Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (96 page)

She lifted a hand, twisted it in the air. The gesture itself was precise, mechanical, and devoid of personal magic. The young woman waited in silence as the fountain in the eastern wall began to bubble. The whole of the wall had been devoted to the fount; it was carved from a single slab of stone that stretched seamlessly from window to door. The sculptor was long dead, but he had been maker-born, and his gift was evident in the subtlety of the dance of shapes that lingered beneath rock; they were human, or they had once been human. A face peered out of the rock, eyes closed; a hand reached out; two bodies entwined as if in play.

Of all the adornments in the room she claimed as her own, this was her favorite, this ghost dance. The waters that surrounded their feet did not touch them, but to her eye, the trapped forms were active only when the water played. They moved now.

She closed her eyes. Concentrated.

"I love this fountain," she said softly.

"That much is clear, Sen Margret. Of the edifices in the Sanctum, not one is better protected against age or malice than this."

"And what other should be? Of all the makers' works that we have gathered, only this bears the madness of the true artisan. It speaks of the dead to the living; it gives truth to the lie that death is the only way in which we might know peace."

She opened her eyes; she was ready.

She knew what would happen, this day. She had been born with the talent of vision, and she had used it as ruthlessly as she had dared, sparing no one. Not even herself.

"Or play?" The younger woman touched her face, her palms gentle, her eyes for a moment much older than the smooth, pale skin of her features implied.

And should they not be? The eyes had seen much the body had been protected from.

"No, today they do not play." And she walked among the fallen, heard the distant chimera of their laughter, and felt the cold, cold touch of their limbs as she passed
through
them.

There were many ways of traversing the Sanctum, itself a small city within the City of Arkosa. But they were, all of them, magical, and such conveyances could be both watched and tampered with.

And today, she could afford no such witnesses. The worst was almost over, but it was not over yet, and until it was done, discovery was too costly.

She lingered in the waters of the fountain, and then left them and began to walk down the hidden hall, her steps muted beneath the rough ceiling.

"Where is Sen Adoll?"

"She has taken the Northern watch."

"The Northern watch? Why?"

"I do not know. She did not explain herself. But at the morning meal, she spent half an hour staring into her empty bowl and weeping. She would take no questions, and when her sister attempted to summon the scribe, she forbid it."

"Forbid it?"

"With prejudice. She… fused the door to the wall."

"Then the scribes did not question her."

"No, Sen Margret."

"Did she speak of her vision at all?"

Her sister hesitated. "She did."

"To her sister?"

"Only to her sister. One of the slaves died when she demanded the clearing of the room and he did not move quickly enough."

"And her sister?"

"She accompanied Sen Adoll to the North."

The vision must have been strong. "Was she tainted by the madness?"

Her sister's laugh was brief. Bitter. "You must look at the room when you have finished. I am not a judge of Sen Adoll, but I confess that I am grateful that your visions are not so shattering, even if they are not so sharp, so clear."

"They are sharp enough."

"Margret—"

"No. Do not weaken, and do not weaken me. If there is time, if there is time, Diora, I will take whatever you offer and be glad of it. But today—"

She had stopped walking. Stopped although every minute was precious, every minute that she delayed brought them closer to discovery and death.

"Sen Margret?"

"Bear witness. Bear witness, Sister, but do not interfere. No matter what you see. No matter what it costs. Promise me this."

"Margret, you frighten me."

"I? I have never frightened you."

"You did not send for a scribe."

"Did I say that I had a vision?" Her voice was so light it had to carry a lie.

The Sen Diora's glare was almost baleful. "When? When did you have this vision? The laws that govern the Sanctum state clearly that a scribe must be summoned if the vision is true."

Margret laughed. "The laws that govern the Sanctum are the laws that govern Tor Arkosa. If I choose to ignore them, and I am powerful enough, they mean nothing."

"If. When, Sen Margret?"

"Three days. Three days. And three days."

"The same vision?"

"At heart, the same. I am prepared. I will not falter. If you falter, remember this: AU of Arkosa will perish. We cannot save the Tor—"

"And I would not, given the choice."

"—and we cannot save Tor Arkosa. We cannot win the battle. But we have been betrayed, and we will have justice in the end. Immortality is only one way of ensuring victory through the ages; there are others."

"They are all bad. I want no immortality, Sen Margret. I have borne this life, and I do not want the burden to continue beyond the span of years I am given."

Margret turned and began to walk. Stopped. "Diora—"

"Yes?"

"I do not like the news you have brought. Sen Adoll is the most powerful of our number, and if she is riven by madness, she may speak without being aware of the cost. The Northern watch is too vulnerable to spies."

"Her sister is with her. And her sister understands the cost. Trust her." • "I trust only you."

"As much as you can."

"As much as I can."

She started to walk and hesitated again, and knew herself a coward. It was a weakness she loathed.

We have chosen our path
, she thought.
We will be true to it. We will pay the price
.

She did not hesitate again.

The halls in the Sanctum were almost bare; the lights along the ceiling had yet to be laid, and the oaths that she and the Senni Voyani had together sworn had not yet been laid into stone. Nor would it be until the end; until they were ready to abandon their ancient home, they could not afford to have their words committed to anything but memory and heart.

The Tor suspected.

He had closed the gates, as Sen Adoll had foreseen. They were guarded now by the
Kialli
, and even the Sen adepts were loath to test themselves against the lords who watched.

Allasakar was coming to the South.

He had been promised armies with which to invade the Northern Isles. There, he hoped to destroy the handful of gods that remained, and seal his claim upon this world.

But if the gates were guarded, there were older ways still which were not.

She placed her palm against the first door; her sister placed her palm against the second. The door thinned and vanished, allowing them entry into the cavern.

Sen Maris waited. He was the oldest of the Sen adepts, and of the Sen, the most powerful. He wore his age like a crown. She bowed before it, granting survival the respect that it was due.

"It is done, Sen Margret. The vessels are ready."

She walked around the edge of the room, gazing at his work: containments of crystal and magic, clear as purified glass, crouched within the walls. She inspected them carefully. But she did not touch them.

"If you can invoke them, they will rival the seven spheres." He was silent as he met her gaze. "If you think to remove a witness to your crime, I would caution you against it."

"Because I will fail?"

"Perhaps."

"Because you have built your protection into these spheres?"

His smile was thin. "You hear a lie when it is spoken; I will therefore trouble you not to speak it, one way or the other. I have placed much of my power within these orbs, and until they are invoked, that power will remain where it now resides. I would not have done this if I did not believe what you have seen will come to pass in some fashion.

"But this is Tor Arkosa, and it is my home. I will not travel with you, Sen Margret. And because I will not travel with you, my place will be among the seven. If you seek to avoid pursuit, you want the seven to be at the height of their power."

"Indeed." She bowed. "You have my gratitude, Sen Maris, and my promise: Tor Arkosa will fall, but of the league, it will be one of five that rises again."

An expression very similar to pain rippled across his placid features. "Only five."

"There were to have been eight," she told him, although it was unnecessary. "But three of our conspirators have failed."

"And the others?"

She lifted her head. Counted the great glass orbs within the walls. There were seven.

As if she had not heard his question, she walked quietly toward the cavern's center. The ceilings had been carved up into a peak; they were lifeless, dark, shadowed by the poor light. Sen Maris had asked her if she desired illumination in this chamber, and she had quietly demurred.

She did not need light to see by, not here.

The eighth globe was suspended in air. Its glass was so fine, so thin, the layer so clear, she knew a moment of panic. If it failed, if it was as delicate as it appeared—

"It. is the finest of my works here," Sen Maris said, almost coldly. He could not read her thoughts. She
knew
this with certainty, although had he desired to do so, he had the power; he was one of perhaps three men who did. But her hesitation, brief though it was, was critical enough; his was a brittle pride.

But a justified one.

"My… profound apologies for my lack of grace, Sen Maris. I could not conceive of such creation with my own meager skill, my own lesser ability."

He was only barely mollified.
Now
, she thought, and her knees shook. Her lips were dry, but her expression did not falter at all. She bowed to him, and he gestured.

Light flared briefly around his body, a signature. She had become familiar enough with his work that she recognized the distinctive flavor of his magic.

But not so certainly as she recognized the power that ringed that light, denying it.

She turned to face her son.

"Sen Margret," he said, lifting his sword. His true sword, not the weapon that he adorned his armor with. Her hand had fallen to the hilt of her own jewelry; the ruby beneath her skin was cold and dark.

He was so very, very beautiful. His skin was neither the pale, untouched white of the cloistered Sen, nor the bronzed and darkened sheen of the simple soldier, but some golden color between these two extremes that at once suggested both. His hair was as dark as hers had been in her youth, and his eyes were as wide and expressive as Diora's.

But his mouth was thinner, his lips—and his expression— far less generous.

"Adar—"

"Diora." The word was sharp. "If you move, I will be forced to kill you."

Her son. Her only son.

Her sister did not move again.

"You will allow Sen Maris to leave us," Margret said evenly. "No accusation you make against him will stand in the face of the Tor's need."

"You mistake me, Mother," he said, bowing.

She felt the cold. She knew it would never leave her. Her son had been her pride, the single thing of value to come from his father's line.

"Do I?"

"I have not come to accuse anyone of any crime. Sen Margret, you are the scion of an old and honorable family. You understand the value of that lineage. If you are unwise, you are never unwise enough to threaten what the family has spent so many centuries in building.

"The Tor knows this, of course." He bowed to Sen Maris, and that bow was genuine. "Sen Ar Maris," he said, choosing the formal title. "You honor my family with your presence."

Sen Maris inclined his head. He was a mage of subtlety and power, and he feared little.

But he was wise enough to understand that fear had value.

"My apologies for my interruption. But the work that you have undertaken on behalf of my family is complicated and delicate. My mother has been… busy of late. Her duties to the armies of the Tor have consumed much of her power. I have brought scribes chosen by the Tor himself to aid her in understanding the significance of her visions, that she may better serve her lord.

"But as her duties have been grueling, I am certain that she has not had the time to familiarize herself with the significance of what you have built. She is not, after all, an adept." He smiled. "But she has raised no fool. I
am
an adept, and if you will take the time to explain your work to me, I will see that you are fully compensated for it."

He turned his attention to his mother. "Sen Margret," he said coldly, "the Tor's scribes await you in your chambers. They have been ordered to bring you to the Citadel without delay. You will leave your sister in the Sanctum. But have no fear; realizing the importance of
our
family, the Tor has personally chosen the adepts who will guard you against possible harm while you reside within the Citadel."

She knew, of course.

Sen Maris met her gaze. He raised a pale brow, and she almost flinched at what she saw in his eyes. But she nodded.

"Will you claim the Sanctum, Sen Adar?" Sen Maris was quiet. Respectful.

"I will."

"No man has ruled the Sanctum for more than a handful of years."

Her son shrugged. "I merely seek to shepherd it through the difficult absence of my mother."

"You will guide seers with no vision of your own? You are brave, Sen Adar."

"No. I am merely capable. What is this room?" As if it were the trace of breath upon morning glass, his smile faded.

Sen Maris fingered the length of his beard almost absently. The line of his shoulders shrank; his neck shortened. He seemed to recede into age, to be swallowed by it. Only the robes of the Sen gave lie to the appearance of age, for no other house dared to adopt the silvered emerald hue as their own, and he wore them with the carelessness of long association with power.