Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows Page 3

  Gyrrick did not wish to wake his.

  And today, he would have no choice. He knew as clearly as his body knew how to breathe, and just as consciously, that to be bereft of weapon here was death. The shattered bodies of trees lay just beyond his feet, pale, broken splinters, sharp enough to draw hearts' blood; the foremost of the creatures they faced picked up a splinter that was half Gyrrick's width and twice his length. With ease, he used it to break the magical defenses behind which a full quarter of the magi hid, preparing their enchantments in a grim silence.

  "Come out, come out, little mortals. Come and play. We've been bored, killing trees and the squealing, pathetic creatures that can't lift a hand in their own defense."

  He had to go back. He had to go back.

  Where does this weapon come from, Master?

  That is something you will answer for yourself. For a moment, there was something akin to empathy in the cool, calm face of the Council's strangest mage. It didn't linger long.

  Anger.

  He did not close his eyes; he could not afford to. But he lifted his chin; put his hands up, over his shoulder. Gripped the air behind him as if it had a shape he could feel.

  Desire.

  The first of his men was pierced by the front of that splinter; riven in two as if his body offered no more resistance to wood than water would have. His blood was dark and bright against the dust and rubble; startlingly wet and new! The sky above him was deep and endless, blue. Perfect. The fires were burning low.

  Power.

  It came to hand, slender, bent; it came to hand strung, although he knew enough about bows now to know that a bow of value and quality was never carried that way for any length of time. The second of his men was screaming as fire took him—took him slowly; the others were retreating. Not a rout, not that, but they had fallen into a silence that spoke of fear. , Hunger.

  And is that all?

  No. But that is all I can tell you; we find our own reasons for what we create, and once created, we do not forget them.

  He reached into air, and out of it, pulled arrow. He reached into air, and out of it, pulled bow. Both came as if the heart itself was pulled beating from his chest. He felt the drawing of string as if it were a muscle that someone had reached into his open chest cavity to pull.

  And the moment the weapon was in his hands, he understood.

  He could finally see.

  The trees were luminescent as they lay across the broken ground; the earth more so, the dirt itself a rich and layered brown. The cobbled stones above it were so pale, if he hadn't known they were there, they would have faded from sight.

  As would most of his compatriots. One or two burned as the earth did, warmly. But for the most part they were like walking shadows, ghosts of themselves, things that didn't matter because in the end they weren't truly alive.

  He saw the enemy.

  Five on the ground, two in the air. Tall, these creatures, and defined not by their shapes—for their shapes varied greatly, although in the end they each had two arms and two legs—but by something that he had really only heard of when he was a child and his mother's lap was still a refuge open to him.

  Names.

  Demon names.

  They were not… clear. They were not written, the way Weston is, in a script that comes easily to eye and from there to tongue. They were not, in fact, written at all, but he recognized them instantly for what they were. Just as a child might see a hand and know it for a hand, or a foot and know it as such; or better, might note the absence of a foot or a hand and ask embarrassing questions about it because he has not learned the guile called tact. He knew what he saw in a way that defied explanation, and he accepted the lack of explanation in a way that no honest member of the Order of Knowledge otherwise would.

  He joined combat.

  "VERDAZAN!" he cried, and the creature who had killed two of his men with contempt and ease looked up.

  Gyrrick was not a killer by birth; not a killer by avocation. But he wanted the moment to stretch on and on, for the creature's eyes grew wide and round; shock melting into surprise, surprise giving way to something like respect. Every moment that passed was measured in human life, and Gyrrick forced himself to value that life.

  It was a struggle.

  The life wasn't his.

  The arrow flew; he felt it travel through air, felt it strike the ridge of bone between the demon's wide eyes as if it were still attached to him; as if it were an extension of his hands, the sensitive tips of his fingers.

  Bone shattered, just as human building had done; he recognized the sensation although he had never shattered bone with his hand before. Wondered what it would feel like to shatter rock with the weapon. Had no question at all that he could.

  One of the Kialli roared, and Gyrrick understood the language embedded in the thunder; understood it without capturing the sound in imperfect memory and dissecting it, painful syllable by syllable, under the disapproving eye of Sigurne Mellifas, who was always present for post-battle debriefings.

  "Illaraphaniel! What have you done, you fool!"

  And his master's voice, punctuated by the clash of blade that was not quite steel. "What have I done?" Laughter, carried by the wind as if it were sand in a desert storm.

  "I have ushered in the End of Days."

  The creature who had first spoken snarled, and Gyrrick found, for the first time, that there was a rough musicality to demonic voices that made each voice easily recognizable.

  "The End of Days was ushered in long ago, and by better than you. Do you think that teaching your pathetic pets a dangerous trick will harm us?"

  "Pets? They are hardly my pets, Lornanan, although I don't expect you to recognize the distinction between pet and mortal. You've never been perceptive. Not that it matters; you'll be ash and dust and the winds will write your epitaph."

  All this time, they fought, their voices as loud as their swords, their words far less graceful.

  Gyrrick found another arrow in his hand.

  He fired.

  Flesh parted, absorbing the arrow; denying it.

  "These creatures are not a threat to us!"

  "You have forgotten our history, without even the pathos of mortality as excuse. Remember: the Cities of Man were not destroyed; they were only barely humbled.

  "On second thought, don't; remember other things instead. The wind in the abyss. The texture of the suffering of those you Chose to guard. You will not last out a single mortal day unless you retreat, and your last moments should be pleasant ones."

  "And yours?" the creature countered. "Will you think of failure among the squalor and be content?"

  "No. I shall think of your destruction and be content."

  He could not speak their language.

  He hoped he could not speak it. His throat closed over the attempt to make words, and his hands clutched arrows convulsively. He wondered, if they closed, what he would do; he had no sword, and he knew that a sword would not give him the preternatural speed the Kialli possessed.

  Or at least, he had known it.

  But now, he knew nothing; he was reborn in the world of man, and it was not the world he had left.

  Faint as leaves' rustle, he heard the voices of his own: his men, his friends, his compatriots in the Order of Knowledge. They were shadows here, they were among the fallen.

  Illaraphaniel.

  The Cities of Man.

  II.

  23rd of Scaral, 427 AA

  The Terrean of Raverra, the Sea of Sorrows

  She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She's sixteen, seventeen—and her eyes are filled with fire; she kneels as if she's supplicant, but she's wearing a thin crown, and a bloodied sword is staining the silks she wears.

  She tells me that I cannot turn back.

  The Chosen are scattered. I can only find Torvan; the rest are blind or deaf. He says, "Why did you have to leave?"… and he drags me to The Terafin's Chambers.

  She's dead. The
re are three knives in her body and she lies across the council table. There is fighting, of course. The war for succession.

  The Terafin sits up. Her eyes are dead eyes. Her wounds don't bleed. And her voice—it's not her voice. She says, "Another lesson. The hardest. There will always be blood on your hands. Glory in it or weep at it as you choose, but when you choose who must die, choose wisely."

  Jewel ATerafin woke.

  In the heat of midday, at what the Voyani called desert's lee for reasons that were not obvious to her, sun cast shade that was more felt than seen. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, tied down beneath her chin by a thick silk; she wore something like a blanket, but with a lot more cloth. Avandar made certain—as if he were a domicis, even here, or worse, a seraf—that her skin was covered.

  "I'm not fair-skinned," she snapped, hating the fussing that no other person in the caravan was subject to.

  His smile was unpleasant. "What you call dark is no proof against even this much sun. You will do, in this, as I tell you."

  He readjusted her sash and straightened her hat, tucking her hair back beneath its brim and her ears. Only when his fingers actually brushed her earlobe did she shy away. But his expression was utterly impassive; she realized it was the neutral touch she had ignored for a decade, no more.

  Everything with Avandar had become awkward, and she hated awkwardness.

  "ATerafin?"

  In her early years in House Terafin, she had quickly realized that a first meeting with anyone was often the most important meeting she would have, and she had allowed Avandar to choose clothing appropriate to the function she was to attend. That had been her first mistake.

  Because it never ended with the clothing; he was determined to teach her the subtleties of interaction with the powerful, and lectured her endlessly. Much of these lectures involved the House ring, for she had come early into its possession by the standards of Terafin. He had made it clear when she was to wear the council ring openly by placing her hand in a certain position on the table, and when to let it fall into her lap, beneath view. He had decided when she would wear something drab to allow another member to stand out—usually to the detriment of that other member. He had carefully chosen her dresses in order to cultivate age, and therefore experience; conversely, he had also decided when she was to play on youth. He never asked her to simper; there were limits to the advice she was willing to follow.

  He had notably never attempted to have her play on her beauty.

  For some reason, that bothered her. She wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling she would be, and she didn't particularly like it.

  "I don't see why you're fussing," she said, standing to put some distance between them. "It's not as if anyone else here is dressed any differently."

  He raised a brow, but did not join that particular conversation; it had never been one of his favorites.

  "We're leaving soon anyway."

  "ATerafin—"

  "Don't start. We avoided what—what would have happened. We averted a slaughter in the Tor Leonne. We did what the visions said we had to do."

  "ATerafin."

  "What?"

  "Are you so certain that we have finished—that you have finished—playing a role in the South?"

  "Yes."

  His smile was thin. "You really should learn how to lie. It would make such transparent attempts less insulting."

  When it became clear that her silence was to be her only reply, he relented. Inasmuch as Avandar had ever relented.

  "Your den will survive," he said gently. "Carver and Angel are no fools, and if they think they are protecting your interests in your absence, they will do well."

  Her silence continued.

  "ATerafin."

  "I'm sorry. I had a dream last night. I wanted to talk to Teller. He wasn't here." It made her sound like a child, and she was so far past childhood that she knew she had no excuse.

  "If I guess correctly, you will know for certain if you are free to leave before three days pass."

  "Three days?"

  His smile was cool. "You have not been listening to the Voyani speak, have you?"

  "Some."

  "Very well. They plan to leave this place. I believe they will travel into the Sea of Sorrows."

  "When?"

  "Obviously within three days."

  "Good. Three days." But she was thinking: Home.

  And because of that, her first meeting with the most beautiful woman in the world—at a close guess, and leaving out anyone of nonmortal origin—was a deeply disappointing affair.

  The sun was an hour or two above the horizon when Kallandras of Senniel College came to find her. It wasn't hard; she was seated on a fallen log that had come dangerously close to collapsing under her weight, and watching the children.

  They were engaged in a rough and tumble game of capture the flag, although Jewel thought the objective had been lost to the immediate imperative of running and shrieking, and she had found it easier to watch them, fights and all, than it was to while away the hours in useless worry.

  "ATerafin." He bowed.

  She should have known that he was about to deliver bad news; he was only this formal when formality counted.

  She rose quickly, hand falling to her dagger. "What's wrong?"

  His smile was slight, but it was genuine. "Insofar as hiding from the armies of the Tyr'agar at the desert's edge can be said to be normal, nothing is wrong. But I would like to introduce you to two women who are new to the camp. And the Voyani."

  "Why?"

  He turned, and she hesitated for just a minute before she followed; she had to jog to keep up with his long stride.

  The fire was being built, but it would not be lit, not yet. Food was being prepared by the women, although Stavos wandered among them, heckling them and getting his arms and chest slapped for his trouble.

  Everything seemed all right.

  Until she saw the three strangers who stood by the Matriarch's wagon. She stopped. Kallandras slowed.

  "ATerafin?"

  Jewel ATerafin knew in that moment there was no easy way back home.

  "May I introduce you to the Serra Teresa di'Marano and her niece, the Serra Diora di'Marano?"

  Jewel bowed, always her first reaction when polite words failed her.

  The Serra Teresa was at ease in the garb of the Voyani; she might have been a man if not for the delicate line of her chin. The men did not shave, not often. And they seldom had skin so pale, faces so unscarred. The Serra's hair was dark, but it was drawn back above her face, lending the line of her forehead severity.

  "Serra Teresa, this is Jewel ATerafin."

  "Ah." The Serra nodded. "You wear one of the council rings."

  "You know about these?"

  "I spent many years in the Tor Leonne," the Serra said quietly. Her expression softened for a moment, and hardened again. "There were, at one time, members from each of the Ten Houses within the Tor."

  Jewel looked away. They both maintained their silence.

  Kallandras skillfully broke it.

  Jewel would have been happier if he hadn't.

  "ATerafin, this is the Serra Diora. Serra Diora, this is Jewel ATerafin; she is the youngest member of the governing council of House Terafin."

  The Serra Diora's face was as beautiful, as flawless, as Jewel remembered.

  Even though she had seen it only once.

  The Serra bowed gracefully. Bowed demurely. She did not offer words.

  Jewel stared at the woman. She wore a simple sari, but if Jewel was any judge of fabric, it had been a costly one. She wore a cloak above that, one that skirted the dry growth beneath their feet without quite gathering loose twigs and leaves. And in her arms she carried something that had been carefully wrapped in a blanket.

  It was a sword. Jewel knew it was a sword.

  Her gaze traveled between the weapon and the woman who was a symbol, for a moment, of all the fate and destiny that she had let control her life. And she swa
llowed.

  At last, she said, "I'm—I'm pleased to meet you." It was awkward, it was gawky, it was all the things that she suddenly felt in the presence of the younger woman.

  The Serra did not even condescend to notice. Her smile was delicate; everything about her seemed to be. "I hope that we will have a chance to converse as we travel. I have much interest in the North."

  "Serra," Kallandras broke in quietly, "the Matriarch will expect you soon."

  The Serra nodded. "Forgive me, ATerafin."

  "Of course."

  The Serra Diora walked—if walk was the word for something so light and so graceful—between the walls the wagons made.

  She was gone. The Serra Teresa followed, and behind her, like a faithful shadow, the seraf no one had named. Jewel hated that. No name.

  "I want you to go home."

  "We have had this discussion, or a variant of it, before, Jewel."

  "I take it that's a no."

  "It is, as surmised, a refusal."

  "Well, then, I want you to send a message."

  He laughed. "I am not a bard, and there is not a bard born—nor has there been one—who could speak across so great a distance. What would you say?"

  "I don't know."

  "You said your goodbyes. Would you add to them?"

  "I don't know. But I know that—I know that it's possible to use magic to deliver something to someplace. A letter. Anything."

  "You know too little, or too much, for your own comfort. Yes, it is possible, but there are reasons that such acts are carried out in specific places at specific times. I will not explain them; you are not mageborn, and you haven't the patience to sit through the entire lesson."

  "Could you not just go and say—"

  "Could I squander power in order to say nothing at all that will be of value?"

  She turned, angry, and stared toward the North.

  And after a moment, she felt his hands—both of his hands—upon the ridges of her collarbone. She froze. He froze.

  Awkward. She hated that.

  Because for just a minute…