Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows Read online

  "He could not stop me. I drew the dagger from my robes, and I killed Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani. Or I should have; the blow was fatal. But he would not let her die. He held her somehow."

  "She died?" The words were cutting.

  Diora was silent a moment. "The dagger," she said at last. "I cut him with the dagger."

  "Interesting. And he bled?"

  "Yes."

  "Then we understand," Yollana said quietly, "why Evallen gifted you with Lumina Arden. We can only guess why she did not ask you to return it with… other burdens. There is much about the ancient weapons that we understand only by story and myth, and there are reasons why we have each come to pray that our understanding is never improved. You did what you had to do. And if we are, as clansmen, taken by wind, there is a voice in the storm that blesses you, Serra."

  Diora was silent. When she spoke, the words were hesitant; it was clear that if such a blessing were offered, it was lost to wind; it did not reach her ears. "He came to me, later."

  "He?"

  "The… demon. The one that almost bound Evallen. The one that saw me, when the others couldn't," she replied quietly. "He came to me, as seraf."

  "As sera/?"

  She nodded.

  "What did he say, when he came to you?"

  "That he was curious," she replied, her face once again so smooth it might have been a mask. Margret had seen enough of masks in this lifetime to wonder what it cost to wear this one. She didn't ask.

  Yollana was silent a moment; the moment stretched. "What about?"

  "He wanted to see the woman who had angered the Sword of Knowledge."

  "And survived it?"

  "He did not say as much plainly."

  "But you inferred it?"

  Her lips curved slightly, just slightly, but the momentary warmth it brought to her expression was astonishing. "While I acknowledge the difference between the clans of the Dominion and the Voyani families, I must say in defense of the clans that rumors of our demonic nature are exaggerated. I would hesitate to ascribe motive to a creature so much beyond my ken."

  Yollana's response was almost as astonishing: She smiled in reply. "Well played, Serra. Well played. In you, the Serra Teresa's blood runs true."

  But the Serra Diora looked up, her cheek red and slightly swollen, to the daughter, the Matriarch's daughter. Margret, who was determined to fall to no charm, no beauty, no clannish wiles. "She asked me to protect the pendant; she said it was of immeasurable value to the Arkosans. She asked me, in time, to give it to you. And Matriarch, that is my intent."

  "In time."

  "In time."

  The Serra Teresa lifted a hand from her niece's shoulder. "Tell them," she said, her voice as cool as Diora's expression. "Tell them, or I will."

  "Ona Teresa," Serra Diora replied, the words somewhere in the uncharted territory between plea and command. "Does it matter? In the end, prudence dictates that I follow this course of action."

  "It matters."

  The younger Serra was silent for a long time; Margret wondered if she would accede to what was, in the end, a command, or if she would, with grace and skill, slide out from beneath what was clearly a threat.

  But it appeared that the Serra Teresa had as much influence with the Serra Diora as she had had with Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani—and would never, never have, Margret vowed in quiet fury, with the new Arkosan Matriarch—for the younger Serra bowed her head to ground a moment— or rather, to knees kept above the commonality of dirt the rest of the women shared. "I cannot remove the pendant."

  Whatever she had expected, it was not this. Margret, shook herself free from her cousin's grip. "What?"

  "I cannot remove it. I have tried." Her face, like the moon's, was a pale light in the growing night sky. "I thought, perhaps, there was some Arkosan ceremony, some Voyani ritual, that came with the end of an obligation such as this."

  "And you didn't ask us?"

  As the answer was obvious, it was clear the Serra was not going to condescend to give it. She offered a different one in its stead, one which was less pleasing. "As I intended to follow the course I am now taking, I did not see that it was relevant. Let me be blunt," she added, and Margret snorted.

  "You wouldn't understand the word."

  "I would not have your understanding of it, no. But I believe that my version of blunt will serve even here."

  "Na'dio."

  "Ona Teresa." She turned for a moment, exposing profile as if it were dagger's edge. Then, in the ensuing silence, she turned back. "It is clear that you disdain the clans; clear that you have no desire to be involved in a fight that involves them—regardless of whether or not it serves your interest in the long term.

  "And that is, perhaps, as it should be; I cannot say. Women are not given whole families to rule among the clans."

  Margret, seeing them, aunt and niece, Serra and Serra, snorted.

  "It is true; the power we gain, we gain by subtlety, and we are aware, always, that it is given and sustained by the intricacies of our art, our ability to cajole. Limited by the illusion of our beauty. You clearly do not labor under the same… restriction."

  Elsarre laughed. "The little girl has fangs."

  "The 'little girl,'" the Serra Maria—the Matriarch Maria— said quietly, "is not a serpent; she is a warrior of the Lady's heart."

  "I would expect you to support her; you are from the same place."

  "A place that understands courtesy? Hospitality? Yes. Perhaps you would do well to visit it yourself, Matriarch, although that is the topic for another—fruitless—conversation."

  And you have them fighting over you, now; you know they hate each other—or that Elsarre hates everyone—and you've already started to turn it to your advantage. I'm watching you, Serra.

  "If I could remove the pendant, I would not return it to you yet; not here in the heart of my enemies' territory."

  "And where would you deign to return what is Arkosan , to Arkosa?"

  "In Mancorvo," she replied quietly. "Or Averda, if you choose it. The Arkosans hold the Averdan passages for most of the year, although I believe they were contested bitterly two years ago."

  "They were." Margret frowned. "Your information is good. But a warning: we do not discuss such contests when the Matriarchs gather."

  "Pardon me for my clumsiness, Matriarch."

  As if, Margret thought, you didn't know that. The woman was clever; beauty had not robbed her of cunning. "A question, Serra."

  "Ask." .

  "If you cannot remove the pendant now, how do you know it will come to hand so easily when you arrive at the destination you have chosen?"

  Without so much as a change of expression, the Serra replied. "I don't."

  Margret snorted. She hated it; she knew that it made her seem ungainly, intemperate. But she was those things. "I would make a poor Matriarch," she said softly, "if I did not question the worth of that bargain. I am to take you— with my family—into the heart of Averda. You know the clans will come; you know that by doing so, I will have chosen a side in a war between clans."

  For a moment, the clanswoman's expression sharpened; there was, Margret thought, a very real anger that, like desert night, waited to descend upon the unwary. But she held it, shaped it with words into something that defied the rawness of emotion. "If you choose to abdicate your responsibilities by calling this a war of clansmen, so be it. I am not familiar with the ways of Arkosa; perhaps this is acceptable. But you know that the man who wears the crown is not the enemy I face; the Lord who stands behind him is. Should you choose to ignore that, that is, of course, your prerogative; hide then, in shadows, as Voyani do—and pray to the Lady that the shadows are safe.

  "But do not attempt to deter me in my fight. Do not take from me the weapons I require."

  Elena's hiss of drawn breath was almost exactly like the sound of metal against metal. She stepped forward, red hair catching the fire's reflection and holding it.

  But she left the
talking to Margret. "And if I choose to take back what is mine, how will you stop me?"

  "I won't," Diora replied evenly. "If my understanding of these things is correct, the pendant itself will."

  "Impossible."

  "Is it? Try, then, Margret of the Arkosan Voyani. Try, if that is what you wish. Satisfy your curiosity and then decide what you will do with me. I must make my decisions based on yours and the only thing we have in common at the moment is the necessity of haste."

  Yollana of the Havalla Voyani rose. She rose so smoothly and so swiftly it was easy to forget that her legs were injured, that she required canes to walk with. "Enough," she said, and the heartfire flickered with the force of her word.

  "Serra, I understand your vow; in my fashion, I respect it. Margret, I understand yours. But this bickering is pointless. You can hate each other on your own time. Serra, I must ask you what Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani said when she gave you your duty to Arkosa."

  "She asked me to carry what I wear to Margret of the Arkosa Voyani."

  "No more?"

  "No."

  "And yet you cannot remove the—what was given."

  "No."

  "Try, please."

  Diora's expression shifted slightly. For a moment, Margret thought she would refuse. But the fire lit Yollana's harsh features from beneath, and there was nothing in them that brooked refusal. Kneeling, the Serra Diora lifted both of her hands to her collarbone, to something that lay against it.

  Margret stopped breathing when she realized that she couldn't even see the Heart. She stumbled forward; Elena caught her.

  It was clear from the way the Serra's hands and fingers moved, from the way her palm curled protectively in the night air, that she handled something. But… it did not call Margret at all. We've made a mistake, she thought. She doesn't have the Heart.

  But that doubt did not touch the Serra, if any doubt did. She lifted the pendant, pulled it over her head. Or tried. A bright, white light encircled her neck in a flash as her hands rose above the line of her perfect chin.

  Denial.

  More.

  Much, much more.

  The Serra's breath was sharp; it was lost, almost lost, to the cries of the other women: Elsarre, Maria, Elena, and, yes, Yollana. Only the Serra Teresa was completely silent, but her hands now rested one on either side of her niece's shoulders.

  Before them, robbed of color, robbed of flesh, stood a woman they recognized.

  Mother.

  Margret, she said, lips moving in absolute silence. No wind would carry these words; spells existed that could breach the heartfire, but Margret knew, in a way she seldom knew anything, that no spell existed that could gather the words this apparition would say.

  When you take the Heart, you will know how I died. You will know exactly how. I leave that; this is not the time, not the place.

  Serra Diora, she continued, and the woman on her knees looked up, face as white as the light that her mother's spirit was made of. I am sorry. In order to protect the Heart from our enemy's detection, I made you, in blood, Arkosan.

  "Mother!"

  "In blood?"

  It was not a simple task; not an easy one. But if you can hear me now, it means that you stand in the circle of a fire made by the Matriarch of Arkosa. Forgive me. Forgive me, Margret. The Tor contained within it creatures of such darkness that our ancestors might not have been able to stand against them. They knew what we are, and what they were looking for; had I worn the Heart, they would have found it.

  And had the Heart been given, by accident and fate, to another, they would already own it; it would already be destroyed.

  The Serra Diora offered blood to the Heart stone.

  Yollana's gaze broke away from the dead. "Is this true?" she demanded, sharp now, the words fired like quarrels.

  Serra Diora started to speak; she started to offer her denial… and then she raised her hands. Her perfect, unblemished, uncallused hands. She stared at the lines of her palms; at the rise of flesh that gave way to thumb. And she said, softly, "Not knowingly, Matriarch. But the Heart of Arkosa is hard and its edges are all sharp. I—" She looked away. Looked back. "I bled while the Heart was in my hands."

  "But if it—if it were that easy—"

  "It is not that easy," the oldest Matriarch replied. The lines of her face sank, as if with gravity and weight, with age and knowledge. "What she has done to you, Serra, is a poor thanks for the risk that you took, and the service you did by freeing her. Poor thanks, indeed." Her voice was grim. "This Evallen will not answer my questions. See? She has words for her daughter alone."

  Diora nodded, looking through the back of the ghost of Evallen as if through a glass or a lens; Margret's face had become unguarded; her emotion as obvious as a child's.

  "My hands bled, but I was not aware that they were bleeding."

  "When?"

  "I… am not sure. I was aware of the damage only after it had occurred. But—I am certain my hands were bleeding when I killed her."

  "Then the bond had already been made. Serra… there were men in the past who would have killed for what you were unknowingly granted." She smiled, and her smile was chilling. "And that is because they are fools. You have been cursed, and you will pay for whatever aid Evallen of the Arkosan Voyani gave you."

  She is of Arkosa. She was blooded, by sacrifice; bound, by Heart and the power of the dagger. She is a daughter of the Heart, and as daughter, she, as you, must make the pilgrimage. You will be watched; possibly followed. Be prepared for war, Margret; be prepared for the End of Days. Our ancient vows bind us, not because we are fools or sentimentalists, but because, having seen our enemy, I understood that those vows define who we chose to become when we chose to walk the long Voyanne.

  The Serra Diora is blood of our blood; a daughter in

  binding, if not by birth. In order to retrieve the Heart from

  where it now rests, you will either have to kill her—and in

  so doing, overcome the Heart's protections—or accompany

  her. And if you kill her…

  I will never wear the Heart of Arkosa.

  "Mother…"

  Silence.

  Silence and anger and something else. Margret's cheeks were wet.

  "Mother…"

  / won't waste time. Arkosa does not have it. But you will know, when you complete your trial, what I feel and what I desire. You will be—if you control your temper and your bitterness—a better Matriarch than any family has seen in our history since the founding. But if you cannot control these things, then Arkosa, like the other lines of Man, will perish.

  Having said that, Margret, her mother continued, looking calmly into her daughter's eyes, I will say one other thing. Be harsh when you must, and when you are asked to judge, when you are asked to judge at the appointed place and at the appointed time, leave mercy to the Lady and the Lady's whim; offer none. Do you understand?

  Arkosa was never a kind master, and it knows no kindness. As you will discover. I am… sorry. For a moment, it seemed that she was; her expression was almost—almost— gentle. But it changed. As it had always done, the gentleness gave way to the edge of Evallen's duty: Arkosa. Everything for Arkosa.

  Go, Margret.

  Go to Arkosa.

  25th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Raverra

  Jewel ATerafin sat, knees tucked beneath her chin, blankets around her shoulders, looking distinctly less powerful than rank and natural ability dictated. The only thing that would have set her apart in a crowd—the signet that had been given her by The Terafin—looked remarkably dull in the fading light.

  "Is it me," she said out loud, "or is it cold? Because I'm freezing."

  In response to the words, spoken more to break silence than because they were true—although they were true—the great stag appeared from between trees that circled the clearing; he made his way to where she sat, and then, when she gazed up—and up, for he was tall—nudged her very, very gently with
the tines of his antlers.

  She knew a move over when she didn't hear it, and she moved, exposing her back to the tips of antlers that had already pierced skin once. The stag slid between her and the tree she had chosen to lean against, and then nudged her again. When she sat down, her back touched his flank; there was something about the muscle and the sleek sheen of his coat that felt… wrong. She was afraid to relax.

  But he was warm, very warm; he radiated heat in a way that the distant fire, surrounded by what she was certain were angry women, did not. "You're not mine," she said, whispering the words. "I don't own you. If you think I do, you don't understand what our argument—hers and mine— was about."

  His nose touched the skin of her cheek. She met his eyes, large eyes, dark and round; she swallowed and looked away. She could see what lay beneath the facade of animal face, animal form. Little things like this made the talent of sight a burden. And she knew with certainty that she would understand just how much of a burden it was in the months to follow. His skin brushed her skin as if he were touching her; she looked back. Oh, I heard your argument, the stag said, in a voice so deep she felt it as a sensation rather than a sound. And while I benefited from its outcome, I do not entirely understand it.

  "Why?"

  Because by right of victory, she ruled. By right of victory, you rule. The world has always been thus. The strong and the weak clash, and the weak give way. If they are pleasing, they are kept; if they are displeasing, they are discarded.

  "You sound like Avandar," Jewel snorted, uncomfortable.

  "You speak with her mount," Lord Celleriant said.

  She did not reply. Nor did she look at the disgraced lordling of the Winter Court; he was beautiful in a way that reminded her of his Queen. She had seen women—and men—attempt to use beauty as a weapon before, but she had never been scarred in that particular battle.

  She was now. Kalliaris had chosen to smile; the scars were invisible. But the Winter Queen lingered like both dream and nightmare when she closed her eyes.

  She had told no one because she felt foolish doing it, but she had spent three days weaving the long strands of the Queen's hair into a bracelet; she wore it around her left wrist. She had seen such keepsakes before; they were usually fastened to gold or silver clasps because hair wasn't very good at staying in place. They were also usually taken from the dead.