t supposed to be seen in the light of day except during formal occasions, not outside their family’s property, anyways.
At least the gardens are open when the weather is mild. But summer’s blistering heat had descended without mercy on the world outside, so Arphazêl kept to the cool, shaded halls of the house, searching for one who had likely also stayed inside, seeking refuge from the heat.
“Nilûarî?” Arphazêl called softly, careful not to disturb her father at his books or any of the servants at their work. Quiet was sacrosanct in this house, and even Arphazêl’s youth would not excuse her if she broke it. She slipped into one of the narrow servants’ hallways, peering out the door on the other side to make sure no one would see her coming out that way. Even with no guests around, she wasn’t supposed to be cutting across the house using the servants’ hallways. But it certainly was more convenient, this way.
“Nilûarî?” Arphazêl called again, scanning the hall for any sign of movement. One of the windows had been left open; a hot, dry wind made the wall hangings rustle, distorting the images on the tapestry of Azrubêl leading the Adûnaim to Anadûnê, but Arphazêl saw no sign of Nilûarî.
Finally, Arphazêl was drawn to search her own chambers. Though her door was shut fast, at times she had found Nilûarî somewhere inside, even if there was ostensibly no way she could have gotten inside. Arphazêl’s sitting room, where she would entertain guests of her own, was empty. Neither was there any sign of Nilûarî lurking among the painted glass bottles of ointment and perfume in Arphazêl’s bathroom.
Arphazêl knelt down beside her bed, peering at the narrow strip of empty air between the bedframe and the blue-tiled floor. A pair of crystalline blue eyes stared back at her, and the revelation was soon followed by a high-pitched meow.
“There you are, Nilûarî! Why don’t you come out and play with me, sneaky one?”
The cat crawled out from under the bed, more obediently than she ever did with anyone else. Gimilzîr, Arphazêl’s old nurse, often commented on Arphazêl having the cat under her spell. Arphazêl wouldn’t go that far—she’d never known a cat to be obedient to the last, not even Nilûarî, so docile with her. But not once had she ever known the cat to pass up on an opportunity to play.
Nilûarî was a small, female cat with long, soft white fur and blue eyes that never seemed to blink quite as much as a human’s, or even those of other cats. She had been given to this house as a gift two years ago, by a merchant who was hoping to win Arphazêl’s father’s favor and knew of Arphazêl’s fondness for cats. Nilûarî had lived in this house ever since, Arphazêl’s creature, often to be found shadowing her mistress’s footsteps. Her uncle, upon seeing the cat following her about, joked that hse must have come in very handy as a spy.
No spy, just a friend. Still…
“I wish I could talk to you,” Arphazêl murmured, as she dangled a bit of string over Nilûarî’s head, and the cat batted at it, pupils dilating. “I’d like to know where it is you go, when you’re not here.”
Just then, Nilûarî quit her pursuit of the string, staring directly into Arphazêl’s eyes. She let out another of her high-pitched mewls, but there was something strange about this one. It sounded almost…
“I must be imagining things,” she murmured, frowning slightly. She stroked Nilûarî’s head absently, and all seemed normal again.
It was strange, but for a moment, when Nilûarî let out that last cry, Arphazêl almost thought she could decipher the meaning behind it.
-0-0-0-
At night, more and more frequently lately, Arphazêl dreamt strange dreams:
She is walking through the grass, but the short grass of the garden comes halfway to her neck and the bushes tower over her like trees. The green smell of the grass is vivid in her nostrils; a tilt of the head picks up the heady scent of the rose bushes, the faintly dank odor of the water in the trickling fountain. The wind whispers through her hair, but her hair carpets her body and is white and straight, rather than her black corkscrew curls.
Something moves in the bushes by the garden wall. Her pulse quickens, muscles tensing in anticipation. A mouse? A squirrel? No. Moonlight shows pale and bright on talons, a long, slim beak. A bird.
She creeps slowly towards the bird, every crunch of grass beneath her feet complete agony—what if the bird hears it? What if it flies away? She draws nearer and nearer, her heart throbbing. It looks like she might actually—
But no. Just shy of catching the bird, she has to watch, thwarted, as it takes wing and flies away, well beyond her reach.
-0-0-0-
The mornings came early at this time of year, and bright sunlight slanted hot through the windows even by the time Arphazêl rose from bed. She found her mother sitting in a chair in the west veranda, seemingly immune to the heat, though that could have to do with how she had found a seat away from the direct light of the rising sun. Lady Zôrnitîr stared out at the sculpture garden, her eyes fixed on the depiction of a ship tossed in the air by the unforgiving sea.
Eventually, Zôrnitîr’s eyes, as gray and clear as her daughter’s, fell upon her watcher. She straightened slightly. “Good morning, daughter.”
Arphazêl inclined her head to her mother. “Good morning, Mother. I want to speak with you about something.”
“Oh?” Zôrnitîr raised an eyebrow, her mouth quirking in apparent amusement, through the rest of her face remained set in stoicism. “That is passing strange. You typically won’t consent to speak with anyone before you’ve had your breakfast.”
To this, Arphazêl could only nod again, pressing her long sleeve to her mouth to hide her embarrassment. “Pardon me, Mother. I did not realize it offended you.”
“It does not offend me, Arphazêl; it merely interests me. Now, what was it you wished to speak with me about?”
Only a moment was needed for Arphazêl to make up her mind. Her mother spoke often enough of receiving premonitions that surely something like this wouldn’t seem odd to her. “Do you ever have strange dreams?”
This did not seem to have struck her mother as an odd question, for Zôrnitîr tilted her head to one side and propped her chin on her elbow. “What do you mean, ‘strange?’ Men report of strange dreams when they are drunk, or have eaten too much. Fever dreams are remarkably fantastical, as are dreams had during unconsciousness due to blood loss. Do you mean strange dreams, as those are strange?”
Arphazêl shook her head. “No, Mother. I mean dreams that are strange without cause.” She did not tell Zôrnitîr precisely what it was she had dreamed of the night before. There was no need for that, not yet; Arphazêl had always been taught to keep some knowledge to herself, unless she would have put herself in danger by not being forthright. Surely her mother would understand…
Zôrnitîr sighed slightly. “Arphazêl, we are the heirs of Anadûnê. It is our lot to have strange dreams. If they persist, you may describe them to me so that we can decide if there is some pattern to them. Otherwise, I would tell you to mark it as a sign of your heritage.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She had received an answer that told her both much, and very little. But then again, her mother was a lady of the Adûnaim, who had learned her lessons well. It was to be expected.
-0-0-0-
As Arphazêl was leaving, something soft wound around her legs. She looked down to see Nilûarî sitting there, staring up at her with eyes narrowed in contentment. It was probably useless to wonder just how long the cat had been sitting at the edge of the veranda, but all the same…
“Do you have anything to tell me?” Arphazêl quipped.
It felt almost out of place when Arphazêl received nothing but silence.
-0-0-0-
A nobleman came to see Arphazêl’s father a few days later, and brought with him his daughter, a girl named Inzilân who was around Arphazêl’s age. They had not seen each other in the past few years; noblewomen did not travel unless their menfolk wished them to accompany them where they traveled, and the two girls, while friendly, were not so close that they would beg their fathers to let them meet. They were comfortable with each other. That was all that was required of them.
“My mother’s had another baby again,” Inzilân commented in a long-suffering voice, twisting a lock of her golden hair around her fingers. Inzilân’s house was originally descended from the House of Hador, and golden hair still cropped up in the family line, from time to time. Perhaps Inzilân had another golden-haired sibling now; all her others were.
“So there are… five of your, now?” Arphazêl guessed, taking a sip of the chilled coffee she had called for. She could never remember just how many children Inzilân’s parents had—the number always seemed to be going up.
“Six,” Inzilân counted her gloomily, “and that’s only if you don’t count the ones from my father’s first marriage.” Oh, that was right; Inzilân’s father had remarried after his first wife’s death with what was generally considered indecent haste. “You can’t get a moment’s peace at home, and I can’t get either of my parents to pay an ounce of attention to me when I have to compete with the rest.” She sighed heavily. “I actually rather envy you, Arphazêl. You don’t have to compete with anyone for your parents’ attention, and your house is so quiet. It must be nice.”
Arphazêl felt as though she was supposed to commiserate with Inzilân over her bad luck. However, there was no escaping the fact that, without a son, her father was without an heir. “…I have a cat,” Arphazêl aid awkwardly, hoping to change the subject.
A snort of laughter hit the air as Inzilân narrowed her pale blue eyes in amusement. “I know you have a cat; your dress is covered in cat fur. It’s a white one, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Nilûarî?” Arphazêl called around the sitting room. “Why don’t you come out and say hello?”
Nilûarî slipped out from behind the white curtains drawn over the window, her fluffy tail flicking back and forth slightly, though she evinced no other sign of irritation at being disturbed. The cat rubbed up against Arphazêl’s crossed legs and sniffed in interest at the coffee on the low table set between the two girls, before sitting down at Arphazêl’s side. She looked at Inzilân out of wide, scrutinizing eyes, licking her front paw the whole time.
“Odd little thing,” Inzilân muttered, looking at the cat with something like disquiet on her face. “I could swear she was sizing me up.” She shifted her weight on the cushion she was sitting on. “But then, cats are always odd.”
That seemed an… unnecessary thing to say. Arphazêl reached over and scratched Nilûarî’s hand; Nilûarî purred in response. “Odd, how?”
“They don’t listen to anybody,” Inzilân answered immediately. “Trying to tell a cat to do something is like trying to make old Gimilbên build his fences elsewhere,” she said, citing an old folktale they had both grown up with.
But still, there seemed to be a flaw in this logic. “You can tell a cat to do things,” Arphazêl pointed out dubiously. Frankly, she thought Inzilân’s point sounded like it was coming from a position of bias; after all, Inzilân’s house was well-known for its affinity with dogs, typically a far more pliant animal.
And sure enough… “No, you can’t. A dog you can train to do just about anything you want it to do, but you’ll be lucky even to train the cat not to sharpen its claws on your furniture. What can you make that cat do?” Inzilân challenged.
“Plenty of things,” Arphazêl replied defensively.
“Like what?”
“Watch.” Arphazêl turned to Nilûarî. “Nilûarî, jump.”
For a moment, the cat regarded her in silence, ears flicking slightly. Then, she bunched her haunches and jumped straight in the air, landing gracefully on the floor with barely a sound. She stared expectantly at Arphazêl, though whether expecting a reward or awaiting further orders, Arphazêl couldn’t say.
Sitting across from them, Inzilân didn’t exactly look impressed. “Anything else?”
Arphazêl let out a sharp breath through her nose, her nostrils flaring. “Nilûarî,” she said, in a high, clear voice, “open the door to my bedchamber.”
The cat did so, padding across the tiled floor to the (thankfully unlocked; everything could have fallen apart if it wasn’t) door of Arphazêl’s bedchamber. She got up on her hind legs and stretched with all her might to reach the door handle, pressing on it until it gave way. Then, she pushed the door open, and sat back down at Arphazêl’s side.
Inzilân’s look of skepticism softened slightly, but unfortunately did not vanished entirely. “So you’ve taught the cat a couple of simple tricks,” she said, in the face of what she had watched Nilûarî do. “I trained my dog to do the same, and probably a lot more easily. Do you have anything else?”
So she needed something Inzilân couldn’t just wright off, eh? What can a cat do that a dog can’t, and can prove Inzilân wrong? “Nilûarî,” Arphazêl told the cat, “go fetch my ivory comb from the top of my vanity.”
She’d said it on impulse, not really expecting it to work—though it certainly would have been nice if it had. She had never had Nilûarî do something like that before, never had her do anything more complex than open doors. Honestly, Arphazêl wasn’t entirely certain she could make Nilûarî understand anything more complex than that; she was just an animal, after all, even if Arphazêl did at times fancy that she could discern a meaning behind her cries.
But to Arphazêl and Inzilân’s complete astonishment, Nilûarî slipping inside the former’s bedchamber, and emerged not long afterwards holding Arphazêl’s little ivory comb in her mouth. Arphazêl took the comb from her blankly, reeling. The comb wasn’t even damp where the cat’s mouth had touched it.
“I didn’t know anyone could make a cat do something like that,” Inzilân whispered, her eyes huge in her face.
Neither did I, Arphazêl thought, troubled.
-0-0-0-
The dream came again, even more vivid than the last:
This time, she is in the sculpture garden, weaving her way through the marble statues and looking upon their faces with interest. There are the Lovers, a couple who had defied their king by marrying. Naked, chained together, their faces are fixed in taut expressions of agony as both are fed to the flames. Close by is Tar-Atanamir of Anadûnê, that greatest of kings, at the height of his power and holding the then-flat earth in the palm of his hand.
But the sculptures are not her immediate concern. A squirrel has come down the garden wall, by way of a tree on the other side with long, low-hanging branches. The dry, hot wind blows over her hair, and she’s creeping across the grass towards where the squirrel sits, rubbing at its face with a tiny paw and chittering softly.
Failure again. The squirrel spots her and scampers away, hurrying up the wall to safety on the other side.
She sits and stares in frustration at the spot where the squirrel so recently sat. Why is it always like this? She is kin to the best hunters to ever roam the earth, and yet she cannot even catch a squirrel that was stupid enough to come down into her garden!
If she could go away from this place, just long enough to learn...
But no. She has seen the future. Death waits for her outside the walls. Here she will stay, if she wishes to live a long life.
-0-0-0-
Arphazêl woke with a start, the green smell of grass lingering in her nostrils. She sat up in bed, cast her gaze around her bedchamber, and found it empty of anyone but her.
Though she wasn’t supposed to wander the house at night, Arphazêl slipped out of her chambers, and into the narrow hall. Her feet carried her towards the sculpture garden, her mind racing, heart pounding. What questions her mind had, she did not dare to name.
The sculpture garden was still, and quiet. Everything was bathed in shadow, much dimmer and duller than Arphazêl remembered from her dream. But there were the Lovers, and there was Tar-Atanamir holding the flat earth in his hand.
And there beyond them, her back turned to Arphazêl, was Nilûarî. She sat in the grass, as white and still as any of those statues, except for when her tail flicked back and forth.
-0-0-0-
“Arphazêl?”
Her mother’s voice, breathless and irritated, sounded in the hall. Without waiting for permission to enter, without even waiting to confirm that Arphazêl was inside, Zôrnitîr burst through the door to Arphazêl’s chambers, and straight through to the sitting room. Arphazêl looked up from the book of poetry she was reading to see bright patches of color at the tops of Zôrnitîr’s cheeks, and Nilûarî tucked under her arm, the cat looking decidedly uncomfortable with the arrangement. “Your… animal,” Zôrnitîr bit out, “has been following me around the house since mid-morning.” The sun was now high in the sky. It would be time for dinner, soon. “No matter what I do, she will not leave me be. I have shouted; I have stamped my feet; I have swatted her on the head. Nothing will compel her to leave me be.”
Arphazêl looked from Nilûarî back to her mother, regarding both in silence for a long moment. “I know,” Arphazêl said quietly. “I told her to. I…” It all seemed so silly now, and yet, far too big for her. “…I wanted to see if she would.”
Any trace of irritation died off of Zôrnitîr’s face, to be replaced with something Arphazêl couldn’t name. “You told her…” Zôrnitîr’s voice had gone very soft, laced with something like dawning understanding on her face.
Abruptly, Zôrnitîr knelt down beside Arphazêl. She let Nilûarî go; the cat flounced off into Arphazêl’s bedchamber, her tail held high. Zôrnitîr stared searchingly into her daughter’s face. “The cat does what you tell her to do? Whatever you tell her to do?”
“…Yes, Mother,” Arphazêl replied reluctantly. It was all growing sillier and bigger by the moment.
For her part, Zôrnitîr did not seem to think it remotely silly. Nor did she think it too big to say to her daughter, “Tell me.”
And Arphazêl did tell her. She told her of the tricks she’d had Nilûarî perform for Inzilân, of how Nilûarî had fetched Arphazêl’s comb despite Arphazêl having never trained the cat to do such things. She told her mother of other things she had had the cat do, like go to the kitchens and bring her back a single grape, or go and sit by the fountains for a time, and not move even if her fur became wet. She told Zôrnitîr of the times when she almost thought there was a discernible meaning to Nilûarî’s mewls. She even told her of her dreams, though Zôrnitîr had said that it was simply the lot of the Adûnaim to dream strange dreams.
“I suspect I know what is happening.” Arphazêl was very surprised, given the circumstances, to see her mother smile. “The Adûnaim of Anadûnê possessed a similar gift, though it was more likely to develop between one of the Adûnaim and their horse. It was said that the rider had but to tell the horse to do something for the horse to do it, and that at times the rider did not even have to speak for the horse to understand their will.”
“So… it is one of the gifts of our people?” Arphazêl had never heard of one of her countrymen being able to do what she had accomplished.
“Indeed, it is, though passing rare of late.” Zôrnitîr grimaced. “Stripped of our homeland by the cruel Avalôim, the Adûnaim must fade, but occasionally the old blood runs strong enough to produce one gifted as their forefathers were.” She bestowed a small, proud smile on Arphazêl. “Be glad of your gift, daughter. Those so gifted are blessed by fortune and will lead successful lives. In time, you may come to understand the speech of cats as you briefly thought you could with yours. I would only—“ her tone grew more serious “—tell you to be more mindful of how you treat your cat and other cats from now on. If you turn them against you, your gift will only work for ill.”
“…Yes, Mother.”
It all still seemed too big for her. …But Arphazêl rather liked the idea of truly being able to talk to Nilûarî, and other cats as well. Who knew what secrets cats had to tell?
-0-0-0-
That night, Arphazêl dreamed again.
She sits in the prow of a battered sailing ship tossed mercilessly on the sea, and no matter where Arphazêl looks, there is no sign of land. There is a pervasive reek of salt and rotting fish. The sun beats pitilessly down on her burned face, without a single cloud to veil it. Her mouth is dry and cracked; her throat aches with every breath.
Nilûarî sits in her lap, her ears scorched and her eyes dull. Gathered around them are nine black cats who look to Arphazêl for answers, but she has none to give.