Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (6 page)

"She knew everything," Diora said softly, lifting her head again. "She knew
everything
. Understand that what is at stake is too important to let knowledge slip into enemy hands without even the attempt to preserve our secrecy. I have lived the secret life," she added, her voice showing a hint—a trace—of emotion that vanished before Margret could name it. "I understand the need for secrecy."

Yollana's voice, unexpectedly gentle; Margret
hated
it. "She would have expected no less from you, Serra. She would have done the same, or worse, were your positions reversed."

The Serra nodded. "She gave me one other thing."

"What?"

"A dagger. The dagger is long and slender; it is not jeweled or adorned in any obvious way. But she named it—"

"
Lumina Arden
," Margret could not keep the incredulity out of her voice. She had never had to. The cool of this… this… woman galled her, enraged her. "She
gave
you
that
knife?" But not so much as the fact that her mother's last act of significance had been to gift this stranger, this unblooded clansman, with the responsibilities that Margret herself had sought approval for for an entire lifetime.

She had never hated anyone so much in her life—or rather, had never hated any two people. She wasn't certain whom she hated more: the stranger or her mother.

"Yes. A gift, she said, free of geas." She bowed her head for another moment. "I kept both. I had both with me when I went to… to find your mother before the first full day of her ordeal had started. I did find her. But she was not alone."

"Not alone."

"She was being… questioned. I arrived too late."

Now, three breaths were drawn, held: Yollana's, the Serra Maria's, Elsarre's. Margret's, already held in an attempt to keep her bitter, sharp words where they couldn't do any further damage to her reputation among the Matriarchs, didn't change. But the Serra was staring at a point beyond them, into night sky, dark night. Memory called, and to judge by the expression on her face, she was an audience and Memory was the stage, the ever-unfolding play; she was captivated.

"Your mother saw me. I do not understand the gift she gave—and I wish no understanding; in my experience a true understanding of things Voyani is often a precursor to a death; death guards secrets far better than life, and I have much to do before I keep secrets in such a fashion."

Margret realized that the Serra was actually speaking.

Since she'd arrived she had done nothing but defer or demurely shunt aside all questions, pointed or gentle; this was as much speech as Margret had heard. And the words were soft and sweet; not too high and not brought low by age. The voice was
perfect
.

Even in capitulation, it was perfect.

"I do not know if it was the pendant or the knife that brought me to your mother. She called me, and I came; I had to come to her side." She paused and looked away for the first time, seeking the faces of the three Matriarchs who had not built fire with heart's work and blood. They had faces of wood or stone; faces of earth. Everything was beneath the surface. She turned back to Margret, to Margret who struggled so ineffectually to keep rage and pain from her voice and face.

"I walked among her enemies and they did not see me, but she did. She asked me—she asked me for death.

"She was dying. She was dying and she was—I think— stronger than most men would have been. She told me she had told them nothing. I… am skilled in some of the Lady's arts. Very few of the living can offer me a lie that I will accept; she offered only truth. But she also said— and, forgive me, Matriarch, but I did not and still do not understand this—if I did not kill her, the servant of the Lord of Night would bind her for three days."

"
The
Three Days," Yollana said quietly.

"Yes."

The oldest of the Matriarchs closed her eyes then, turning her head to one side to protect the brunt of her involuntary expression.

"And you killed her? You're telling us that you—" Elena's hand, like a steadying, constant presence, piercing the flesh around collarbone in an attempt to shake the words loose in a way that wouldn't diminish them.

"She wasn't
there
, Margret;
think
. What was she wearing? What did she bear? Evallen was alive; wearing it or no, she was still the source of its power; it was hers to command. The girl had no choice; she has never been schooled in our arts. Had Evallen commanded you or I that way, we would have had some ability to refuse. Although our ability and hers would be tested at that moment.

"The Heart carried her spirit to Evallen; there is some mercy in the forces that drive us, inexplicable and beyond our ability to invoke, but present in its fashion." Again, Yollana's voice, for all the harshness of the words, was gentle. It was more than Margret could bear, but she was Matriarch; she bore it. "The knife?"

"The knife? I—ah. Yes, Matriarch. You are wise. I carried the dagger,
Lumina Arden
. I have carried it in any sari I wear since it passed into my hands; it is… light and… easily hidden."

"It is."

"It was the only weapon I had with me that night."

The old woman bowed her head. "I will make my offerings to the Lady," she said, "before dawn. Had you carried any other knife, we would not, I think, be here tonight. But I'm old, and I am easily distracted. Tell us the rest, and I will smoke in silence."

True to her word, she fumbled in her vest a moment and pulled out a short, squat pipe, something that seemed a lot like her: ancient, practical, and as enduring as the seasons. Margret had never taken comfort from the pipe. Or from drink, although the latter was more attractive. She wished she had one now, and that it was both warm and strong. The night was cold.

"I pulled it out of my robe that night. I pulled it. She asked me to kill her." Her eyes fell to her hands, to her perfect, unblemished, undarkened hands—and she stared at them as if they were anathema; as if they were offensive to her in a way that only memory provided the key for.

It made her seem human, for just a moment. It eased— only slightly—the terrible bitterness that Margret could not contain. It was almost as if—but, no, that was impossible. A woman like this one had killed before, would kill again. Could probably do it without crying or weeping, or shouting or smiling—without surrendering any part of herself to the act.

"And he looked
at
me."

"He?" All gentleness was gone from Yollana's voice, from Yollana's expression.

"Yes. The servant of the Lord. He knew I was there." She was silent; the silence had the quality of indecision.

Had it been Margret, Yollana would have snapped like a rabid dog; it was the Serra; she held her tongue and waited. Margret was almost beside herself with bitter fury.

"He saw me."

"He saw you." The oldest of the Matriarchs had a voice dry as desert dust—the kind the wind sweeps away without effort. Her lids fell; she sat a moment in a bleak, stiff silence that spoke of death or mourning. Yollana had a touch of the seer's blood in her. They all did, but in Yollana, it ran true. The silence held until she chose to open her eyes and speak. "And?"

"He could not stop me. I drew the dagger from my robes, and I killed Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani. Or I should have; the blow was fatal. But he would not let her die. He held her somehow."

"She died?" The words were cutting.

Diora was silent a moment. "The dagger," she said at last. "I cut him with the dagger."

"Interesting. And he bled?"

"Yes."

"Then we understand," Yollana said quietly, "why Evallen gifted you with
Lumina Arden
. We can only guess why she did not ask you to return it with… other burdens. There is much about the ancient weapons that we understand only by story and myth, and there are reasons why we have each come to pray that our understanding is never improved. You did what you had to do. And if we are, as clansmen, taken by wind, there is a voice in the storm that blesses you, Serra."

Diora was silent. When she spoke, the words were hesitant; it was clear that if such a blessing were offered, it was lost to wind; it did not reach her ears. "He came to me, later."

"He?"

"The… demon. The one that almost bound Evallen. The one that saw me, when the others couldn't," she replied quietly. "He came to me, as seraf."

"As sera/?"

She nodded.

"What did he say, when he came to you?"

"That he was curious," she replied, her face once again so smooth it might have been a mask. Margret had seen enough of masks in this lifetime to wonder what it cost to wear this one. She didn't ask.

Yollana was silent a moment; the moment stretched. "What about?"

"He wanted to see the woman who had angered the Sword of Knowledge."

"And survived it?"

"He did not say as much plainly."

"But you inferred it?"

Her lips curved slightly, just slightly, but the momentary warmth it brought to her expression was astonishing. "While I acknowledge the difference between the clans of the Dominion and the Voyani families, I must say in defense of the clans that rumors of our demonic nature are exaggerated. I would hesitate to ascribe motive to a creature so much beyond my ken."

Yollana's response was almost as astonishing: She smiled in reply. "Well played, Serra. Well played. In you, the Serra Teresa's blood runs true."

But the Serra Diora looked up, her cheek red and slightly swollen, to the daughter, the Matriarch's daughter. Margret, who was determined to fall to no charm, no beauty, no clannish wiles. "She asked me to protect the pendant; she said it was of immeasurable value to the Arkosans. She asked me, in time, to give it to you. And Matriarch, that is my intent."

"In time."

"In time."

The Serra Teresa lifted a hand from her niece's shoulder. "Tell them," she said, her voice as cool as Diora's expression. "Tell them, or I will."

"Ona Teresa," Serra Diora replied, the words somewhere in the uncharted territory between plea and command. "Does it matter? In the end, prudence dictates that I follow this course of action."

"It matters."

The younger Serra was silent for a long time; Margret wondered if she would accede to what was, in the end, a command, or if she would, with grace and skill, slide out from beneath what was clearly a threat.

But it appeared that the Serra Teresa had as much influence with the Serra Diora as she had had with Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani—and would never, never have, Margret vowed in quiet fury, with the new Arkosan Matriarch—for the younger Serra bowed her head to ground a moment— or rather, to knees kept above the commonality of dirt the rest of the women shared. "I cannot remove the pendant."

Whatever she had expected, it was not this. Margret, shook herself free from her cousin's grip. "
What
?"

"I cannot remove it. I have tried." Her face, like the moon's, was a pale light in the growing night sky. "I thought, perhaps, there was some Arkosan ceremony, some Voyani ritual, that came with the end of an obligation such as this."

"And you didn't ask us?"

As the answer was obvious, it was clear the Serra was not going to condescend to give it. She offered a different one in its stead, one which was less pleasing. "As I intended to follow the course I am now taking, I did not see that it was relevant. Let me be blunt," she added, and Margret snorted.

"You wouldn't understand the word."

"I would not have your understanding of it, no. But I believe that my version of blunt will serve even here."

"Na'dio."

"Ona Teresa." She turned for a moment, exposing profile as if it were dagger's edge. Then, in the ensuing silence, she turned back. "It is clear that you disdain the clans; clear that you have no desire to be involved in a fight that involves them—regardless of whether or not it serves your interest in the long term.

"And that is, perhaps, as it should be; I cannot say. Women are not given whole families to rule among the clans."

Margret, seeing them, aunt and niece, Serra and Serra, snorted.

"It is true; the power we gain, we gain by subtlety, and we are aware, always, that it is given and sustained by the intricacies of our art, our ability to cajole. Limited by the illusion of our beauty. You clearly do not labor under the same… restriction."

Elsarre laughed. "The little girl has fangs."

"The 'little girl,'" the Serra Maria—the Matriarch Maria— said quietly, "is not a serpent; she is a warrior of the Lady's heart."

"I would expect you to support her; you are from the same place."

"A place that understands courtesy? Hospitality? Yes. Perhaps you would do well to visit it yourself, Matriarch, although that is the topic for another—fruitless—conversation."

And you have them fighting over you, now; you know they hate each other
—
or that Elsarre hates everyone
—
and you've already started to turn it to your advantage. I'm
watching
you, Serra
.

"If I could remove the pendant, I would not return it to you yet; not here in the heart of my enemies' territory."

"And where would you deign to return what is Arkosan , to Arkosa?"

"In Mancorvo," she replied quietly. "Or Averda, if you choose it. The Arkosans hold the Averdan passages for most of the year, although I believe they were contested bitterly two years ago."

"They were." Margret frowned. "Your information is good. But a warning: we do not discuss such contests when the Matriarchs gather."

"Pardon me for my clumsiness, Matriarch."

As if
, Margret thought,
you didn't know that
. The woman was clever; beauty had not robbed her of cunning. "A question, Serra."

"Ask." .

"If you cannot remove the pendant now, how do you know it will come to hand so easily when you arrive at the destination you have chosen?"

Without so much as a change of expression, the Serra replied. "I don't."

Margret snorted. She hated it; she knew that it made her seem ungainly, intemperate. But she
was
those things. "I would make a poor Matriarch," she said softly, "if I did not question the worth of that bargain. I am to take you— with my family—into the heart of Averda. You know the clans will come; you know that by doing so, I will have chosen a side in a war between clans."