Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (105 page)

The sun was setting.

White gave way to crimson, blue to purple, gray to gray. There was a majesty to the sunset in this place that the desert did not boast, could not possess.

But she was not swayed by its beauty.

For at night, she saw lights in the distance that she had not noticed in the height of sun's rise. She did not want to see them. Could not fail to do so. The air, cold and clear, obscured nothing.

She did not move, but the lights grew closer, and closer still, until she stood at the foot of a mountain. There, midway between foot and crown, she saw the outline of a city in the pale silver of moon. She had missed it, in the day, and as she approached it, unwillingly, she knew why. It was a part of the mountain. She could see no cut stones, no clay, no mortar; no rushes or reeds, no wood. If there was a road that led from the bottom to the heights, she could not see it.

The silence was terrible. She would have babbled to fill it, but she was almost afraid to make noise. The Voyani loved shadow, for it hid them from the sun's light. But she knew better than to seek the shadows here.

The lights had made the edifice above seem small, but this, too, was a lie; the lights occupied only a scant portion of the largest building that jutted from the mountain's great side. She was drawn to them because anything that needed light was less of a danger than things that abjured it.

She climbed, although her feet were still. Momentum was provided by the mists. Her hands were stiff and cold, and she was torn between a desire to release the Heart, and a desire to cling to it, as if it were her only protection. In the end, she clung.

She passed through a large arch, its gates open to the night air. She heard music, and the scattered hush of quiet voices; no song was raised. No banner.

There were men and women within a great hall. Wood burned in a fireplace that stretched from one wall to another, but clearly it offered sparse heat. Furs lined cloth too thick to be silk, breath rose in faint clouds. She did not recognize the first people she saw. She took comfort in the fact that many were fair of skin, their hair burnished bronze, or pale red.

But she paused, once, and instead of fear felt contempt and anger, for she recognized across the chest of one man a small golden sword that trailed rubies.

Sword of Knowledge.

What a surprise.

Feel contempt, if it helps
, a woman said.
But remember, it was not the men alone who chose our paths when the Cities ruled
.

She recognized the voice. Sen Margret.

The other Matriarchs were silent.

She passed beyond these halls. The lights dimmed, and the color they provided faded as well. The stone of the floor was smooth and seamless; the arch of the ceilings that towered so high above her she could not see their end in the night, seamless as well. She reached out to touch the surface of one wall; it was warm as ice.

But more unsettling.

No more
, she whispered.

Because she knew what she would see. She knew. The halls vanished; the open sky, stars bright as diamonds, remote as the dead and as silent, stared down upon a vast, open courtyard.

In the heart of the courtyard lay a creature the size of three wagons. No, not one. As shadows resolved themselves, she counted two, each with jaws half again the size of Stavos from end to end. She heard the rumble of their lungs; they rested. But their lids—if they had them—did not close; their great, red eyes, looked out on the world, waiting for some sign of movement.

She heard the Sen Margret's rough curse.

And it appeared they did as well, for their heads rose; the spines that lined their backs rose as well, bristling. Their tails lifted, swinging to and fro as they gained their feet.

She knew what a rabbit knew when it gazed at the oncoming jaws of a wolf.

She closed her eyes. Felt the keening of wind as it moved around their teeth, heard the snap of their great jaws as they passed through her. Their breath was the wind across a battleground rich with carrion.

But their roar was worse.

They thrashed in anger, in fury. Fire singed the stone, blackening it as it engulfed her.

She did not burn.

She froze.

And she might have remained frozen but for the unexpected sound that followed: a child's scream. Her heart beat a thousand times in the minute between the roar and the scream as she gazed up, and up, and up.

Against the night sky, two towers rose. The cry came from one, but she could not clearly tell which.

She rose as well. Rose. It was disconcerting. There were no stairs, nothing against which her feet might find purchase. There was the Northern air, the backdrop of sky and stone and snow. She wondered if flight felt like this, and decided that she was glad she'd been born without wings.

The child screamed again, but this time the wail trailed off into sobs, muffled but not contained. There was a window, tall and slender, from which the sound came. She readied herself.

But she did not leap.

For she could see, clearly, what occurred within.

Light grew, fire trapped by a glass lamp. Its orange glow was soft; it was meant to gentle darkness, not destroy it.

The child was a girl. She was perhaps six, although Margret thought it more likely that she was younger; she was slender in the way that only children can be. Her hair was a profusion of curls and tangles, her eyes were wide and dark, and her skin was bronze with the touch of a sun that the North could not know.

The child clutched blankets around herself, her chin hidden in the top of their folds.

A man came to her as she sat in the center of her bed.

She tried to swallow her tears, and to Margret's surprise, she succeeded. But the effort made her shudder. It was terrible.

For the first time since she had entered these Northern wastes, she desired the strength of form, because she longed to grab the child and run.

But she knew her arms would be no haven, provide no warmth, not here.

"Ariel," the man said quietly. "Why do you cry?"

She looked up at his face, and drew the blankets more tightly around her shoulders.

Margret would have done the same; there was something in the stranger's voice that she did not like.

She looked at him in the light. He was tall and slender— too tall, too slender. His face was pale, his hair pale as well. His arms were long, his hands long, his fingers unblemished.

"The beasts," she whispered.

"They are hundreds of feet beneath us. You have seen their jaws, Ariel. Do you think they could fit through the doors of this tower?"

She didn't answer.

"Come," he said. He held out his arms.

Margret, as a child, would never have willingly entered them, but this girl did, and to Margret's surprise, he held her as carefully, and as gently, as a parent might—although she
knew
he was no parent. The girl's fingers curved 'round his neck, she settled into his chest, and when he lifted her, she looked even smaller than Margret had first thought.

He carried her to the window.

Margret's mouth went dry; she was terrified that he would simply throw the child out.

But he tucked the top of her head beneath his chin instead. His gaze, as it fell upon the beasts in the courtyard below chilled Margret—and she had thought nothing could be colder than this place until she saw his expression.

He took a step out of the window, bending slightly to avoid collision with its curved peak. The child did not demur; her tears had stopped completely.

"Do you remember what I told you?"

"Yes, Lord Isladar."

"Good. No matter what happens, do not let go of me. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

The air held him as he made his way down to the courtyard below.

Margret shouted a dozen curses at his dwindling form. A hundred. But none of them reached his ears.

The beasts snapped, snarled; their flames colored the courtyard in a way not unlike the way the lamp had colored the room.

He landed ten yards from the nearest snapping jaw.

Again, instinct stung her, anxiety answered.
Now
, she thought,
now he will feed the child to the beasts
.

But if that was his intention, he showed no signs of it. He spoke to the great beasts in a voice that was equal to theirs, and she was astonished at the sound of it; it was low and deep, like the rumble of earth, and although she did not understand the language, she felt the command inherent in the words.

So, too, did the beasts.

Significant, she thought, that none of the Matriarchs chose to translate what he said, for she was certain the Sen Margret knew the language.

Yes
, that ancient voice whispered.
I know it. But I will not speak it here
.

They growled, but they fell to the ground, their great bellies scraping stone audibly. He waited.

And then, to Margret's astonishment, he approached them, the child still safe within the shelter of his arms. He bent his head a moment; she was far enough away that she could not hear his words.

But the child gazed upon these humbled creatures for a long time.

She had seen Arkosan children held exactly that way when they were first introduced to horses and other large beasts of burden.

She bowed her head, took in lungfuls of cold, crisp air. And then she heard another voice, and she forgot to breathe.

The beasts were absolutely silent.

The man who held the child was more so. He knelt. She lost sight of the girl as his slender form folded at once into a posture of complete subservience. His hair fell around his shoulders, blanketing stone; his back bent, curving up toward the moon. The small hands that had been clasped around a slender neck vanished as well. He became cloaked in shadow, bathed in moonlight. No sign of the child remained.

But Margret knew she was there.

She had no desire to bow, although if she thought it would have saved her, she would have.

From the height of the second tower, forgotten until this moment, true night descended.

In form and seeming, it was much like the stranger who had carried the child to view the beasts: tall, slender, perfect.

But the form did not contain the power within it easily. Margret watched because she no longer remembered how to look away. She should have been afraid, and she was, but the fear was complicated by too many other emotions, all of which she struggled to leave unnamed.

He would see the child, of course. She could not; she would have said the child had simply ceased to exist if she had not known otherwise.

But she knew that the death the beasts' jaws offered was a better death; cleaner and swifter than the death offered by the Lord of Night.

"Isladar."

The man upon the ground did not move.

"What do you seek to hide?"

"Nothing that exists within the Shining Palace can be hidden from you, Lord. I merely protect it from the elements."

"You may rise."

He unfolded so slowly Margret wondered if he meant to disobey the command. But he rose, and as he did, the child's face was revealed.

There was no question whatsoever that the Lord of Night would kill the child. She had seen it too many times.

No.

She had
never
seen it.

But the memories crowded in upon her, approaching her as any other truth had approached her in the gathering mist. The Sen Margret had seen it many times, as coldly and casually as Margret had witnessed the slaughter of livestock in the valleys. And Margret was tainted, would forever be tainted, by the memories of that woman.

She had offered him children such as these, and she had allowed herself no mercy; she had learned to listen and watch without betraying the slightest emotion.

Had there been none?

The Lord of Night was so terribly beautiful. That was the worst of it. As he descended, as he approached, she saw the lines of darkness that formed his face, his skin; she saw the hair that trailed behind him, around him, like a flowing crown, some raiment too costly for the merely mortal to procure. She reached out involuntarily.

Reached out to touch him as he passed.

And she felt the strands of his hair burn her palm.

Worse, though, was his sudden stillness.

Descent stopped. He turned to her in the light of the moon, and rose to greet her. His eyes were dark and perfect, although they looked like no eyes she had ever seen. They did not pass through her. They looked
at
her.

"What is this?"

He drew closer; she could not prevent it. Reached out to touch her. Her hands were frozen and rigid. She held them cupped before her in the cold of the winter night, and she gazed above them.

"Allasakar," she whispered.

He frowned. The frown cut her sharply.

"What is this?" he said again, and she would have gladly listened to the roar of the beasts if they were able to drown out his words.

She spoke in a voice that was not her own, but she knew it well. "I have come, at last."

The frown deepened. "I know you," he said.

Some part of her was terrified. Some part of her was bitterly glad. He reached out; she felt his hands as they brushed her cheek. Saw the hint of a smile in the cold, cold line of his lips.

She knew him.

"How have you journeyed this far? How have you waited this long? I am served by lesser mortals, by inferior vessels. I thought that I would never again see a worthy mortal. Come."

She obeyed.

But something held her feet; they would not move.

"Why have you not summoned me? Why have I not heard your voice before this night?"

"I could not summon you. Before this night, I had no voice, my Lord." She flinched, but she did not flinch. "I may not stay. I have come to say goodbye."

His eyes widened and then narrowed. "I release nothing that I have claimed in my time."

"It is not your time," she whispered. "Or mine. They have passed."

She felt the visceral desire of a long dead woman; it was so unlike any that she had felt in her life that she stood apart from it for just a moment.