Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (109 page)

But they joined the slowly moving group.

All save Lord Celleriant and Kallandras.

"Can you hear the City?" Lord Celleriant asked.

"No."

The Arianni lord lifted a platinum brow, but did not otherwise accuse the bard of lying. "There were songs sung in the Cities of Man that rivaled the music of the Arianni. Their bards met our bards in the Summer Court—and in the Winter Court, in their time—and they made a contest of even their art." •

"Even? All things are measured." But Kallandras smiled, his eyes upon the distant walls, the ancient towers that jutted above them so perfectly. "Who won?"

Lord Celleriant laughed.

And Kallandras stilled, his eyes drawn from this ancient City to the man at his side, as if the man held the more enduring mystery, the more valuable artifacts.

"Have I amused you?"

"No," the bard replied, measuring the words he spoke. "You have surprised me."

"Oh?"

"I… have not heard you laugh."

"Your memory fails you, bard. The night the Serpent flew, I laughed."

"That was not laughter."

"No?"

"No more than the wind's voice, although the wind felt the same joy."

"Joy?" Lord Celleriant fell silent a moment. The laughter that had been so rich and unhindered was gone, a ripple in the surface of face and expression. "Perhaps. These lands are not the lands I walked. This war is not the war I fought. I have lived by the law of the Queen for all of my life, and I find it missing here.

"But it is… less unpleasant than I thought it might be. We did not know, not for certain, the fate of the Cities. We were to hold the roads against the passage of the Lord of Night, but we were met by his servants, and the Queen conversed long with their leader—a woman from Tor Arkosa.

"But from this, I believe we can gather two things. That four of the Cities survived. And that three of the Matriarchs will now be hunted with care and planning. One City is a threat that the Lord of Night can afford—for some time yet—to ignore; these people are ignorant; they are not what they were. But two such cities? Three? When word reaches our enemy, there will be a race in the Sea of Sorrows, and the
Kialli
will once again hunt there in numbers."

"With difficulty," Kallandras replied. "I have… traveled… with the Voyani."

"Oh?"

"It is considered unwise to speak of it."

"And yet you speak. To me."

"And yet," Kallandras lifted a hand to his brow, shading it from the sun's dimming light. "There are no people who cross these lands who know them better than the Voyani. If they are hunted in the wilderness, there will be death, but it will not be theirs."

"They will not be hunted by the Arianni, then."

"Even by the Arianni, Celleriant. The world is not the world you left; it is gray and dismal, its magic diminished, its song so silenced only those born with the gift can hear it. But in its muted shades, there are still places of power and knowledge that were never given to those who did not know time so intimately. But I am not certain that the Matriarchs themselves knew what to expect when they undertook this voyage. I do not think that the Matriarch Maria or the Matriarch Elsarre expect that their next voyage into the Sea of Sorrows will be their last.

"And I am not even certain that it
will
be their last. The Voyani families are
not
the same; they guard their secrets, and their secrets—their strengths—are different."

"You know this, and yet live?"

Kallandras lifted a brow. His smile, a slight turn of curved lips, lasted longer than the Arianni lord's laughter. But he did not answer the question. Instead he said, "If you must stay, stay; I must go to greet the Matriarch and the Serra."

He began to walk across the sands, his steps lighter and more certain than any step that had yet forged this path across the new land.

And from a distance, he heard Lord Celleriant's voice. "The mortals won," he said. "On almost all occasions. They had a gift for creation and their voices burned the memory with the immediacy and the tragedy of their brief lives. Why do you think I asked? I remember what I heard, even though it has long since passed. There has been a reason, always, for the fascination the dying hold for those who must seek death if they are to meet it at all."

Margret spent the night in her wagon for the last time.

She knew that Stavos was worried for her because she had been so quiet when they met. She allowed herself to be bear-hugged, to be kissed, to have her hair pulled and ruffled as if she were no more than a child.

But she had retreated from the questions that rose almost instantly on the lips of her aunt, her aunt's cousin.

She had been grateful for the absolute silence offered by Yollana of Havalla, because that silence muted her people's curiosity by reminding them that they were among outsiders. She would never have thought that, surrounded by creatures out of legend—the great stag, the pale, tall Lord Celleriant—they would have needed that reminder. But the Serpent's storm had broken many barriers the night the rains fell, not just the ones that had divided Margret from Diora.

Night had stripped the land of warmth, as it always did; in the desert there was no room for seasons, no room for the compromise that occurred between night and day wherever life gathered.

She could hear the distant sound of the river that now flowed through the desert—and the City—that she would make her home.

But clearer than that, she could hear the creak of the plank that was the sole method of entry into her wagon's cabin. Without Elena, Nicu, Andreas, or Carmello, the Arkosans had had room enough in Elena's wagon to give Margret the privacy she needed.

She would not have asked for it, but when it was offered by Tamara, she gratefully acquiesced.

Therefore she rose to answer the door. There was no one else to do it for her, no one else to hide behind.

She could not sleep.

She could not; she knew that she had one task left to finish. And she desperately wanted that task to fall to anyone else, anyone but her. Later, perhaps. Later she might delegate such a duty.

She took a breath to steady herself. To remind herself that she must breathe evenly and deeply to remain calm.

Donatella stood, framed in the door, her hands exposed to the night air, palms up. "Matriarch," she whispered.

Margret had hoped for someone else.

"May I come in?"

She should not have had to ask. Margret knew it. She nodded and stepped aside.

Donatella entered the room, closing the door. She put her hands behind her back, and leaned against it.

"Tell me," the older woman whispered.

"Donatella—"

"I know. I know you have said you will explain it all when we take the ships to the City. But I am only a mother, Margret. I am only a worried mother. Tamara is stronger than I; she is willing to wait, although the Wait is terrible. Will you show so little mercy? Tell me what happened. Tell me about my son."

"I'm sorry, Donatella. He is dead." She hung her head a moment, as if to hide tears. Was surprised to find truth in the lie of that posture. "I was selfish. I did not wish to speak of it, and I—I did not think of the harm it would do you."

But when she looked up, she saw that Donatella's eyes were dry as stone.

"We were attacked by a servant of the Lord of Night. My cousins—my cousins formed a line between the servant and me, and I fled. Had I remained, things might have been different. Had I remained, we might have lost the Heart— and the City—of Arkosa."

Donatella still did not speak.

"The servant of the Lord of Darkness took your son from you, and my cousin from me. I know—I know that Nicu did not forgive me for publicly lashing him. I wonder, sometimes, that you do." She lifted her hands and examined them unsparingly, as if she could see all of the blood they had ever shed, be it her own or another's. "I would have done anything to save him, Donatella. Believe that. But he was beyond my ability to save."

"You did not see him fall?"

"I did not see him fall, no. And I will search the City from end to end when I have the wagon airborne again. But the City rose beneath their feet—I can't think of any way they could have survived it. I'm sorry, Donatella. I did not expect what happened to happen."

The old woman was still, still as stone. Margret wished her own expression could be. "You are not lying to me, Matriarch?"

"I wish I were," Margret replied evenly. They were both aware of the enormity of the insult in the question. No wonder Donatella had been so quiet in the desert. "Or do you doubt me?"

At that, Donatella's expression shifted; the lines of her forehead gathered above her eyes. "You? Margret, I have never doubted you. I am a mother, but I am not a fool." She looked as if she might ask something else, but she held her peace, held her words.

"Thank you, Matriarch. I will—I will not trouble you more this night." She opened the door and turned to leave.

But another visitor stood in the doorway. The Serra Diora. She made way gravely and gracefully, finding room somehow between the door and the rails across from it. Donatella was not small.

She watched a lonely, bent old woman, her sorrow gathered around her like a blanket, her arms empty, and then turned to Margret; Margret silently held the door open until she had entered the wagon. The night air was cold; it chilled a cabin that contained too few people to generate heat.

When the door was closed, Diora said, "Why did you not tell her the truth?"

"Every word I told her was the truth."

"Yes, and she believes none of them. She wants to. Perhaps one day she will. But she does not believe them now. Why did you not tell her what happened?"

"Why? Will you?"

"It is not my place, Margret, and if you are her Matriarch, and you have chosen otherwise, I will abide by your decision. But I do not understand it."

"No?"

"He would have killed you. He would have betrayed you all."

"I know. I was there."

"Why allow his memory to be honored? Why allow his memory to be linked with Elena's? She was as a sister to you, and she never wavered."

"Can I point out that she was the only one who drew blood?"

Diora did not dignify the question with a response.

"Why does it matter to you, Diora? What difference does it make? He's dead."

"Only the living can give a death meaning."

"Don't quote Voyani wisdom at me."

The Serra fell silent. It was an obdurate silence, one that better suited Margret's temper than it did the Serra's.

"Why did you come? To argue? To tell me that I should inflict pain on an old woman who has been as constant as Elena for the whole of her life?"

"You inflict no pain on her that she does not already feel. You might even acknowledge the truth that you have forbidden her to acknowledge."

"Don't even try to tell me that you have her best interests at heart."

"No. I don't. But if you are to rule, is it not best that people understand what the price of betrayal
must
be, no matter how close to you that betrayer once was?"

"No."

"Margret—"

"No. You understand power among the clansmen. It's different. It
has
to be different. Diora—it's not just Donatella. If it were, if it were just her, you might be right. But it's all of us."

"He cost you Elena. Were it not for his—"

"/
know that
."

Diora fell silent at once.

Margret struggled to rein her voice in. It was too close to breaking. "It's funny. You—you're arguing with me as if you were—as if you were Arkosan. Do you know that?"

"I apologize if it offends."

"Of course it offends. But—" She took a deep breath. Held it. Exhaled. "I loved Nicu," she said quietly. "I grew up with him. We—Elena, Nicu and I—planned to marry when we were adults. We used to fight for space on the same laps. We used to argue over the same food. We used to defend each other, lie for each other, trust each other. Those men and women, those Arkosans—they were like parents to us. All of them. This is the beginning of a new life. A new future. Can I start it by telling them that he died as an enemy? That he died because he betrayed everything they believe in?"

"It is the truth."

"It is
one
truth. Maybe if I had been different, he might have been different as well. Maybe if men were allowed to be Matriarchs, maybe if men were allowed to rule, he would have been the leader he desired to be."

"You don't believe that."

"No, I don't. But I don't want to believe it. I want to believe that everything was his own choice. And because of that, I cannot trust my own motivation. I have to allow there is truth in that possibility."

"Why? I have no vested interest in his life, and I can clearly see—"

"Diora." She lifted a weary hand. "Why did you come here tonight?"

Diora bowed her head.

"Diora?"

"I came because you lied to your people."

"What? When?"

"Today. On the sands outside of the walls. You told them that you did not know where Nicu was."

"Why do you accuse me of lying?"

"Because you did lie. You do know."

Margret shrugged. "You came to accuse me of lying?"

"No. I came because I knew that you would take the ship to the City tonight. And I did not want to climb that ladder again."

Margret was absolutely silent for a moment. At last, she said, "I did not even know that I would have the ship to take."

"You do not know your people well enough, then. But I think you did know."

She shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"No. But I know why you go, Margret. Why you must go. You should have gathered your people. I have watched them, and I have watched you; you take strength from each other when strength is needed. They would understand your decision. They would respect it. They would feel as you feel, measure for measure.

"But when I heard the lie in your voice, I knew that you would deny yourself even that. And I did not want you to go alone."