Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (110 page)

Margret closed her eyes. She felt the ground wobble slightly beneath her feet, as the earth had in Arkosa. She knew that she should order Diora to leave, knew also that if she did, the Serra would obey. But she allowed herself this one weakness. Because in truth she did not want to face Nicu on her own.

The ship of the Matriarch of Arkosa rose gently in the still of the night, beneath the Lady's fullest face.

The Serra was as silent and pale as the face of the moon. Her eyes were as dark as sky. But she was slender, diminutive, graceful; she was, in her fashion, gentle. Margret did not know how to approach her. She tried to speak, twice, but the words never passed her lips; she felt as awkward as she had the first time she had fallen in love.

And was she?

No. Not in love. Maybe in awe.

"I knew you lied," the Serra said, surprising Margret, "because I could hear it in your voice. It sounded so wrong, coming from you. I have heard lies all my life; they are part of survival in the High Court. Grace—and the illusion of beauty—does not easily accommodate truth; truth is blunt, and often brutal; it is a face that, once exposed, is unavoidable. When we speak a plain truth, we take a risk, always, because the truth lingers in the memory of both the speaker and the listener.

"We save our truths," she added softly. "As if they are valuable only when hidden. We hide our affection; we hide simple things. Love. The loyalty that comes not from duty but from other complicated desires."

She had not once looked up at Margret.

"You could hear a lie that no one else could hear. You know me that well."

The silence held for a moment longer than necessary. Margret understood that this was Diora's hesitation.

"I could hear a lie that no one else could hear, yes—but that truth and your supposition are not the same. I know you no better than the Arkosans among who you've made your life. I have seen things they will not see, but it is not the same.

"If Stavos lied to me, I would hear it. If Elena lied, I would hear it. If the Tyr'agar himself chose to ornament his words with deception, I would know, if I were present."

Margret frowned. "But—" She turned to look at the Serra Diora.

The Serra did not shrink from her inspection, but she turned at last to face the Matriarch of Arkosa, her face as pale, as distant, as the Lady's.

Margret understood, then.

"You are—you are saying—"

"I was born with a gift. And a curse."

"But—"

"I have never walked unarmed among your people. Even when I have set my dagger aside, I have always had a weapon, should I choose to use it."

And understanding was both sudden, like the strike of a knife, and gradual, an unfolding, a retelling of the story of their short days together.

"Your song. That day. The day I…" The day she had kicked the samisen from the Serra's lap. The day she had humiliated herself in front of her people.

Diora nodded. "I knew they would listen," she said. "I knew I could tell them my story, without words or with them, and they would feel everything that I could not say outside of the song."

"I never asked you why."

"Why?"

"Why you sang that song. You must know that the only person it saved was me."

"I know," she said softly. "But I think I was wrong, then. The ability to hear and the ability to understand are not the same. Your brother has a different gift, if I understand what was said by the healer."

She did not mention Evayne. Margret did not mention her. But her shadow hung above them both, as welcome as the storm had been.

"But your brother understood. He came to me, the night of the storm. He stood in the cold, his teeth chattering, his knees shaking, because he pitied me. He thought I was alone."

Before Margret could ask—if she thought to ask at all— the Serra added, "And I was. You do him an injustice, to see him as a child."

"He is a child."

"Yes, but he is more than that. Had he been my brother…" her smile was almost rueful. Her expression had opened, as if it were the face of a fan, its pleats painted in delicate colors to suggest a story. "Had he been my brother, I would have been terrified for him, for he shows his weakness easily.

"But I would have loved him for the strength that allows him not to fear that weakness. I miss him."

Margret bowed her head. "I miss him, too. But I know that he'll come back. To me. To us."

"But not to me," the Serra said quietly. "I have a favor to ask of you, Matriarch."

"Matriarch? Why so formal?"

"When one asks a boon, one is always formal. It is easier, if that boon is refused, for all concerned."

Margret laughed. "There is nothing—almost nothing—I would not do for you. Ask."

"May I visit, when the war is over?"

"I would be happier if you simply asked if you could visit, with no conditions imposed."

Diora's smile was sweet, an echo of her brother's smile. It was the only warmth Margret had encountered this evening.

She said, "Almost no one else knows."

"Your gift?"

"My gift."

"Why are you telling me?"

"I am not entirely certain. Because I wanted you to know."

"Why?"

"Because truth
is
valuable. Because trust is valuable. Maybe it is even necessary." She waited a moment, and then said, "The ship has stopped moving."

Margret knew. She covered her face with her hands, and then let those hands drop. They were heavy, a burden to her. They were also clumsy. Margret struggled with flint in the shadows, trying to coax light into being. She gave up.

Whispered a word. Drew a great circle in the air before her chest.

What flint could not cede her, magic did; her hands tingled in its faint wake. Power had never come so easily before. But she was Voyani; she understood that power had its price, and that the price was not to be paid lightly. When the lamp's wick, soaked with old oil, began to burn, she let the power go.

Felt it, curled like a cat tensed to strike, as it rested against her chest. The Heart of Arkosa was heavy.

She turned and walked the length of the cramped wagon, maneuvering between the large clay jugs that held life beneath their stoppers.

She paused by the table, found room to kneel against the crowded floorboards.

Diora came, wordless as her seraf, and took the lamp from Margret's hands. She held it steadily, and asked no questions. Margret nodded gruffly, and placed her right fingers along the edge of the bench, seeking the three fingerholds carved there.

There were small blades in each of the holes; Margret had not examined their edges in years, and wondered how sharp they were, and how clean. She closed her eyes, and ran her left fingers along the bench's short underside. Found the small knobs recessed into wood, five in all. She placed her fingers against them, and then, when the three blades failed to trigger, pressed them in, one by one, in a sequence that her mother had taught her.

There was a quiet click, but it was the only noise in the cabin.

The Serra Diora set the lamp upon the table and moved away.

The sitting bench farthest from the door creaked as Margret lifted it. It was pale and simple, unadorned by the carvings that the Northern merchants favored. But its purpose was not decorative.

Herbs were placed here; unguents, oils, and powders. Gold was here as well, although not much of it; Evallen had taken most of it when she had left the encampment for the last time. There was a silvered mirror, edges adorned with jade carvings; a bracelet, enamel cracked in three places, but obviously valued in spite of the damage time and the elements had done. She lifted it and smiled.

"My father's morning gift," she told Diora. The smile faded as she set it down again. "I should have known, when she left this, that she didn't think she'd be coming back."

She felt her mother's joy and sorrow, although it was wordless. Since she had returned to her people, the Matriarchs had fallen silent.

It was a mixed blessing.

She picked up and set down many things, as if this uncovering of stray moments of her past was a part of the ritual of opening the bench. Or perhaps some part of the reward.

But in the end, she picked up the one item that had no happy memories associated with it: the sword of Arkosa.

It was not particularly fine. The least of clansmen beggared themselves to buy swords superior to this one for their sons, that their sons might carve a name and a legacy for themselves in service to a Tor or, if very lucky, a Tyr.

But those weapons were meant to last a lifetime; those weapons were meant to take names, to become a part of a living legend.

This sword had nothing of that history, although it
had
history.

It was the executioner's blade, no more, no less. It was not long, it was not heavy. But it was meant to be drawn and raised for only one purpose.

No Matriarch could kill one of her own with a sword that she wore every day. Shedding a kinsman's blood was forbidden, both in spoken law and in the visceral laws that Arkosans lived by, day to day. Oh, it did happen—but Margret could count on one hand the number of times it had resulted in a death.

There was only one sword that was, in theory, allowed to mete out justice. And what woman could kill her own, and wear that reminder, day in, day out?

Only a madwoman, and if the Voyani were passionate, they were not—for the most part—insane.

She closed the bench slowly, and then stood, girding herself with the sword's workmanlike belt. The clasp was dull and tarnished; Evallen had had little use for the sword, but was uncomfortable enough with its presence that she had taken no care for its upkeep.

Margret hoped that the blade was sharp.

She did not want to draw the sword, but she did; she held it out in full view of the fire's face, and she examined its edge carefully.

"What are you doing, Serra?"

Diora looked up; she was rummaging through the piles that lay against the far wall. "I am choosing blankets."

It was not what Margret expected to hear, although it was, in fact, what the Serra was doing.

"Are you almost done?"

"Yes, Matriarch. If you are ready?" She walked back to the table, blankets dangling over either side of her left arm. There were at least two.

"We don't need the lamp." Margret took a breath. Forced it into the recesses of her chest. It was cool, not cold. She sheathed the sword, and walked to the cabin's closed door.

As she touched its surface, she hesitated. "There is a terrible irony in all of this," she said at last.

Diora waited patiently.

"Every time a Matriarch invokes the Heart of Arkosa
in
the heart of Arkosa, she has—since the founding—been forced to—to offer a sacrifice of sorts to the City."

"Margret—"

"I knew of it. I dreaded it. I did not tell Elena. I could not tell Adam." Her hand was shaking; the flat of wood beneath her palm was not steadying enough to prevent that.

"But it only had to be done to close the City. I didn't understand what that meant. I still don't."

"Margret," Diora said softly, "I do not judge your people."

"I know.
I
do. Me." Her eyes were wide when she looked over her shoulder to Diora. "We performed the libations of offering to the Lady: wine, water and blood. But each of those were placed in a furrow in the earth, and we asked for the earth to guard our City from intruders and notice until the time when we could return to claim it.

"And this is that time. This time, I have no offering to make, no ceremony to perform. I was so afraid of it, Diora."

She shook her head. "But ceremony or no, blood is still being shed, and it is still the blood of Arkosa."

"It was not… not to the Lady that those oblations were offered," Diora said faintly. "And… I believe that the offering that was made was not made in vain." But her expression was so neutral Margret knew she would not speak of what she meant.

She opened the door into the coldest night she would ever know.

Let me kill him, Margret
. It was hard not to say the words. She meant them, although she was not a killer by nature or vocation. Her life in the Courts had taught her exactly what the value of a life was, and if that had not, her life among the clansmen would have taught her what the value of an enemy's life was.

She knew that she could raise sword and execute this man without remorse, without regret.

But she knew that it was not a gift she could offer.

She shivered as the cold emptied the room of warmth. Margret's back receded through the humble frame of the cabin's door.

Diora followed quietly, drawing the blankets to her chest and clasping her hands beneath their hanging folds.

When she gained the night air, she stopped. The ship did not move, but it was nowhere near the ground; it was above the City. In the light of the moon, the streets below were only barely visible. But the outlines of towers stood, like immovable sentinels, against the night sky, a veil against stars that trailed too near the earth.

All but one.

It was too close to be remote, and it shed light instead of absorbing it.

A great, glowing Sphere stood at its center, contained by obsidian claws.

And beneath it, shuddering, knees curled into his chest for warmth, sat Margret's cousin. His face was hidden by the hanging hem of his hood; his hands had been pulled from the dangling length of sleeve, although she could see the jut of his elbows in the stretch of fabric above them. He did not seem to notice either the ship or the Matriarch; he was lost to the cold and his own misery.

Margret grabbed the rail with one hand; she gestured, with a curt, sharp motion of head, for Diora to do the same.

When they were both anchored in this fashion, she brought the ship to the edge of the tower's flat height. And then, slowly and carefully, she crossed between the two. Diora followed, but far less fearlessly. She was grateful for the night because she could not see with her own eyes just how far a fall a misstep would cause.

But she did not misstep.