Bending to one knee, Mena tried to wipe her blade clean on the turf. It did not really work. Calrach’s blood had frozen already, etching the fine engravings in a crimson-highlighted black. She stood. Sabeer shook out her arms, making them loose as snakes for a moment. Then she crossed them and unsheathed her knives. She began to say something, lifting one of the curved knives as if she were going to explain her choice of weapon.
“Let’s leave off the banter, all right?” Mena asked. “I’m not in the mood for it.” She launched at her.
The battle that ensued was more intense than the one with Calrach. Sabeer had two feet of sinewy, muscular height on Mena, with reach enough that her knives struck like swords. She was incredibly fast. Each time Mena struck, Sabeer deflected the sword with one of her knives, knocking it away or catching the blade at the hilt. Each time her other knife slashed back with a blurred rapidity that Mena could only match by not thinking, by not deliberately planning, by not being awed into errors, and certainly not by worrying for her life. She gave her body over to rage, to instinct, and the fury of the blade itself. The King’s Trust was savage in its wrath. It screamed as it cut the air. She did not so much direct the blade as follow it. It was not a weapon meant to be deflected, not meant to be caught between those two knives, not meant to slip through the air, missing the body that shifted away from it, not meant to strike angrily into frozen ground. It wanted only to cut.
Breaking away, Mena circled. Sabeer let her, rotating in unison. “This is a race to the cut, bitch. Why don’t you finish it, or let me finish it?” Saying this, Mena heard her words from another time, long ago when she was just learning the sword. Back then, to Melio, she said, “I’m sorry, but here’s my point: Why dance through fifty moves when a single one will suffice?” It had made sense then, and it still did. And yet, she had already put more than fifty moves behind her.
She wiped at the sweat on her forehead. She blew her nose into her gloved hand and then snapped the snot away.
Sabeer laughed. And then came in again, a whirlwind with both knives cutting circles around her.
S ome time later. The two of them balancing on bundles piled atop a line of sledges. Mena backed over the uneven load, saying, “Sabeer, you should die now. You really should. Die now. Die now.” She repeated those two words again and again. She fixed on them and drove them into every parry or strike or thrust or dodge. She tried to think only of them, to keep back the other thoughts that clawed at her.
“Die now.”
It did not work. For one thing, there was Elya. In flashes she saw the world as Elya did, from above, circling the carnage, watching Mena, wanting to swoop down to her, begging to be allowed to. For another, Melio kept emerging through those two words. She kept seeing him in a part of her mind that was separate from the world around her. She heard him with ears different from the ones filled with the din of death, of explosions and screams and clanging metal. “Where was your fear?” he asked. He was not speaking to her now. He was not even really in her head. She knew that. He was in her past, jogging to stay with her as she left the stick-fighting arena on Vumu ages ago. “Where was your fear?” he had asked. She had answered, “I don’t know.”
Mena leaped from the sledges, Sabeer just behind her. She sprinted for a time and skidded to a halt. They converged again.
I should have had a better answer for you, she thought. When you said, “Where was your fear?” I should have responded, “I don’t have any. I don’t know that I love you yet.” That would have been the truth. Much better than “I don’t know.”
Sabeer landed a blow to Mena’s cheek with the knob at the base of one of her knives. It was an awkward strike as the two of them slipped by each other. The Auldek swung her blade around. Mena managed to drop beneath it, watching the point trace the air just next to her eye.
I know fear better now. That was another truth.
When a pitch orb exploded near them, Mena fell flat, praying that the splash would take Sabeer out. The Auldek woman fell backward, letting her upper body go horizontal. The spray of pitch scorched right over her. Untouched, she landed on her upper back. She kicked up from there, all back and abdominals and legs, knives still in hands that had not even touched the ground.
Standing a moment, Sabeer crooked a grin at Mena, twisting an admonishment into the expression.
What? Mena thought. I already said I want you dead. I don’t care how it happens.
They continued.
O n the frozen ground again, the two of them fought, watched by a ring of other Auldek, mostly men. They stood in a loose, blood-splattered circle, taking a break from the slaughter. They talked among themselves as Mena and Sabeer danced death at each other. Occasionally, they tossed a jibe or encouragement or advice at Sabeer; Mena could not tell which.
For her part, the Auldek woman stayed silent. She had left her mirth behind some time ago. Grimly determined, her face glistened with her efforts. Her lips puckered and frowned, puckered and frowned as she struck and parried. Her left cheek twitched. She had yanked back her hood. Her hair, long and auburn, snapped about behind her.
“Die much?” Mena asked, trying to slice the crown of her head off.
Sabeer ducked, and drove an upward thrust with “No!”
“How about trying it?”
“No, you die!” Sabeer said, slashing like she meant it.
She really does want this, Mena thought. She wants me dead more than anything now. Look at her.
To her surprise, her sword finally connected with Sabeer’s wrist. But it was not like when she had carved flesh from Larken’s arm so effortlessly. This time, nothing happened except that Sabeer spun away spitting curses through her teeth.
Mena wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. If they were fighting on equal terms, Sabeer would be one-handed, in pain, squirting gouts of blood. The fight would be over. She would be dead! And then alive again. You bitch, you’d be alive again.
Sabeer shook the pain out of her wrist. She snapped at something one of the watching Auldek’s had said. She threw out her arms and flung the two knives away. A moment later, she closed her outstretched hand around the hilt of a sword offered her. She twirled it, flexing the wrist that should be useless.
“This really isn’t fair,” Mena said.
“What is ‘fair’?” asked one of the watchers called Devoth. “I don’t know this word.”
Mena could not tell if he was sincere or joking. The mirth was the same. As Sabeer stood, breathing heavily, Mena spun around, taking in her audience. “I killed Calrach!”
“Yes, but this is not Calrach,” Devoth said. “Calrach is the past. Here is Sabeer!”
“No.” Mena sheathed the King’s Trust. “Calrach is enough for today.”
Sabeer shook her head. She said something in Auldek. Mena could not understand a word of it, but the meaning was clear enough. Surrender was not an option she acknowledged. It’s not for me either, Mena thought, but not all battles happen on your terms.
She ran toward Sabeer, five quick steps. She leaped.
The Auldek woman stepped back, more surprised than alarmed. She cocked the sword back, but for once she was not fast enough. Mena kicked her in the face with one foot and pushed off her chest with the other. That was the last contact between them before Elya caught her in midair, cradling Mena tight to her chest, lifting on powerful wingbeats. Mena buried her face in Elya’s plumage but only for a few seconds. That’s all she had for such things as comfort, relief.
She had lied. Calrach was not enough for today. She wanted more.
M oments later, in Elya’s saddle and racing over the plain toward the Auldek encampment, Mena clenched an oil lamp full of pitch. Behind her, she left a ruined camp, the tattered remains of her army fleeing into the night as the Auldek danced bloody joy behind them. At least some of them would make it into the dark. Some of them. That was all she hoped for them now, that within a few days some of them would stumble into Mein Tahalian alive. She intended
to be with them, but first there was this to take care of.
The lamp’s wick glowed red in the night, too buffeted by the wind to actually flame. She flew under the flying pitch orbs, cut through just above the catapults, and saw the freketes and their riders circling in the air beyond them. She wanted them to see her, to pursue her, to witness what she was there to do. Dodging and weaving among them, she skimmed over the Auldek encampment, searching for the station Rialus had described.
When the traitor had told her about the station that held the Auldek’s histories, she had not at first understood why he thought it such important information. A library? Documents and tales from the past? Surely it had no military significance. That was what he thought he could buy his forgiveness with? She had sent him away angrily, on the verge of ordering him back to them once more. That would have been a death sentence, she knew, but she came close to delivering it.
Later, as she lay not sleeping in her tent, she had turned over the things he had said. If the Auldek really did not have any memory of their distant past, how important might those records be for them? She could not imagine not remembering her own life back to her first years of childhood. What would it mean to know that the greater portion of your existence survived only on pieces of parchment? The more she thought about it, the crueler it seemed to imagine destroying those documents. If she did so, the Auldek race would be, effectively, always less than a century old. Before that would be nothing, the tail that connected them to their past cut.
A frekete and rider appeared out of nowhere. Elya spun and dove to avoid him. She came out of the corkscrew so low that she touched her feet to the ground and ran for a moment, wings pulled tight, darting between two stations and circling around one of them. When a kwedeir leaped in front of her, she jumped over it. The beast snapped at her, but she rose above it, slapping it with her tail as she pulled away.
The innocuousness of the station surprised Mena. By the time she found it, she realized she had passed near it on several occasions. It was smaller than the rest. It sat dark along a lane of similarly dark stations. The sight of her and Elya’s reflection on the ice-laced glass panes caught her attention. Yes, that’s it. The gold cap at its peak, just like Rialus had said. She looped away from it, freketes behind her, and came back after she had put some distance between them.
She hovered as long as she dared, and then threw the lamp, straight down with all the force and precision she could manage. It twirled end over end, the wick appearing and disappearing. It smashed through the pane of glass. For a moment the inside of the chamber was alight with a wonderful radiance. Mena took in the stacks of shelves, the many volumes, the logs and legends and journals that kept the history of an entire race. It was, in a way, beautiful.
I killed Greduc. I killed Calrach. And I’ve killed the past.
The flames spread.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Terribly imprudent,” Sire Nathos said as he settled into the elaborate contraption that was his council seat. “I can’t wait to ask what you were intending. This will be interesting, Dagon. I’m sure of it.”
I was thinking about saving the world from the likes of the Santoth, Dagon thought, aware that in a few moments he would no longer be safe thinking thoughts he wanted kept private.
“And, Grau,” Nathos continued, “why would you act without our complete agreement? If you had not hatched your plot to assassinate the bitch and her brother, we would not be so exposed. I can recall nothing like it. Everything we have built is in jeopardy.”
Grau was not in a mood to be chastened. He answered in a gruff whisper, “We did what we had to. Nobody could have foreseen the outcome. Dagon, in my opinion, made the best of an unfortunate situation.”
One that you caused, in part, Dagon thought.
“You’re lucky that some of us have had greater success in our ventures,” Nathos said. By that, of course, he meant himself and his vintage. Why he should be so proud of that now Dagon was not sure, but he looked smug. As Nathos settled back and closed his eyes, a smile tickled the corners of his lips. You hardly seem troubled. Perhaps it’s you who isn’t taking things seriously enough.
Sire Revek called the session into order. “Before I set you to explaining yourself, Sire Dagon,” he said, “we should be sure the entire chamber knows just how the calamitous events in the Inner Sea developed and how you acted and why.”
Dagon started. He knew he would need to do some explaining, but he did not expect the chairman to begin with him. “Sire,” he said, “you have all read my testimony, and Grau’s. I delivered it when I arrived this morning and was told everyone would come here prepared. And, with respect, ‘calamitous’ is hardly the word to-”
“Silence!” Just a word from a frail, thin frame, but with it the chairman stopped him. Resonant echoes of it reverberated through the newly built council chamber on Orlo, the largest of the Outer Isles. Revek had barely more than whispered, but that was all that it took to get heard in here, especially when speaking from the center of the senior leaguemen’s circles. Behind his voice, the chairman sent waves of his disquiet resonating through the council chamber. The acoustic structure of the place was sublime, the airflow circulated the mist efficiently, and the sculpted seats in which they reclined seemed to enhance their capacity for subverbal communication. Revek’s voice, at least, filled the entirety of Dagon’s skull so completely that he felt himself crammed up against the bone. Such a chamber he had never experienced before. Nor had he ever found himself the focus of his brothers’ animus. Not what he expected would greet his arrival at the Outer Isles.
“Dagon, you must acknowledge the seriousness of this matter. Reports, testimonies: these are not enough. You single-handedly ended hundreds of years of league occupation of the Known World. You assassinated two monarchs, informed them of their pending deaths while they yet lived, then abandoned league property, ordered other property destroyed, set the vineyards of Prios aflame…” Revek sighed in exasperation at the unending extent of it. “The list of things you have to answer for is staggering. Because of it, I move that you provide us access.”
Dagon’s heart rate had been increasing. On the word access it skipped forward into an irregular, syncopated dance of its own choreography. “Access?”
“Just so. You will be probed. You did not see fit to consult us earlier, when you made decisions that affected us all. You will do so now. We will judge you accordingly, and with the wisdom of hindsight. Do any object? Or think this action unwarranted?”
If any did, the cowards and scoundrels leaning back in their seats kept their mouths shut. Had Dagon been one of them, instead of the individual at the center of this scrutiny, he would have been just as silent. Probing was not without its benefits, at least from the point of view of the ones doing the probing. It was rarely called for, but he had enjoyed the unfettered access to other unfortunate leaguemen’s minds on several occasions. Nobody would refuse looking into his secret places under the guise of an official inquiry.
Being the one being probed, however, was ghastly. It involved inhaling a liquid distillation of mist, one that inundated your mind in a way that let your fellow leaguemen push inside it and explore your memories at will. It was an ancient process, one that each of them trained for in their youth-both to learn how to penetrate and how to allow penetration. Better the one than the other, Dagon had always thought.
What of Grau? he came very close to saying. Will he be probed as well? He did not want to end the possibility of getting aid from that senior leagueman just yet, though. He tried to return the discussion to reason. “We all understand the facts already,” he said. “Truly, if you just let me answer each of these points, I’ll put your minds at ease. Sire Grau can assist me-”
“I second the chairman’s proposal,” Sire Nathos intoned.
Several others chorused their assent as well.
Dagon craned around to see back into the dim ranks of reclined leaguemen behind him. “But if you just-”
<
br /> Sire Grau said, “Let it be done.”
Let it be done? “Did you say that, Grau? Let it be-”
“Silence, Dagon!” Sire Revek whisper-shouted. “We will hear from you afterward. The probe will be carried out first. That is our decision. You have no choice but to abide by it.”
The litens-special Ishtat officers who normally stayed pasted to the far walls of the chamber-converged on him. They appeared through the mist-thick air as if they had only ever been a step away. Wearing goggles over their eyes and breathing apparatuses over their noses and mouths, they moved with a clearheaded speed that Dagon could not comprehend. They pressed down on his chest, pinned his arms to the armrests, and wrapped cords around them so quickly Dagon only realized what they were doing after they had completed the task. He tried to pull free. He could only strain against them. He kicked, but his feet, too, were bound. He shouted, but that ended quickly, too. A liten vised his jaw in a painful finger pinch. The figure stared down at him, eyes unseen behind the green glass that hid them.
Dagon got ahold of himself. He ceased struggling. It was useless and just made him look ridiculous. This situation was absurd, but it was serious. Better that he acquiesce with faith in his rightness, with dignity. That would be the shortest course back to his proper standing. “Of course, Sires,” Dagon managed through his nearly immobilized jaw. “My-my mind is yours. I have no fear of… being-”
A liten carefully slipped a tube into his nose. Dagon could not help but thrash. He had thought this part amusing when it was happening to someone else, interesting that so much tubing could be shoved and shoved and shoved up a person’s nose. Where did it all go? he had wondered. Now he knew. And then the liquid flowed.
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