Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (56 page)

"Jewel," Avandar said softly. Speaking her name now, putting breath into the two syllables.

No, there had been deaths. There had been violence. Theft. Starvation. She remembered clearly, in the heat of the desert, its most stark contrast: Winter, snow up to her knees, Carver and Angel chattering at her back. She had stopped in front of a snow mound in the early morning streets. There were no footprints across it; the blanket was white and perfect.

It had been a shroud. Winter came one year in ten to Averalaan. It was always deadly.

Angel and Carver had almost knocked her over because they'd been walking with their heads down, faces to ground, to avoid the worst of the wind in the open streets. "What the Hells—"

"Jay?"

And she'd shaken her head. "Go around it."

"What? Go around what?"

She'd gestured to the small mound, the small drift of snow.

"Why?"

Teller had come, then, the youngest, the newest of her den. He was pale with cold, except for his nose, which was red. Eyes the color of ice with reflection, he had said simply,
Someone died here
.

And it was true. Beneath the snow, a boy, younger than any of hers. Unwanted. Or lost. It really didn't matter now. "Don't just stand there gaping.
Move
or we'll join him."

"Jay—"

If it hadn't been Teller, she'd have busted him in the jaw, cold hands or no. She held her temper. Held it the way one holds a large, angry dog, jaw bristling with teeth. "
What
?"

"Are we going to leave him?"

"Leave who?"

He had pointed to the snowdrift.

"Yes," she snapped. "He's dead, Teller, doesn't make a difference to him whether he's buried beneath snow, ice, or dirt. He's
dead."

He had looked at her then. She knew—at a remove of too many years—that it was the first time she had realized just how important he would become to her, if he survived. "If it doesn't matter, why wouldn't you walk across him? When we move off the road, the snow's worse." More words than he'd spoken since she'd found him kneeling beside a body between litter piles in Karben's alley.

She frowned. "All right, Teller, it
does
matter. But not enough to die for."

"Does anything?"

"Matter enough to die for?"

"Yeah."

"Yes," she said, the word unequivocal, lightning to the rod of
his
words, a perfect moment of electric clarity that was both blinding and illuminating in its intensity. "You. Angel. Carver. Arann. Fisher. Lefty. Duster. Jester. Finch."

"And to kill for?" another voice said.

She turned in the here and now to see across the years; Duster had shaken off cold, had stood, shoulders in a straight, perfect line, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed; Duster, her killer,
hers
.

She looked at her friend, at her most stalwart defender, her guardian, her assassin. And beside her, ghostly but more substantial, stepped Kiriel di'Ashaf. Except that Kiriel, in armor, hair pulled back in a Northern warrior's braid, was standing beneath the tended pink of cherry blossoms, looking vaguely uncomfortable and out of place among so much that was delicate and ephemeral, although she was delicate of feature in her fashion.

Yes
, she said softly, to that memory, to her own.

But to Avandar, Jewel said, "They're in the South. Kiriel. Valedan. The Ospreys."

He raised a brow.

She felt his curiosity, and she realized that he could not delve into memory, into the things that she could see that were not otherwise seen.
I am learning
, she thought.

And she
knew
she would learn more.

Why not? Why not, Jay? This is the only person you've ever met who can't be killed; the only person who will never be your responsibility.

Because
. She looked at her arm, and then said, "We'll be leaving in the afternoon tomorrow."

He let her go when she turned away.

When the children were finally left behind the sloping crest of sandy dune, they would take much with them: the last shock of vegetation, with its muted color; the wagons that had been the emergency home of the most important caravan the Arkosans boasted; the aunts, the uncles, and the distant cousins. These things would disappear anyway, as the trek into the Sea of Sorrows progressed.

But they would also take their excitement, their profound lack of fear, their joy at sudden, innocuous things: the stone with crystal flecks; the sandbird's empty nest, bits of smooth, lavender shell cracked but whole within curved strands of dry grass; dry wood; the lingering succulent's blossom that had somehow missed the fact that night had passed and had continued its bloom until the edges of dawn had been burned away. _

That had caused excitement among not only the children, although it was their huddle, their press of "me first!" bodies, that had drawn the attention of the Voyani men and women whose duty it was to guard and herd them, but among the adults as well.

The adults—Stavos and his wife Caitla had been on duty at the time—made a path past the shoulders of children by the simple expedient of a firm grip that was never overbearing, never abusive. He guided them out of their argument by joining them. Although his back was twice the size of the largest child—perhaps three times the width—he did not look out of place among them.

The game of me-first was transformed in that instant by the equally youthful desire to expose the intensity of excitement to someone who had the ability to offer approbation in return. It was unalloyed; they were young. The older children who could be easily separated from their parents had long since vanished down the
Voyanne
that only the Arkosans could clearly see.

That huddle of backs, the slight dip of chin, the way soft dark hair fell to shoulders as heads cocked first to one side and then the other, cast a shadow across the momentary warmth of Jewel's observations. It was lessened when Stavos spoke, his warm, deep voice wrapped around Torra, not the Northern tongue her father had spoken when she had come to him—or he to her—in just this way. There was such a certainty behind the words that she felt safety radiate outward, as light from lamp, and she wanted to stand a moment just as the children did.

Stupid, really. She hadn't wanted to be a child for a very, very long time; her own childhood had ended so abruptly.

But before she could castigate herself too harshly, his words fell away and he, like the children, stared at whatever it was that had excited them.

"Caitla?" he said in a hushed voice—the voice of a man who had seen something that was so like a dream, he was afraid the sound of his voice would take it away. She came to stand beside him, making room for herself between his left side and the children pressed there. Then she reached out to grip his shoulder; a simple ring caught the light. Held it until she moved.

She moved quickly.

Margret came. Margret, subdued in all ways since her encounter with the Serra of the High Court, strode across the scrub and brush in the dawn air. The older woman followed behind, and Jewel could see, as the dawn's light grew stronger and brighter, that her cheeks were wet.

"A sign, Matriarch," she said, her voice broken by the tears that ran, unhindered, down her cheeks. "A sign."

Stavos rose as Margret approached. He began to shuffle the children away, but they hesitated, and Margret lifted a hand to stop him. "Is there danger?" she asked.

He shook his head: no.

She let them stay. Watching them, that would remain with Jewel as one of her strongest early memories of Margret: she let the children stay; perhaps drew comfort from their presence.

In the great houses of the Northern Empire, children were seldom seen. Skill, not blood, denned the lines of the ten great Houses who ruled beneath the Twin Kings. But even had children been present in abundance, she could not conceive of the ruler who would have allowed them to crowd underfoot this way—not when people were watching. Not when an event of indeterminate significance had occurred.

But Margret? She smiled at the children; she touched the tallest boy's shoulder, stooping slightly to do so. She asked them what they had found, although she could see it plainly in the growing light: a night blossom, thick-leaved and pale, that should never have waited—could not naturally wait— for day.

For her.

Caitla had fallen to one knee behind the Matriarch's back. To Jewel's surprise, so did her bear of a husband, his knee against the packed, dry dirt, his shadow long against the ground.

Elena came, with no one to guide her. She was joined in ones and twos by the rest of the small encampment. Words, broken by the distance imposed by whisper—for Jewel was an outsider—were passed from person to person; Jewel could see clearly when they had been informed of what had been found, for their heads snapped up, their eyes widened; they stood rigid a moment and then they bowed as if all strings had been cut; as if relief had finally given them permission to relax.

There were tears on the faces of the Arkosans who formed a circle at Margret's back.

A sign. The Lady has given us a sign.

5th of Misteral, 427
AA

Sea of Sorrows

The men went out with Tamara and Donatella. They returned with large, covered jugs on the backs of beasts that, while they moved on four legs, were completely outside of the realm of Jewel's experience. Avandar recognized them at once, and with distaste.

"As you dislike horses, ATerafin, I will offer you a warning. Stay away from these. They are at best foul-tempered and ill-humored."

"And at worst?" As the wind changed direction, she grimaced.

His smile was brief. "The same. They will happily remove your hand from your wrist and spit it out. They can probably snap your arm with a good blow from the side of their heads. They can certainly snap ribs with a back kick."

"They can't be that bad, or they wouldn't be here."

"They are that bad," he said, "but for people without the power to control their environment, they are
also
necessary."

"That would be us?"

"Indeed."

Whether Avandar's description was true or not—and he had no reason to lie about something so trivial—the Voyani who handled these large-eyed, hunchbacked beasts were in high spirits.

But not so high and not so sweet as the Matriarch's young brother. "Nicu!" Adam shouted. "'Lena!"

Elena stepped back from her supervision of the straps across camel back; Nicu appeared from between a group of men who were transferring the precious contents of jug and jar into the more supple folds of animal skins.

"Carmello," he said in passing, "you make sure you take the wineskins from the men and empty them."

"But—"

"Now. You know what happens."

"But we all know—"

"
Now
." He didn't wait to see if they complied; he had already slid between them to catch up with Elena.

They disappeared, and then Elena returned, weaving her way with ease and grace through the thick of working bodies. The women had opened the back of a small wagon and were now struggling with dense folds of cotton and raw silk.

"Jewel," she called. "You'll see it anyway—you can't miss it—but come." She held out a hand.

Jewel took it without pause.

The Matriarch's wagon was undergoing repairs. The body of the wagon—its massive, hardwood frame—was supported across the thick backs of workhorses that made the camels look rickety, and rested perhaps a foot higher than it normally did. Stained wood bore the signs of the elements—chips and cracks in the surface of the walls, rust speckles across the hinges of shutters that were obviously made by different craftsmen than the body of the wagon itself.

Margret and Nicu were already struggling with one of the great wheels and a large wrench. Elena released Jewel's hand and ran to help them, muttering—if something as loud as that could be a mutter—about thick-headed, idiot cousins who didn't have the sense to wait for help. Two of the wagons wheels now lay against the scrub like beached fish. The third was in the process—with luck—of joining them.

Even in the dry air, they were sweating, and as the breeze passed her face, Jewel could taste the pungent scent of sweat and effort.

Jewel privately thought that the timing for repairs was extremely poor; the wagon would not be going with them into the Sea of Sorrows, and mobility for the rest of the Arkosan caravan—once they had fled the habitable, easily searched, regions of Raverra—would be necessary.

Adam appeared from the doorway of the wagon. "Is this what you're looking for?" he shouted down.

Margret looked up briefly. "No, not
that
oil! The other one!"

"'Gret, there are a
hundred
other ones!"

"The one that smells like it would kill you to drink!"

"They all smell like that!"

She snorted and shoved her hair out of her eyes in a gesture that was so familiar it took Jewel a few moments to realize why: it was akin to her own.

Elena said something that didn't carry as far as Jewel's ears; Nicu threw back his head and laughed.

The two women looked at each other, almost startled by the sound of mirth, and then they joined him; they stood, these three, laughing as the sun passed slowly overhead. She thought them all beautiful, the way people in their prime are; they were full of energy, even affection, for each other.

Jewel smiled as well. Their laughter had that effect. Although she was an outsider, it welcomed, rather than excluded; it proved that in the harshest and bitterest of climes, friendship flourished.

But she wondered, watching these three, how much that friendship would be tested, if it had not already been tested. Knew, the moment that thought passed into the echo of memory, that it had. For a moment, no more, she could see the scars across a back that lay beneath the surface of heavy cloth—Nicu's back.

Margret laughed again, and she realized that she liked the sound of that laughter, perhaps because it was so rare.