Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (72 page)

“She is serrin,” said Rhillian, “and she belongs with serrin. We're taking her home.”

“You asked her?”

“I don't need to ask her. Those of us who matter, just
know
.” Silence from Errollyn. She could feel his hurt, radiating like heat from the fires. Barely a day before, she might have been shocked at herself. Now, she barely cared.

“At least let me say goodbye.”

“You had few such compunctions with those at Palopy. Many are dead, who departed without your farewells.”

“Fuck you,” he said in Lenay.

They reached the end of the pier. A rowboat was moored there, its oars shipped, two more serrin waiting on its heaving deck. Halrhen simply held Aisha to his chest, an arm beneath her backside as she grasped his shoulders, and began climbing down the ladder. The serrin in the boat held it steady as best they could, and called warnings of an approaching swell.

Rhillian turned to Errollyn. The wind tossed his shaggy hair about a face marked with soot. There was a defiance there, and a pain, and a confusion that perhaps only Aisha would have understood. Rhillian was beyond caring about that either.

“You'd best change her dressings as soon as you're aboard,” Errollyn said. “I've done my best, but Dockside is short of clean dressings today. Also her fever is a little higher than it should be, despite my medicines. I've been mixing fenaseed and gilflower in her tea, so don't let her eat bread, they don't mix well—”

“We've healers aboard who surpass your skills,” Rhillian said. “She'll be better cared for there than here.”

“She hates boats. She'll be sick.”

“It won't kill her.” Errollyn stared at her. Rhillian could see the retort forming on the tip of his tongue. She knew what he wanted to say. All the deaths he wished to blame upon her. He refrained, with great difficulty, and heaved a deep breath. His judgment, however unspoken, did not make her angry. Rhillian felt beyond that. “You could come with us,” she suggested, bluntly.

“No,” said Errollyn. He reached within his jacket and withdrew a folded parchment. It had been sealed with a cord, tied in a bow. “I want you to deliver this to the council. I wrote it by Aisha's bedside this morning, when I could not sleep. They are my reasons for staying. In case anyone is interested.”

Rhillian tucked it into a pocket within her own jacket. Below, Halrhen stepped into the boat with Aisha. “You can write what you like,” said Rhillian. “Humans have better words for what you have done than we. They call it betrayal.”

“You can call it whatever you like,” Errollyn said coldly, “but you can't disguise your disaster here. I warned you, you ignored me, and now look. Go back to the council. Impress them with your pretty words and excuses. Fool them, like you've fooled everyone else. Like you've fooled yourself, most of all. And then soon enough we'll all be dead.”

They stared at each other, two old friends atop the furthest pier from shore, as the wind blew and the air smelled more for a moment of salt and freshness than death and charcoal. Rhillian had always known the serrin indivisible. Now, that certainty seemed shattered.

She climed down to the waiting boat and the company of true serrin. Errollyn watched, forlorn and alone, as she found a bench and the sailors pushed the boat out into the swell. He stood and watched for some time as the boat rowed steadily out into the harbour, lifting and slapping on the rolling swell. The only living serrin left in Petrodor, the last in a continual habitation lasting at least three hundred years. Then, finally, he turned and walked back toward the line of fires.

Rhillian took the parchment from within her jacket and considered it. The cold water heaved and splashed just to her side. It would be such a simple thing to toss the parchment away and allow the waves to claim all of Errollyn's vaunted wisdom. His writing would no doubt speak ill of her. It
would no doubt make his own stance seem wise and reasonable. Things would be simpler if the parchment were to disappear.

Instead, she tucked it back into her jacket. Whatever had happened, she was still serrin. She would never betray her heritage, nor the justness of what she knew to be true. The rowers’ arms were strong, and drove the boat hard through the waves. Beside her, Aisha sat wrapped in Halrhen's supporting arms. Her eyes were half closed, her head bobbing as the swell took them up and down. Rhillian clasped Aisha's hand. The fingers tightened faintly in return.

“Soon,” Rhillian promised her. “Soon you'll be home.”

The Velo household was all blackened stone and charcoal. The fire had engulfed the neighbouring residences too, the wind swirling a haze of ash amidst the smoke from the pyres. Sasha embraced Mariesa Velo, her hands and dress black from searching through the ruins, and gazed at the desolation.

“We'll rebuild it,” she assured the older woman. “Everyone will help, you'll see. It'll be better than before.”

“I have my family,” said Mariesa. “I have not lost any of my beloveds, thank the gods. I am happy.” She'd been repeating it like a mantra since the blaze, Valenti had said. Sasha could see Mari, Valenti, and brothers and sisters climbing over the piled black stones, moving what surviving possessions they could find into small, charred heaps. It would have broken her heart, had not her heart already been broken by sights many times more grievous than this.

Mari saw her and climbed down from the rubble. His right eye was swollen shut and there was a cut across that brow. He embraced Sasha hard, like a father.

“You did it, huh?” he exclaimed, considerably less distraught than his wife. “You beat those bastards! You and Kessligh…just look at this, you make us heroes!” He waved a sooty hand at the pyres.

“You did it,” Sasha told him solemnly. “You are heroes, by your own making. They'll tell tales in Lenayin of the Dockside's defence.”

Mari beamed and clapped her on the arm. He'd fought armed with nothing more than the hook pole he used to haul in crab nets, to hear Valenti tell it, insisting that he used it better than any Nasi-Keth used a blade. The better weapons, he'd left to his sons. Deaths along the Dockside stood at between two and three hundred, though it would probably be days yet until the final tally was known. The Velo family had not lost anyone, though there was a dead cousin and an uncle wounded, in the balance.

“So where is it?” Mari asked in a low voice, with a wary glance at the surrounding commotion. “Some folk, they see our place burned down, they think it's lost. I tell them it's not lost, but I don't know where it is, and they don't believe me.”

“It's safe,” Sasha assured him. “Kessligh knows where it is. He's not telling anyone.”

“And…Kessligh is well?”

“Kessligh is very well,” Sasha said firmly. “One other person knows. Tell that to anyone who asks.”

Sasha continued her way across the dock, answering questions, giving comfort to some and advice to others. Men and women hailed her heartily and several stall owners insisted she accept hot food in passing.

She put on a riding glove to stop the handful of fried octopus from scalding her, and chewed as she walked. Amidst the tragedy, she could see hope. Family helped family, and complete strangers exchanged food and water, and comforted the grieving. Dockside had always been close, by Petrodor standards, but this calamity had forced them closer. These people had been the lowest of the low, before the arrival of the desperate Riverside masses, at least. The Nasi-Keth had raised them and brought them together, and now events had strengthened those bonds. Further north, where the big ships docked at North Pier, she could see the bustle of the trade had resumed, although perhaps not at its previous intensity. Much of Dockside worked at North Pier, another reason the patachis had been reluctant to support the archbishop's bloody gamble. This morning, the Docksiders went back to work and repaid the debt they owed the patachis for holding the northern flank, however selfishly motivated.

There were no pyres burning near North Pier Temple, and were it not for the lingering smell of smoke, it would have seemed that all here was normal. Only the foreigners were absent, sailors not game to leave their boats or their upslope inns, and venture down to Dockside so near to the calamity.

Inside the temple, Sasha found the pews replaced by bedding for perhaps a hundred wounded. Women walked amongst them, carrying trays of food or water. Nasi-Keth healers knelt to administer medicines, and rewrap bandages, while a few priests and caratsa comforted others. The air smelled of sweet and pungent herbs, and various pots were stirred above makeshift fireplaces.

Sasha made her way carefully between the wounded…the most serious, she noted, had been lain to the right, directly beneath the painted ceiling and its scaffolding. The scene there was grim indeed, and the air smelled more of blood than herbs. To the left, seated against the base of the wall, she found
Kessligh gazing up at the painted ceiling. A heavily bandaged man Sasha did not recognise sat by his side, his head lolling.

Sasha knelt at Kessligh's side and clasped his hand. “How do you feel?” she asked. She felt a little nauseous just being here, truth be known. She hated to see him in this place. She knew how he disliked crowds and cities, even more than she.

“Don't look at me like that,” Kessligh reprimanded her, mildly. “I'm fine. The leg is not infected.”

“Look…I could move you. Father Horas has given me an upstairs chamber, there's room enough for—”

“No,” said Kessligh. “My friend Peteri here was just telling me about the painting…before he went to sleep.” Indicating the man at his side. “I haven't had time to really look at it before. And the healers here use different techniques than I've seen; I learn by watching them work.”

He looked quite serene, Sasha thought. He'd always had an ageless face, hard and sharp. Sasha wondered how he could be so calm. Probably he would never be the same swordsman he had been again. Yet he sat with his bandaged leg outstretched, his head against the stone at his back, and gazed up at the scaffolding and the half-completed figures of gods, angels and their followers.

Tears welled in her eyes, though she could not say precisely why. Kessligh looked at her. And frowned, predictably. “What?” With exasperation in his tone. He'd never been able to accept emotion as a rational response to anything. Certainly he'd never made allowances for her gender. Previously, she might have found it infuriating. Now, she smiled through the tears.

“You're such a grouch,” she told him. Kessligh frowned some more, not understanding. “I love you,” she said simply, and kissed him on the cheek. And got up to leave, knowing better than to think Kessligh would appreciate any extended display of softness.

“Hey, get me some fried chicken legs or something,” Kessligh called after her. “That stall owner by the mouth of Ashetel Lane does great chicken. I'm sick of seafood.”

“Aye, mighty Yuan!” Sasha said sarcastically in Lenay. “Whatever you command.” Kessligh watched her go with a wry smile, then turned his eyes back to the ceiling.

In the temple's studio the statues stood silent. Sasha climbed the staircase up the end wall, pushed open the creaking wooden trapdoor and emerged into a dusty hall, daylight falling cold through a series of windows.

She opened a door into a small, paved chamber with two beds. On one lay a saddlebag, containing the few possessions that she had not left at Pazira House—some changes of clothes, her washing oils and other serrin things
that a girl did not like to go without. Some thoughtful soul had moved them when they'd taken the Shereldin Star from the Velo House. She had not asked them to, but she could not help but be glad.

Another old, slightly warped door led to the washroom. She knocked, but there was no reply.

“Errollyn?” She pushed the door open. Errollyn sat on a small stool, clad only in pants. His hair was wet, tousled about his neck and brow, and rivulets of water ran down his bare back. He sat with an elbow on one knee, staring at the far wall. He did not look at her, nor speak, nor move.

Sasha pushed the door open more fully and stepped into the washroom. His sword and bow leaned in one corner, and his belt with knives, and the quiver of arrows. Last night, he'd spent much time collecting his arrows from the corpses of his many victims. The fingers of his left hand now rubbed absently at the calluses on his right.

Sasha stepped before him and squatted, hands on his knees. Tears streaked his cheeks. His deep green eyes seemed to shimmer, swimming with moisture.

“Rhillian's leaving,” Errollyn whispered. “They're all leaving. She took Aisha.”

“I heard,” Sasha said solemnly. “Would you rather go with them?”

He stared at her. His eyes were almost frightening. “I can't. My path is here. I cannot betray myself.”

Sasha took his hand awkwardly. And squeezed. “I'm glad. For myself, I mean,” she amended quickly.

“I cannot betray myself, so I must betray my people. She was right about me. She named me a traitor.”

“She said that?” Sasha couldn't believe it, it was not a serrin concept, and never had been. Only…she recalled Rhillian last night atop the Tarae Keep. Recalled the horror in her eyes. Sasha had often wondered just how far a serrin might need to be pushed in order to cease being reasonable. Last night, she'd looked into the eyes of a woman pushed far beyond any limit. “Errollyn…they're saying Palopy was a massacre. I don't know how she and Kiel survived, but it must have been horrific. She doesn't know what she's saying, Errollyn—”