Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (97 page)

"I am afraid that if the Sen Margret is forced to evacuate the Sanctum in all due haste, you will receive little answer to that question."

Eyes that were beautiful at their widest narrowed unpleasantly. "I serve the Tor directly. I am one of the Seven adepts. You will answer the question."

"And who did you kill to take that title?"

"Sen Barres."

He raised a brow. "You are accomplished for your age, Sen Adar. Accomplished enough to judge the truth of my words in whatever fashion you deem suitable." There was a threat in the calm statement.

Sen Adar did not choose to hear it, but he was silent for a moment while he considered his options.

Margret gazed upon him dispassionately. If he attempted to take the Sanctum in anything other than name, the Sanctum .would destroy him. He was her son, but he had never understood the delicate balance of power maintained among those who walked the thin edge between madness and vision.

Those of lesser power, of course, could be used when vision was upon them, but they could not invoke that power at will. Unfortunately, those that could invoke it at will could not ignore it at all; they were often overtaken by vision when it was least convenient.

Sen Margret was among the former, but those with greater power tolerated her because they
knew
that she always worked in the best interests of the Sanctum. And they would read her son's lies so easily.

"Very well," her son said at last. Sen Adar. She must think of him as the man he had become, not the boy he had once been. "Sen Margret, you will oblige me by explaining the purpose of this room."

She hesitated, or appeared to hesitate, and he turned to the only obvious weakness she had: her sister. Diora was completely impassive.

The sisters who served the Sen of the Sanctum had been trained from birth to accept death. They had no family; they could bear no children. The only ties they were given were ties to the women they served. Some of the Sen were careless with the lives of their sisters. Sen Adoll in particular had survived five, but of the Sen who served, she was the most powerful, and it was considered both honor and duty to serve her.

But some of the Sen formed attachments to the women who had been raised with none; trusting them, in truth, with everything that they hid even from family.

And Sen Margret did not insult her son's intelligence by pretending that she was not one of those.

She walked, carefully, toward her son, summoning none of her power. He was warded, of course, and although she knew some of his weaknesses, he had long since passed the age where she could easily discern his strengths.

"Of course," she said quietly. She passed him, as if he were still a child, and she a lesson master given charge of his education.

The slight was not lost on him.

"There is no magic within these structures," she said, although she knew he could see that for himself. "But they are the finest containments that could be built discreetly." She passed beneath the first of the crystals. It stood at a height a foot above hers; if her son desired to do so, he could reach out to touch the transparent rounded curve. He was no fool. He kept his hands to himself.

As did she. The crystals drained power when it was offered them, and that power did not return.

"The Sanctum has long been a thorn in the side of the gods," she continued, passing beneath the first as she made her way to the second. "Twice,
Arianni
have come to kill those they could glean information about."

He shrugged.

The
Arianni
were not the only assassins the Sanctum had to fear. "But against the power of Allasakar, their threat is a pale shadow."

"Do not lecture me, Sen Margret. I am aware of your petition to the Tor, and I am aware of his refusal to hear it. You do not claim to know all of his power. Trust that it is great enough to withstand all enemies."

The old arguments were strong. "The Tor does not claim to have the sight. What we offered him was—"

"Fear. Weakness. Hesitancy. Continue. You have little time."

She had passed the third of the spheres. She stopped a moment beneath it. "Fear is not, in itself, a failing. It is a mine, like any other; work it, and you will have the raw materials that become caution or prudence."

He was angry.

So, too, was she.

"The room, Mother."

"It was meant to be the seat of our power. These globes, in miniature, are replicas of the Seven."

He fell silent then. She continued to walk as the enormity of that claim sank in.

"Sen Maris, is this true?"

"Your mother is not given to empty mimicry. There are seven spheres for a reason."

"And that reason?"

"I believe you must ask the Sen Margret. I might be able to answer that question if I were given leave to study the spheres when they are in use. The spheres, as you can see, are not active."

"And you would provide this power?"

"Not for the Sanctum, no."

"I… see." Disappointment came and went, like a passing breeze, across his features. His hands, clenched a moment in fists, relaxed as he turned from Sen Maris. "This is most interesting. Please. Continue, Sen Margret."

She had quickened her pace, passing beneath the fourth sphere and onto the fifth by the time her son caught up with her. He was taller than she, taller than his father. Had he been born with the seer's talent, things might have been different.

But he had not. That past was simply another dream, and she had long since learned that the realm of dream and the realm of nightmare were almost the same.

"The Sanctum is the heart of the City," she said quietly.

"In Tor Arkosa, nothing but the Citadel has stood for longer."

"I am not interested in history."

"No? Very well. But I fear you will be disappointed, Sen Adar. This room was created for the sole purpose of protecting the legacy of Arkosa. Our history is contained within these walls. Men and women whom I have chosen will—would have—become the voices of our age, and their knowledge—what they would be willing to part with— would remain here."

"This is a… library?"

"It is that, and more." She had passed the sixth sphere. The seventh waited, and she paused again as her son approached. "Tor Arkosa will fall to Allasakar."

"The city will not be destroyed. The Tor has been offered proof of that. The Sanctum does not hold the only seers within Arkosa."

"Nor has it claimed to."

"It has tried."

She shrugged. It was true. "We believe," she said calmly, "that the city will not be destroyed completely
because
of what we have chosen to accomplish here. In this room. This is the heart of the Sanctum."

"But it has not been invoked."

"No."

"And the power that would be gathered here upon such invocation has not yet been dedicated."

"Such an investiture of power would be seen across the cradle; there is not a City standing that would not feel it. The Tor himself would be forced to act against us, and he will not have the power, or the time."

Her son frowned. "Mother." He chose the word with care, and shaded it to wound. "I am not a fool. If such an invocation would draw the attention of the Tor, how would you have time to gather the information you desire to preserve?"

"I can answer that," Sen Maris interrupted.

"Please do."

"The gathering itself has already begun. You have seen messenger crystal, yes? Some similar substance has been imported here, in quantity. Its use is so common, it would not be noted; even were sufficient quantities gathered, the power contained within them could be inspected, its use discerned; messenger crystal is dedicated.

"But it is also finite. It is created to give a message to one who might otherwise be protected against more refined magicks.

"It is the preservation of that message that requires power." He did not move, as Margret moved, but his words carried in the belled shape of •the rounded dome.

"Such a simple task—preservation—would not justify the complexity of the power that could be gathered in seven such spheres."

"Preservation is
not
a simple task," Margret snapped.

He smiled. "These are meant to gather and contain power." It was not a question.

"The power that can be gathered," Sen Maris continued, speaking above such an obvious observation, "cannot be gathered without limitation. These spheres are
not
the Seven. Those were created by Sen of greater nobility than now exist, and they were created in full sight of the Tor. They cannot be invoked without his blessing. They cannot be used against anyone who resides within the City."

"I am aware of their purpose, Sen Maris. Did I not say I was one of the Seven adepts?"

"Indeed. But men of ambition always examine objects of power with a mind to their personal use.

"Do you think that I would create such a repository if any Sen's power could be used to invoke it? I value my existence, Sen Adar. Were my power, my
raw
power, able to activate what Sen Margret designed, I would never have agreed to aid her. She is Arkosan. I would not have survived the completion of the task." He raised a pale brow, and glanced at the woman of whom he spoke.

Her smile was cold. "It is true. I have killed many people in order to preserve what we have built. A Sen of Maris' skill would be a challenge, but not beyond the realm of the possible."

Her son shrugged. "What protections did you build into the spheres? That the offer must be willingly made?"

"No. That would still give the Sanctum too much leeway. Too much power. Arkosa has long existed by the grace of a balance of power that I have no desire to alter. These spheres can only be invoked," he replied, with a sidelong glance at the Sen who had commissioned the work, "by the blood of Sen Margret."

Sen Adar did not look at her. But he lifted his head slightly at the mention of her name. His hand came to his chin, a gesture that had developed in his youth. She wondered if he was aware of the pose he struck. "The Seven cannot be invoked without absorbing—and destroying—the power offered to invoke them."

"The Seven above? No. These were designed to reflect their function in some fashion. When Sen Margret is ready to complete the circle, she will lose whatever she offers in pursuit of that task.

"But you must know that Sen Margret values the Sanctum above all else; if her death brings it immortality in a fashion, if her death ensures its survival…" He shrugged. "It was not her first choice."

That was both true and false. It was not what she had asked him for, when she had first approached him years ago. It was not the challenge she had tempted him with, when she had presented this intellectual, this rigorous, task. But it was, in the end, what she had desired.

She had trusted his prudence and his suspicion. He had offered his services in return for a small change in her plans: that it must be her power, the power of her blood, that set the spheres in motion.

"When the power is gathered, is it automatically dedicated, or could it be diverted? Could I use what lay within the spheres?"

Because she had seen the look that now crossed her son's face before, because she had seen that it would be offered her, now, in this room, she did not flinch from it; it did not wound her. It had already caused her all the pain that she could afford to allow.

"I do not believe that the power is automatically dedicated to a specific task. Were you to be present when that power was invoked, I believe you could divert it for your own use."

"You believe?"

"I do not know for certain. If such a repository were so easily built and so easily used, it would be seen across the length and breadth of the Cities of the cradle. They do not now exist."

"It takes a skill that is very rare to contemplate a containment of this nature."

"Indeed," Sen Maris said, with a brittle, but very real pride. "However… there is a reason that I will not be present when the power is gathered. If I have built a flawed vessel, if even one of the spheres is not precisely aligned, they will shatter."

"And you could not test this."

The question was beneath contempt. Sen Maris did not answer.

Margret did. "He was not allowed to test what would then be obvious, and undedicated, magic. We were to work in secrecy, if you recall."

Sen Adar shrugged the scorn aside. "Understood, Sen Maris. Is that all?"

"There is one other element of uncertainty involved. I built the containments, but the flavor was not mine; the signature that wards them, the identity that binds them, is the Sen Margret's."

"But… she is not a Sen adept."

"She is not a mage of your rank or power. But I have found, to my surprise, that she is not without skill."

She could see her son's open greed, but even that did not destroy the lines around his mouth, his eyes, the familiar contours of his face. She turned away from him and walked into the center of the room.

"How would that power be invoked?"

Sen Maris was silent.

"Sen Maris, I asked you a question."

"Indeed. I am old, but not infirm. I heard it."

When his silence lasted long enough that it was clear he did not intend to answer, Sen Adar made his first misstep. "Your presence here is not known. The Tor has no reason to suspect your… disloyalty. It would be unfortunate indeed if I were forced to disclose this information."

"Indeed. Unfortunate. The adept who forces the Tor to acknowledge that any of his
necessary
allies could work against him is unwise. I am an old man; you are a young one. Perhaps it is time to test the Tor's will in—"

"Sen Maris." Sen Margret lifted a hand, slowly turning her palm to expose it to her son's inspection. Everything, among people of power, was done slowly and carefully. "It is almost over. I will answer my son.

"But… thank you."

He bowed.

"Do not try anything, Mother. I am aware of your capabilities."

She nodded.

"Tell me what I wish to know."

"The spheres, as you suspect, have not been entirely dedicated. The power that is to reside within them
has
been promised. The bindings around the containments can only be broken with care, and at some risk to the Sen who would attempt to do so."