Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (5 page)

The Serra Diora's face was as beautiful, as flawless, as Jewel remembered.

Even though she had seen it only once.

The Serra bowed gracefully. Bowed demurely. She did not offer words.

Jewel stared at the woman. She wore a simple sari, but if Jewel was any judge of fabric, it had been a costly one. She wore a cloak above that, one that skirted the dry growth beneath their feet without quite gathering loose twigs and leaves. And in her arms she carried something that had been carefully wrapped in a blanket.

It was a sword. Jewel knew it was a sword.

Her gaze traveled between the weapon and the woman who was a symbol, for a moment, of all the fate and destiny that she had let control her life. And she swallowed.

At last, she said, "I'm—I'm pleased to meet you." It was awkward, it was gawky, it was all the things that she suddenly felt in the presence of the younger woman.

The Serra did not even condescend to notice. Her smile was delicate; everything about her seemed to be. "I hope that we will have a chance to converse as we travel. I have much interest in the North."

"Serra," Kallandras broke in quietly, "the Matriarch will expect you soon."

The Serra nodded. "Forgive me, ATerafin."

"Of course."

The Serra Diora walked—if walk was the word for something so light and so graceful—between the walls the wagons made.

She was gone. The Serra Teresa followed, and behind her, like a faithful shadow, the seraf no one had named. Jewel hated that. No name.

"I want you to go home."

"We have had this discussion, or a variant of it, before, Jewel."

"I take it that's a no."

"It is, as surmised, a refusal."

"Well, then, I want you to send a message."

He laughed. "I am not a bard, and there is not a bard born—nor has there been one—who could speak across so great a distance. What would you say?"

"I don't know."

"You said your goodbyes. Would you add to them?"

"I don't know. But I know that—I know that it's possible to use magic to deliver something
to
someplace. A letter. Anything."

"You know too little, or too much, for your own comfort. Yes, it is possible, but there are reasons that such acts are carried out in specific places at specific times. I will not explain them; you are not mageborn, and you haven't the patience to sit through the entire lesson."

"Could you not just go and say—"

"Could I squander power in order to say nothing at all that will be of value?"

She turned, angry, and stared toward the North.

And after a moment, she felt his hands—both of his hands—upon the ridges of her collarbone. She froze. He froze.

Awkward. She hated that.

Because for just a minute…

"My apologies, Matriarch. You have done so much, saved so many lives. But I cannot grant your request at this time."

"It's
not a request
."

The young woman—the beautiful, almost flawless young woman who by appearance alone made Margret feel old, wind-worn, sunburned, and distinctly unattractive—bowed her head. Her hair was tied back in an almost careless knot, but its perfect, raven's wing black caught the firelight and held it as if it were a dark, dark diamond. Her skin was white and unblemished; Margret knew it was childish, but she looked forward to the effect of wind and sun on that pampered, oiled, powdered skin.

Because there wasn't any way that the Serra was going to return to the life she'd just left. How could she?

And what did it matter?

The clansmen could politic to death; all Margret wanted—all she had ever wanted—from them was now hanging on a slender chain around this woman's throat.

The Heart of Arkosa.

"Did you hear me?"

"Margret, don't!" Elena's voice. Elena's words. They were just a little too far away. Margret crossed the circle, circumventing the fire that protected them all, and grabbed the Serra by the shoulders, shaking her.

"Yes," the Serra replied evenly, the steel hidden in velvet. "I heard you, Matriarch."

"It would be impossible not to," Yollana snapped.

"Heartfire's protection or no,
Matriarch
, it's nothing short of a miracle that the whole family isn't listening."

"And making bets, if I know the Arkosans," Elsarre added. But her criticism was muted. Of the four Matriarchs, she had taken the sharpest dislike to the Serra Diora, and while she was willing to snipe in general, she was careful not to do it in a way that would aid the Serra. To Margret's embarrassment, it was Elsarre's dislike that made her treat the Serra with anything approaching courtesy; it was the safest way to slap Elsarre in the figurative face for free.

Slapping her in the face in any other way would just rekindle the wars that—with the luck of the Lady—had been put to rest by the Night's work and the presence of their ancient enemy. The Corronans and the Arkosans were not friendly. Of course, with a Matriarch like Elsarre—all pretense of beauty and importance, all sharp-edged arrogance and casual cruelty—it would be hard for the Corronans to
make
friends. Unfortunately, killing one's own Matriarch was a precedent that a woman with a tenuous hold over her own title couldn't quite support. And sadly, if Margret wanted to do her in, the Corronans were likely to express their gratitude for being rid of such a blight in only one way: war.

But at least it would be a fight that Margret understood. Unlike this one, with this Serra, this so-called Flower of the damn Dominion.

It was hard to have an argument with stone.

Slapping stone also had its consequences, and they were obvious enough that Margret, in fury, managed to hold her hand, although her fingers were curled into fists that trembled with her effort. But she couldn't contain movement, and within the guarded circle of heartfire and Voyani magics, she paced the thin grass off the earth. Grinding her heels into the packed dirt made her feel slightly better.

"We
saved
you, you ungrateful—"

"Margret!" Yollana made her name a harsh bark.

But the Serra-Diora-damned-di'Marano said nothing at all. Strands of her hair had fallen loose with the shaking, and now trailed down the side of her delicate face; disheveled she looked… beautiful. Margret hated her. And was fascinated by her, in a furious way. There she knelt, hands in lap, on an unrolled mat that the Serra Teresa had brought into the circle for her when Margret made it perfectly clear that her seraf was
not
welcome to enter. Her precious knees never once touched dirt. She had spoken only a sentence or two—but she was like all clanswomen; as speech was so often denied them, they'd learned to hone words until they were like the thin edge of a dagger in their effect.

On the other hand, no one knew how to wield a dagger better than a Voyani Matriarch. No one.

The Serra Diora bowed low, her head touching her perfect, protected knees. "Yes," she said softly. "Although I do not understand how it was possible, I have some understanding of what you faced, and what you defeated; I understand my debt to you. I do not know if I will be able to pay it, and I regret… that I must refuse your request." She sat in that submissive posture, and Margret understood, again, the subterfuge of posture.

Because there was
nothing
submissive about this woman. Oh, she was good. If Margret didn't keep an eye on her, she'd probably have the caravan wrapped around her little finger without speaking more than a dozen demure words.

It wasn't a request
! Margret wanted to shout. But Yollana's expression had passed from forbidding to actively threatening, and Elsarre looked a bit too eager for a fight. Maria? Silent, silent, silent. But her gaze lingered a moment over Diora's bent back, and she straightened her shoulders, compressed her lips.

Enough. The only winner in this confrontation was likely to be Diora, and Margret wasn't about to hand her her victory; let her work for it. It certainly didn't look like she'd ever had to work for anything else.

"When, then?" Margret said, terse now because it was bloody hard not to say what she was thinking.

In answer, Diora unfolded until her back was straight and her chin parallel with the ground. The Serra had, Margret thought, the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. Not cold, like Maria's almost Northern eyes, but dark as Lady's night and Lady's shadow. Mystery, there. She didn't want to be beguiled. She didn't want to seem intimidated; she met those eyes and held them.

And then she said, in a voice that she knew was hers because of the sensation of speech, the movement of air across lips, the intake of breath and the sharp punctuation of the same breath when she was done. "Tell me about Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani."

"Have a care, Matriarch," Yollana said. Margret almost ordered her out of the circle.

And
that
would be the act of a fool.

"Did she give you your—burden—when she was dying?"

She expected the Serra to look away, as Serras so often did. She expected some pretty hesitation; the Serras were so often fluttery, delicate things, who moved with enviable grace and spoke in soft, fluting voices, and never wrinkled their faces with anything as common as a
frown
.

But this Serra, while she did not frown, did not flinch.

The eyes
, Margret thought. For a minute, they were the dark of the Lady's Night—the Lady's desert Night; the terrible oblivion of cold.
What have you done, Serra? What have you seen
? She didn't ask. And not only because she knew better than to expose ignorance in front of an enemy or a rival.

Part of her didn't want to know what the answer was.

But as Diora didn't have the decency to look away, neither could Margret.

"Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani came to me in the company of the Radann kai el'Sol."

"Impossible."

"I would have thought so, and perhaps it was; but she had a unique voice."

The Serra Teresa reached out gently and touched the Serra Diora's shoulder, and although she was dressed as a slender clansman, the movement made it clear that they were of the same blood. Family. It made Diora seem less cold.

Which was no doubt what they both intended. Margret didn't trust them at all.

"And?"

"She gave me the pendant."

Silence.

"Matriarch," Yollana said, her voice the cracked, dry voice of age withered by sun and wind—the perfect foil for the Serra Diora's voice. "The Arkosan Matriarch made her decision."

But the bitch knew that she was going to die; she knew, and she gave the Heart to
—
to
her!

They watched, and Elena touched Margret's shoulder, her grip harder and more obvious than the Serra Teresa's grip upon the Serra Diora. A small mirror. Margret shrugged Elena's hand off; Diora failed to notice Serra Teresa's.

"How did she die?"

"You know how she died, Margret." Yollana, again.

"Were you there?" Margret said, deliberately ignoring Yollana—which would no doubt have repercussions later— because, Lady's blood, the wound was open, the pain raw in a way that spoke of all kinds of loss.

Diora froze for a moment, although, until she did, Margret would have said that she had not moved at all. There was some subtle difference between her economy of motion and its complete lack; it was as if the cold had spread in a flash, like fire, from her eyes to the rest of her. The Serra Teresa seemed to be speaking, but there was no sound, no words. Then the young woman—whose gaze had never left Margret's—said, "Yes."

They all turned to stare at her. Until then their gaze had been bouncing, like a child's toy, between the Serra and the leader of the Arkosan Voyani.

"You—you were witness?"

"More," she said quietly.

The Serra Teresa's hand tightened perceptibly. The younger Serra raised her own and touched it, capturing it, or perhaps easing its grip.

"More?"

"I killed her."

Before Elena could stop her—before she could stop herself—Margret slapped the young woman who sat, her perfect knees bent on a rolled mat before the fire. That brought noise back into the circle.

Elena caught Margret's wrist in a grip that said, clearly, do-that-again-and-I'll-break-it, and Yollana shouted her name in a tone reserved for Havallan curses. The Serra Maria, the Matriarch Maria, ever on the fence between the two worlds she had chosen, spoke.

"Serra Diora," she said flatly, "that was unnecessary."

Her hair disheveled, the bruise coming to her cheek, the Serra Diora di'Marano turned to look—at last—at her accuser. The grim stare was as much a struggle as Margret's attempt to free her wrist from Elena's grip.

But in the end, Elena won.

Serra Diora di'Marano bowed her head, bowed now as a clanswoman did in the company not of women, but of men. Or of enemies. "She was being questioned by the Sword's Edge, another man, and a servant of the Lord of Night.

"I do not know what you know of the Sword's Edge—"

"We know enough," Yollana replied, grim now, her voice as flat and cold as Diora's. It was as frightening a transition as Margret had seen in the old woman.

"—but she was not afraid of him; it was the demon. The demon was destroying her."

"This was done in public?"

"It was done at midnight."

"And you just conveniently happened to
be there
?"

"No."

"Why were you there?"

"Her punishment for the crime of daring to wear the robes of a Radann was that she be put on public display for the remainder of the Festival and killed at its height."

"And?"

"I could not free her; it was not within my power. But I—"

The understanding did not ease Margret at all. It came, like a flash of storm-light, blinding, terrible. "You went to kill her."

The Serra did not flinch. Did not bow or scrape. Did not offer the submissive noises that made it clear that she understood the full consequences of her crime. Instead, as if they were equals here—
here
—she answered. "Yes."

If she could have, Margret would have slapped her again, or worse. But she knew her cousin; Elena
would
break her wrist. That much was clear by the white edges around lips pressed into as thin a line as Margret had ever seen.