Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (87 page)

Diora hid behind the delicate smile of the High Court.

"She has no sight. It was Evallen's fear and worry, that lack of vision, that lack of the most obvious sign of our heritage. I wish she had survived to see this, but only her death would have allowed it to happen; it is our curse as Mothers never to see our children take their power—and perhaps it is our blessing as well. Margret has a power that I have never seen."

"A power, Matriarch?"

"You cannot see it. But if I am not mistaken, you can hear it. Listen, Serra, listen well."

She did not need the encouragement. She had heard the voices of powerful men throughout her life; even as a sheltered child, she had quickly learned to recognize power's complicated rhythm. But she had never heard a power like the one that rode Margret's voice, that filled it with such authority.

And the only thing that came close was a bitter childhood memory: Kallandras of Senniel College, speaking with the voice of the wind.

"The City is awake," Yollana continued, almost as if compelled. She did not attempt to keep the awe from her words. "And it has touched Evallen's daughter. If she wore the Heart of Arkosa now, I think there is a great chance we would all be dead. The power of the Cities is not a power that comes easily, or gracefully, to those who must bear it.

"I thought Evallen's choice to give you the Heart was political. I thought it strategic—for I understand your importance in the outcome of the war to come, as Margret, hotheaded and bitter, could not. But now I understand that it was more than that."

"I have been Matriarch for more years now than any living Matriarch. I have made a trek much like Margret's several times in my adult life. I have done what she must do, I have paid the price, I have learned to navigate the winds of the past. But I have never seen what we will see today."

Diora was afraid.

Suddenly, inexplicably, afraid.

"W-what will we see?"

The old woman shook her gray head, pulled her hood up about her face; the sun was almost blinding. "The beginning," she whispered. "The beginning of the end." And to Diora's horror, she bowed her head, and she began to pray.

Had she been a Northerner, the Serra would have had no cause to fear, for the Northerners believed that their gods, benevolent and just, might listen.

But in the South, there was only one situation in which a woman prayed.

Miles away, Ishavriel raised his head.

He had no cause to fear the sun's light, the dry heat, or the cold that would follow. But he was cautious now, in the heart of the desert, for the sands remembered the last time he had walked, on foot, across these lands; he felt the residue of their implacable enmity.

And that should not have been possible. The old earth was dormant. The wildness had gone from these lands.

The mortals had arrived. They had not yet touched the ground, but they were aware of where they were.

He frowned. Knelt, placed his palm against the hot, hot sand.

The ground threw him.

He corrected his position in mid-flight and landed, unharmed, thirty yards away.

Then, leisure forgotten, he began to run. He expended the power necessary to hide himself from the desert's eyes, for he knew, now, that the City would be looking for him.

But he felt almost young as he ran.

It is not possible. They do not have the power.

But if they did? Ah, if they did, and he arrived at the right moment, all that he desired would be his; that and more. The lies he. had told the weak Arkosan might become, in the end, a twisting of the truth.

After all, Tor Arkosa was one of the five that had stood against the Lord when the gods shaped these lands.

The ship landed, scudding gently against the surface of the sand.

Margret, weathered hand in Diora's smooth one, had chosen to descend with her people. She spoke to Diora from time to time, although her gaze seemed more and more fixed upon the unchanging sands.

Unfortunately, she spoke in the language of Arkosa. Diora's reply was simple: she held fast; she did not waver.

Yollana blocked the door, waiting. Stavos tried to open it, and she spoke so sharply, even Diora was surprised. She had thought very little in the way of Voyani rudeness could surprise her. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the Arkosan.

"Be prepared, Serra," Yollana snapped.

Diora frowned. Margret, hand still entwined with Diora's, continued her descent when the ship could go no farther. Diora tightened her grip, but was dragged toward the rails. As she had the night of the storm, she felt the hard wood against her abdomen. She braced herself with her free hand almost instinctively.

Which was good.

For although she could not perform the task with grace, or even skill, she was still clinging to Margret when the Matriarch of Arkosa's weight returned in a rush.

She felt her arm extend and stretch so quickly she was afraid it would break.

"Margret!"

But the Matriarch of Arkosa no longer heard her.

She slumped against the side of the ship; her head lolling back.

Yollana rose at once and banged on the door with her cane as if she were required to beat it into submission. The door fell open, as if to avoid her, and Stavos appeared in the door frame.

"Don't stand there gawking like an unshaven boy—be useful!"

Margret woke with a start, which brought her forehead directly into contact with Elena's.

Her cousin's response was longer than hers, but not much prettier.

"It figures," the Matriarch said, rubbing her head with the flats of both palms. "I have to hit the hardest head in all Arkosa."

"The second hardest," 'Lena snapped. "If your aim was better, you'd be the second person in Arkosa to give me a black eye, and the first who didn't look worse because of it." She cursed again—it was something she was undeniably good at—and then sat back on her feet. "You scared me."

"Sorry. What happened?"

'Lena laughed. She shoved the hair that sweat had matted to her forehead out of the way. "We were kind of hoping you could tell us."

"Where—" Margret stopped. Stared at the wagon that rested, slightly atilt, against the hard sand. Her eyes widened.

The wagon was on the ground. Not above it, as it had been for the entire journey into the Sea of Sorrows, but on it, as if it were nesting after an arduous flight.

She paled. Elena's expression lost its tight edge. "'Gret, it's okay. You did that on purpose. Well, according to Yollana."

"But that means—" She closed her eyes.

"'Gret?"

"Don't fuss, 'Lena. I can't think with all the noise you're making." She got to her feet and took two steps before she crouched back into a kneeling position. Elena hovered a safe distance away, beneath the makeshift awning that had obviously been put up to protect Margret from the worst of the sun's light.

She found her feet again, this time with an almost grim determination. The heat had dried her robes; it had also dried her lips, and her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth until she made an effort to pry them apart. The wind pulled at the cowl of her robe, kicking sand into her eyes. She didn't remember the wind being this strong, and frowned. "Where are the others?"

"In the lee of my wagon. There's shade there as well."

Sand had crept up the side of the ship; the doors and the windows had been shuttered carefully to protect what lay within. She did not pray, not here; if the winds heard, they'd come in force, and her people could not afford it.

"The winds?"

"They started about fifteen minutes ago. I stayed here; I wasn't certain how safe it would be to move you. Yollana seemed to think—" She fell silent. Silence from Elena was rarely a good thing.

She took a deep breath. "Let's go," she said softly.

They were gathered in the shadows in a rough oval, at the center of which sat Yollana. For a moment it angered her, to see this outsider holding court among her people— but she set the anger aside.

"Margret!" Tamara rose at once, bowl in hand; Donatella was a half step behind, with water.

If Elena's unvoiced concern had been as welcome as wind, they were the gale. She suffered herself to be fussed over by attempting to ignore it.

Jewel ATerafin sat off to one side; her domicis, his face as set and cold as Margret had yet seen it, stood behind her, his back against the wood of Elena's forlorn wagon. Kallandras sat beside the Serra Teresa, and beside him— to Margret's surprise—the wild one; the man who had taken the fight to the Serpent of the skies. Slender and perfect, he made her own people look old and bent, but she was aware that something had changed if he was willing to suffer their company.

The Serra Diora sat on the other side of the Serra Teresa, and although she looked up, her wide, brown eyes meeting and acknowledging Margret's gaze, she did not add her voice to the Arkosan cacophony.

Margret accepted the water. She emptied the cup and handed it back to Donatella; emptied it again, and again returned it to the old woman. But she did not drink a third time, because she was not yet ready to depart; instead, she started toward Yollana.

And came face-to-face with her other cousin. His face was pale and pinched, the circles under his eyes almost as dark as a blow would have made them. His beard had crept up the sides of his cheeks and the underside of his jaw, and his hair was pale with sand dust. Had he not looked so resentful, she might have taken pity on him.

But she did not have time for this sullen Nicu.

"You're awake."

She shrugged.

His arms, hanging at his sides, grew tense; she could see his fingers begin a slow curl into the meat of his palms. Was surprised when he forced them down again. "What happened?"

Shrugged again. "Not sure."

"Is that what you told Elena?"

"Nicu, what I tell Elena is between Elena and me."

He stiffened. "I am the guard, in this place; I am the Matriarch's protector. If it concerns Arkosans—"

"If it concerned Arkosans, I would tell you."

She started to walk, and he moved so that she would have to shove him out of the way. She heard the silence grow at her back, and cursed herself for her temper. She could handle Nicu, had always managed to handle him, but
Lady
, it took time and strength and energy that she did not wish to spend in that fashion. "Nicu."

"Why have we landed? Stavos carried you from your ship, unconscious. What happened? Are we under attack?"

"We landed because this is where we have to be. I can't explain it better than that."

"You've always been good with words."

"Nicu."

He raised his chin. Lifted his shoulders. He was, Margret realized, substantially larger than she. She wondered when that had happened, and why she so seldom noticed it, because it couldn't have been that recent. Her own hand slid to the side she favored for fighting, but she did not grip her dagger. Not yet.

"If you cost me time, and we need it, if you cost me time and the winds grow, you'll regret it."

He held his place for long enough to make a point, and then shook his head, as if waking and realizing that he had wandered into unfriendly territory. He bowed, and it was almost enough.

Almost.

But she was glad that Donatella was behind her, because she could pretend that she didn't know what her expression was.

Before she reached Yollana, Yollana stood, her hands on her cane. She had only one of them; the other must have been swept—like tents and silks—into the tunnels. Margret was surprised that she hadn't noticed the loss earlier.

"Matriarch," Yollana said, before Margret could speak. She did not bow, and she did not kneel, but she raised her hands and pulled the cowl from her hair, exposing the gray of age and wisdom to all who cared to watch. Then she lowered her head slowly and deliberately. It was as genuine a gesture of respect as she had ever seen Yollana offer her mother, Evallen, and of all the things Yollana could have done, it was the most frightening.

But Margret knew how to hide fear, and she hid it now. She bowed her head as well. "Matriarch." All resentment, all annoyance, was destroyed by the older woman's gesture.

"I have taken the liberty of seeing to your provisions," the old woman said, when Margret at last raised her head. "If they are not to your liking, forgive me. Arkosa and Havalla have much in common, but here, at the foot of the
Voyanne
, I fear it is our differences that will define us.

"Your guards are prepared to escort you as far as they must; we found two tents, one in each of the wagons, and we have packed them as well." She lifted her hand; it was curled in a loose fist, around a small glass jar. "This is my gift. I would give you my pipe, but I am old enough to need it.

"Your… guard… asked me how long you would be absent; I could offer him no answer that satisfied his curiosity."

Anger returned, piercing but brief. "Thank you, Matriarch. Accept my apologies for my cousin. He is never at his best when he is nervous."

"No." The old woman shrugged. "Journey in safety, Margret. When you leave us, you leave the
Voyanne
."

She felt it: a sudden slap across the back of her head that seemed to echo in the inside of her skull. She heard the truth in the words as if truth itself was something that could be grasped and examined. It was as frightening as the gesture of respect had been because both were suddenly too large.

"I have never left the
Voyanne
."

"No."

"But I have been here before, with Evallen."

"You have never been here before, no matter how many times your feet have crossed these sands. This road, this path,
only
a Matriarch can walk. If she walks it beside her daughter, if she walks it beside her ally, it is still
her
path, and hers alone, to choose." And she turned her gaze upon the Serra Diora; it lingered a moment before the old woman nodded, satisfied by whatever it was she could see. Or could not see. "There are rites and there are blessings, Margret. If you would honor me, I would be pleased to offer them. They will, of necessity, be brief; I lost much to the storm, and can offer only the heart of the ceremonies."