Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (95 page)

She gave in to memory. To the truth of a distant past. "Return to the Sanctum if I do not leave this room within the hour."

"Sen Margret," she replied serenely.

"Constans, you have your duty."

"Sen Margret."

She thought of threatening him, but there was no point; the Tor was certainly aware of her presence, and the longer it remained on the wrong side of the doors, the more of an insult she would be deemed to have offered. The doors were bound; she could not see through them. Nor did she try. She had once seen magic used within this hall by a man whose name was not written in blood across the sigils and wards that protected the Tor.

The end of the Sen who had attempted such careless invocation had been very, very long. And her name, as his, was not a part of the complicated protections the Tor had chosen to weave.

She did not touch the doors as she approached them; she merely waited. She knew that they would open.

They did.

The Tor sat on the throne of the inner chamber. It was delicate and fine; the work of the Deepings. Thus did the Lords of the forest offer tribute; for it was a living chair, and its roots went deep.

She was used to this sight, and would have paid it little heed—but gathered at his back like a wall were the Seven.

The personal mages of the Tor. His most powerful councillors.

She passed beneath the doors' arch.

"Sen Margret. You were otherwise occupied?"

And knelt at once, although she hated the posture. "Forgive me,
Tyr Sen Ar
Tor. There has been… some difficulty." She did not use the most formal of his titles; her own rank did not demand it. Her rank demanded nothing but the use of the unadorned "Tor," but prudence had its own rules. She chose the most significant of the embellishments and used them carefully.

Even though, to some part of her mind, they meant nothing at all.

"Indeed. It is because of that difficulty that you have been summoned."

He did not bid her rise.

She did not. He was not a patient man; he would either decide to kill her, or he would grow bored of so open a display of displeasure. She did not particularly care which he chose, and that was significant.

It was a better death than the one she faced in the Sanctum.

"I regret to inform you that your father's daughter failed in her attempt to destroy me."

She had already placed her full weight upon her knees; there was almost no change in her posture.

"Have a care, Sen Margret. I am aware that the girl was of little value to you, and that she was willful. But your value to me is diminishing. You may rise."

She did not ask about her sibling. She never asked.

"The Lord of the Altar raised the mountains across Tor Haval. He failed to destroy the City, but it is weakened. The Lord of War has, however, breached the defenses of Tor Ellaan. I believe it will fall within the week."

She had heard as much.

"You have been in contact with the Queen."

She did not deny it, although she felt a sharp panic at the questioning.

"Allasakar sent word today. He has informed me that she is preparing to meet his host upon the hidden road. Is this true?"

"I am not in her confidence."

"And you have had no visions? The scribes have sent scant word in the last three weeks, and I dislike the silence."

"Sela Tyr Sen Ar Tor," she said, grazing stone with her forehead. It was cool. "The Voyani have had few visions of relevance to the war since the last one."

"Ah, yes. The betrayal of Allasakar."

She almost spoke then. The words pressed up in a rush behind her lips; she clenched her jaw and swallowed them.

"The Sanctum does not house the only seers in the City. And while the visions of the Sen Voyani are often true, they are often too murky to be of value. Were it not for the alliance, Tor Arkosa would have fallen to the Lord of the Altar. Were it not for the power of Allasakar, "For Arkosa's gates would have been shattered by the Lion. Were it not for the shadows of the Lord of Night, "For Haval would lie in ruins now, and the Northern gods would at last have free reign in the heartlands. Is
that
what you hope to accomplish? How long, Sen Margret, do you think any of the gods would suffer us to rule as we have done?"

"We do not rule here by the sufferance of Allasakar," she said, her momentary anger genuine. And then she fell silent. The words felt true.

But they were not.

"My Sen have evaluated the missives of your scribes; they have questioned them carefully. Allasakar has always valued the gifts of the Sanctum—as you are no doubt aware. He has requested our aid in this matter, and we have chosen to comply. Necessity breeds strong alliances. Will the Queen ride with the host upon that path?"

"I have not seen it."

"Do you believe it to be true?"

"It is a possibility."

"The season is Winter?"

"Yes, Sen Tor."

"Very well. Take the Sen of the Sanctum against her."

"P-pardon, Sen Tor?"

"You will take the field against her. Allasakar must be allowed to pass."

She felt panic now. She quelled it.

"Sen Margret, have you seen something that you wish to share with me?"

She swallowed. "Sen Tor—Allasakar has been our ally for the past fifty years, but he is confident that he has almost isolated his enemies. If he scatters the Arianni, there is little that will stand in his way in the South; the Northern gods have retreated beyond the mountain chains. He will—"

"Vision is a tool. Not a leader. You
will
stop Arianne before she interferes. That is all."

She left his room.

Sen Diora, her sister, was waiting for her.

"He did not listen."

She shook her head. "Constans, come."

They walked. When she was certain that she might speak without interference, she said to Constans, "Gather the sacrifices. We will make the offerings and the bindings necessary to begin our work."

"What work, Sen Margret?"

"The Tor has ordered us to take the field against the Winter Queen."

He was silent.

She could almost hear his sudden anticipation, and she wanted to slap him.

She walked. She walked as the Sen Margret, but as words receded and anger ebbed, she could see the harsh track of the
Voyanne
beneath her feet. She could see Diora, and although the clothing and the minute difference of features masked her face, it did not hide her from view. The buildings were so fine they became the towering artifacts of something akin to dream.

As nightmare was akin to dream.

The Tor of the Tor Arkosa was a man who served the interests of Allasakar.

That was not news to her. It was a part of the wisdom and lore of the Matriarchs: the men in power had betrayed mankind by allying themselves with the Lord of Night.

But wisdom was small and crippled; the truth was, grander.

And far, far more terrible.

She did not wish to
be
the Sen Margret because that woman, thousands of years ago, could hear the whisper of the dark god's voice across the length and breadth of the City, and it spoke
to
her; it spoke
of
her.

What had the
Serra
Diora said of Constans when she had first heard him speak?
That man is a servant of the Lord of Night
.

Why was it, Margret thought faintly, that she had not heard the same truth in the Sen Margret's voice?

For it was true.

As she approached the Sanctum, the serafs in the streets became sparser. Across from the long, proud stretch of the Sanctum, the tower of the Sen adepts rose without pause; it cast a shadow by which time could be told, as if the whole of the City were simply the face of a sundial that served the adepts' convenience.

She gained the steps that she took only when she had sallied out on official business; the doors at their foot, set in from the steps both for the sake of beauty and the practicality of magical defense, were open and waiting for her.

Constans had traveled ahead at her command; she was left in the company of her sister; her sister almost never left her side.

But there were exceptions to that rule, as the day had proved, and she went straight from that exception to the next without pause. Or perhaps with minuscule pause: she stood outside of the altar room a moment, her hands on the door. It was in this room that Allasakar's voice was strongest; his power greatest. She had chosen the room for two reasons: the first, that it would focus and hone his power; that it would give him access to her when access was desired.

The second, more complicated, was that it had been designed to invoke his attention, and things might be done beyond its walls that might fall beneath his notice if they were otherwise occupied.

And they had often been otherwise occupied, the Lord of the Shadows and the Sen Margret of the Sanctum.

"Sen Margret?"

She shook her head. "It is nothing. Wait for me here."

Within the chamber, she lit the fires.

They burned, but they burned black as she waited. She did not kneel. She did not abase herself. There were no witnesses of note.

The shadows grew dense, grew heavy; she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise, and knew the storm was gathering.

But she was unprepared for it when it unfolded; it unfolded in the shape of a man. The Sen Margret
had
power. She called it now, called it carefully; it permeated every inch of her body, from the base of her heels to the top of her head. She ached with it; it was a dangerous form of containment.

The Avatar of the Lord of Night entered the chambers.

"Sen Margret."
His voice was the voice of the multitude, a god's voice in full glory.

"My Lord."

"Have you come bearing word? You have been absent of late, and I have… missed you."

"No, my Lord. I have come to ask for your power and your blessing, for I am sent to clear the hidden way of the Arianni."

He stepped forward, and she waited.

She did not flinch when he touched her face. Instead, she leaned into that caress.

The worst of the memory that unfolded before her next was not the certain knowledge that she had spoken to Allasakar in the course of her stewardship. It was not the fact that the dark god was her ally and a source of her power. It was not the memory of his lips against her forehead, and the scar those lips left, unseen, that would never leave; for if she thought about that moment, she felt a desire that dwarfed all desires save one. It was not even the fact that she was a person of power in a Court with more slaves than she had seen in her life.

It was the deaths of the sacrifices.

From the tone of her words, she had thought to see goats, sheep, even cats.

But four people were brought to her—a baby, a boy, a youth, and a man, and she slaughtered them all in the heart of her sanctum in the City of Arkosa.

For power.

For power's sake.

Sen Constans stood in the mists that had grown up from the floor around him like vines. "How much of the truth can you bear, Matriarch?"

She was too busy retching to answer him.

But the Serra Diora was not. "She can bear as much of the truth as she must. But she will remember everything that you have chosen to show her, and if her duty is to Arkosa, choose carefully."

He did not laugh, but laughter filled the air.

"Well spoken, Daughter. Well spoken, indeed."

It was a woman's voice.

"Sen Constans, you have served your purpose. Leave us now."

He bowed, but even before that gesture had reached the zenith of its respect, he had faded from view.

Beneath the open sky, and above it, a woman stood.

She was older than Margret, and as beautiful as any highborn man's concubine, but she carried her power like a visible mantle.

"And now you know, Margret, daughter of Evallen, and Diora, daughter of Alora.
We
served the Lord of Night."

The Serra Diora was quiet.

"Do you judge us, Daughter?"

"Yes."

Margret rose to her feet. "And I, as well."

"Good. Remember that. We lived in a world of gods. We fought in a world of gods. We did what we deemed necessary to survive. And we learned from our mistakes. Your ancestors were gifted with sight. They saw the fall of the Cities of Man, and they saw the betrayal of Allasakar. But they could not convince the Tors of the truth of their vision.

"Are you ready, Daughter? You have not yet finished walking the path."

Margret drew herself to her full height. Diora thought her beautiful and wild, in a way that this woman—that Diora herself—could never be. "Yes." The word was a curse.

"Sen Margret."

She steeled herself for the inevitable, and turned once again to face her past. Her people's past. She was dressed in finery that made the High Court seem pragmatic, and she was adorned by titles that separated her from the people that she governed. Or killed.

She could not even name the fabric that she wore; it was heavy, but it was smoother than silk, and it caught the light in a way that suggested metal.

"Sen Maris is waiting. He asks you to inspect his work; he will be missed soon."

She nodded. Her hand fell to the hilt of a sword; the edges of the heavy gem at its top cut into her palm. She knew, then, that the fabric she wore seemed metallic because it was; she was armed for battle, here, in the heart of the Sanctum, in her personal stronghold.

The young woman who had been sent for her was dressed in a similar fashion; adorned in the colors of Arkosa, she waited. Margret dismissed her curtly before turning to the Serra—the Sen—Diora.

"Accompany me, Sister."

The Sen Diora nodded. But she walked behind.

Although Margret did not know where she was to go, history did, and the path it followed was not direct. They did not leave the grand chambers in which she was ensconced; instead, they passed the pit in the floor that was used to invoke the changing maps of the Southern cradle. It lay dormant now; she wondered idly if it would ever be invoked again. The maps would be almost useless in a span of days; perhaps a month at most.