The Cedna (Tales of Blood & Light Book 2) (7 page)

I shook my head. I did not wish to explain the depth of that feeling, not when Onatos Amar had shown me nothing but kindness. To repay him with cutting Gantean words struck me as uncivil.

“Do you want my advice about petitioning King Mydon?” he asked.

“If you wish to give it.”

“You should seek a private hearing rather than a public one. Few Lethemians will have sympathy for your request. The smaller your audience, the better.”

“I did not know there were private hearings,” I said. “In Gante we know only of the public courts where anyone can petition your King.”

Onatos reached for the decanter. “Mydon himself does not hear most of the public cases, but rather delegates them to magistrates.” He sipped his drink, studying me. “Most people support House Entila’s claim to Gante. They laud Ronin Entila for conquering a barbaric place, even if it cost him his life.”

His words left me dismayed. “Ronin Entila never conquered anything except my mother’s heart. And that lasted less than a day.”

Onatos cocked his head. “Your mother’s heart? What do you mean?”

“My mother served as the Cedna of Gante before me. When Ronin Entila came to her camp, she mated with him. Ronin Entila is my blood-father.”

“
What?”
Onatos’s goblet stopped halfway to his mouth. “Ronin Entila had a Gantean bastard?” He stared at me. “But by the gods, you have her eyes!”

His words confused me. “Her eyes?”

“Malvyna,” he said. “Your eyes are as green as hers. The Entila eyes. By the gods!”

“She is my sister by blood,” I said stiffly.

Onatos set down his goblet. “Much becomes clear to me now. Listen to me, Cedna. You must use this fact of your strange parentage to your advantage. If your mother was the Cedna of Gante, and Ronin Entila made his claim to Gante by joining with her, you can argue that your rule of Gante is validated by both Gantean laws and Lethemian. You simply need to prove that you are indeed Ronin Entila’s daughter.”

I frowned. Inarian and I had prepared an argument based on Gante’s fundamental independence. Ronin Entila had never conquered us, no matter what lies his daughter had spread through the southern lands. Even so, Onatos’s suggestion offered an appealing strategy, one the sayantaq might understand. Righteous Gantean independence seemed unlikely to sway those who did not believe in it. Better that King Mydon should declare me the rightful Cedna of Gante by my blood, since that criterion represented so much to the southerners. Then I could return to Gante with guarantees for our safety and real international authority sanctioned by the Lethemians.

I nodded. “You give me good counsel, Onatos. Why?”

His gaze softened. “How could I not, Beautiful?” He covered my hand on the table with his own. “You do not know how rare it is, what has passed between us. I have never known anyone who experienced the aetherlumo di fieri except in a legends or fairy tales. Your aetherlight is the match of mine. It is as though we are already bound.”

He turned my palm and caressed it softly. Where our hands joined, heat surged.
Magic.
My fingers tightened around his.

Onatos squeezed back. “Your magic,” he whispered, leaning closer to me. “I have never felt anything like it. No magitrix I have ever touched feels like this.”

Why had he been touching southern sorceresses?

Power rippled through my arm and surged up his. I had never had this happen before, either. Normally my magic was strictly confined to bloodletting rituals. I was not like Atanurat, slipping at will between Ijiq and Yaqi.

“My magic is different,” I said, proud for the first time, though I had no explanation for the flares between us. “I am the Cedna.”

T
he following day
Inarian and I woke early. Onatos was nowhere to be found.

“Let’s have a look at the city,” I said, pulling Inarian down the inn stairs. I wanted to see more of Hemicylix.

Inarian followed me only reluctantly. “The less we interact with the sayantaq, the better. We stick out here. People will notice two women dressed in Gantean skins.”

“Just for a moment,” I begged. “We will not stray far.”

We found a small market square, already busy despite the early hour. At a fabric cart I held a green fabric between my fingers, imagining having such smoothness against my skin. The southerners’ clothes were fine, and the dresses worn even by the common women in the market were beautiful and exotic to my eyes.

“Do you think we ought to have dresses?” I asked Inarian, tugging on the green fabric. “Will the sayantaq king show us more respect if we dress like his people?”

“Dresses? Made from that flimsy material? What spirit is in such fabric to protect you? Your skins will keep you warm and safe wherever you go. If the sayantaq cannot see the sense of that, that is their problem.”

I frowned. I hated to be chastised like a child. Was Inarian so strident that she could not see how odd we appeared to these people who enjoyed the softness of life more than its edges? Already in the market square I felt the weight of curious gazes, and the other shoppers gave us a wide berth.

I turned to the fabric seller. “How much for the green and the black?”

“You like my silk?” she asked.

“What is this
silk
?” I wondered aloud. I’d never touched a material so soft.

“Silk,” the woman said slowly. “Mine’s made from the casings of the Vhimsantese butterfly, the
ampara.
I only sell the best.
”

Fabric made from butterfly casings! Gantean butterflies lived short lives, seen only in the few brief moons of summer. “I’d like enough for two dresses,” I said.

The seller cut off lengths of the silk for me as I counted out money from my pack beneath Inarian’s silent disapproval. She said nothing as we returned to the inn.

Onatos awaited us in the foyer with two other men who seemed to be servants of some kind. “There you are.” He had eyes only for me. “Where have you been? I worried you’d left.”

I lifted the bundles of silk. “I wanted fabric to make dresses.”

“There’s no time for that,” Onatos said. “I’ve hired us private coaches to the High City. If you need a gown, you’ll have to buy the dress ready-made from a tailor in Galantia.”

Of course he had a better idea. I should have asked him in the first place. I never thought to buy a dress already made.

Inarian shook her head. “Only a fool would wear clothing stitched by a stranger’s hand.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Onatos scoffed. “Everyone wears clothing stitched by strangers’ hands. I’ll help you when we get to Galantia. Your travel clothes will suffice for the rest of the journey.” He took the silk from my arms and handed it to one of his men. “Now, where will you be staying in Galantia?”

I looked at Inarian. Neither of us knew. She crossed her arms and faced away. I feared she had begun to doubt our mission.

O
natos spared
no cost for the caravan that took us to Galantia. He gave Inarian and me our own carriage with curtains that could be drawn to block out the sun or left open for fresh air. The vehicle was less comfortable than a dog sled, but I enjoyed the ride anyway.

“I do not like this,” Inarian said as we approached the High City after several silent hours.

“What?” I snapped. I grew weary of her endless anxieties.

“This Onatos is too friendly. I doubt his good intentions.”

“He has gotten us safely to Galantia.”

“Why would a sayantaq lord want to help us? We are but two Gantean travelers to him.”

“Perhaps he sympathizes with Ganteans?”

Inarian only pushed aside the curtains to stare out the window.

We entered Galantia through a route that tunneled beneath the city and spit us out again at the foot of the High Palace.

I gasped. High walls enclosed the Palace in a hexagon. At the points of the hex, colored crystals rose into thick, sharp towers larger than any Kaluq rock spire. I shivered. Strong magic coursed through those stones; I felt it abrading the air around me. The Elders claimed those pillars had been stolen from Gante centuries ago.

Our carriage had drawn to a stop. Onatos opened the door and leaned through it. “I must go to the Palace for a short while,” he said. “Would you like me to make a private appointment for your hearing?”

“Yes, please,” I said, casting a wary glance at Inarian. I had not told her that I’d entrusted Onatos with the information about our mission.

She sucked a breath and rested a hand on the bone hilt of her ulio at her waist, but she let Onatos leave before she spoke.

W
hat
did you tell him
?”
she demanded as the carriage lurched back into motion.

“Only that we had business with the king. Onatos suggested a private meeting would serve us better.”

“You should have conferred with me before speaking about our mission with a sayantaq.”

“It is
my
mission,” I bit out. “And Onatos can provide assistance we need.”

Inarian’s reply dissipated as we again came to a stop and the door opened. A man in black livery bowed to us. “Welcome to the Amar townhouse,” he said without meeting my gaze.

Onatos’s townhouse was enormous. Liveried servants in black and gold escorted Inarian and me through a front entry girded by shaped shrubs, and up a twisting staircase to a sleeping chamber. After the servants had gone, we sat on the beds and simply stared at our surroundings.

The two beds had four long poles at each corner, carved in a spiraling motif and capped with golden orbs. The mattresses were strewn with brocade pillows in a deep burgundy tone, like southern wine. A complicated tapestry depicting a pastoral scene hung above the two beds. Deep carpets, also wine-colored, covered the white tile floor.

I gingerly tapped the orb on the bedpost. “Is it real?”

“Real?” Inarian asked, as confused and overwhelmed as I.

“Gold, like the money.”

“I don’t know. Why would they put so much value into a bed?”

“Onatos seems unconcerned about frugality,” I said.

Inarian snorted. “No doubt he lives as profligately as any sayantaq.”

Her prejudices and fears wore on me. She laid down to rest on her wide bed. Disheartened by my countrywoman, I wandered back down the staircase into an expansive hall with a blackstone floor, pictures on the walls, and sculptures in the corners. A blackstone floor—if Master Urasuq could only see!

Glass doors opened into an outdoor courtyard with a fountain in the middle.

“My lady, Cedna!” Onatos called from the courtyard.

He had changed from traveling clothes into something ridiculously southern, all black silk draped artfully over his shoulders.

“You are finished with your business at the Palace?” I asked.

“I only had to tell Mydon I had arrived in the city. He likes to know. How do you like my city house?”

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Everything is so large.”

He laughed. “Large? This is nothing. Wait until you see the Palace. Or better yet, the Alcazar, my home in Amar. Now that is something to see. This place is nice enough, I suppose, but the Alcazar has leagues of green around it and views of the Parting Sea.”

“We do not have such splendor in Gante,” I told him. “Everything there is small and mean.”

“So I hear. I suppose that is one reason we call you barbarians. But you are here now, and a whole new world lies before you. So, you need clothes, do you?”

I nodded, ashamed of the rustic skins I wore. “I wish to find a dress that will make me look like your people. For when I go before the king.”

“I can take you to a place now,” Onatos said. “We’ll walk together.”

I followed him from his house in silence. I wished he didn’t think me a barbarian, but how could he not? At the house gates, his bodyguard and manservant joined us. The bodyguard walked in front his lord, and the manservant followed behind in a parody of supplication. I couldn’t figure how to fit myself into the pattern, so I walked behind as though not part of the party at all. People noticed Onatos—he was clearly an important man—but they looked right through me.

Onatos paused and turned. “Come, walk beside me. Why are you lingering back there, Beautiful?” He held out his arm in invitation.

I took it, and a small thrill ran through my innards. “I only need a dress.” I told him. “We’ve passed several shops already.”

He raised his eyebrows. “But I’m taking you to the best tailor in Galantia.”

“Oh.” I matched his steps. “Is it much farther?”

“Just there.” He pointed up the block.

Onatos held the shop door for me. I stared at the racks as I entered, shocked again by sayantaq luxuries. Bright colors made a panorama along the walls—hundreds of dresses, blouses, and coats, more than I could have imagined. Onatos pulled the tailor aside and talked to him in a low voice while I wandered, awestruck, through the racks, touching dress after dress.

It did not take me long to find the one I wanted. I pulled the black silk gown from its rack and wound through the shop towards the two men. “This one,” I said, holding it up. “I want this one.”

“Black?” Onatos murmured. “Why black?”

I touched my blackstone ulio, which I’d stashed in the leather girdle at my hips. I turned it so it caught the light. “Black is the color of my bloodlight.”

Onatos’s eyebrows drew together. “Your aetherlight is black?”

“My bloodlight, yes. Aetherlight.”

“Everyone favors their aetherlight color, of course,” Onatos said. “But wearing someone else’s House color at court is not permitted. Find something in a neutral color.” He gestured to the tailor, who hurried down the racks and pulled forth a copper dress in shimmering shot silk.

I frowned, for I did not much like the brown dress. Brown reminded me of everything I’d worn in Gante. “I don’t understand. You wear black.”

“Black is the color of House Amar.” Onatos took my arm as the tailor wrapped the two gowns up in tissue and placed them in a box. “Don’t get me wrong, Beautiful. You would look stunning in the color of my House. I only fear Mydon’s reaction.”

T
wo days dragged
by while we waited to see King Mydon. I wandered in Onatos’s house and examined his paintings, mostly formal portraits. I saw reflections of Onatos in the subjects, especially in a raven-haired woman dressed all in black. She had his same indigo eyes, though hers were unaccountably sad, and the artist had cared more for likeness than flattery, painting purple shadows in her cheeks and lines of sorrow at her mouth.

“My mother.” Onatos’s voice floated down the narrow hall. “Odessa Amar.”

“She looks sad.”

“She was.”

“Why?”

Boot heels snapped on the blackstone floor until Onatos stood at my side before the painting. “She had a sorrowful life.”

“How?” I was no stranger to that sort of life.

He sighed, and his face took on the same sad lines I saw in his mother’s portrait. “Her brother, my father, forced himself upon her. He kept her for himself and would not let her marry.”

“Do you mean that your mother and your father were brother and sister by blood?”

“Do you think less of me, knowing that I came from a union of such sin?”

I studied his mother’s portrait again. She had hands much like his, with delicate, slender fingers—nothing like my own hands, scarred from my misadventures with the blackstone, roughened by Gantean winters. “I do not know what you mean by this sin. In Gante we do not keep track of our blood-relationships as you do here. We cut the aetherlight bloodcords that connect us. Most Ganteans do not know their parents or their bloodlines.”

“You know your parents,” Onatos pointed out.

“This was not necessarily a good thing, on Gante.” My mother had refused to cut the bloodcord that connected us, and for this reason I had not been raised in the tiguat like most Gantean children. Instead I had been left in my mother’s care, a shameful status suffered by only the feeblest children.

“You know what it is like to be an outsider, then.” I could see from Onatos’s expression that he had felt this way, an outsider looking in, for most of his life.

“What your parents did, is it considered so awful here?”

There was that pulling sensation between us again, that tug between our hearts. I wanted to touch him, but I kept my hands at my sides.

“Oh, yes,” Onatos said. “It is considered very awful, indeed. My father’s sins have never entirely left me. This is why I am only the Lord Regent of my House, and not the Lord in name. I cannot legally inherit the title because my parents were not married. Bastards can serve only as regents, not lords.”

My mind raced. “What does that mean for me? You have advised me to argue for my position as the Cedna, ruler of Gante, because of my blood-relationship to both my mother and my father, Ronin Entila. Yet my parents also were not married.”

“It is my hope that your case will set a precedent for a bastard being permitted to rule. Of course you will not be the Lady of House Entila. Malvyna will hold that title as she does now, but if you are given the rule of Gante, my own cause may be assisted. I plan to bring a case to Mydon in the next year to become Lord Amar. There is no reason I should not be. I rule the House already as regent. Both of our cases will fight stupid tradition and prejudice.”

My right hand slid over the bone hilt of my ulio in my leather belt. “You have good reasons for helping me. If I succeed it will help you.”

“I help you because of what lies between us, Beautiful.” He placed a palm over his heart. Did he feel the pull there, as I did? “If your success dovetails with my own plans, well, a mage would say that serendipitous confluences show that you are on the right path.” He nodded at my hand on my knife. “Your blade, it seems important to you.”

“It’s a sacred knife. I made this one to release myself from my apprenticeship.” I knew better than to speak of Gantean ways with a southerner, but Onatos had such a sway over me, the words tumbled naturally from my mouth.

“Knives are your craft?” he asked in surprise.

“I trained in the making of the blackstone blade, yes.”

“I find it surprising that the Cedna should have an … occupation like that. Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s more than an occupation. It’s a skill of magic. I can shape you a blade fit to cut the air. If I can find materials, I will make you one.”

“I don’t follow half of what you say.” Onatos laughed. “But I would accept any gift you chose to give me.”

I
narian wore
her scowl all morning as I readied to go to the Palace to present my case. She helped me don the copper dress. The overdress had complex laces that she had to tighten and tie. The soft fabric tickled my legs.

“You would do better to wear Iksraqtaq clothing. You look sayantaq, completely sayantaq,” Inarian scolded.

“That’s the point. Onatos says if I appear as one of them, the king is more likely to grant my request.” I had not yet explained my plan to use Onatos’s argument rather than the one she and I had formed.

Inarian grabbed my braids and secured them upon my head with bone pins. “You have trusted Onatos Amar too readily.”

Onatos saved me from further harping, jingling as he came through the door uninvited. He held out a narrow piece of metal. “This is for you.”

It was a small, southern-style knife. “What should I do with it?” I took the knife from it and peered at it. It was nothing like an ulio.

“Most women wear it here.” He lifted his right forearm and circled it with his other hand.

The knife had two leather straps on its holster. I laid my right arm down on the table and attempted to strap it on my arm over the dress sleeve.

Onatos leaned over me, chuckling. “Not like that.” He took the knife in one hand and my wrist in the other. “May I?”

I nodded. He pushed up the sleeve of the copper dress, his fingertips burning a trail up the scarred skin of my forearm. Instinctually, I retracted, ashamed that he should see the ugly scars from Ikselian’s ulio.

But Onatos held me fast. He lifted his gaze to meet mine, and a long silence ensued. We both forgot entirely about Inarian’s presence.

“You wear it like this,” he finally continued, laying the knife across my bare arm and fastening the straps beneath my elbow. “It’s a women’s knife. Court ladies use them to signal secret messages.”

I stared at his index finger tracing a scar down to my wrist.

Onatos continued, “You should know, once you have accepted one man’s knife, it is not done to accept another’s. This—” he pressed his finger into the scar “—how did you get this?”

I snatched my arm away and yanked my sleeve to cover it. “Thank you for the knife,” I said. “I will treasure it.”

Inarian stepped between us. “Isn’t it time to go?”

Onatos had drawn back as she intervened. “Miss Inarian, the audience I have secured for the Cedna is for her only. You cannot come to the Palace.”

“What?” Inarian exclaimed. I read the betrayal on her face, that I had told Onatos that I was the Cedna. “I am her escort. She cannot go alone. She must have at least another representative—”

“I will be with her. You needn’t worry. She will be well protected.”

“But—”

“There’s nothing we can do. The appointment cannot be changed. The Palace will not permit you entry.”

“But—”

Onatos stepped around her and took my arm, pulling me towards the chamber door. He said over his shoulder, “Feel free to walk in my gardens. You look like you could use some fresh air. We will return this evening.”

He took me down the stairs and out to the front door of the townhouse where his black carriage waited for us.

“Inarian will be upset,” I ventured as the carriage sprang into motion.

“Inarian is upset most of the time. It cannot be helped.” A smirk danced on Onatos’s face, and then he burst into laughter. I couldn’t help it; I laughed, too, even though I knew how angry Inarian would be when I returned.

Onatos laid his black-gloved hand on my thigh. I didn’t push it away.

“You’ll do well at court,” he said, settling into the carriage seat. “I expect Mydon will listen to your plea, if only because you cut such a striking figure.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t even recall the story I meant to tell the king. I could think only of Onatos, the close contact of his leg against mine, his hand resting so casually on my thigh.

He’d laughed with me. No one had ever laughed with me before, not Atanurat, not my mother, not a single Ikniq supporter. Onatos seduced me into believing I was a normal woman, that I had no duty, no burden, no sacrifice to make.

He caught me watching him. “Have you ever met your half-sister?” he asked suddenly.