Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (7 page)

For a moment, the clanswoman's expression sharpened; there was, Margret thought, a very real anger that, like desert night, waited to descend upon the unwary. But she held it, shaped it with words into something that defied the rawness of emotion. "If you choose to abdicate your responsibilities by calling this a war of clansmen, so be it. I am not familiar with the ways of Arkosa; perhaps this is acceptable. But you know that the man who wears the crown is not the enemy I face; the Lord who stands behind him is. Should you choose to ignore that, that is, of course, your prerogative; hide then, in shadows, as Voyani do—and pray to the Lady that the shadows are safe.

"But do not attempt to deter me in my fight. Do not take from me the weapons I require."

Elena's hiss of drawn breath was almost exactly like the sound of metal against metal. She stepped forward, red hair catching the fire's reflection and holding it.

But she left the talking to Margret. "And if I choose to take back what is mine, how will you stop me?"

"I won't," Diora replied evenly. "If my understanding of these things is correct, the pendant itself will."

"Impossible."

"Is it? Try, then, Margret of the Arkosan Voyani. Try, if that is what you wish. Satisfy your curiosity and then decide what you will do with me. I must make my decisions based on yours and the only thing we have in common at the moment is the necessity of haste."

Yollana of the Havalla Voyani rose. She rose so smoothly and so swiftly it was easy to forget that her legs were injured, that she required canes to walk with. "
Enough
," she said, and the heartfire flickered with the force of her word.

"Serra, I understand your vow; in my fashion, I respect it. Margret, I understand yours. But this bickering is pointless. You can hate each other on your own time. Serra, I must ask you what Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani said when she gave you your duty to Arkosa."

"She asked me to carry what I wear to Margret of the Arkosa Voyani."

"No more?"

"No."

"And yet you cannot remove the—what was given."

"No."

"Try, please."

Diora's expression shifted slightly. For a moment, Margret thought she would refuse. But the fire lit Yollana's harsh features from beneath, and there was nothing in them that brooked refusal. Kneeling, the Serra Diora lifted both of her hands to her collarbone, to something that lay against it.

Margret stopped breathing when she realized that she couldn't even
see
the Heart. She stumbled forward; Elena caught her.

It was clear from the way the Serra's hands and fingers moved, from the way her palm curled protectively in the night air, that she handled something. But… it did not call Margret at all.
We've made a mistake
, she thought.
She doesn't have the Heart
.

But that doubt did not touch the Serra, if any doubt did. She lifted the pendant, pulled it over her head. Or tried. A bright, white light encircled her neck in a flash as her hands rose above the line of her perfect chin.

Denial.

More.

Much, much more.

The Serra's breath was sharp; it was lost, almost lost, to the cries of the other women: Elsarre, Maria, Elena, and, yes, Yollana. Only the Serra Teresa was completely silent, but her hands now rested one on either side of her niece's shoulders.

Before them, robbed of color, robbed of flesh, stood a woman they recognized.

Mother.

Margret
, she said, lips moving in absolute silence. No wind would carry these words; spells existed that could breach the heartfire, but Margret
knew
, in a way she seldom knew anything, that no spell existed that could gather the words this apparition would say.

When you take the Heart, you will know how I died. You will know
exactly
how. I leave that; this is not the time, not the place
.

Serra Diora
, she continued, and the woman on her knees looked up, face as white as the light that her mother's spirit was made of.
I am sorry. In order to protect the Heart from our enemy's detection, I made you, in blood, Arkosan
.

"Mother!"

"In blood?"

It was not a simple task; not an easy one. But if you can hear me now, it means that you stand in the circle of a fire made by the Matriarch of Arkosa. Forgive me. Forgive me, Margret. The Tor contained within it creatures of such darkness that our ancestors might not have been able to stand against them. They knew what we are, and what they were looking for; had I worn the Heart, they would have found it.

And had the Heart been given, by accident and fate, to another, they would already own it; it would already be destroyed.

The Serra Diora offered blood to the Heart stone.

Yollana's gaze broke away from the dead. "Is this true?" she demanded, sharp now, the words fired like quarrels.

Serra Diora started to speak; she started to offer her denial… and then she raised her hands. Her perfect, unblemished, uncallused hands. She stared at the lines of her palms; at the rise of flesh that gave way to thumb. And she said, softly, "Not knowingly, Matriarch. But the Heart of Arkosa is hard and its edges are all sharp. I—" She looked away. Looked back. "I bled while the Heart was in my hands."

"But if it—if it were that easy—"

"It is
not
that easy," the oldest Matriarch replied. The lines of her face sank, as if with gravity and weight, with age and knowledge. "What she has done to you, Serra, is a poor thanks for the risk that you took, and the service you did by freeing her. Poor thanks, indeed." Her voice was grim. "This Evallen will not answer my questions. See? She has words for her daughter alone."

Diora nodded, looking through the back of the ghost of Evallen as if through a glass or a lens; Margret's face had become unguarded; her emotion as obvious as a child's.

"My hands bled, but I was not aware that they were bleeding."

"When?"

"I… am not sure. I was aware of the damage only after it had occurred. But—I am certain my hands were bleeding when I killed her."

"Then the bond had already been made. Serra… there were men in the past who would have killed for what you were unknowingly granted." She smiled, and her smile was chilling. "And that is because they are fools. You have been cursed, and you will pay for whatever aid Evallen of the Arkosan Voyani gave you."

She is of Arkosa. She was blooded, by sacrifice; bound, by Heart and the power of the dagger. She
is
a daughter of the Heart, and as daughter, she, as you, must make the pilgrimage. You will be watched; possibly followed. Be prepared for war, Margret; be prepared for the End of Days. Our ancient vows bind us, not because we are fools or sentimentalists, but because, having seen our enemy, I understood that those vows define who we chose to become when we chose to walk the long
Voyanne.

The Serra Diora is blood of our blood; a daughter in

binding, if not by birth. In order to retrieve the Heart from

where it now rests, you will either have to kill her
—
and in

so doing, overcome the Heart's protections
—
or accompany

her. And if you kill her…

I will never wear the Heart of Arkosa.

"Mother…"

Silence.

Silence and anger and something else. Margret's cheeks were wet.

"Mother…"

/
won't waste time. Arkosa does not have it. But you will know, when you complete your trial, what I feel and what I desire. You will be
—
if you control your temper and your bitterness
—
a better Matriarch than any family has seen in our history since the founding. But if you cannot control these things, then Arkosa, like the other lines of Man, will perish
.

Having said that, Margret
, her mother continued, looking calmly into her daughter's eyes,
I will say one other thing. Be harsh when you must, and when you are asked to judge, when you are asked to judge at the appointed place and at the appointed time, leave mercy to the Lady and the Lady's whim; offer none. Do you understand
?

Arkosa was never a kind master, and it knows no kindness. As you will discover. I am… sorry
. For a moment, it seemed that she was; her expression was almost—almost— gentle. But it changed. As it had always done, the gentleness gave way to the edge of Evallen's duty: Arkosa. Everything for Arkosa.

Go, Margret.

Go to Arkosa.

25th of Scaral, 427 AA

Raverra

Jewel ATerafin sat, knees tucked beneath her chin, blankets around her shoulders, looking distinctly less powerful than rank and natural ability dictated. The only thing that would have set her apart in a crowd—the signet that had been given her by The Terafin—looked remarkably dull in the fading light.

"Is it me," she said out loud, "or is it cold? Because I'm freezing."

In response to the words, spoken more to break silence than because they were true—although they
were
true—the great stag appeared from between trees that circled the clearing; he made his way to where she sat, and then, when she gazed up—and up, for he was tall—nudged her very, very gently with the tines of his antlers.

She knew a
move over
when she didn't hear it, and she moved, exposing her back to the tips of antlers that had already pierced skin once. The stag slid between her and the tree she had chosen to lean against, and then nudged her again. When she sat down, her back touched his flank; there was something about the muscle and the sleek sheen of his coat that felt… wrong. She was afraid to relax.

But he was warm, very warm; he radiated heat in a way that the distant fire, surrounded by what she was certain were angry women, did not. "You're not mine," she said, whispering the words. "I don't own you. If you think I do, you don't understand what our argument—hers and mine— was about."

His nose touched the skin of her cheek. She met his eyes, large eyes, dark and round; she swallowed and looked away. She could
see
what lay beneath the facade of animal face, animal form. Little things like this made the talent of sight a burden. And she knew with certainty that she would understand just how much of a burden it was in the months to follow. His skin brushed her skin as if he were touching her; she looked back.
Oh, I heard your argument
, the stag said, in a voice so deep she felt it as a sensation rather than a sound.
And while I benefited from its outcome, I do not entirely understand it
.

"Why?"

Because by right of victory, she ruled. By right of victory, you rule. The world has always been thus. The strong and the weak clash, and the weak give way. If they are pleasing, they are kept; if they are displeasing, they are discarded.

"You sound like Avandar," Jewel snorted, uncomfortable.

"You speak with her mount," Lord Celleriant said.

She did not reply. Nor did she look at the disgraced lordling of the Winter Court; he was beautiful in a way that reminded her of his Queen. She had seen women—and men—attempt to use beauty as a weapon before, but she had never been scarred in that particular battle.

She was now. Kalliaris had chosen to smile; the scars were invisible. But the Winter Queen lingered like both dream and nightmare when she closed her eyes.

She had told no one because she felt foolish doing it, but she had spent three days weaving the long strands of the Queen's hair into a bracelet; she wore it around her left wrist. She had seen such keepsakes before; they were usually fastened to gold or silver clasps because hair wasn't very good at staying in place. They were also usually taken from the dead.

Although she had developed an appreciation for finer metals—in her duties as merchant, among other things— she had no skill at working them, and besides, lacked the necessary tools. But the hair thus braided and twined clung as if made of links of chain, circling her wrist three times before ending in a rough knot.

She had a feeling that nothing would remove it; that the knots she had tied were true knots. Jewel ATerafin was seerborn. She trusted her feelings. So there was no reason whatever to sit in the dark, fingering the handmade bracelet as if to make sure it hadn't somehow vanished into the strange and perfect darkness that had swallowed the Winter Queen.

But she did. Her fingers stroked the texture of pale, pale braid as if she couldn't believe it was there, as if somehow touch could stop things from vanishing.

As if. Hadn't she learned better? She could feel, for just a moment, aged skin beneath her fingers; could see the wide-open, unblinking stare that was the end of all stories, the end of all shelter. Her Oma's death. She could hear her father's steps, wide, as he took the stairs two at a time in an effort to spare her this: death, the knowledge of what death looked like, felt like, smelt like.

And she could see the story of death, like moving, cursive script, as it traveled the length of his face, altering his expression. He struggled to be calm and accepting for her sake, but he grieved for his own. Her Oma was his mother, and Jewel had come to understand, as she had gotten older and had the time and leisure to observe people, that the death of a mother—to a person who remembered having one clearly—always struck some hidden place in the heart, no matter how old the person was when the loss happened.

Her den, most of it, had lost mothers so long ago that the loss was just a natural part of their lives, like heartbeat or breath. It wasn't something they talked about.

Funny, that the bracelet could invoke that, here.

She pulled her hand away from her wrist.

"Wise," Avandar said softly. His first word that evening. Well, no, realistically it was his tenth.

"Why?"

"Because you've done willingly what no man would have done when the Winter Queen was free to wander these lands as she pleased."