An Accident of Stars (6 page)

Don't let it be today,
she pleaded, her inner thoughts contrasting with her spoken oaths.
Ashasa and Sahu, don't let it be today!

But the gods evidently had other plans. Not only
was
the ceremony happening today, but Zech was too late to stop the foreigner getting caught in the middle of it. Squirming her way through the crowd, she was just in time to see no less a woman than the Vex'Mara Kadeja hauling a civilian girl into the open.

Thorns and godshit!” she whispered, Gwen's description in no way having prepared her for the full reality of the situation. Saffron was barely dressed, her taal in such disarray it was a miracle it hadn't fallen off completely. She looked utterly terrified, though doubtless she had no idea how appropriate her reaction really was. At least ignorance bestowed on her the good sense not to struggle; though clearly straining against the Vex'Mara's hold, she neither screamed nor twisted, which was the only mercy on offer in such a hideous situation.“The Mother Sun is speaking, truly!” Kadeja announced, a sharp smile playing at her lips. “Who are you to walk without penitence in Ashasa's sight? Speak!” At Saffron's silence, the Vex'Mara pursed her lips and repeated her command in Vekshi – unaware, as Zech was not, that the hapless girl couldn't speak a word of either tongue. When Saffron shook her head, her mouth firmly shut, Kadeja grew furious, slapping her first across one cheek, then the other.

“
Speak!
”

Zech felt frantic. Her job was to bring the foreigner back to the compound, but how could she stand up to the Vex'Mara? Not even the temples were that brave! But Yasha had boasted of her skills to Gwen; they were counting on her to bring the girl, and there was no time to run back home and ask for help. As Kadeja shook and slapped her captive before the mute crowd, Zech summoned all her courage and stepped forward. Shaking in every limb, she made the proper obeisance due a woman of the Vex'Mara's rank and knelt, her outstretched hands turned palm-up and crossed at the wrist. “Most noble and exalted Vex'Mara Kadeja, I beg you to show mercy to my cousin.”

Kadeja paused, her free hand raised for another blow. Coolly, she dropped her arm and looked at Zech, though if anything, her grip on Saffron had tightened. Her eyes widened as she took in Zech's appearance – not even the Vex'Mara was immune to the novelty of her calico colouring – then narrowed again as she spoke, her Vekshi accent turning the Kenan syllables harsh. “She will not speak. She disrespects her betters and our Mother Sun. Why should I show her mercy?”

Zech licked her lips, desperately trying to concoct a lie. “My cousin is… is moonstruck, Vex'Mara, and newly arrived in Karavos. Her aunts and mother let her run wild – she doesn't understand any proper tongue, nor why her hair should be cut, and when we raised a blade to shear it, she ran. She is… very stupid,” she finished lamely, her usual eloquence subsumed by fear.

And yet – and yet! – the Vex'Mara's grip on Saffron's arm was loosening. “I see,” she said softly, and Zech felt weak with relief. She'd done it; she'd talked Kadeja down! “But moonstruck or not, it behooves us all to honour the goddess. Your cousin ran from your mother's blade; she will not run from mine.”

Zech's veins turned to ice. Saffron was staring at her desperately, hopefully, unable to know what was being said yet understanding, at least, that Zech had stopped her from being beaten. “Come with me,” Kadeja said, and if her words meant nothing to Saffron, the gentleness with which she tugged her arm was a form of translation. Still uncertain, the foreigner obeyed, kneeling by the fountain like a penitent. Her strange green eyes were expectant and wary.

“I have been given a sign,” the Vex'Mara announced, loud enough for the whole square to hear. “I came here today to pray for unity in our realm, but Ashasa tells me we are already united, that I need not shed my own blood for her sake. Instead, she has sent me this child. A gift from the Mother Sun should never be refused.”

Reaching inside her taal, she pulled out a ritual knife – the same one she must have carried before the temple disowned her. Zech marvelled that they'd let her take it; but then the stories said Kadeja had always been a hard woman to cross, even before she bound herself to Vex Leoden in the
mahu'kedet,
the many-partnered marriage of Kena. Letting go of Saffron's arm, the Vex'Mara used that hand to bend her head forwards. Visibly trembling, the foreigner obeyed, submitting as Kadeja gripped the tail of her hair and cut it off, dropping the whole lock into the water. Though Saffron's body stiffened, she relaxed a moment later, signalling that she understood this, at least: that Kadeja would not let her keep her hair.
And even if the Vex'Mara didn't take it, Yasha certainly would have.
The silence of the crowd was eerie and unbelievable, a hundred or more people watching as Kadeja shaved the girl's head down to a fine gold stubble. She was oddly tender in her work, even wetting the blade in the fountain to lessen Saffron's pain, though Zech put this down more to her temple-taught habits than any innate kindness. The whole process took only a few minutes, and when every scrap of hair had been gathered up and dropped in the fountain, Kadeja cupped Saffron's chin in her hand and kissed the girl lightly between the eyes, the way a priestess would. “Our light is Ashasa's light,” she said, straightening. Saffron moved to step away, but Kadeja set her free hand on her shoulder, pressing down until the girl knelt obediently before the fountain. The Vex'Mara knelt in turn on Saffron's left, then reached out and rearranged the foreigner's hands, so that they rested palm down on the fountain's edge.

Throughout this performance, Zech had been tense – but it wasn't until Kadeja pinned Saffron's left wrist firmly in place that she realised the enormity of what was happening. She opened her mouth to shout, but the sound froze in her throat. As a priestess, the Vex'Mara had learned to wield her knife in many ways, and despite her choices, no one could ever claim she'd lacked talent.

“Balance my sins with hers,” Kadeja murmured, softly enough that only Zech could have heard it.

And then, so fast it was like watching a snake strike, the Vex'Mara severed the two smallest fingers of Saffron's left hand.

P
ain filled her
, it defined her, there was nothing but pain so savage it was like having the very roots of her ripped free. Saffron screamed and screamed, wrenching her hand back, but it was too late. The woman who'd been holding her pulled away, leaving her to clutch at the wrist of her bloody hand, screaming even harder as she understood the extent of the mutilation. She stared, gaping, as the woman dropped her severed fingers –
her fingers!
– into the fountain, with no more expression on her face than if it were only hair. Bile beat out the air in her throat, and Saffron had just enough time to lurch sideways before vomiting violently onto the ground.

How could anything hurt so much? Her stomach wrung itself in knots. She gagged and retched, coughing up every last scrap of food she'd eaten since breakfast – food from another world, a safe world, a world that no longer existed, all of it drowned out by this terrible throbbing pain that threatened to break her in pieces. Unable to brace on her hands, she fell backwards against the fountain edge, panting and crying, the acid still hot in her mouth. The woman and her entourage were leaving, she distantly noticed. The crowd was starting to stir again, going about its business as night fell. The air was cool, the last light silver against the blue, so that her dripping blood gleamed purple-black.

Someone crouched down beside her. Saffron shrieked and pushed herself away, unable to feel the hurt in her back and shoulders over the agonising throb of her missing fingers. It was the kid, a part of her thought distantly, the skinny – boy? – who'd said… something. She didn't know what. At the time, she'd thought it was in her favour, but given what had happened next, it no longer felt so likely. But there was sympathy in the child's pale eyes, and when he reached out and rested a palm on Saffron's cheek, the contact was gentle and soothing.

And then, just as quickly, it turned electric; not an unpleasant jolt, but a fizzing, tickling sensation, as though she were standing near a current without actually touching it. Pulling back, the kid indicated himself and spoke. “Zech.” The same hand pointed at Saffron. “Sa'ferryn.” And then, to her absolute astonishment, a third intelligible word: “
Follow
.”

Comprehension was a tiny miracle, and yet it was significant enough that despite everything – her lost fingers, her shaved head and every other disorientation the day had brought – she laughed. The sound came out shallow and twisted, but it was laughter nonetheless, and when Zech stood up, somehow Saffron found the strength to copy. Darkness was coming fast now, and falling had dizzied her even before she'd had to contend with slaps and blood loss. She swayed on her feet, staring numbly into the fountain. Her severed fingers lay on the bottom like a pair of weird fish, still leaking thin ribbons of blood into the water. The thought of reaching in to claim them was repulsive. Only then did she notice she was still holding her wrist out in front of her, as though offering her mutilated hand to whoever would take it. She turned to Zech, but despite his youth, the boy didn't flinch.

“Follow,” he repeated. The word sounded funny, and suddenly Saffron knew why.

He wasn't speaking English.
And yet, she'd understood.

Saffron stared. Was this magic, then – a fleeting touch that somehow made languages bleed together? She couldn't move, paralysed as much by this fact as her throbbing hand. Zech sighed, approached her cautiously, then slipped a skinny arm around her waist. It was pathetically comforting.

“I can't do this,” Saffron said. Her voice cracked like an old woman's. “Mum. I want my mum. I want to go home. I can't do this.”

“Walk,” said Zech. It wasn't quite a plea. For the first time, Saffron looked down and saw there were tears on the kid's cheeks. “We walk. Just walk. Be…
OK
.”

The last word was in English. Presumably, whatever magic allowed them to understand one another went both ways. And so, because there was nothing else she could do, Saffron walked.

G
wen glared at Yasha
, for all the good it did. Having brought her to Trishka's rooms, the matriarch now stood guard on the door, refusing to let her leave. So far, only two people had been allowed in: a young child, running to tell them that Pix had returned, and then, a few minutes later, Pix herself, dishevelled yet triumphant. Her smile had vanished, however, on hearing what had happened to Saffron – and not just because the girl had fallen. Only then did Yasha reveal what everyone else in the compound already knew: that every morning for the past week, Vex'Mara Kadeja, fallen priestess of the Vekshi goddess Ashasa and now the foremost consort of Vex Leoden, had read the omens, seeking the proper day to make a dusk offering to Ashasa in the Square of Gods. That she'd declared her intentions openly beforehand was an act of breathtaking heresy, almost equal in kind to her choice of venue. Though situated in the Warren, the holy fountain in the Square of Gods was no less sacred to the Kenan pantheon than if it had been part of the palace temple.

Of course, none of them had any way of knowing if today had been that day – not until Zech returned, at any rate – but as soon as Yasha spoke, Gwen knew in her bones that it was, of
course
it was, because the Many as she understood it was incapable of working any other way. Kadeja's decision to worship Ashasa in the Square of Gods was roughly equivalent to the Queen of England holding a full Christian mass in the Dome of the Rock. What else would happen, but that her charge be caught up in events she couldn't possibly understand?

“Why didn't you
tell
me?” Gwen asked Pix, her voice low and dangerous.

Pix flushed. “Would it have changed anything if I had? It was out of our hands. You didn't need another reason to worry about the girl.”

“Yes,” said Gwen, through gritted teeth, “but if you'd told me Kadeja was planning a jaunt to the Square of Gods, I might have ridden a different route to avoid it!”

“Enough!” snapped Yasha, thumping her staff on the floor. “We'll know soon enough what's happened.”

Gwen bit back a retort, knowing the old woman was correct, but not liking it. She glanced at the bed, where an exhausted Trishka slept in a swaddle of blankets. Though she'd woken briefly to greet Gwen, she'd subsequently lapsed back into sleep. The power needed to open portals between worlds was considerable even before you factored in Trishka's physical frailties, and while Yasha made periodic attempts to dissuade her daughter from overexertion, it was only a formality. Trishka's magic demanded use, and after her one disastrous attempt at suppression all those years ago, there was no question of her repeating it.

A wild thumping on the door disrupted Gwen's reverie. Yasha responded at once, revealing the same messenger boy who'd previously announced Pix.

“They're back!” he said, but there was a gulp to his words. “They're… Zech said I should run for one of Teket's Kin.”

“Do it,” Yasha said. Nodding fearfully, the boy vanished, leaving Gwen's imagination to conjour up all the very worst reasons why Saffron might need a healer.

Without another word, Gwen, Pix and Yasha left the room, hurrying down the hall and out into the courtyard. They were just in time to see the gates pulled close behind a haggard-looking Zech, who was barely managing to keep Saffron upright.

“Lights!” Yasha roared, and several onlookers scrambled to obey, their features obscured in the evening blue. But Gwen's eyes were sharp as ever, and despite the darkness, she saw what the matriarch could not: that Vex'Mara Kadeja had found her precious omen in Saffron Coulter.

“Gods be good,” she whispered, and ran to them. Saffron was dead on her feet, clutching her left arm sideways across her body. Her taal hung awkwardly from her hips, forcing her to stumble over its hem. Her head was shaved, and her hand was bloody.

“Got her,” Zech croaked, staggering back as Gwen put an arm around Saffron's waist and lifted her up. The girl was deadweight, but not yet unconscious; she whimpered at the contact, still clutching her maimed hand. Despite the urgency of the situation, Gwen nonetheless made a point of catching Zech's gaze.

“Thank you,” she said. The child sagged with relief. “You've done well. I won't forget it, and nor will anyone else.”

Zech nodded, rubbing her eyes with the back of a hand. “Can I sit with her?” she asked. “I used the zuymet. We understand each other a little.”

Gwen managed a weak smile. “Come. I'll be glad of the company.”

Belatedly, the lights came on: a series of round globes situated at intervals along the compound wall, made luminous by magic. Gwen turned, Saffron heavy in her arms, and saw the expressions on Yasha and Pix's faces as they realised what had happened.

“Use the room next to mine,” said Pix, her face ashen. “It has the best light.”

“I plan to.” Gwen strode past, Zechalia trotting at her heels, and felt a flash of bitter satisfaction that Yasha, for once, was rendered speechless. Climbing the steps to the veranda was a challenge. Saffron's weight put an extra strain on her hips and knees, but she managed it all the same.

“You go ahead and open the doors,” she grunted to Zech, and despite her obvious exhaustion, the girl was quick to obey.

Once in the room, she deposited Saffron gently on the bed. Zech hovered in the doorway, her eyes darting from Gwen to the single chair and back again. Gwen gave a bark of laughter.“Take it, girl. I've things to do.”

As Zech sank onto the chair with sheepish gratitude, Gwen knelt carefully by Saffron's side and proceeded, with as much tenderness as she could muster, to remove the bedraggled taal. It was tricky work – Pix had done a good job securing it, which was the only reason it hadn't fallen off entirely. She'd just managed to wrestle the last corner out from under Saffron's prone body when Yasha and Pix arrived, the latter bearing a bowl of warm water and a washcloth, the former only a scowl. On seeing the matriarch, Zech instantly leapt to her feet and proffered the chair, but Yasha declined with a wave of her hand. Folding the taal into a neat, bloody square, Gwen passed it to Pix in exchange for the water.

“I boiled it with alcohol,” Pix said. “It's clean.”

Gwen nodded absently. “If you can hear me,” she murmured to Saffron, moistening the cloth, “I'm going to clean your hand now. All right, girl? This will sting, but there's no helping it.”

Saffron stirred a little, though her eyes remained closed. Her creamy school blouse was stained with red. Gently, Gwen lifted the injured hand and began to dab away the blood, first from the surrounding skin and then, finally, from the stumps themselves. Saffron shuddered, but didn't scream – presumably, she'd already exhausted that response. It was an ugly sight, though at least Kadeja had made a clean job of it. Nothing remained but ragged flesh and the gleam of knuckle, the proximal phalanges completely severed from the metacarpals.

“How long before the priest arrives?” she asked.

“He'll be quick enough,” Yasha answered. “Teket's Kin know us here.”

Old pain tinged her voice, and Gwen couldn't help but share it. None of them were sure whether Trishka's weakness was caused or simply exacerbated by her magic, but whatever the case, the
sevikmet
couldn't heal it, and though Gwen had done some research on Earth, she was yet to uncover anything to work as either mitigation or cure. Fibromyalgia was the closest thing she'd found to a comparable condition, and it was still so poorly understood that, even without the added complication of Trishka's magic, they were both leery of using it as a starting point.

Now, as she set her cloth aside, she found herself hoping that Saffron and Trishka might have occasion to talk, once they'd both recovered; and once Saffron had learned to speak Kenan through the zuymet, of course. Teket's Kin could no more regrow Saffron's missing fingers than Earth's leading scientists could render Trishka pain-free and healthy. Accepting what she'd lost would be hard for Saffron, Gwen knew – not just because of the circumstances under which it had happened, but because of what it would mean for her eventual return home.

But all that was a way off yet, and beyond her power to control. Until then she knelt at Saffron's bedside, and waited for the priest.

Z
ech was
weary in her bones. Though possessed of a strong stomach, she'd nonetheless been shaken by the sight of Saffron's ruined hand. Using the zuymet and then carrying the older girl home had tired her too; every muscle ached as though she'd spent the whole day at staff practice. Sleep would come easily, if she let it. And yet she stubbornly stayed awake, curled up on her chair and watching as the purple-robed priest used his magic to close Saffron's wound. Gwen stood beside her, concern evident in the way her hand would suddenly grip Zech's shoulder, but she needn't have worried. Though he looked more like a warrior, the priest was nonetheless a gentle, practiced healer. Thanks to her own small talents, Zech could feel his magic, the sevikmet, as a vibration in the air; could even see it a little, as though a blue mist were seeping into Saffron from his hands.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably much less, the priest straightened.

“It's done,” he said, his dark skin glistening with sweat. “The wound is closed and free of infection. She had some other hurts too – I've eased them as best I can. When she wakes, tell her the stumps will be tender for a week or so, but that it shouldn't prevent her from using the hand, particularly not once the new skin starts to toughen. In the long term, only her grip will be truly affected by the loss – she won't be able to fight like she used to.”

Zech was so worn out, it took her a moment to grasp that he thought Saffron was Vekshi too, raised to wield a staff as all their women were.
If she were one of us,
Zech thought,
she'd either have to switch to a heretic staff, or else wield a child's staff one-handed. Her whole fighting style would have to change.