by Jaine Fenn
Taro hoped her patron wasn’t one of the Gatekeeper’s mates. ‘And you just happened to be passing when you picked up the distress call, that right?’
‘Request for clarification: please rephrase your query.’
‘Did your patron tell you to pick me up, or did you do it ’cos you wanted to?’
‘Response: naturally our decisions are those we are certain our patron would endorse.’
So much for being ‘free’– and so much for clearly answering questions!
Zhian continued, ‘Apologies: I have other duties to attend to now. I will leave you alone for a while. You are free to do as you wish; I will notify you when we are close enough to the Consensus for secure communication.’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
Zhian was already getting up. Taro got the impression she was glad the conversation was over.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Where is she now?’ asked Kerin.
‘I have no idea,’ replied Urien wearily.
Kerin tried not to feel any pleasure at discovering that Urien’s plan had failed. She hoped the girl had run as far and as fast as she could, and that she was already on her way to start a new life. ‘Well, that is that, then.’
‘So we must hope,’ muttered Urien.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing that should concern you, Kerin.’
How she hated it when he gave the impression of doing her a favour by not keeping her informed. Kerin had no choice but to trust Urien, for he was her only link to the complex hierarchical world of the Tyr, but the previous evening’s events had shaken that trust. He had not seen the cursed girls as lives destroyed, just as another problem to be solved.
‘As you wish,’ she said coldly. Then, on impulse, she added, ‘Urien, may I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’ His tone belied his words. He would far rather she never asked questions, just listened, and did as he suggested – which only strengthened her resolve further.
‘What really happened to Lillwen?’ Kerin had only briefly met the woman who had previously masqueraded as the Cariad. Lillwen had been a figurehead only, controlled by the old Escorai, all of whom were now dead. And the Escorai themselves had been acting out the roles assigned to them by the last Sidhe Cariad. Sais had told her how the Sidhe left compulsions within a person’s mind; he had called it ‘programming’. In the case of the conditioned Escorai, the ‘programming’ ensured that order was maintained if a Cariad died in office – always a risk, because the Sidhe left Serenein to its own devices for years on end, while they waited for its strange harvest to mature.
‘What do you mean?’ Urien asked, sounding weary.
‘You said that when Lillwen recovered from her mistreatment she was given money and set free. Is that really what happened? After all, she was a witch too.’
‘She was, but she was no threat. Her experiences had left her too damaged. As far as I know, she left Dinas Emrys in search of her daughter.’
Not for the first time, Kerin wished she had the priestly ability to know when she was being lied to. ‘I hope she found her,’ she said, bitterly.
‘Kerin, rulers cannot afford to think or behave as ordinary people. They must weigh up what will be gained and what will be lost with every choice they make.’
‘And what happens if we are too busy making those choices and we lose sight of what we strive to achieve?’
‘That is an excellent question. I wish I had an answer for you.’ Typical Urien: at once calmly accepting and faintly disapproving.
After he had left, Kerin wondered, not for the first time, if Urien only put up with her because she was the mother of the one person able to operate all the Sidhe technology.
She made an appearance at the Senneth that morning, sitting in on a ruling to allow non-priests to use skymetal. The Senneth was made up of merchants, guildmasters and representatives from the provinces and the law passed easily once she had given it her personal blessing.
As her palanquin was borne back through the sweltering streets afterwards, she found herself musing on the relationship between greed and fear. Those holding secular power were only too eager to embrace a change that brought them profit, provided they were first reassured that said change would not also bring Heavenly retribution. What had been true in her village was equally true here: understanding and manipulating the balance of greed and fear lay at the heart of effective leadership.
She disembarked and returned to her rooms alone, dispensing with the formality attendant on any public appearance. She was grateful that the previous Cariad had been used to wandering the halls of the Tyr by herself. The Sidhe Cariads had obviously valued their privacy.
Despite her lack of talent, she sensed a certain unease in the priests she passed. It might be the unpopularity of her ruling on the use of skymetal, which further eroded priestly privilege, or it might be that this particular law had required a change to the Traditions themselves, although Urien had assured her there was precedent for that. Cariads had often made small modifications to the accepted rule of ‘Heaven’ before now. What was different was the pace of reform. Naturally, some people were not happy.
Damaru was playing with the wooden puzzle she had bought for him on her last incognito foray into the city. He had solved it within minutes of being given it, but he still continued to rearrange the pieces. She persuaded him to activate the console, and he obeyed with relatively good grace, then went back to his puzzle. Since he had established that he could not regain control of the technology above, the console held little interest for him.
Though it took a Sidhe’s touch to wake it, once it was active the console could be worked by anyone. Kerin called up an image from one of the recording devices high above the world. She steered the image down a long valley between two mountainous ridges, then brought it into focus. A cluster of huts sprang into view: the village where she had lived for most of her life. Although spying on her old life stirred up feelings of guilt, relief and regret, it also lifted her spirits; though she had no desire to return to Dangwern, she was both reassured and vindicated to see that life went on there without her.
The scene was viewed as if from the eyes of a hawk, distant yet clear. Today Kerin could make out two familiar figures striding down from the huts to the stock pens on the valley floor. She recognised Arthen by his confident gait and Fychan by his eyepatch when he glanced upwards. They paused and conferred at the stockade, where the yearlings were munching contentedly on summer hay. She wondered if the chieftain and his son were choosing which bullocks to overwinter for next year’s drove, and which to slaughter for food when the weather turned. Since his return to the village Fychan often shadowed his father; Kerin hoped the boy’s experiences on the last drove might have turned him from the feckless youth he had been and set him on the path to becoming as good a chieftain as his now-dead brother would have been.
She watched as they made their choices, then switched focus to the women who were washing clothes down by the stream, but though the images brought her comfort, she knew they were really just a sop. She needed a reality she could hear and touch. It would also be useful to get a better feel for the true mood of the priests.
She turned off the console, got changed, then took her secret route from the Cariad’s room, stopping to collect the pile of clean linen she had hidden ready for her next trip, a passport to parts of the Tyr forbidden to the kitchen servants. Servants, being invisible, often overheard interesting conversations.
The console held a storehouse of knowledge on the Tyr and city, and she often enjoyed calling up maps and records, many of them created by the previous Cariads – notes on politics, feuds and scandals, recorded to allow their successor to seamlessly continue the reign as one ‘eternal’ goddess. It was clear the Sidhe who ruled here had taken considerable pleasure in observing and nurturing the intrigues of the Tyr.
Tonight her route took her near places where the priests met – the eating hall, the shrines an
d scriptoriums, even the quarters of the Putain Glan – but she heard nothing of interest, other than that people thought the mysterious lights in the sky were becoming less frequent of late. No point mentioning this to Urien; he would already know.
After a while her burden of linen began to weigh on her injured arm. The wound had healed cleanly, but the Sidhe weapon had destroyed some of the muscle, leaving that arm weak. Sais had told her that the miraculous devices on the Setting Sun could have made her as good as new, if only they had had the chance. He also told her most of the diseases and ailments habitually endured by the people of Serenein were virtually unknown in the wider universe – humans elsewhere believed health and long life were everyone’s right. Yet her people were denied these things.
But it was worse even than that: every generation the Sidhe returned to spread the falling fire. What people believed to be a visitation from Heaven, sent to root out the sinful, was in truth a careful strategy intended to control the population and increase the number of skyfools. And her people believed that worthy skyfools went to Heaven, to become the Skymother’s consorts – instead, their real fate was very different: they were driven mad and bound into the ships that travelled between worlds.
Once she had come to understand those two facts – what the people of Serenein were denied, and what was taken from them – Kerin had had no choice but to fight the Sidhe.
As she made her way back towards her rooms, one question kept running through her head: what did she have to trade for the security and comfort of her world?
Her husband – for so Sais was, in fact, if not in flesh or feeling – was a trader; he would have considered such things. Though she had known him for less than a season, she believed him to be a good man, and that he truly cared for her people. Yet the more time she spent in the Tyr, the more suspicious she became of others’ motives.
She could not help thinking that her world had only one thing of value: the means to open up the paths between the stars. But that asset was no crop or mineral; it was the living souls of their children, boys like her own son, Damaru.
So here was the big question: was that cost too high to ensure the future for those who remained?
When she had first taken the Cariad’s throne, she would have said it was, without question. But now—
‘Oof!’ The air left Kerin’s lungs as she ran into something solid and her burden went flying.
Strong hands caught her before she could fall. ‘Mistress! I am sorry.’
‘I—’ She looked around. A monitor had hold of her arm, and the linen was strewn across the floor. ‘No,’ she said, ‘the fault is mine. I did not see you when I turned the corner there.’
‘No matter. Shall I help you with that?’ He bent down to start collecting up the fallen items.
The man looked vaguely familiar. ‘Aye, thank you,’ she murmured, reminding herself to behave like a menial afraid of getting into trouble for her carelessness. As she picked up a bed sheet and started to fold it, she realised where she had seen this man before. That day she had heard someone speak against the Tyr he had been in the square; it was he who had defended the speaker’s right to voice his fears. This might be a contact worth cultivating.
‘Master— I mean, Captain,’ she said spotting the two wavy lines tooled into the leather armouring his right shoulder, ‘I must apologise. I was distracted.’
‘Do not worry.’
‘Oh, oh but I do – that is why I was not looking where I was going.’ She heard the tremulous note in her voice, and wondered if anyone could possibly be fooled by such terrible acting. But he was smiling at her, so she continued, ‘I am newly come to the Tyr, you know.’
‘Ah, I see. I know myself how much there is to learn – and how intimidating it can all be.’
‘You are from the provinces too, then?’ She had thought as much.
‘I am, though I have been here many years.’ He passed her a blanket. ‘I am sure you will get used to the ways of the Tyr.’
‘Oh, aye, I am sure I will. Except . . .’ She ducked her head, and said shyly, ‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but it appears to me that all is not well here.’
‘In what way?’ The monitor’s tone was guarded.
‘I cannot be sure, having nothing to compare against. But I feel a certain unease – people tell me changes are being made, not necessarily for the better – not that I would presume to know,’ she added hurriedly. ‘And I have prayed for guidance. Please do not laugh, but I did not see you just now because I was praying to Mantoliawn – she is the Mother who rules my birth – to show me if my fears are justified.’ Mantoliawn’s order was the one headed by the most awkward of Urien’s chosen Escorai; it seemed an obvious choice for a dissenter.
‘I would never mock such a pious admission,’ he said seriously. ‘Time spent speaking to the Mothers is never wasted.’ He seemed to reach a decision. ‘As for your fears . . . you are not alone in them.’
‘I am not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed to hear that,’ Kerin said with all the meek uncertainty she could muster.
He was silent as he reached for the last few blankets to pass them to her. Then he said, ‘May I ask your name, Mistress?’
Kerin’s heart leapt – the monitor trusted her – then sank as she realised what his request would mean. When she had first decided she would walk the Tyr incognito, she had asked Urien whether she should lay claim to some other life – a kitchen worker, maybe, so she could spin a believable tale if she were challenged. But Urien had pointed out that the priests’ meticulous record-keeping would make that difficult; at the very least, some poor hearth-mistress would be asked to explain the non-appearance of one of the workers for whom pay was being drawn. Still, she had chosen her alias, and she could hardly refuse to answer the monitor’s question. ‘Gwellys am Penfrid,’ she said, head bowed.
‘Of which hearth and shift?’
‘I report to the housekeeper at the west kitchen. My shift is day, second. And who are you, if you do not mind me asking?’
‘I am Siarl am Nantgwyn, Sub-Captain of the Sixth Cohort of the Third Watch. You are working very late, mistress.’
‘I am, aye.’ Kerin cursed her incorrect guess; she had not realised the time. But at least she had his name in return. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Siarl.’
As he handed her the final blanket Captain Siarl’s gaze lingered on her hand. Kerin saw the tiny widening of his eyes; hers was not the hand of a woman who washed many sheets.
He stood and said, ‘I will wish you a good evening then, mistress.’
‘Aye. Good evening to you too, Captain.’ She made herself pick up the pile of linen; if nothing else it should hide the sour expression on her face from anyone she passed. She had tried to play Urien’s game, and found she had little talent for it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nual found Ain waiting for her when she finally emerged from the Star Chamber. She’d been questioned for what felt like hours; only her Sidhe abilities were keeping her on her feet now.
The males had accepted her statement that she had been touched but not corrupted by the otherverse entity; when it came to a force that could damage female Sidhe, they cared less about causes than results. Nual had no idea whether they truly understood the danger the alien presence posed.
They had wanted to know more about her prescient flashes; she could not say whether the lack of concrete information she had so far gained pleased or disappointed them.
‘You will find refreshments in your room,’ said the lingua as she gestured for Nual to follow her. ‘However, be aware that more avatars wish to talk to you.’
Nual’s heart sank: why couldn’t they just let her rest? ‘Aren’t they busy debating’ – she caught herself before saying my fate, and instead concluded – ‘what I said?’
‘The sept leaders are; those visitors who are scheduled to see you are mainly lesser representatives.’
‘That makes me feel so m
uch better,’ she growled.
When she reached her room she ate the food, drank the water that had been provided, and looked longingly at the bed. She tried to com Jarek, but he wasn’t answering; no doubt he was still asleep, the lucky man.
A few minutes later the first visitor walked in – without knocking, of course. They never did. Nual sighed and composed her face into a smile.
By the tenth visitor she was drawing on her deepest reserves of energy, regulating the balance of mood-affecting neurotransmitters to keep herself calm and friendly. She disliked making such drastic adjustments to her body chemistry: there was always a price to pay when one cheated nature. She only hoped she could put off what Taro would call ‘the crash’ long enough for the males to tire of pestering her.
Because she was so strung-out, she did not initially notice anything odd about the twelfth avatar. Unlike the others, it remained standing by the door, hands behind its back. Perhaps it planned to harangue her from across the room like some stern parent. She tried to suppress the exasperated sigh she felt building.
She was taken by surprise when it brought out a small pistol from behind its back. Although she tensed, ready to attack, exhaustion slowed her reactions. Before she could move, the avatar shot her.
Jarek woke from a deep dreamless sleep to find three messages on his com. Two were from Nual. The first, left not long after he’d crashed out, apologised for having been so abrupt – she said a lot of males wanted to talk to her. Her voice was ragged but calm in the second, received just half an hour ago; she said she had just returned from the Star Chamber, and more visitors were due soon; she would com him as soon as she was allowed some time to herself.
The other message, which had arrived just after Nual’s first one, was delivered in the Arbiter’s neutral tone: ‘Captain Reen, we are pleased to inform you that both of your requests have been granted by the Consensus. Work on the beacon has been stepped up, and it will be ready for you within one standard day. Your missing crew-member has also been located, and will be returned to you in a similar time-frame.’