Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (112 page)

"Yes."

"That will be the first battle, the first true test. I will travel with her for a time."

Teresa's dark brows rose. "You will not have that time, Matriarch. I am not—"

"You are not Matriarch. Had I known what I know now, my choices would have been no different—I would have lived in greater fear, that is all. I will have to decide what word is carried to Lyserra and Corrona."

Teresa's expression did not change. At all.

Yollana's chuckle was dry as the weed that burned to embers in her pipe. "What did you expect, Teresa? Does Callesta know, intimately, what actions Lamberto takes? No. Men have died to make sure that it remains so. And yet their fates are tied in this war. The Voyani are no different. This has happened too soon," she added quietly. "I do not understand the timing. We are not gathered; our people are scattered across the Terreans of Mancorvo and Averda, waiting word.

"Maria and Elsarre will not be prepared for the journey that Margret has undertaken."

Teresa's silence was forced.

Yollana snorted. "I'm in the mood to talk. Ask; let manners be damned."

"The Lord of Night has returned," the Serra said, hesitation in her manner, but not in the clarity of her voice.

"Yes." The word was short and testy.

"Yollana—even I, who am outsider, have heard the word homeland leave the lips of the Voyani of
all
families before."

Yollana shrugged. "So does the word love. What of it?"

"If there was ever a time to return to such a home as this, would it not be now?"

"Teresa," Yollana said, slapping her leg with a loose fist, "do you think that Margret
knew
what would happen here? Do you think that she even dreamed of this?"

"I… do not know. But seeing it, I cannot imagine that such a City could be forgotten."

"Imagine it, girl. What we have thought, what we have hoped for, was so much smaller than this. An enlarging of our lore, a strengthening of our power, an opening of the caches of weapons and spells that were once used
against
the Lord of Night. Do you honestly think that Cities rose out of the lifeless grave in our dreams?

"We
knew
what lay beneath the sands," she added. "I knew. I… have heard its voice. Teresa, I do not need to tell you that it is death to speak of this."

"No."

"Good. I owe you this; you will be with me, I think, until the end. Yours or mine. I would grant you the blood, but I do not think you would accept it; it bears other burdens and other responsibilities."

"I am honored that you would consider it."

"No, you're not. You're no one's fool." The old woman's smile was brief and fierce, but it was as affectionate a smile as Teresa had yet seen grace her face. "Where was I? Ah. What I heard. What
I
knew lay buried in the sands. Old chambers. Hidden burial grounds. Ancient artifacts. The lore of the dead; the language, the writings, the songs.

"But this? This is like preparing a body for burial and having it rise, whole and living, before a spade of dirt can be turned. I could not have foreseen this. Not alone," she added softly. She shook her head.

"And are you ready now?"

"I? I least of all." She emptied her pipe carefully. "Least of all. I don't know why I endanger your life by speaking to you." She put her pipe away. It seemed that she had finished speaking, but after a long pause, she continued. "Until the war for the Dominion has been fought and decided, I will make no trek into the Sea of Sorrows, and Havalla will remain, interred and silent, beneath the desert sands." She closed her eyes. "I do not know what Margret did to lift the City from its grave."

Opened them again. "I would not wish the passage to the homelands upon my daughters. If it is possible, I will return, and I will do what must be done."

She shivered then.

And the Serra Teresa heard the edge of fear in the words, and was surprised by it; Yollana's rough voice usually gave very little away.

"If you ever meet a woman named Evayne," the Matriarch said quietly, "run away. Run as fast as you can, and listen to nothing she says."

"I have met her, Matriarch," the Serra replied.

"Then you, too, are damned, in your fashion."

But Teresa shook her head. "She saved Adam."

"Sometimes death is a mercy."

15th of Misteral, 427 AA

Averalaan Aramarelas, Houses of Healing

Healer Levec was a busy man.

And being busy made him perpetually grouchy. His brows were a single dark line across the bridge of a square, workman's nose. His brow itself was a set of furrows, and the lines around his eyes and his lips were the subtle scars left by ill humor.

He taught no classes for three days, and for this reason— if no other—his students were grateful to the mysterious stranger who slept in the tower rooms that were forbidden to all but the masters.

But they were damn curious as well; they whispered and placed bets and made suggestions that would have curled the toes of a more prudish man. They had the intelligence not to do it when Levec was in earshot, but they cared nothing for the presence of strangers, no matter how finely attired they happened to be: strangers were Levec's problem, and no matter how rich you were, if you angered Levec, he'd just as soon let you die in the streets as raise a hand to save your worthless life.

Daine, a healer in service to House Terafin, was painfully aware of these things; he'd spent many years as one of Levec's beloved—and much cursed—students. And he knew—as well as any other student could—that the tower rooms were for Levec's personal use. Patients and clients were
not
welcome there.

Finch sidled up to Daine. "Are you
sure
he wanted us all here?"

"With Levec," Daine replied, offering her a rare smile, "it's impossible to make a mistake. He's pretty blunt."

Carver snorted. Angel stood against a wall, hands shoved into his belt, a lock of hair hanging just over the edges of long lashes. He glowered at anyone who happened to come too close—which was easy to do; the hall was crowded.

"These people can't all be students, can they?" Jester asked.

Daine laughed. "They're all students. Not all of them are healer-born, but they're all here to learn the medical arts."

Arann was the only person present who had come in his House uniform; he wasn't given much opportunity to change. Ellerson wore the distinguished uniform of the Terafin wing, and he stood like a patrician's servant, but the occasional snort of suppressed laughter dulled the appearance of dignity.

Only Teller was silent.

"How much longer are we going to have to wait?" Carver looked over his shoulder. It was a habit he'd picked up in the last couple of months. Finch hated it. It made her nervous.

Then again, these days there wasn't much that didn't.

"We wait," Daine replied, with quiet dignity, "until Levec is ready."

"Oh, good. And I suppose our report to The Terafin will wait on Levec as well." Finch grimaced. "Sorry. You didn't deserve that."

Daine had the grace to look pained. "Healers are only a little less valuable than Makers," he said at last. "And they're not used to being hurried."

"That means yes," Jester added helpfully.

"Well, if it'll take your mind off The Terafin," Carver said, "we were followed."

Finch swore. Loudly. Then she turned and smacked Carver's chest. "Don't
do
that."

Carver shrugged off her blow as if it were entirely ineffectual. "Suit yourself. But we were."

"Carver," Ellerson said, speaking in the voice reserved for wayward students. He used that a lot.

Carver shrugged again.

"Daine, I really don't think we should be here. Teller, help me out please. You
know
what Gabriel is going to say if we're late. Again."

But Teller looked past her, to the foot of the steps.

One by one, they all did.

The city's most infamous curmudgeon stood there, arms folded tightly across his chest in the suddenly silent hall, his brow dovetailing in an exquisite expression of pure annoyance, "If you've finished, ATerafin?"

He led them up the stairs. It was obvious to Finch that Daine was shocked, because when Levec stepped aside and lifted his arm in the universal "go that way" gesture, the younger healer froze, staring.

Which did nothing to improve Levec's demeanor. "I see that a life of ease in one of the Ten Houses hasn't improved your wit, boy. Didn't you hear the ATerafin? You're on a short schedule. Move!"

Daine flushed. For a moment, anger transformed his features so thoroughly, Finch wasn't sure that
he
was Daine. She did not like the look.

Levec, however, was immune to it, and that gave Daine time to find his face again. He mumbled an apology which was about as graceless as Levec's curt command, and led the way up the steps, the fall of his feet just a little too heavy.

But Finch, following at the rear, saw the old bear of a healer turn his gaze upon Daine's stiff back; she saw something like anger in his face, but saw more—pity, pride, and regret. She managed to look away before he noticed she was staring instead of walking.

They stopped on the large landing just outside of a set of fine doors, ignoring the steps that continued up to the heights. Levec pushed his way to the front of the gathered crowd and lifted a hand, demanding—and more notably receiving—silence.

"I will offer one warning. My patient is
not
to be touched. You may speak to him, you may answer his questions, you may ask questions of your own—but if you touch him, I'll break your arms. Is that clear?"

Daine frowned. "Healer Levec?" he said, raising his hand.

Levec did not seem to notice anything unusual about the gesture, although Daine was clearly well past the student stage of his life. "Daine?"

"Is—is the patient a student?"

"Very good. Yes. And no."

"But—" His eyes widened. Whatever he'd been about to say, he thought better of it. But he audibly swallowed a question as Levec turned and very gently opened the door.

Finch had never thought about what the rooms of the House's master would look like. She'd seen Alowan's room on a number of occasions, and it was clutter personified— so unlike the healerie he presided over, she'd given up trying to understand how the powerful chose to live.

But these rooms were sparsely furnished; the ceilings were tall enough to be imposing, and the windows were clear but finely crafted. The floor was a dark, dark oak; the beams in the ceiling, exposed to inspection, darker still. There was a door on the far side of the room, and against the wall beside it, a desk that was closed. She suspected, given the brassplated keyhole, that it was also locked.

But the centerpiece of the room was definitely the bed; it was larger than Jay's from headboard to foot, and wider again by half. Great, thick comforters were carefully arranged across it—they were as simple as the room, but no less expensive. They were undyed cotton; the counterpane—if there was one—was nowhere in sight.

But lost in those comforters was a young man.

His head was propped up by pillows thick as Arann's chest, and his hair, dark and wavy, was spread across those pillows in wet locks. He had either been bathed recently, or he'd been sweating a lot—and judging by the look of the rest of him, Finch was willing to bet on the latter.

There was a pitcher beside the bed, on a table that was obviously meant to be reached by an attendant, not a patient.

And that attendant now crossed the room to lift it and pour water into a solid, silver mug.

"Adam," Levec said, "these are the people I spoke of." His voice was not a voice that was easily gentled, but the edge was off his growl.

Finch frowned. Levec was speaking
Torra
. She took a closer look at the boy; his skin was dark, his eyes dark as well. He was a Southerner.

Finch, Carver, and Teller spoke Torra; Angel, Arann, and Jester didn't, although they'd at least picked up the curse words over the years. It would have been hard not to; Jay used them liberally.

The boy in the bed sat up. Levec snapped something that was clearly meant to be a warning, but the word was low enough that it didn't carry.

"Are you Jewel ATerafin's family?"

Finch froze.

The boy repeated the question.

"Do you speak Weston?" she asked softly.

He frowned apologetically. "I speak some—Weston?— of the merchant tongue. But only a little."

Angel stepped forward, and found the bulky form of Healer Levec in his path, his expression grim. Finch caught up with her den-mate and grabbed his sleeve in a pincer-tight grip. He tried, and failed, to shake her off.

"He said Jewel ATerafin, didn't he?"

She nodded.

"Can't he speak Weston?"

"Not really."

Angel swore. A lot.

Apparently, the boy had also learned the essentials of a new language: the curse words.

Teller approached the boy quietly and slowly, bypassing Levec by the simple expedient of choosing the other side of the bed.

He stopped more than an arm's length from where the boy now sat, hands raised above the comforters that hemmed him in. "Yes," Teller told him in serviceable— though accented—Torra. "We are her family. How—how do you know her? Have you seen her recently?"

The boy nodded.

"Was she well?"

"Well?"

"Was she all right? Was she injured? Was she in trouble?"

"We—we were
all
in trouble," the boy replied. "There was a rainstorm in the Sea of Sorrows." He winced and fell silent, turning his face toward Levec's broad back.

"Jewel ATerafin was uninjured," Levec said brusquely. "When I traveled to the South, I traveled in haste, and I returned in haste. We had little time to converse."

"She pulled me from the tunnels," Adam added quietly.

"Tunnels?" Carver's voice was lower, and sharper, than Teller's; it demanded attention. "In a sea?"

"The Sea of Sorrows is the name—one of the names— for the desert. Next time, pay attention to your geography," Finch snapped. Carver shrugged.