Darkness Risen (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 4) (27 page)

Then at some ungiven cue they suddenly began at move
in unison, abandoning swords, quivering point-first in the grass-bed behind
them, to fight with just spears. Jeliya wanted to laugh in surprise, would
have, if she had had a silvered breath to spare. She should have known that
Otaga would be thorough enough to train every one of her warriors to dance the
War’don’mi with every single other; they definitely had danced the War’don’mi
together, these Six. They stalked around her now, their movements so smoothly
coordinated that they might have moved to one mind. The spears were blurs in
their hands, weaving the deadly figure-eights before them. She brandished hers
more slowly, weaving a less complex eight with one hand. Then they brought the
weapons down and thrust them at her, but at an angle, so that she was in the
middle of an ever-decreasing hexagon of scintillating steel. She tried to fend
them off, the spear in her hands whirling so fast that it seemed to meet tip to
butt, a double-headed spear and a headless staff in her hands. But while she
harried those in front, those behind closed in. And every time they moved in,
the hexagon got tighter and tighter, closer to trapping her completely. If they
succeeded, then they would control the dance, moving her around as they wished,
like children playing with a rag doll, and she would fail the trial of weapons.
She watched the pattern, again surrendering control to the rhythm, letting it
show her the way out, the silver moment to act. And just as they would have
girded her in their snare she bent her knees deeply and threw herself into a
seemingly wild somersault. The surprised spears clashed together beneath her
just at the point where her waist had been, as she tumbled about the axis of
her own spear. She landed on the interlaced shafts, her body still coiled and
ready; she felt them give beneath her weight, then recoil as the Six resisted.
She used the recoil to spring board her back into the air, snapping herself
into another, tighter backward somersault, timed to come down when the spears
had separated. She landed in the exact spot from which she had leapt, and on
the beat. But she did not rest in the moment’s respite the move had earned her
- instead she did the unexpected, rushing Ihrasal, pressing her attack and
timing it in complex quarters and thirds around the already complex beat. This
was the gift imparted to her and her brothers by their departed father in
dancing the War’don’mi, this deep, integral understanding of the rhythm and the
ability to use it, to weave her movements around its complexity.

It effectively kept Ihrasal off-stride so that she
could not draw the other five into that deadly synchronization again. She gyred
away just as unexpectedly, attacking each in turn, one with the silver dance
and the chant. She was the dance personified, was the rhythm’s avatar, was the
liquid flow of words and the pulsing rise and fall of the drums.

Then her spear met the ring of silvered steel rather
than the thud of wood and she faced I’cho, who held sword in one hand and spear
in the other. She fended the Heir off one-handed with her spear and came in low
with the sword, moving with such skill that it seemed as if the sword and spear
were alive and she the extension of them. And she, too, had a fine
understanding for the rhythm of the dance, and also knew how to use it to her
advantage. The others pressed in, forcing Jeliya into her offensive. And the
dance told her that she could not match the warru, unless Jeliya’s weapons
matched hers...

And as the realization crystallized, the ring of
steel against the air seemed to slice through the encroaching eve as if on cue,
a singing flash of silver ice, a falling silver star. Jeliya swung her spear in
a wide circle, scattering her opponents, then reached out blindly to the sound.
The dom’ma slid neatly into her hand and she swung it low to redirect its
momentum, bringing her own offensive up against I’cho. Now they were more or
less evenly matched, for while the warru was superior with the sword, the Heir
was slightly better with her spear. Soon I’cho abandoned the spear altogether
and defended with sword alone. She was joined by San’disha, who had surrendered
her sword. They danced side by side, I’cho to the Heir’s right, against her
sword hand, and San’disha to her left, facing spear with spear. She studied
their movements with almost a detached air, the rhythm showing her their
weakness. They were used to partnering this way, and never would expect an
opponent to switch weapon hands, since the right was usually the sword hand and
the left the spear hand. But she had been trained to be equally skilled with
either weapon in either hand, so she did switch. And they did not, or could not
- not and keep the advantage of fighting side by side. This seemed to throw
them off just slightly, for though they had trained to fight as a pair, they
were not quite as comfortable with this arrangement and thus not quite as
effective, for San’disha was closer in than usual and I’cho further out;
against another it might not have made a difference, but to Jeliya it was
critical, and allowed her to keep her advantage. It was just enough for her to
hold her own against them for the required ten measures of the dance. When it
was clear that they could not beat her within that time, they withdrew and
bowed, exiting the dance.

The next two to challenge her as a pair were Daj’ju
and Dadenyi, Daj’ju with his spear, to the left so that his strength was
against Jeliya’s weaker side, and Dadenyi, with his sword, to the right so that
his quickness was against Jeliya’s strength. They chose to fight opposite each
other, rather than side by side. It was an unfair, uneven match, for they were
openly exploiting her weaknesses, but the dance murmured to her silver ways to
use their own cleverness against them. Jeliya fell back and switched again,
fending the stronger man off with the spear, and slashing through Dadenyi’s
attack. And then again, turning her body, meeting each of them with both weapons,
switching styles suddenly and without warning. For strength did not really
matter with the relatively light sword, and speed did not really matter with
the heavier, longer, more cumbersome spear. She held her own, just, for the
transition of styles around the beat at inopportune moments kept each from
bringing his full talents to bear. And then ten measures were up.

She turned, the blood singing like silver in her
ears and her heart beating seemingly in perfect silver synch with the drums and
chant/song, to face Ihrasal and Ihannu. Both were equally matched with the
sword, though Ihannu was better with the boa.

Jeliya pondered this as she swung the sword, her arm
burning slightly through a silver haze of battle-fever and adrenaline. The boa
was not that different from the spear. But the styles differed, somewhat,
because the spear was an edged and pointed weapon and the boa was not. She
watched them integrate themselves into the beat, moving together, coordinating
their movements. The boa was different from the spear. Fine, then she would
meet Ihannu with spear and Ihrasal with sword, matching Ihrasal’s blade and
Ihannu’s shaft.

They closed with her. As she thought, Ihannu had a
tendency to use the spear more as a blunt staff, ignoring the point. So she attacked
Ihannu with the boa style, forcing him to react instinctively as though she had
a boa, too. Ihrasal was forced to compensate, so that their attack was
coordinated. Then Jeliya switched to spear-style and the momentary confusion
destroyed their perfect synthesis, creating a discontinuity that she could
exploit. The dance showed her where in the boa-attack to insert a spear-style
attack to cause the most confusion. It worked - though barely long enough for
the drums to roll out of the dance. The Six backed away and she turned, just
becoming aware of the sweat that bathed her body, and the breath rasping in her
throat. She raised her spear and sword, and cried out,

“Una lai lai! I stand here!”

“One stands here!” the throngs thundered back,
rising almost as one to their feet, chanting to her triumph. “One stands here!”
For long moments they chanted and clapped. But then they quieted again, for
there was one challenger left to go.

CHAPTER
XIV

the light, silver with the song of morn,
turned..

The
silver-sweet strength drained away.

Jeliya
did not even fell her legs fold. All she felt was the slam of the ground
against her body. The world spun around a dazed haze of pain. The thong that
held her braid had come loose, and her guinne made a great black fan around
her.

Must get up,
she thought fuzzily, attempting to
follow thought with action. But pain streaked up every limb at the least
exertion and she fought not to whimper. A rushing sound filled her ears. But
she hung on to consciousness with a life-grip, even as the world tried to recede
in blurry, velvety rings of red. There were far away flutters of sound. With a
supreme act of will she made one leg move, despite the fact that it felt filled
with lead and was laced with silver-bright streaks of agony. Her eyes tried to
dim again, but she forced the world to once more grow large.

Got to - get up!
she coaxed her exhausted body,
which, at first, flat out refused to obey.
Must show I’m worthy,
she
cajoled through a headache that blossomed with purple magnificence, and her
body whimpered that it had reached its limit.
We still have much to do,
she insisted, and her body said that it was done.

She tried the one responsive leg again and the pain
forked like lightning across her hips and up her spine. Tears started from her
eyes. The leg moved a little, the sandaled foot making a slight, pathetic
dragging sound in the solid silence. The pain was too much. And she was
tempted, tempted to let it all go, to relinquish her grip on the waking world,
her claim to the High Throne, her travails and troubles.
Why keep fighting?
The world would move on as it would without her. She sagged under the thought,
just letting the light of Av beat down upon her, beat her down into the dust.

Because,
something inside of her answered. She
waited for more, but there was nothing, just because.

Because what?
she wondered through the haze of
malaise. Still no further answer, just the one nagging word, stubborn in its
obtuseness, hanging over her, taunting her, as if to say that if she wanted to
know more, she had to get up off the ground.

She dug her fingers, stiff and weak, into the
dust-soaked ground, and the pain, almost alive in and of itself, flashed
through her palms and up her arms, in warning.

No
, she denied the pain,
I have to get
up.

Why
? the pain asked.
It is easier not
to.

Because
, she told it, and tried to move her leg
again. It throbbed with molten silver, and the effort left her chest heaving,
but she managed to get it into a position more conducive to getting up than to
lying limp. The light of Av struck down, neither lending strength nor giving
sustenance. It did nothing for the pain.

Stubbornly, she tried to move her arm. Freezing
silver arched across her chest, stopping her breath for an instant. A grimace
pulled her lips back from her teeth at the sensation, but when it passed, her
shoulder was off the ground and her elbow was braced. There were tentative
cheers.

Now what?
asked the pain.

In response, Jeliya took a deep breath, and got a
lung full of dust. She choked and coughed a weak, wracking cough, which only
made the pain more dominant, more prevalent. Each cough brought silver-purple
blotches around the edges of her vision, and tiny silver daggers in her sides.
But she could not give up. Because.

The second deep breath threw cramps down her belly,
but she pushed up against the weight of the air, her shoulders screaming in
protest, and rolled over, her back a river of fire, and she gained her knees,
she knew not how. With her dom’ma as a prop she sagged and was dimly aware of more
cheering. But her body refused to move more. She raised aching eyes to Av, then
bowed her head, praying for a reprieve, for the healing oblivion of sleep. For
yes, she could rise. And yes, she could tell herself and the pain that she could
fight. But telling did not make it so.

Why do you continue to try, to strive?
the irritating
non-voice asked.
So much easier to admit defeat.

Because
, she said, and the rest of the answer
was there, waiting for her,
to strive is to be alive. If I admit defeat, I
might as well lay down and die. For love. For duty. For Ava’Lona, I must rise.
And on the heels of the thought, she began trying to get to her feet.

A shaft of light shot down upon her from a cloudless
sky, and seemed to gently press her back down to her knees, like an irresistible
hand on her shoulder. She fought against it and then it was not so gentle,
holding her down like a foot upon her neck. A burning anger began to gnaw at
her, that even the light would try to make her submit, admit defeat. She
directed the anger against the pain, throwing off the bonds of light and the
shackles of her own weakness.

“Let me up!” she cried, surging to her feet, arms
wide, dom’ma in hand. “I will stand and fight!”

The cheering faltered as a figure seemed to step out
of the shaft of light, resolving into the form of a slightly glowing young
woman with white, misty eyes and one hand on the Heir’s shoulder. The shaft
dimmed with her leaving, the flickering of glory divided. The sounds from the
multitudes died away altogether when another figure, male, emerged on the other
side of the Heir, his hand on her other shoulder. She seemed to be frozen in
place, stopped in a moment of defiant time, in her posture of challenge. More
figures emerged about her, each with a hand on one of her shoulders, dimming
the beam of light upon her, until the twelfth made it vanish completely. Twelve
slightly glowing women and men stood in a ring around the Heir. Their hands
dropped off her and they turned outward to the crowds and held out their hands
as if asking for something, beseeching. The crowds of people shared looks. The
question began to circulate - were these the twelve Deities? And if They were,
what did They want?

Glances were cast at the High Family, in their
pavilion upon the field. But they all were on their feet, standing stock still,
as if rooted, as if also caught in a crystallized moment in time, their eyes
riveted to the glowing Ones. And the glowing Ones only stood as They were,
empty hands out, beseeching.

“Clemency?” someone said, half question. The figures
turned toward the voice. A young woman stood out and turned to those around
her. “The Heir needs a - a reprieve, but cannot ask for it herself. But - we,
we can grant her clemency.”

There were grumbles, questions, and counter
questions. If the Heir could not finish a simple physical challenge, was she
still fit to rule? some asked. If she truly risked her life to try to find the
cause of the Zehj’ba, did a simple physical challenge really prove anything?
some asked back. There were arguments and counter arguments. It was obvious she
had been injured or ill, some said. But in a time of war, would simple fatigue
or injury inhibit her ability to rule? others asked. Even leaders had to rest
sometime, some pointed out. But leaders should be more than ordinary people,
others stated, they should be stronger, smarter, more powerful, more able to
cope with adversity.

“She has,” the original young woman, the scout
Itiri, said, and her voice was heard over all others. “She has faced adversity,
faced the Beloved, faced all the enemies of the Realm, and still, she would
stand and fight, to prove her worth to all of us here. I know, I was there. She
is worthy. I say clemency!”

“Clemency!” more voices added to hers. “Clemency!” the
crowds cried with one unified voice.

“No,” a weak protest came from the middle of the
glowing ring. Jeliya struggled to speak. *:No, I can - can fight. Must prove
myself - worthy...”

*:The People have spoken,:* a huge, soft, glowing
voice over-rode Jeliya, speaking also to the multitudes, she realized as quiet
descended once more. *:The challenge is done for this turn. The High Heir’s
worthiness is undiminished.:*

As one They turned and touched Jeliya. She felt
their light touch as a balm, each taking away some of the pain, but with it the
drive to overcome the pain. For her body was at the breaking point, though she
did not want to accept it.

“Clemency!” she heard dimly, even as she put up one
last struggle.

*:Rest,:* the glowing voice said to her alone. *:You
have proved yourself, and you will have challenges enough on the next turn.
Trust us. Let go. Rest.:*

With a sigh, she folded to the ground once more, and
let the world go.

the light
turned...

The five warru conferred as the creatures in the
cages around them came awake, howling and screeching and whistling. The feline
companions pressed close to their legs, with ears laid back and growls issuing
low and menacing from their throats.

“We are not in any Queendom,” the unnamed warru said
in a quiet, sonorous voice. “No Queen would be so foolish as to keep such a
place as this on her lons.”

“We cannot track down every indirect lead this way,”
N’mbu’yi said, shaking her head. “We don’t have that kind of time. Han’vonda
will drain herself of light pursuing av’tuns in this way. We need a better
strategy to find the ones responsible for these atrocities. We are ten steps
behind them, and following from the wrong end of a trail going cold. While we
pick up the scraps of their scheming, they move to undo Ava’Lona.”

“Then let us start at a beginning,” Du’jidi said, a
grim smile making him look sinister. “The use of Dio’gin pearls is the fatal
flaw in our enemies’ plan. They all have to come from the same place. That,
they cannot hide.”

“If our foes have been clever, even that evidence
will lead no-where,” Ikan’be said. “We cannot even link this site to anyone.”

“No, but we
can
follow the pearls through
Trade, as I told the Priestess,” Du’jidi countered. “The Trade of Dio’gin is
very strictly regulated. They may have covered their tracks in all other
respects, but the movement of the Dio’gin pearls from the Aheka Tribe’lon is
clear. We will infiltrate the Trade routes, and hopefully track the corrupted
pearls from the source. Let us leave this place. We will send others to deal
with the animals here. We have work to do.”

The others nodded in agreement and the unnamed one
began to build an av’tun as N’mbu’yi began to coax Han’vonda out of her rite. The
younger woman blinked and sighed and sagged, drained.

The av’tun sputtered and died in a shower of sparks.
Incredulous, the small warru whirled about, the twin dom’ma appearing in that
one’s hands as the sound of feet on stone made the other three look up. Ikan’be
cast his senses back beyond the doorway, then drew his own swords.

“About a hundred, maybe more,” he reported.

“Corrupt pearls?”

Ikan’be nodded. Du’jidi pulled out a pouch that
bulged with round objects that chimed as they clicked together. He opened the
pouch and selected one. Revealed in his palm, it was a pearl, about the size of
a large grape, and pink, but different in some indefinable way from the ones
that sat in the silk-lined wooden box. Here was a true Dio’gin pearl,
uncorrupted, pure, a deep, wine-dark pink that was translucent as mist. By
comparison, the corrupted pearls were hard and brittle-opaque. Infused with av’rita,
the unsullied pearl amplified it and glowed with it from within.

“Get Han’vonda outside and punch through that ward-shield,”
Du’jidi growled, putting the pouch away and moving toward the chest of evil
pearls. “Get that av’tun up. Be ready to go through as soon as you see me come
through the door!”

The others herded the exhausted Han’vonda out
through the door, the only exit to the lain of captive creatures. On all sides
warru and beasts of every description were converging.

The small warru looked up to Av, and an av’tun
terminus of dagger points seemed to punch holes in the fabric of the air
itself. But it was the av’rita wards that the daggers ripped through, and the
av’tun twinkled into being. The others waited, weapons drawn, N’mbu’yi steering
Han’vonda to the opening of the av’tun and standing guard.