Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (6 page)

The girl looked up at the sound of the voice; she was not so
broken that suspicion was her first reaction. "E-Evayne?"

The older woman swallowed and then smiled falsely. "Yes."

"What are you—what are you doing here?" Hope. "Have you come
to—have you—did Levec send you?"

Levec doesn't know where you are
. But she
did not say it. Instead, she crossed the room, leaving shadows that
were only the castoffs of light. She caught the girl in her arms and
held her, and after a moment of stiffness that told Evayne more than
she would ever ask, the girl relaxed and began to sob, very like a
child, into her robes.

Those robes caught the tears and kept them, a bitter memento.
Evayne spoke a word; saw the green glow of her mage-light halo Askeyia,
her momentary ward. It was a spell better used in the presence of
physicians, for it told her much about the condition of the body upon
which it was cast. The spell came more easily than words would have.

And it gave her a bitter, bitter answer.

Askeyia was chilled by the fevers brought on by too great a
use of power in too short a space of time. That, she expected. Her leg
was broken cleanly, but poorly set; her face was bruised but whole, her
vision had been hampered somehow by the strikes to the side of her
face. These, and more, Evayne cataloged in an instant.

But it was the last thing that was the most terrible, because
she understood it all then.

Askeyia a'Narin was pregnant.

She must have tightened her grip, for the girl looked up, the
matted darkness of her hair scudding the underside of the seer's chin.

"Evayne?"

No. No, I will not do this.

"Evayne, what is it? What's wrong? Is he coming?"

I 
will
not
do this
.
The fifty-year-old woman, who had seen battles that were far darker and
far more real than the glory of legend bit her lip until it bled. Held
the girl, held Askeyia, a moment longer, as if her arms were bower or
cradle—or armor. She lowered her face into the crook of the girl's
neck; blood there, sticky but dried.

She had not been brought to rescue Askeyia.

The silver lily that hung round her throat bit into her
collarbone; she did not move, thinking of what its maker would have
said to her for what she was about to do.

"Askeyia," she said, in a voice so husky the word came out a
rumble. "Forgive me. But I cannot take you from this place. The Lord
who rules it has a grip that is far too strong."

Lies, all lies. She hated them. Because she knew, now, the
how
of Kiriel di'Ashaf, the dark, wild child that did not—in this year, at
this time—exist. And she was glad that she had not known it sooner.

But Askeyia was gullible, even in fear.

"You are caught in a war, Askeyia. And you are a healer."
Swallowing hurt; the words stuck. "You're— you're with child."

White-faced, the girl drew back, covering herself, pulling the
scraps of dress together as if—as if the night just past had not
passed. As if it never would. Her eyes were wide and dark and round.

And Evayne raised a hand, gentle with the girl as she could
not be gentle with herself. "No, child," she said, although the Askeyia
that she remembered did not care to be called a child. "Remember your
talent. Remember your birth. You are healer-born. If the child you
carry is not to your liking, you need not carry it to term."

"But I—"

"No, not tonight. And not tomorrow, if I am a judge of the
power that you've used. But the night after, if you desire it, you will
have your freedom from—from what you bear." She saw Askeyia's shoulders
slump. Relief, of a sort.

"If you do nothing," the seer continued, "the child will never
come to term." She stopped speaking a moment, and looked beyond the
gray of wall, to whatever lay without. "Askeyia, I never told you who I
was, and you asked. You always asked." She had hoped the girl would
smile, but there was about her a watchful fear that Evayne was certain
would never again leave her face.

"I was raised in Callenton."

At that, Askeyia's brows rose. "In Callenton? That's the town
over from—from where I was born. Evanton. I went there once, with my
father, in the summer." Her eyes clouded then, as she thought of the
father who had sent her to the safety of the mighty healing houses in
Averalaan.

"My father was a blacksmith, and until his death, I was only a
strange-looking child. After his death—ah. After his death, I was a
stranger, a foreigner. You know how cruel children are before they
discover that they aren't children anymore.

"In Callenton, I came into the power that brings me to you."
She very gently reached into her robes—her white robes—and pulled out a
glowing sphere that pulsed in her hand like a heart. In it, silver
clouds turned in upon themselves, roiling. Waiting.

"A man came to me, to teach me of my gift. I did not know who
he was, but he knew me well, and he offered me great mystery, great
adventure, glory. It required a sacrifice, of course." She shook her
head, staring at the surface of the seer's crystal. "I was not as brave
as you, Askeyia. I was timid. He told me that I would have to walk a
path that no other man, or woman, had ever walked before. That I would
walk it alone and that it would take me across decades and centuries.
That, once I had chosen, I would be bound; I could speak of nothing
that had not yet happened. Offer no warning. But if—
if I
did all these things, I might avert the crowning of the Lord of the
Hells upon the mortal lands. I told you, Askeyia, that I was timid.
What would you have done?"

Askeyia straightened her shoulders then, although her arms
were still tightly wound across her body, covering her breasts. "I—"
She looked at her lap. Swallowed. "I would have said yes."

"I said no."

"But you—"

"And that night, that terrible night, the demons came. We had
no soldiers, Askeyia, except for one man who fled the Empire to forget
the Dominion Wars. We had no mages. There were no god-born children to
lead us or protect us.

"And he came back to me at that moment, and he asked me again
if I would follow his path.

"And I told him yes. Yes, because everyone that I
loved—precious few, but
precious
—was there."

"W-what happened?"

"I don't know," she told the young girl softly, more honest
now than she had been in decades. "I've never been allowed to go back.
I cannot choose where the path takes me. But it takes me where I need
to be. I did not know that it would bring me to you." She smiled, but
the smile was a bitter one. "I've lost them all. If I were to go back
to them now, they would never recognize me. My life has been given to
the fight, and taken by it."

"And will it work?" Askeyia said softly, as if asking the end
of a story.

"I don't know. But I have to try. What happened here, what
happened to you—it's not the worst thing that
will
happen if the Lord of the Hells rules all. Askeyia a'Narin, you carry
his child."

"I won't for long."

Evayne swallowed. "If you do not carry this child to term, we
stand no chance of winning this war."

The silence. Oh, the silence.

Of the two, it was Evayne who looked away, casting her gaze
stoneward.

"And if I do? If I do, can you tell me that we
will
win? Against a
god'
?" Her voice was thin and high
and strained. But it was not mad, it was not hysterical.

Evayne started to speak, and Askeyia cried out, "
Look
at me
!" and the words died on the older woman's lips.

"No," she said, the lie that was so distasteful defeated. "I
cannot say that with certainty. I can only say that she is hope, and
she is our hope, as she is his."

"She?"

"If you have this child, this child will be a girl. And she
will be all that she was born to be."

"How can you ask this?"

"Because, Askeyia, she will be his daughter, but she will be
yours as well. It is only hope, yes. But it
is
hope."

"And for me?"

"I promise you that you will suffer no more in the birthing
than many others suffer naturally."

"And will I go home? Will I be free?"

Evayne rose, and in rising, she took the weight of her answer
with her, carrying it, burdened by it. She saw the clouds rolling in to
either side.

"No," she whispered. "Just as I will never be. I cannot force
you, Askeyia, and I would not. But if a healer's vocation is to save
lives, you will be the greatest healer the world has ever had, known or
not.

"And I promise you, before the end, you will be known."

She heard Askeyia begin to cry as the path closed in about
her, taking her from the desperate young woman, and leaving her with
the burden of what she had asked, of what she would ask.

She was Evayne a'Nolan.

II: ASHAF

15th of Wittan,
412 AA
The Terrean of Aver da, the Green
Valley

She would always remember that he came at the break of dawn.
Not at full morning, when the serafs were out in the fields, sun
burnishing their forearms with color and the glow of sweat seen at a
distance, but when the darkness had not yet been broken, and an old
woman could take the time to sit beside the earthen shroud that lay
over so many of her once-bright futures. It happened that way sometimes.

She lifted a goblet carefully, searched the still, dark
surface of its liquid, and then spilled the contents, drop by careful
drop, over the graves. The wine was almost finished for the season, and
she'd little taste for it otherwise; it was folly to drink alone, a
type of weakness that she'd sometimes longed for but never truly
approached.

Harvest was around the corner; a day, maybe three, away. She'd
seen enough of them to know that it would be a good year, Lord willing.
The Tor'agar would be pleased.

Ashaf kep'Valente had much to be thankful for. She served a
Tor who was just, if at times harsh; she had her health, her sight, her
teeth, and the kind of strength that years of labor cannot destroy. Not
labor.

But other things hurt, and over time it became harder and
harder to ignore them. She was tired. The Lady knew it, if no one else
did. She wanted to see her children again, and there was only one way
she could ever do it. One way.

"Ashaf kep'Valente."

She looked up from the Lady's blessing, although the sun had
not yet robbed the sky of all its hidden shadows, its quiet darkness.
And she saw him for the first time.

He was neither young nor handsome as Ashaf reckoned either,
but in his face she saw the conjunction of cool distance and absolute
certainty that spoke of power. He did wear a fine and heavy cloak, out
of season in the Averdan summer. It was the colors of harvest, gold and
green and brown—but it felt black to her, and that was unsettling.

Had they a new Tor? It would not be the first time she had
found out this way. But it would be the worst, and it would be painful;
this Tor was a good man, a known one.

This stranger, she thought, although she did not know why,
would be neither. Ah, age and family made a coward of a woman. Bow and
scrape and beg and give way, if it kept you alive for your family.

But she had no family now.

Her eyes fell at once to his collar, his breast, but he wore
no sun with rays to mark his importance among the clansman.

"No," he said quietly, "I am no Tor or Tyr; if you bow to me
here, it is at the desire of your courtesy, no more."

"And have you come to find the Tor, then?" She rose, standing
implacably between this stranger and those graves, as if by putting
herself there she could guard her heart. As if she knew, even then,
that it was necessary.

"No," he said quietly. "Your Tor has little of interest to
offer me." He paused. "You are not a very curious woman, are you?"

She shrugged, wondering if she had time to raise a shout and
call the men from the field. Wondering, in truth, if it was worth the
effort. Perhaps the Lady heard her prayers, and if this was not the
method she would have chosen to end her time and toil, one couldn't
argue with the Lady. Sometimes the answers to your prayers were
answers, like them or no, and once asked, very little could be taken
back.

When he saw that she wasn't about to tender an answer, he
smiled, the expression shrouded and somehow dangerous, although she
thought he meant it to be friendly. She would learn the error of that,
and many things, in time. "I was right," he told her. "The Averdans are
different. Ashaf kep'Valente, I have come to purchase your service."

"Then you do want to speak with the Tor," she said firmly,
thinking that he would take her from this place, these tangible, buried
memories, and not much liking it.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You are the first woman I have met that
I think suitable for my needs. But I will not take your service if it
is offered unwillingly."

At that, the daylight broke; the Lady's time passed. Ashaf
kep'Valente snorted and settled into things practical. "You aren't from
the Dominion," she said boldly, "if you think that service and willing
are one and the same. You buy me, I work. You don't, I work." She
shrugged. "But it's not up to me to jump through your hoops either way.
You talk to the Tor, and if he's willing, he'll give me the orders."
She straightened her shoulders, first left, then right, and wiped
dew-moistened hands on her apron, knowing what answer the Tor would
tender. Or believing that she did. "Now, I've work to be about."

"Indeed. As have I."

But his eyes were the darkest brown she had ever seen as he
caught, and held, her gaze. "I think we will speak, you and I," he
said, and for a moment she felt like a young woman again. And she
hadn't much liked being young, with no freedom, and choices that were
so painfully few. Age had its precious value.