The Cedna (Tales of Blood & Light Book 2) (15 page)

My mother has disappeared into Yaqi, in the trance induced by bloodletting. She sees neither Ronin nor his blade, rather only the cord of bloodlight, the ung-aneraq that connects them in Yaqi—a narrow thing cast from bright green and deep burgundy bloodlight. She flicks her ulio once, severing the bind. She flicks it again, in the general direction of Ronin’s green bloodlight, to push him back.

The ground heaves again, tossing them away from each other.

She falls, but scrambles quickly to her hands and knees as the lights of Yaqi give way to sunlight, and in a single beam that filters through the trees, she sees what she has done.

“No, no,” she murmurs, crawling towards the fallen form. For the third time that day, she covers her mouth with her hand, whimpering.

“I never meant to,” she whispers in Gantean. “I never meant to hurt him.”

Ronin’s green eyes dart frantically side to side. He opens his mouth as though to speak, but only a vague gurgling emerges.

Blood gushes from the wound in his neck in a rhythmic surge, staining the snow, his fine clothing, and her breeches. An ulio’s edge cuts deep with even the slightest pressure, and she slashed with all her fury and fear.

She takes up his head in her lap, heedless of the blood. All blood belongs to the Hinge. She hums the prayer for the dying over Ronin Entila as she cradles his face with her hands, her tears mingling with his blood, seeping into Gante’s thirsty veins.

My own veins throbbed, distant from the dream, as they drank and drank.

Had it not been for me, conceived on that dark morning, the Ganteans would never have learned that my mother had tainted herself by mating with a sayantaq. She had destroyed the evidence, but she could not destroy the babe she carried in her womb. Had it not been for me, the breach between the Cedna and the Elders would never have occurred. Was it any wonder I believed myself a curse?

A
gentle shaking woke me
, and I threw my hands out, disoriented. My head hurt and my stomach lurched. Dreams hung in my mind.

“Stop,” I moaned. I spoke in Gantean in my confusion.

“Who are you?” The voice replied in Lethemian with a crisp, well-bred southern accent.

I sat up, squinting. The late morning sun attacked my already-aching head.

I pushed my braids out of my face. A well-dressed man knelt before me. His hand, sheathed in expensive dyed leather, clutched my shoulder.

I could not tell him who I was, as my fugitive status extended to Lethemia as well as Gante. “My name is Miseliq,” I said in Lethemian, using my mother’s common Gantean name. “I was shipwrecked north of here. I have been walking.” The world spun. The man caught me before I hit the ground.

“You are Gantean?” The man eased me to an upright position.

I did not bother to deny facts made clear by my false name and my attire. “Yes. But I do not wish to go back there.”

He helped me to my feet with surprising courtesy. “I can’t argue with that,” he said. “You are not well. You should come with me. How many days have you been here?”

“I don’t know.”

He rummaged in his belt bag and withdrew food—some kind of dried fruit. I chewed so fast I could barely taste it. He turned and walked. I followed.

I made it all of three steps before I fainted.

I woke in an unfamiliar room, not a particularly nice room, but not a Gantean stone chamber, so it was a palace to me. I felt much better, though I could have used a bath. I still wore my skins, and the seal fur, turned inwards for warmth, itched against my skin. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. I found a little table with a pitcher of water and a cup, so I drank.

A plain, young woman entered the room. “You’re awake then,” she said with an expression of distaste.

Her scowl could not distress me. “I am,” I said pleasantly. “Thank you for the water.”

She shrugged. “You’re lucky it was Mr. Khayan who found you. He is overly interested in … your kind.” She wrinkled her nose. She did not share Mr. Khayan’s interest, obviously. “I do not think it wise to take on barbarians for household servants,” she added.

I had no intention of becoming a servant, in her house or any other. “I am not asking to be one,” I told her in my most haughty tone as I straightened my spine.

“This whole situation is most unusual.” She left before I could ask for food.

“I heard you were awake!” The man who had found me on the bluffs, Mr. Khayan, entered, closing the door behind him.

“I’m starving,” I told him.

“Of course you are! I’ll send for some soup.” He left for a few moments and then returned, without soup.

He noticed my disappointment. “It’s coming,” he said. “Do you mind talking before you have eaten?”

I shrugged.

“May I call you Miseliq?” He pulled a chair close to the bed where I sat.

I nodded.

“My name is Khayan, Idris Khayan. Tell me, should we look for others from your crew?”

“There will be no others.”

“I see, I see. The seas are not usually this rough so late in the season. I am sorry for your misfortunes.”

The rough seas were no doubt on account of my protective magic. The Entilans could expect years of storms, every one deserved.

“My gracious Lady Entila has offered you a position in her household,” Khayan said. “Since you said you did not wish to return to your home.”

I snapped my head around to stare at him. “Lady Entila?”

“Yes, Lady Malvyna Entila. You rest on her estate. I asked her to offer you a position, and she has agreed as a favor to me.”

“I will not serve here,” I said, a deep rage mounting. “I must go south.”

“South? Where? Why?” He appeared upset at my refusal, clenching his hands at his sides.

“I must go to Orioneport. I have business there,” I bit out. Hadn’t I felt Onatos’s bloodlight guiding me here? How had I fallen into another trap? Here was more evidence of the curse upon my life—I had arrived at the home of my loathed blood-sister instead of into Onatos’s welcome embrace.

“Your business may have to wait,” Khayan said. “The Lady will not be gainsaid, and the fact that she offers you a position at all is a privilege. You must not refuse.”

“I’m tired,” I said to deflect him. I wasn’t ready to face this latest predicament. “Where’s my soup?”

I
did not want
to linger in Queenstown. I did not want to meet my half-sister, Lady Malvyna Entila, either. The thought made my skin itch. She had stolen my title. King Mydon had rejected my plea in his summer court on her account. Some other irritation about her niggled at my mind, beyond reach of my recall, a deeper loathing, a twisted emotion I could not name or recognize.

I ate my soup alone, my concerns brewing. I was too weak to flee. I needed rest and sustenance.

“She will see you shortly.” Khayan came into the small chamber again, carrying an armload of fabric, which he set upon the bed. He watched me carefully. He struck me as a man curious about worlds he did not know, and I was uncharted territory. At the same time, he did not want me to offend Lady Entila by refusing the “privilege” she had bestowed.

He would be disappointed.

Mr. Khayan tapped a finger against his face. “I brought you a dress. You’d better put it on. Malvyna won’t like to see that attire—” he eyed my skins dubiously—“in her fine chambers. I’ll give you a moment to change.”

I had not taken notice of my body in moons; I’d been too preoccupied with my dark and desperate thoughts. Long, silver stretch lines marked my belly. I ran my fingers over them. Would Onatos find them ugly or beautiful? Was I a fool to wonder?

I unbound my hair, hoping I could tame the mess into a becoming fashion. It mattered to me that I face Malvyna Entila with dignity, though she would never guess my identity. To her, I would be only Miseliq—an unfortunate Gantean washed upon her shores. Even so, I would not feel like a barbarian before her.

“You have beautiful hair.” Khayan peered through the doorway.

I paused in my finger-combing, pleased by the compliment. My hair, like my mother’s, glimmered with gold and red tones above its dark base.

“The color is unusual,” he said as he beckoned. “I thought most Ganteans were darker.”

“I am Fire People,” I explained, though he probably wouldn’t understand. “We have lighter coloring than the other clans.”

“Fire People?”

“Ikniq. Ganteans have four clans. Ikniq—Fire People, Tuqs—Wind Runners, Shringars—Water Kind, and Kaluqs—Crystal Ones.”

“I see,” Mr. Khayan said. “Almost like the great Houses that we have here.” He studied my hair again, pursing his mouth. “I am afraid my Lady will be envious. She is vain about her own hair, and hers will not compare to yours.” He smiled. “This will be an entertaining afternoon.”

Lady Malvyna Entila waited in her receiving hall, a salon smaller and plainer than any of the rooms I had seen at Onatos’s Alcazar.

“Idris tells me you are one of my Gantean subjects.” Her voice was as chilly as an eastern wind over the tundra. I flicked my gaze surreptitiously over my sister. She sat in a chair set a platform as though to mimic the throne I had seen at Mydon’s court.

She was beautiful, of course. My mother’s memories of Ronin Entila flashed through my mind. Malvyna had his olive complexion and his straight, black hair. She wore a gown in two shades of purple, the underdress pale, the overdress dark. Amethysts hung from her ears. When she lifted her hand to indicate that I should approach, a bracelet of the same stones swung from her wrist.

Her eyes were as green as my own, and they sparked, in anger or surprise as I met them. It infuriated me to see my eyes in her face, that shared heritage from Ronin Entila.

“I am Gantean.” I doubted she would catch my distinction.

“Shipwrecked?” she queried.

“Yes, north of here. Your Mr. Khayan rescued me.”

“He is too kind, my Idris. He has asked me to give you a place in my household, though I have no idea where I will put you. What skills do you have?”

“I am not seeking employment,” I said stiffly. “I am traveling to Orioneport on my own business.”

“What business could you possibly have in Orioneport? You, a Gantean? If you trade, your wares must pass first through my customs in Queenstown. Your taxes must be paid.”

“My business is personal. I have no wares.”

“You Ganteans are all alike,” Malvyna said, green eyes flashing with malice. “By rights, I should forfeit your freedom and sell you down in the port market with the rest of your kind.”

“Sell me?” Surely she did not openly condone the illegal flesh markets?

“Gantean traitors are forfeit to my House when captured. I can sell you or keep you as I see fit.”

“I have not broken any laws.” I grew angrier by the moment.

She had only been playing with me. Suddenly she wore her hatred openly, and this was the vitriol that had laid waste to so many of Gante’s communities. “You are Gantean. We can all smell it. And Ganteans have much to answer for on Entilan soil. You killed my father.”

My hands clenched. “I had nothing to do with that.”

She batted the air as though to discount my words or dispel a foul odor. “A barbarian is a barbarian. You are all the same. Idris, take her to the mage for branding. I’ll keep her to empty the chamber pots.”

Idris Khayan hesitated, his dark eyes darting between Malvyna and me. He stepped forward. “My Lady,” he said, a faint hint of reproach in his voice.

Malvyna glared at him. “Now, Idris.” Her face betrayed no particular emotion—it looked as clear as one of her glass windows. Yet I sensed her repressed fury.

“Miseliq speaks the Lethemian tongue better than most Ganteans,” Khayan attempted. “I am sure you can find her a more useful task, and she came to us a freeperson. She at least deserves to be paid—”

“Out,” Malvyna commanded with a brusque flourish of her hand. Two of her Entilan guards shifted from the door and pulled me through it, leading me back to the room where I had been housed earlier. I did not struggle, but I racked my mind for a plan of escape.

Khayan soon returned to the room, looking morose. “You really shouldn’t have turned her down the first time,” he said. “And I fear letting you wear your hair down was a mistake that only incensed her. I’m sorry.”

“This is unconscionable,” I said. “I was a victim of misfortune, nothing more. She had no proof that I am a traitor, none at all.”

He laid a hand on my arm. “To be Gantean is enough, in her eyes. But I had hoped she would give you a better position with my encouragement.”

I glared at him. “I will not stay here! You cannot force me.” Dread and dismay spiraled up my spine. What advantages did I have? I had arrived here with nothing but the skins on my back. I had no money, not even an ulio to sell for passage south or to cut down my foes.

“You do not argue with Malvyna,” Khayan said. “Come, I am to brand you myself. I got at least that much out of her. If some other mage were to do it, you would suffer much more.”

“Brand?” I echoed.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, pulling my arm. “We do not use an iron, as though you were cattle, as they do on slaves in Vhimsantyr. We are civilized. It’s a mark made by magic, to prevent runaways and such. I’m a mage.”

My heart hammered my ribs. I did not budge. I would wear no mark burned upon me by fire
or
magic. “No,” I said, frantically reaching for some kind of magical assistance. But without bloodletting, I had no access to magic or Yaqi.

Khayan’s hand tightened on my arm, and he lifted a sad gaze, his breath catching. “Calm down. It won’t hurt. And if you don’t resist I won’t have to compel you.”

I thrust my arm outwards, twisting free of his grip. I took two steps back as Khayan, looking put upon, reached up his sleeve and brandished a small topaz stone. Yaqi’s veil drew back as though his magic peeled away my own skin. For a moment I could not move. Yet the attempt he had made to spellbind me had backfired, because it gave me access to Yaqi, to bloodlight, and to my own power.

My bloodlight was blackstone. I made an edge of it as easily as striking a spall with a hammerstone. I did not hesitate; I slashed with that bloodlight edge, cutting into Khayan’s cheek as my mother had once done to Ronan Entila.

“It is not I who will be marked,” I hissed. “Touch me at your peril, mage.”

He dropped his stone and clapped his hand against his bleeding cheek. We were both thrust out of Yaqi when his magic fell. He bent to grab his stone back, but I got to it first. “Amatos!” he cried. “What
are
you?” Fear—fear and wonder—laced his voice.

HIs magestone reminded me of the opal stone I’d once seen in Onatos’s bedroom, though this one had only a fraction of the power as the other.

“I am Gantean,” I said. “The only magic that governs me is my own. There will be no brands.”

He nodded, watching me warily. “No brands.”

I stuffed his stone down the front of my dress, gathering that his power derived from it. I had him at my mercy. “Now,” I said. “You will help me get safely aboard a southbound ship to Orioneport.”

“I cannot. I cannot risk my Lady’s wrath.”

I scowled and jutted my chin at his wound. “Do you wish the other cheek cut? I have your stone. You’ll help me if you want it back.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m lienbound.”

“What does that mean, lienbound?”

“You don’t know? It’s the very foundation of the relations between mages and their masters. Every mage who graduates from the Conservatoire must serve fifteen years lienbound to one of the Ten Houses. We cannot go against our master’s orders. The punishment is—”

“You are a slave yourself. And you meant to make me one.”

“Being lienbound isn’t slavery; it’s an agreement, a trade.”

I didn’t care one way or another. I just needed to find a way out of Entila.

We stared at each other, at an impasse. I could not find a way back into Yaqi, not without letting my blood and weakening myself in front of him. He could not touch his own power without the stone I held.