“Ah,” Axerian said. “I take it you’d as soon we not return you to your cell.”
The captain frowned.
“There is a safe place here in the city, Captain,” she said. “A haven for the nobles and others we’ve managed to rescue from d’Agarre’s mobs. I can take you there if you prefer.”
“What did you do here, madam?” the captain asked. “How did you scatter these people? A new binding?”
“Of a sorts. And my name is Sarine. This is Axerian.”
“Thank you both, again,” the captain said with a slight bow. “And yes, failing a way to use that binding to return me to my crew and my ship, a haven from the madness of this city would be welcome.”
She nodded, and a spark of an idea took hold in her mind.
“Follow me then, Captain.”
“I’m telling you, I think I could do it,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. With Zi’s power, and my gifts, I could get all of them to the Harbor.”
“A ship,” Donatien said, scratching his chin where stubble had blossomed into the makings of a full beard in the absence of enough razors to go round at the chapel. “It would be a risk, and this city is still—”
“This city is still mad. They are killing nobles in the streets, Donatien. We can’t stay here forever.”
He winced, reclining up against the wooden paneling that separated her loft from the chapel nave below. “There is bound to be chaos,” he said. “Until order can be established, until elections, real elections can be held.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered back in a rush. “Whatever d’Agarre might have claimed to believe, whatever philosophy was debated at the salons, this all has a mind of its own now. If order is going to be restored, it’s going to be done on the back of noble corpses.”
He frowned.
“Ask Captain Vaudreuil,” she said. “Ask him how close he came to being executed for the crime of probably being noble.”
Donatien went quiet, turning around and rising to his knees to observe the goings-on in the chapel below. She let him have his look, remaining seated beside him. After a moment he spoke. “So, you’d secure us a ship and have us sail away,” he said. “Bound for where? Villecours? The Old World?”
A fair question. She hadn’t considered it.
“This madness isn’t going to stay confined to the city,” she offered.
“The Old World, then,” he said. She gave a tenuous nod, and he continued. “You know most of us have never made the crossing. We’re all ostensibly peers to the King and the families of his court, but the Revellion family here in the colonies has no significant ties to the Revellions of the old country. Much the same for the rest of us. We’d be putting ourselves at the mercy of the King’s charity.”
“Better than anyone would get from d’Agarre.”
He slumped beside her.
“None of this is what I wanted,” he said. “I imagined reform, yes, and perhaps even some measure of violence, if only in furtherance of the cause. Not this.”
“I know. You’re a good man, Donatien Revellion.”
He reached an arm around her, sharing a moment of mutual contemplation.
He gestured to one of her sketches, a portrait of her uncle displayed above the small chest that held her wardrobe, half street clothes and half tailored by way of the generosity of Reyne d’Agarre. “You hardly draw anymore,” he said.
“I’ve had more on my mind of late,” she said, smiling as she remembered the struggle it had been to get her uncle to sit still long enough for that particular sketch. Such was her uncle’s nature, always active, always working. And never a word of complaint, even when she brought a hundred noble refugees to his door.
Allowing herself a moment of reverie, she had missed Donatien tensing beside her. “And where is your Axerian tonight?” he asked.
“Donatien. He’s not my Axerian. He comes to the chapel when he has information. I’ve told you—”
“I know,” Donatien said. “He’s helping you with d’Agarre. But I don’t like him, Sarine. Something about him makes me uneasy.”
He is dangerous. He cannot be trusted.
Anger burned hot as Zi’s thoughts rang through her mind. But before she could reply to Zi, Donatien pulled away.
“Fine,” he said. “I understand. I’ll stay out of your way.”
“No. It’s only—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Donatien,” she said quietly. “Sit, please.”
He gave her a long look, then settled back onto the floor of her loft.
“It’s Zi,” she said. “He’s keeping secrets from me. It’s put me on edge. I’m sorry.”
“Secrets,” he said slowly.
“Yes. More than that I can’t say, only that he knows something of my nature, of the bond with the kaas. Something he isn’t telling me.”
“Well. If he knows somewhat of your nature, perhaps he’d tell me. I’m still trying to figure it out.”
A laugh came unbidden, and Donatien gave a wry grin.
“Truly though, Sarine,” he continued, “I’m only worried for you. And I think your idea with the ship has some merit. You’re right that we can’t stay here forever, not with the city like this.”
“And the Gandsmen,” she said. “They’re still coming.”
“Just so. Perhaps leaving the city is our best option.” They shared a look, and she could almost hear the unasked question simmering behind his eyes: Would she be on the ship, if they managed to secure it?
“I’ll talk to Captain Vaudreuil,” she said before he could speak. “He said his crew had been imprisoned. I’ll need to find out where, and arrange to find supplies as well.”
Donatien rose to his feet. “I can start getting the nobles organized to move. The last of the wounded should be recovered within a few days. We’ll cover ground much faster than we did before.”
“Thank you, Donatien,” she said, rising along with him, accepting an arm as he helped her descend the ladder from her loft.
In the back of her mind she acknowledged for herself the answer to Donatien’s unasked question: She wouldn’t be on that ship. Not unless Reyne d’Agarre was a corpse, dead and buried by her hand, and the rest of his kaas-mages along with him, before it sailed. She laid the innocent lives lost in the city at their feet, from the Crown-Prince to the lowliest urchin caught up and trampled by the chaos. And she would see them pay the price for their corruption before this was through. By the Exarch and the Oracle and all that was good, it was time she use her gifts to do more than survive. It was time she shoulder the responsibilities of who and what she was.
You must not continue on this path, Zi thought to her. You are not ready to bear this burden.
She ignored him, feeling the weight of the nobles’ expectations as she made her way through the crowd.
51
ARAK’JUR
Outlying Tents
Sinari Village
Once, he’d imagined his return to the Sinari village would be accompanied by exultant celebration. An occasion for a feast to mark the alliances they’d sealed. A jubilant welcome for their guardian come home. Food, warmth, and the comforts of the familiar.
Instead he tread on ground that stank of death. Not the bitter flame he and Corenna had witnessed on Jintani lands, nor the wrenching sorrow visited upon the Ranasi. The Sinari village clung to an aura of rot like a wound festering in the heat of the sun.
He saw it in his people’s eyes, turning away as he strode through familiar pathways. No warm reception, only shame and guilt enough to overpower the relief his homecoming should have brought. Arak’Jur returned, and his people hid away cloistered in their tents, shielding themselves from a biting wind that had nothing to do with the cold spirits breathing their frost across the land.
What Corenna or Ilek’Inari might have thought, he could not say. He spared no looks over his
shoulder as the three of them made their way through the village. One destination weighed on his mind. One purpose. The guardians were the keepers of justice for the tribe, and he meant to fulfill that calling today.
He reached his tent, where Llanara would have remained in residence.
Empty.
Corenna showed him a mask of forced serenity, while Ilek’Inari looked to him with sympathy and concern. Neither mattered. He pushed past them, reaving his way back into the village. He tore the flaps open at the first tent he reached along the path, again greeted by an empty space. Another, met by the same.
Finally he found a tent with a cowering set of eyes, watching his furious entrance behind the shelter of a blanket. Ghella, onetime leader of the Sinari women, huddled away from the light as much as the cold, with a wince as recognition dawned in her eyes.
“Where is she?” he demanded, ice in his voice.
“You’ve come back,” Ghella whispered, loud enough to carry across her tent.
“Where is she?” he repeated.
“I … I …”
He stormed into the tent, tearing away the old woman’s blanket and lifting her to her feet in a fluid motion.
“Answer me now! I would see her pay for what she has done!”
“Arak’Jur.” Ilek’Inari’s voice came from behind.
He released his hold on Ghella with a pang of disgust as she crumpled to her knees, sobbing.
“Justice, Ilek’Inari,” he said. “I will have it, if I have to flay it out of every complicit elder of this tribe. How, Ghella? Honored sister, how? How could you allow this?”
“Calm,” Ilek’Inari said gently. “Remember Llanara’s magic. Ghella may know little of what transpired.”
He turned back to the sobbing form, doubled over on the woven rugs of her tent.
“I would have it from her,” he said. “Speak. Now.”
Corenna entered the tent, watching with a quiet expression that bespoke a boiling anger beneath the surface. He knew Corenna well enough by now to see it, and he knew its cause. Ghella looked up as she entered, and recognition dawned with spreading horror on the old woman’s face.
“Oh, sister,” Ghella said in a ragged voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Answers, woman,” he demanded, evoking another pained look from the elder as she turned back to him, tears welling in her eyes.
Ilek’Inari dropped to a knee beside her.
“Please,” Ilek’Inari said. “Tell us what has happened.”
“She claimed to speak with the voice of the spirits,” Ghella managed, her eyes downcast with shame and grief.
The moment stretched, and anger simmered in his belly, reflected in the stillness of Corenna’s gaze.
Ilek’Inari spoke again. “Go on, sister. Tell us.”
“W-w-when she spoke,” Ghella said. “When she spoke it was as if, as if the spirits themselves embraced us, whispered the truth of her words. As if their will was made real. As if I could touch it. Every thought that agreed with Llanara’s words was met by rapture; any thought against her was cold and empty. It swept us all along, until …”
She glanced at Corenna once more, her expression wrenched into pain. Ilek’Inari looked up at them with her, as if to absolve her of her involvement.
“Why can you see the madness of it now?” Arak’Jur demanded. “Why now, and not before?”
“She is gone,” Ghella said. “She took our warriors south, and when she left us the spirits’ blessing went with her. We were left with the knowledge of what we did.”
“All of you?” Corenna asked, her voice quavering. “All of the tribe went with her to betray my people?”
Ghella looked on her once again, eyes red and raw as she nodded. “Yes. Spirits curse us, yes.”
Corenna turned to him, shaking as she struggled to maintain her composure. “I … I cannot be here, Arak’Jur, I …”
“Corenna—”
“No, I have to go.”
He saw the glimmer of mist creeping into her eyes, the sign of her gift made manifest. Without another word, Corenna whirled and ran from the tent.
“Corenna!” he called, stepping to the entrance in her wake.
She gave no sign of turning back, fleeing toward the wilderness outside the village.
He let her go. The pain of his people’s betrayal stung deep for him; for her, it would be a grief no affection could bridge. If she needed time and space to grieve, he would give it to her.
Ghella had once again begun to sob, witnessing the fruits of her madness firsthand.
“We must assemble the elders that remain in the village,” he said to Ilek’Inari. “I will address them all. And if Llanara gave any sign of her intent, of where I might find her, I would have it from their mouths.”
His apprentice nodded. “A wise course.”
“Gather them, Ilek’Inari. Tell them I will receive them in the steam tent.”
He took the time to adorn himself with echtaka paint, thick bars beneath either eye devolving into swirling patterns covering the rest of the skin he could reach. The full decorum of a guardian’s markings required a woman’s or an apprentice’s assistance to apply, but this would serve. In a way, the partial covering of echtaka paint he wore stood as a symbol of his distance from the tribe—patches of russet skin showing through the unmarked gaps on his shoulders and lower back a declaration that the Sinari were unworthy of providing their guardian proper support. Otherwise he was covered head to toe, even his manhood bearing the marks of deference to the spirits.
Hours passed before he was finished. Ilek’Inari would have long since gathered the elders, but they would not leave the steam tent before he arrived. The burden of their shame would weigh them down, keep them pinioned where they sat, however long he took to prepare. He had intended only the token marks he wore for tribal ceremonies, not a full marking. Yet there was a salve in it as he worked, in decorating his body with the patterns of his calling and his people. He even found new designs, or perhaps ancient patterns lost to the passage of time. Glyphs of sorrow and regret; lines to evoke the pain and suffering of his people, of Corenna’s. Of the Jintani, and the Nanerat. Of the spirits themselves, as their children bled against the awakening madness of the world.
When he was done, he emerged into the ice of the midday air, naked as he walked the pathways of the village. Shadowed eyes watched him pass, cowering behind tent flaps as if meeting his gaze would invite condemnation. He held his head high, bearing the mantle of Sinari pride. If none among them could bear the shame of it, he could. He who was second only to Llanara for the depth of his failure. From her, he would have justice. But for the rest, he could carry his people through this despair, painted outside and in with the guilt of their shortcomings. He could meet the weighing eyes of the world and declare: Yes, we have failed. But we are Sinari. We endure.
The steam tent was half-full, with the most aged of elders, those who could not carry a weapon, or otherwise fight alongside Llanara’s whispered madness. As one, they cringed away from his coming, as if the tent vented away hope alongside the gush of steam when he raised the flap to enter.
With purpose, he strode to the center, where Ilek’Inari sat tending to the heated rocks suspended over the fire.
“Elders,” he said, sweeping a challenging look across the tent. “You imagine I am here to pronounce judgment. And I am.”
He paused, letting his words settle, drawing hesitant looks as the silence stretched on.
“I am,” he repeated. “But no more upon you than on myself. First, the woman Llanara. I pronounce death, and declare her anathema to the Sinari. In lieu of judgment from the shamans or the highest of the women, I ask the support of the elders of this tribe.”
Only the hiss of water on rocks met his words.
“Do you imagine you are unworthy to condemn her?” he said. “That your compliance in her madness deprives you of standing to denounce it? I say no. You are elders of the Sinari. Speak, now. Speak for our people.
”
“We are shamed,” replied Valak’Ser, a pruned elder who had led the hunters in his day. “Shamed, or cursed.”
“Both,” came more than a few voices, with accompanying murmurs of assent.
“Llanara compelled you with magic, a gift of the fair-skins—”
“We are cursed, then,” said Valak’Ser. “If the spirits of things-to-come allowed it to come to pass, if they gave no warning through our shaman, then they have turned their backs on us, and we deserve death.”
“No,” he said. “I reject the spirits of things-to-come.”
Gasps echoed through the tent.
“I have rejected their guidance since Ka’Vos refused to accede to their whispers for war. Ilek’Inari has heard them as well. The shamans’ spirits have gone mad. Some malign force has corrupted them, and if it is within my power I would root it out. Failing that, I will not let their cancerous whispers destroy our people. I reject them, even knowing some among their number are pure and true. The spirits guide us, but no more can they bind us. We listen, but cannot be compelled to follow. This must become our way, if we are to survive.”
“Madness,” one of the elders whispered.
“Madness is the war the spirits have demanded,” he said. “It is the blood on the hands of our people. I cannot walk that path. I judge Llanara must die, that her pernicious gift is cleansed away from this tribe. As to the rest, if I can bring back our hunters—our warriors—I will.”
Ilek’Inari rose to his feet. “Arak’Jur speaks the truth. I have heard the corruption, and we have erred in keeping it from you. Forgive us.”
Steam poured from the rocks at the center of the tent, a low hiss that drowned out whatever other sound was made within its walls as the elders contemplated Ilek’Inari’s words, and his own.
Valak’Ser spoke again. “Arak’Jur. Almost I hoped you returned to us as a scourge, to exact blood for blood. Instead you speak of another kind of madness, no less vile to my ears.” He paused a moment. “But I cannot see another way.”
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