Children of Earth and Sky

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  Wise leaders of any and all faiths considered it prudent to consult those who claimed they could read the future in the stars and moons, even if their religious advisers called this heresy. They would also, of course, have those same religious advisers offer prayers against storms, drought, heavy rains, earthquakes, floods.

  You did what you could when the stakes were high—as they were when the army of Khalif Gurçu set forth from Asharias and the garrisons west of it to take the great fortress of the Jaddite emperor in the northwest.

  Both sides did these things. Candles burned in the cities and in towns and villages. Charts were made of the heavens and moons. Shoulder bones of animals were examined. The dead were invoked. In the past, in certain places, there had been sacrifices made at moments such as this. The village where Rasca Tripon, called Skandir, had spent a night along with a party of merchants was near to a place of such rituals, long ago.

  It was asserted that these invocations and rites had an effect on the heavens. We have a need to persuade ourselves we are not at the mercy of the world.

  That particular spring the rains fell steadily in Sauradia for a time, and then—they ceased to fall. The sun shone, day after day. The roads north and west began to dry out.

  It was extremely difficult to determine if this change had occurred soon enough to allow the khalif’s great army to reach Woberg in time to assail it successfully. It would be a close thing, men judged, on both sides of that year’s war.

  Lives continue or they end, empires move forward or are cut off, as with shears, if rain falls or does not.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Some time later that spring Count Erigio Valeri of Mylasia arrived in Dubrava aboard a trading ship. He had come to confront a wayward daughter and escort her, forcibly if required, back to the retreat near Seressa where he had, in his wisdom and discretion, already decided she would live out her shameful life.

  It did not go well.

  The count was a horseman and hunter, a trainer of dogs and hawks. He disliked the sea. This blackened his mood further as they crossed the water. He also detested merchants, the sour taint of commerce and its new men, and Dubrava had nothing but such people. For an aristocrat of a certain nature, the trade-obsessed republic on the other coast was not a congenial place to visit, and he had never done so. He’d never had a reason.

  To make a bad affair worse, he knew of Leonora’s disgraceful behaviour only because these greedy merchants had sent him a demand for compensation—regarding a ransom they had paid to pirates to save his daughter from being abducted at sea. They had not troubled themselves to say what the girl was doing at sea!

  Better, far better, she had been taken by those raiders and they had done whatever they liked with her, then killed her, Erigio Valeri thought. He intended to tell her that, and the rector, or whomever the Dubravae sent to repeat their contemptible demand. As matters stood, the Valeri family shame—his shame—was immense, overwhelming, known to the world.

  And Dubrava thought he would pay them for this?

  If she didn’t come with him promptly, he vowed to himself on the damnably unstable deck of the ship, he would kill her, and there wasn’t an honourable man in the world who would say a father was not entitled to do so.

  The worst of it was there had been a time when he took pride in his only daughter.

  He’d seen her as the way their family might rise even higher in the world. Leonora was well-favoured, lively, could handle a falcon and a horse as well as any woman (and many men) in Mylasia. Their fortune (land, of course, no vulgar merchants, they!) was considerable and their lineage long. It had been entirely reasonable to think in terms of marrying her into some even more distinguished Batiaran family, or in Ferrieres, or the imperial court at Obravic. Even the Kohlbergs themselves, that slack-jawed imperial family, were not out of the question. Leonora was an asset.

  She had been. Until she got herself with child by one of the Canavli sons.

  He never learned a name from her, even with a level of coercion he might have hesitated to use on a man. His oldest son, not the most accomplished but certainly the most physical of his three, had discovered the boy’s name in the city through other means, and they’d dealt with that one as he deserved. It meant a feud, of course, but the Canavlis were a lesser family (part of Erigio’s outrage), and what strong man feared a fight, in any case?

  His daughter had been sent to live out her days away from the world. He still thought he’d been generous. Her leaving that retreat, under whatever persuasion (and he would have words to exchange, it seemed, with the Council of Twelve) was simply not permissible. He had decreed her fate and he would enforce it.

  A girl could not simply choose for herself the religious house in which she’d live. He had paid for her shelter, infinitely more than Leonora deserved. He had even paid (a small sum, granted) to have the bastard child taken from its birthing to the foundling hospital in Seressa, as was done. And now she was somehow across the water, in Dubrava, and they wanted money from him, and she intended to stay there?

  No man with any pride would tolerate it.

  He would leave this ship when it docked, fetch her from whatever corrupt retreat was sheltering her, and take her back to where he had decreed she would live. Otherwise, he would kill her. Then go home and hunt. No ransom money would be given to anyone, and the Dubravae, if they persisted, would hear what an aristocrat from Batiara thought of their money-smeared ways.

  They might as well be Kindath or Asharite gold-chasers, he would say—to their rector if it came to that! Everyone knew how close the Dubravae were with Asharias. Face down in bed for them, rumps invitingly hoisted! He spat over the rail, disgusted by the very image.

  The sun was up. It was a bright day. Too much wind for him, whitecaps on the water, but at least the crossing had been swift. He saw the harbour and walls of Dubrava. Thick, high walls, formidable, in fact.

  His steward stepped to the rail and pointed towards a small island in the harbour. Valeri saw a sanctuary dome, vineyards, outbuildings. “She’s there, apparently,” the steward said. “The Daughters of Jad on Sinan Isle.”

  “I need the name? I care about the name of the fucking island?” he said.

  “Apologies, my lord!” his man said, retreating.

  The count ignored him. He already wanted to be home. The ship had cargo to unload—wine, books, wool, goldsmiths’ work—but the captain had promised it would require only a day or two to do that and take on the goods they’d carry back. Valeri had four men with him, in the unlikely event Leonora made a difficulty, or the Eldest Daughter on that island issued foolish demands. He’d pay them a small sum in the name of Jad: they had housed and fed the girl, his shame. He could do that much for his own soul. They could pray for him, in exchange.

  This should not, Valeri thought, take much time. One night on board here in the harbour, then, with luck, west and home with tomorrow’s sun and tide. Or the next day’s, at worst. A burdensome journey but necessary. You did what you had to do, unpleasant as it might sometimes be, for your family and your name.

  —

  SHE WAS EXTREMELY WELL PREPARED, the new Eldest Daughter on Sinan Isle, Drago Ostaja thought.

  Leonora had requested his presence weeks before. When he’d arrived, she’d asked him to keep an eye out for a ship from Mylasia. Drago had said he’d do that.

  He was in the city again after a timber run down the coast. The Blessed Ingacia was moored at the far end of the harbour. He was on board early, as always. They were repairing sails and ropes by morning light when a two-master came in on a good wind. They called their origin and cargo in the usual fashion. One of his boys came racing with the tidings: they were from Mylasia.

  Drago had thought, in the beginning, that Leonora was taking instructions from the old empress, but as weeks had gone by and clever things happened on the isle
, he had come to believe the young woman might not need much guidance. Some people were born to command, and there was no reason why one of those couldn’t be a woman. At least in a situation like this, where it had to be a woman.

  Or even in other circumstances, Drago thought, eyeing the new ship as it docked and ran out ropes and ramps. Women might have to be cautious, discreet, but he happened to know (from Marin, who was east, and might have reached Asharias by now) there were families where the wife or mother was the true power in their business dealings.

  On Sinan there was no need to mask who was in control. Although there had been considerable masking by the last woman who had been Eldest.

  Seressa had already paid Dubrava a substantial compensation for Filipa di Lucaro’s dealings. The wall behind the sun disk in their main sanctuary now held a bronze relief of the god. A gift, a gesture of affinity, from the Council of Twelve to their very dear brethren in Dubrava.

  Affinity, indeed, Drago thought. The Seressinis had been caught spying and killing, and were working hard to make up for it. They’d have more work to come. The High Patriarch was furious: a holy retreat had been abused. It was a scandal.

  There were pleasures to be found in Seressa’s discomfiture, why would you deny it?

  Drago Ostaja, with six men, got into one of the Djivos’ small craft. They ran up the sail and made their way, tacking across the wind, to Sinan. One man hurried to the religious complex with the news, for the attention of the Eldest Daughter.

  Drago and his mariners waited by the dock for the Mylasians to come over. They watched a boat leave the isle from the smaller second dock, headed to the city, two men aboard. He had no idea what that was about.

  Time passed. Eventually, one of his men pointed. They saw a craft approaching. “They will come straight here,” Leonora had said. Drago looked at the leader. He had real curiosity, though he kept his expression bland. His men helped the new group moor their craft.

  Then they politely requested all weapons be surrendered on the holy isle. One of the new arrivals pointed out that Drago and his men still had their swords. Drago smiled and observed that guards were often needed in a remote place.

  The burly nobleman in a fur-trimmed cloak, who would be, he understood, Leonora’s father, gave a curt nod and his men surrendered their swords. Gently, Drago asked for knives, including the hidden ones. There was some intensity of verbal expression offered, but the Mylasians had already given over their swords to men who remained armed. One tried to keep a stiletto in a sheath on his back but Drago had seen these before and knew where to look.

  It was, accordingly, an unhappy group of visitors he escorted up the path past the vineyards. He cheerfully pointed out the herb garden as they approached it. He was, he had to admit, enjoying himself.

  He liked Leonora. Admired her courage and her obvious intelligence, thought she was beautiful. And he understood from her that this big, red-faced man in the handsome cloak, her father, had killed someone she loved and exiled her to a retreat near Seressa for life. He would be coming to carry her back there, she’d said when she had summoned Drago weeks before.

  “Well, that won’t happen,” he had said calmly. “Not unless you want it to.” A father had his rights, but he was pretty certain an Eldest Daughter at a sanctuary retreat couldn’t just be picked up and carted away.

  “Want to go back? Not at all!” she’d said. “This is my home now.” And she’d added, “Thank you, Gospar Ostaja.”

  “Captain is enough,” he’d said.

  Her smile was warming, Drago thought. She had been walking towards the railing of his ship to end her life. He didn’t understand what had happened there, but he knew that something had.

  —

  ERIGIO VALERI WAS NOT A MAN to be daunted by the unexpected. He had fought in wars when young, as Mylasia was caught up in vicious conflicts among the city-states of Batiara. On the coast with rich hinterlands, their city was a prize. You weren’t granted independence in such circumstances, you fought for it. Although it needed to be admitted that it was the High Patriarch’s intervention that had ultimately kept them free.

  Still, he had distinguished himself in battle, a measure of a man in their society. Endurance, courage, skill, no softness shown—or felt, really.

  He was not likely, in short, to feel balked or disturbed by the Dubravae exercising a measure of control in their own harbour. The sea captain who took their weapons was a formidable enough fellow (Valeri made such judgments instinctively, a sighting was often enough) but it didn’t matter. They did not intend to battle their way home with his daughter.

  They were ushered into a room—and there she was, Leonora, right there.

  He did feel a momentary check when he saw her. She had been, truly, the only one of his children he could have said he loved. Part of why her betrayal had cut so deeply. She wore a religious robe, which was startling in itself, though he reminded himself that she’d have worn yellow at the retreat by Seressa as well, and it had been his decision she go behind the walls of the Daughters of Jad. She just wasn’t allowed to be here, across the water. In open, unacceptable defiance.

  There had been a story of marriage (an assumed marriage?) arranged by the Seressinis. Who would need dealing with when he returned, and would be dealt with, with the clerics on his side.

  Leonora looked smaller than he remembered. Her head was high, no sign of apprehension that he could see. Well, he hadn’t raised a cowardly child. And it wasn’t as if she’d have been pleased with what he’d done. You needed to acknowledge that. You just didn’t need to—in any way—yield to it.

  He assessed the room. No austerity here, he thought wryly. Those were Ferrieres tapestries on two walls, eastern carpets on the floor, rich furnishings. He saw wine and wine cups on a side table. The doors to a terrace were open to the breeze, heavy curtains moved only slightly. He saw four other women, two of them religious and two servants, no sign of the Eldest Daughter here, unless she was the one in shadow at the back. She might be, but she should be coming forward to greet a count from Batiara, if so.

  Only two of his men had been allowed into the room with him. He could have protested but what was the point? You probed weaknesses in a fight, and needed to know your own. Nor was this a battle. He was an aristocratic father with rights over his child. This was a civilized, Jad-guided part of the world, they were in a place of the god!

  He said, “Good. I see they brought you here. We need not linger. Come, daughter. I will not drag you by the hair, the Valeri are what we have always been. But this disgraceful game is over.”

  —

  SHE HAD WONDERED how she would feel when her father came.

  A lifetime of fearing him and desiring to please him lay behind her. She was reassured to discover as he entered the reception room that she felt calm.

  She had been certain he would come, as soon as Dubrava sent the letter requesting reimbursement for her ransom. The council had asked her where it should be sent. She had told them.

  Then she had taken thought and written letters of her own that went west on the same ship. Also to Mylasia, but not to her family.

  She wondered if her composure today, seeing him shoulder through the door and fill the room with his reality, was a result of the empress’s influence through the spring. Or was it simply growing accustomed to authority, to people listening to what she wanted done or not done?

  She made herself look closely at him. Anger could be controlled, that didn’t mean it went away. Her father looked exactly as he did when he’d come to tell her he’d had Paulo castrated and killed, and had ordered her taken north, leaving in the dark of night to hide the shame she embodied. These things did not leave you.

  They had taken her child from her.

  She knew he would have loathed the sea crossing, would hate being here. Only a fierce desire to deal with her had him in Dubrava. That, an
d perhaps some wish to still keep this quiet?

  Too late for that, Leonora Valeri thought.

  She stood behind the large desk that had been Filipa di Lucaro’s and was now her own. Her hair was bound up and under a soft hat; her hands were quiet. She looked briefly back towards the empress, but it was impossible to make out her features in the shadows. It didn’t matter.

  “Good!” she heard her father say, the heavy, remembered voice. A voice for hounds and hunt. “They brought you here. We need not linger. You are coming with me, girl, if I drag you by the hair. This disgraceful game is over.”

  She looked directly at him. It was, surprisingly, not hard to do. She turned and smiled at Drago Ostaja.

  “Captain Ostaja, be so good as to seat Count Valeri in the chair in front of us so we can begin his trial.”

  “Trial?” her father rasped.

  She looked at him again, straight on, in the eyes. She allowed sweetness (false, but a pleasure) into her voice. “For murder,” she said. “You are being tried in the High Patriarch’s name. You are on patriarchal lands, judicial authority follows. You have also just threatened one of his Daughters with violence in front of witnesses. A crime against faith, though a lesser one, we must concede that.”

  Nothing on Jad’s earth would bring Paulo back, or her child, but you could closely watch a man and see a ruddy complexion pale, and find some small brightness in that, like the sun coming briefly out from morning’s eastern clouds.

  “More games?” her father snapped. He was quick to regain composure; she couldn’t remember seeing him discomfited, until the day he learned she was with child. “Where is the Eldest Daughter here? I have nothing more to say to you.”

  —

  LEONORA LAUGHED. Looking straight at him, his daughter laughed aloud. He wondered how she dared do so. He heard amusement behind him, too, one of the men guarding them.