Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (80 page)

But it was not easy to watch Kallandras fall.

Daughter
, he said.

She, who hated few words, hated that one; she did not answer.

Think. You have seen beyond this time. Do you think he is fated to fall here? This is merely the beginning of a legend. His, and his companion's. Watch.

Her lips thinned, jaw tightened. Almost against her will, she dragged the soul shard from its place before her heart, and her gaze pierced the clouds that roiled within. She watched.

And saw that another had joined Kallandras in his swan's dive. But where Kallandras' fall was awkward and ungainly, where his limbs splayed out as if to somehow catch and hold wind, this other diver was in his element; his body, long and thin, sped toward the surface of the cracked, dry earth.

They met, scant yards above it.

She saw them touch; saw them slow.

Saw the expression upon the face of the Lord Celleriant of the Green Deepings.

"You… you interfered," she said softly.

"Did I?"

"I have met Lord Celleriant of the Green Deepings in the Court of the Arianni."

"Indeed."

"I have seen that expression on his face only once."

He said nothing.

"What did you do?"

"I? Nothing." He lifted an arm; a small trail of blue fire followed, tracing the length of the limb from finger to shoulder. "It is not given to me to act. You know this."

"He would not risk so much for a mortal." Flat words. They were true, but they were false; she had seen the event unfold through the orb, and nothing false could pass through its harsh lens.

"You must judge, of course; you are mortal. But I am weary."

"Why did you summon me here?"

He smiled. She did not see it, but she sensed it. "Because it is not yet time for the piece to come off the board," he said. "And I could not be certain that things would unfold as they did."

"And how have they unfolded?"

"I am weary," he repeated quietly. The words thinned. The voice became almost an echo of itself. "But I will tell you this: the Arianni have come into play. They are not the last of the pieces, but they are the first of the old ones. Summer has come to the High Court. Perhaps, in isolation, some of that season has touched the Lord Celleriant.

"You are strong, Daughter. The bard is the strongest of your companions. But he has had to fight alone for long enough. He has chosen. He will pay the price." He turned.

"You have work to do, Evayne," in this place, if my memory does not fail me."

His memory never failed.

"What work?"

"It is not… bad. You are not required, tonight, to take life, or to watch it pass beyond you. But you
are
required. There is much to be done in this time."

The Matriarch and the Serra chose to stand before the cabin's door, rather than behind it. The moon was bright; they would be visible well before Margret brought the ship to within a ladder's easy reach of her people.

The Serra had, of course, been right. The moment the ship began its return flight to the Arkosans, triumph—and it was an odd and bitter triumph to begin with—faded. Responsibility was left in its wake. She was the Matriarch of Arkosa. She had brought her people into the desert. They had to survive the journey.

Two of the water jugs had cracked in flight, but the cracks were closer to the neck than the base, and all of the water that was going to be lost had been. Elena's ship— and it could be seen, in the heart of the small crowd— seemed to have taken little damage, which meant the food had survived.

The worst threat to the Arkosans would be the effects of the night itself. The Lady showed no mercy.

It was dark and cold, and Margret was certain the edges of drenched desert robes had begun to freeze. She was certain that her own clothing had not done so because of the symbols drawn across the cabin; they glowed, and whenever she passed in front of one, she felt the warmth that radiated from its complicated runes.

Warm or no, they had not served their greater purpose, and she was troubled by the failure. They should have been protection against detection. The enemy should not have been able to breach that spell with such ease. Certainly not with so little warning.

Questions. Too many questions.

This was Matriarch territory, and she was bitterly aware—although that bitterness did not last—that the answers were ahead of her, in the sands beneath the desert, and behind her, in the past, where she might reach for them when needed.
Mother
.

Matriarch.

She took a breath. Things could be worse, Margret, she told herself. They could be so much worse.

The door opened.

The Serra Diora di'Marano stepped out on the small deck. Reached out, gracefully, delicately, to expose her skin to the cold of the night air by gripping the handrail. She seemed so delicate. So perfect.

Margret could not imagine that she could be bowed by so simple a burden as age; that that grace would be leeched from her, year by year, and blemish by blemish. She could not imagine, having seen her in the storm with nothing but a dagger as a weapon, that she could dissemble, could be the protected, unseen harem spirit that women of the clans were groomed to be.

As if aware of Margret's regard, the Serra turned. Her eyes, in the deep blues and grays of midnight light, were unblinking. "Matriarch," she said, and something about the quality of the word put Margret on guard immediately.

"What?"

"They are… crying."

Margret's eyes narrowed; she turned, squinting into the darkness. "I can't hear them."

The Serra turned away. "The wind comes across the plateau; it is strong tonight."

Strong. Wind. As they approached the people—
her
people—huddled below, the Matriarch of Arkosa began to count. Her hands moved, her lips mouthed numbers in a simple rhythm that had been part of her life since her earliest memories. One. Two. Three.

Yes, and what comes after three?

Four.

Good! And after that?

Five. Six. Seven.

Yes, yes! I think she's got it, Evallen.

Don't be so excited
—
you'll turn her into a merchant
.

Never mind your mother. What's next?

Eight. Nine. Ten.

To every number, she had attached a face, a name. Her father's voice fell silent; memory deserted her; her hands froze in the chill night air. She was glad the railing hadn't snapped during the fight; it held her weight. Held her steady.

The ship came as close to ground as the enchantments surrounding it allowed it to come; Margret turned to the cabin to find the rolled rungs of rope and ladder, and stopped in surprise when she saw them in the curved crook of the Serra's arms.

"It is heavy, Matriarch. May I drop it?"

Margret nodded. Watched the slender, delicate Serra, mired in wet desert robes, as she struggled to heave the ladder over the ship's side. She did not offer help; she waited, as if it were natural to have the wife of the former ruler of the Dominion perform the tasks allotted to serafs in the High Court.

Only when the rungs clattered against the underside of the ship did she look away. Back to ground. Back to where her people waited. It should have been easy to crest the rail; should have been easy to catch the ladder's rungs, descend from the short distance that separated her from the ground. But her hands shook, her mouth—in all this rain—was dry.

"Serra," she said, because she needed to say something, "can you get down on your own?"

The Serra hesitated a moment—the hesitation obvious only by the gap between Margret's words and the word that followed. "Yes."

Margret stood, left foot on the top rung, right foot two down; she bowed her forehead into the ship's side and drew breath there as if she were preparing for a dive. She made her way down.

Stavos caught the ladder as it swayed, anchoring it in place. But he did not offer her a hand; he did not welcome her with words, and the moment both of her feet were on the ground, he seemed to melt into shadow.

Margret caught the ladder, unwilling to gaze into the shadows that had swallowed him. She was not Stavos; when the Serra had reached the last of the rungs, she offered her a hand. Felt, as the offer was accepted, the cool, perfect skin of the High Court, and beneath it, the warmth of another living person.

The warmth was brief. The Serra neither withdrew too quickly, nor too slowly, but she paused before she joined the Arkosans; paused and then dipped in a graceful bow, acknowledging Margret.

Margret waited. She did not wait long; Elena came from between Stavos and his wife, glancing around his shoulder as if she were a child, and not the Matriarch's heir. It was unlike her. So unlike her.

"'Lena," Margret said, before her cousin had taken two steps. "Where's Adam?"

Consciousness returned to Kallandras. It did not return slowly; it sprang, slapped him forcefully, drove him from the depths of the shadows between sleep and death.

He woke to pain. His side and his arm were on fire. His leg was bruised, but it would support weight, even his own. Especially his own.

The stars were moving above him. The air was cold. The sky was clear, ebony inlaid with points of ice that glittered like diamonds in light. The wind's voice was a serenade, but although he heard it, he did not feel it; a warning there. He lifted his head. Separated the skin of cheek from the warmth of a fabric woven in the court of the Queen, Winter or Summer, that the Arianni served.

His attempt to lift the arm failed; he realized then that it had been tended, bound. So, too, had the ribs. The wounds had been cleaned, the blood staunched, although the injuries were such that they would not be fully healed for some time.

"I… thank you… for your intervention, Lord Celleriant."

The Arianni lord did not break stride.

When Kallandras realized he had no intention of doing so, he spoke again. "I am capable of bearing my own weight." There was no pride in the voice, no hubris, no need to assert strength or power. He stated what he believed to be fact.

The lord from the Green Deepings was quiet. As if he knew what Kallandras' gift was capable of extracting from something as simple as voice, shorn as it was of the power and grace of battle. But he paused. Let Kallandras slide from the curve of his arms, supporting him beneath the shoulders until both feet were planted against the ground.

He waited a moment.

Kallandras took a step without hesitation, braced for the pain of the ground's impact; he absorbed it without reaction.

"Your people are there." Lord Celleriant lifted an arm, pointing ahead to where the riverbed once stood.

From its depths, the ground had risen; it crested land to either side, and in its center, clearly visible in the moon-light, stood the Arkosans, shielded from the wind on either side by the strange wagons the Matriarch and her heir rode.

He bowed to the Arianni lord, turned, and walked to where the Arkosans were gathered. It was not so far away.

To his surprise, Lord Celleriant fell into step at his side. He carried no shield, no sword, and the rain had finally turned the length of his hair into a damp, long swathe of white. They were both silent, but Kallandras noticed that the rise and fall of their steps was identical; that unless had he been listening carefully, he might have had difficulty judging whether one man or two walked across the sand.

The Arkosans shifted, exposing the man who stood at their heart. Avandar Gallais.

"The wild magic is stirring," Lord Celleriant whispered. He stopped walking. "I have much to consider. But I would ask you now if you understood what I risked."

"Yes," Kallandras replied. "The sword."

Lord Celleriant lifted a perfect, empty hand. "Not now. We have… time." And he smiled. "We will either see the world's end or have some hand in its salvation, and we will stand side by side in battles that will make this," he lifted his bright, steel eyes, his wild eyes, to the moon's clear face, "seem simple and trifling."

Kallandras might have replied, but before he could frame the words, he was interrupted by a cry. It was broken at once by a terrible silence.

"I believe," Celleriant said quietly, "that you are needed."

"I?"

"It is the young woman, the one who is fair even for a mortal."

"You recognized her voice?"

"Did you not? I am not your equal in that regard, but I am not without skill." He bowed. "You have chosen to bear some responsibility for her. I do not judge it wise."

"Do you judge It at all?"

"Perhaps. But bear that responsibility now. If I am not mistaken, you will find some comfort in the bearing."

Elena bowed at once, knelt, brought her hands to the wet sand.

Margret froze. Diora had seen such a lack of motion before. In the darkness, she heard Margret bark something in so harsh a voice that the word lost its edges. But not its meaning. Elena rose at once. She lifted a hand to Margret, and then dropped it at once; Diora stood beside the Matriarch, but did not turn to see what her expression was.

She could guess, and in the silence of this night, that was enough.

Her people parted.

Diora hesitated only a moment as Margret moved forward, stride wide, step deliberate. Like a shadow, she followed.

She saw Ona Teresa; saw Yollana of the Havalla Voyani by her side, weight supported by staff and arm. Saw Nicu, the petulant young man whose gaze never left Elena; saw the men who stood—had vowed to stand—to his right and left. She passed Stavos, his wife, and her cousin, Tamara. And then she stopped, as Margret stopped.

Someone was missing.

Or not.

She took a step forward, past where the Matriarch now stood. Knelt before Jewel of House Terafin, the Lady's wayward traveler, and realized that the sound of denial she heard—and felt—was entirely her own. A stranger's. A sound she had no right to make.

She did not speak again. But she reached out for the cold, still face of the Matriarch's brother as if it were a flame, and she a moth.