“You lied to me,” Sayri said suddenly, accusingly. “You tricked me.”
“No,” Welgray shook his head. “Everything thing I said was true. I did not know the warders were hunting you. I had not been back to the Spire in moons.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“‘Tis true, Sayri,” Wissa said. “Collector Welgray often wanders th’ Lands, staying ‘way from th’ politics of th’ Spire of Rising.”
“Who are you?” Sayri demanded. “I thought there were no female Collectors?”
“There are,” Wissa replied, her voice soothing. “But I’m n’ one of them. I’m Wissa. I’m ‘is servant,” she said, motioning to Welgray while holding Sayri’s eyes.
“Not anymore,” Welgray amended, glancing at her. He knew he was twisting by using Wissa as a tool, but it was also true, and it was to help the girl. “I released Wissa. Now she is my woman,” he added, the words bewildering to him even as he spoke them.
Wissa smiled, looking down at the stone-tiled floor for a moment. Then she looked back up at Sayri. “By th’ Great Link, I swear it t’ you, Sayri. You can trust this man,” she said, holding a hand out in Welgray’s direction.
“I can stop this war,” the girl said suddenly.
“What?” Welgray asked, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“The whole thing,” Sayri said. She seemed more calm now. “The southern islands, all of it. I can stop it,” she repeated. “My . . . my man is there. He is Commander-General Sherzi’s son. He can stop this; I know he can.”
“Then—” Welgray considered. If it were true, he could stop this foolish war that Llory had started and bring Sayri back. “—then I will take you there, and we will try.”
The door burst open. Drast strode in quickly, followed by four soldiers. He walked up to stand between Welgray and Wissa.
“Take the girl,” he commanded.
The soldiers advanced, making to move past Welgray and Wissa.
“No,” Welgray said, stepping in front of them. “Drast, no.”
・ ・
Wissa’s heart was in her chest. The soldiers were under the command of the Collectors, but they had received conflicting orders. Would she have to fight them? She wouldn’t allow them to take the girl; Welgray had made it clear that he would see her safely home, especially after she had shared with him Llory’s intent to take her prisoner and drag her home forcefully. She had loved him all the more at that; he had sworn that he would not allow them to harm the girl, former Chamber Seat be damned. If they had lost Drast, it would have solved the issue, but who could have imagined they would find the girl here, at the very port in which they landed?
She fingered the knife hidden under the folds of her cool-weather cape. Normally, she would be dead calm when prepared to fight, but this was different; she had bared herself to Welgray, and had sworn to be true to him. She was unavoidably, emotionally involved. She loved him, and with him, she felt sympathy for the Lower Valley girl.
She would not let them take her.
Welgray had stopped the soldiers; they didn’t know how to act with conflicting orders from two Collectors.
“My orders come from the Chamber of the Spire. Arrest her!” Drast bellowed, thrusting his finger at the girl.
Wissa readied to spring if need be; she wasn’t sure of her chances against four soldiers, but they hadn’t moved. Welgray remained before them, his hand up; he was twisting, she could tell. His expression was calm, and he shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said.
Then Drast stepped behind him, and his hand came up. Wissa’s breath caught as she saw a flash of steel. She sprung at Drast, but it was too late.
・ ・ ・
Sayri had the Link. She had held it since Welgray first spoke to her; she didn’t know if Collectors could use it too, but she wasn’t going to give them a chance to show her.
When the tall Collector left, her tension eased a bit. The girl with Collector Welgray seemed sincere, and the Collector himself was showing a respectful distance. Could she trust him? It could be true; he had seemed as surprised as she was, that morning outside Red Rock when the warders had showed up.
If she could trust them, maybe they would take her to the southern island.
Then the other Collector came back and set the warders on her. She nearly threw them, then, though she couldn’t know if the Link would work on all of them at once. But Welgray stepped in front, stopping them.
He was protecting her. She could trust him.
Sayri wasn’t sure was happened after that. The tall Collector, the one Welgray had called Drast, moved behind Welgray, and the girl, Wissa, cried out. Drast stepped away, and Welgray was on the ground. Wissa was holding him in her arms, and blood was spreading under his neck.
Welgray’s eyes were fluttering.
Drast watching impassively. The warders had moved back, uncertain how to react.
“No, no,” Wissa was saying. She cradled Welgray’s head and torso, smaller than hers, as a mother might cradle her child. “Please,” she pleaded, holding her face to his.
He was still breathing, but his inhalations were laboured, sucking breaths. He looked up at her, his eyes tearing over, and Sayri saw fear in a Collector. A bloody hand came up. There was blood everywhere.
“No, Lerwun, no,” Wissa repeated. “Look at me.” Her eyes were locked on his, as if to force him to stay focused on her. “Look at me, Lerwun. Stay with me,” she begged.
His eyes were on her, but they were glass. He was gone.
“Take the girl,” Drast repeated. The warders paused for a brief moment, then advanced.
Sayri reached for the Link.
Wissa stood up beside Drast. Sayri saw tears streaming down her cheeks, soaking the sheer fabric of her blouse. She was covered in blood. Her eyes were red, but they were also ice.
“Aside, servant girl,” Drast said.
“Not anymore,” Wissa responded. Her right arm twitched, sort of. The movement was so fluid and fast that Sayri didn’t see what she did, but an instant later, Drast went down without a sound. “Not f’ Welgray, or you, or f’ the Chamber. Never. Again,” she finished.
Then she was looking down at his still form.
The warders froze. One of them put his hand on his sword, alarmed as he stared at Wissa; the others didn’t seem to understand what had happened.
Wissa calmly reached down and pulled the heavy Collector’s robes off of Drast; his lifeless body flopped over. Sayri didn’t see any blood; how had she killed him?
Wissa was putting the robes on. It was a fair fit; a bit long, but about right across the shoulders. “Now y’ know what I am,” she said to the warders. “Leave us.”
The men did not hesitate; whether they believed her or not, they made for the door hastily.
Wissa buttoned up the robes across her breasts, then pulled her dark, wavy hair out from under the collar. She reached into the robes and produced a pin, then methodically pulled her hair back behind her head and tied it.
The tears still stained her cheeks, but otherwise her face was the daunting mask of a Collector.
“Sayri,” Wissa said. “I will take y’ home. The Collectors will not have y’.”
“No,” Sayri shook her head. “The southern islands. We have to go there. Arad is there. He can stop this madness.”
“All right.” Wissa nodded. “The southern islands then.”
・ ・ ・ ・
The robes were tight across her breast, and itched under her arms, but Wissa didn’t notice. All she could think of was Welgray, his crumpled form lying silently there on the stone floor, surrounded by a halo of dark blood.
She had failed him horribly. But not as horribly as his Order had. Was it only Llory who was responsible for this, or was the entire Chamber behind it?
Wissa didn’t care. The Spire, supposed protectors of the Lords’ Lands, repository of wisdom, keepers of peace . . . they were responsible for this. The Collectors, who held a
ll the people cradled in their hands, who had adopted her as a babe, taught her, trained her; raised her. They who had been all she knew; had been her entire world. They had placed her with Welgray. They, who were responsible for everything she had felt and experienced; they, who had constructed her life like a meticulously designed edifice, built block by block, from carefully hewed stone.
They had allowed this; they had created this. They had done this.
She hated them.
Llory had said the Collectors no longer had a hold on her; Wissa had proven it true, surprising Drast and slipping her long, thin, stiletto blade up the back of his neck and into his skull. She no longer believed that Llory or the Chamber had any hold on her, either.
She would make them pay.
The Lower Valley girl was standing there, staring at her. No doubt Wissa looked a terror, covered in tears and blood and wearing the dead Collector’s robes. She looked down at herself. The robes fit well enough, but it felt odd. As if she were wearing someone else’s skin.
As if she were wearing Welgray’s skin.
“Wissa?” Sayri asked, her tone sympathetic.
Wissa didn’t want sympathy. She needed to be strong. She stared at the farm girl, hardening her heart so she wouldn’t want to collapse and wail in misery for her loss.
“What about . . . the body?” Sayri asked, motioning at Welgray.
What about the body? Wissa shook her head. It didn’t matter; it was a shell, and Welgray wasn’t inside anymore. “I’ll send soldiers f’ them,” she muttered. Then she strode for the door. “Come,” she said, the words more a command than she had intended. “We find a ship.”
Sayri fell in behind her as she stepped out of the tavern and onto the road. The town had been secured and warders had taken to the hills, either chasing down enemies who had fled the battle or establishing guard posts for defense. On the docks, sailors were unloading supplies. A few ships were patrolling the bay and the coastline beyond.
There was no time to waste. Wissa hadn’t met the leader of the invading army; he had been on another ship. Now he was likely somewhere in the town, setting up a command centre. Perhaps he was wondering where the Collectors had gone. She wasn’t sure what his reaction would be if she ran into him, but she suspected he would be trouble.
The sailors would be simple enough to deal with, since they were just following the orders of their Masters. A ship’s master, on the other hand, might be tricky. How was she to convince him to abandon the mission and set sail for the southern islands, where Somrian ships ruled the waves?
One of the smaller corvettes had berthed at dock. Wissa remembered it coming in after the beachhead had already been established. The soldiers who disembarked were lightly armoured and carried bows; likely they were scouts who would take up patrol duty in the surrounding countryside and watch for a counterattack. They wouldn’t be needed for a while, as Sherzi would have no substantial forces this far north.
She approached the ship and headed for the gangplank, assuming Sayri was in tow. In contrast to the town, the docks were silent, with no wind and calm waters; only the gentle creaking of the ship against the dock welcomed them.
The deck of the ship was empty except for two sailors coiling rope. One, an older deckhand who was probably in charge, frowned as he no doubt wondered who had come aboard without calling out; he saw the Collector’s robes, however, and looked away quickly.
Wissa walked straight over to him. “Direct me to your Master,” she commanded, concealing her accent and speaking with the clear enunciation that Welgray had always used.
The sailor, still crouched over deep coils of heavy rope, didn’t stand; he simply pointed at a stairwell halfway to the stern. “Belowdecks,” he said nervously. His companion, a fresh-faced lad who had seen fewer summers than either of the two girls, simply stared wide-eyed at Wissa, his expression a mix of shock and terror.
There was a time, perhaps in her early years of training, that Wissa would have enjoyed the attention and toyed with it. But now, with Welgray dead, the Spire no longer her benefactor, and a war between her homeland and Somria in the balance, she merely turned away.
There were five steps down to a small door; Wissa glided down them, robes dragging on the steps. She opened the door and stepped into a narrow hall with a low ceiling. It had plain doors running its length on both sides and an elaborate, engraved door at the end. Wissa went straight down to the end and opened the fancier door, entering the cabin beyond.
She was in a moderately large room, for such a small ship; it occupied the stern of the ship belowdecks. It was obviously the Master’s, with a fine rug, metal lamps on the walls, a wooden desk and chair, and a sleeping platform.
The room was also decorated with numerous small trinkets. There were some Proselytes who had taken belief in the Great Link to an entirely different perspective, far outside of the teachings of the Sanctuary of the Spirit. Such individuals taught that spirits of the dead occasionally wandered the world as lost souls, rather than rejoining with the whole, and that there existed even stranger entities that had never been human and whisked about the Great Link doing good and harm at their whim. Students of such philosophy often became quite superstitious, using mantras and charms to ask the aide of friendly spirits, and appease the ire of the harmful. The Master was clearly one who feared the darker entities considerably, as his room was generously adorned with a variety of carved totems, feathered bundles, blank frames, and small offering bowls of dried fruits and grain.
The Master was seated at the desk; he stood up, angrily. He was in his middle years, with a thick head of curly black hair and a bulbous nose that contrasted his petite stature. When he placed down the map he had been examining, Wissa noticed that he had quite large hands.
“If I had known you were coming aboard, Collector,” he said cautiously, with a slight pause and bow before the final word, “I would have welcomed you as is appropriate by tradition.” His voice was very smooth, and deep for his size. Despite his display of etiquette, his tone was warning.
“Prepare your ship for departure . . . Master,” Wissa replied coldly. The last word felt like coal in her mouth.
The Master frowned. “I have orders to remain at dock.”
“I am giving you new orders.”
The Master looked down at the papers on his desk, as if he wanted to sit and fuss with them, as he might have in the presence of any other visitor regardless of rank. He apparently thought better of it with a Collector standing before him, however, and after a moment looked back up at her and let out a breath. “My orders come from the Council of Lords, in cooperation with your Chamber of the Spire. I will not sway from them,” he declared, shaking head head slowly.
“Were you of the impression that I was making a request, Master?” Wissa asked. She didn’t know how to twist, but she fixated the man with the sort of penetrating glare she had seen Welgray use—or at least something she hoped was close to it. She was prepared to kill the man where he stood, if need be; she hoped it showed in her gaze.
The Master visibly steeled his resolves against her intensity, then suddenly his eyes widened, and he took a step backwards, raising a hand to his throat. He made a gurgling sound, then looked around him suddenly, as if he had only just awoken from a dream.
Taking brief, shallow breaths, he stared at Wissa, clutched at his tunic as if gripping a trinket concealed under the fabric, and nodded slowly. “I—I understand, Collector. I offer my pardon. I had not perceived your . . . urgency.”
Wissa softened. She had carefully hidden her own reaction to his plight, having not—at first—comprehended what was happening. “I trust you will not mind allowing me the use of your cabin,” she added, her tone gentle yet firm.
“Of course not, Collector,” he quickly agreed. “Might I inquire as to our destination?”
“The southern islands,” Wissa said.
The Master nodded slowly as her words sunk in. “It will be a short while to retrieve all m
y men and prepare to set sail.”
“Thank you, Master.”
As the ship’s commander closed the door behind him, Wissa pondered the last words she had spoken. She had only ever addressed Welgray as Master. Of course the meaning was different, but she nonetheless she felt a stab of anguish in her chest. Welgray was gone. She would never again say his name.
She closed her eyes, and took a breath.
“That was well done,” Sayri said behind her. The Lower Valley girl was standing near the sleeping platform, which was ornately decorated with a hanging canopy.
“Now I understand why they want y’,” Wissa said, dropping her false accent.
Sayri frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“You did that,” Wissa said, motioning behind her toward the Master’s desk. “Y’ did . . . something t’ him.”
“I just—” Sayri shrugged, obviously having difficulty explaining it. “Closed him off for a moment.”
Wissa shook her head in wonder, then walked over to a glass portal along the port side wall. The water was only a little below her viewpoint, stretching out like an endless mirror, meeting blue sky in the distance. All those years . . .
She stood there for a long moment, then slowly began to speak. “I was raised by th’ Spire. I don’ know m’ true sires. I don’ remember anything before.
“They taught m’ history. Of the Spire, an’ the Lands. Did y’ know the Collectors an’ the Proselytes were once th’ same order?” she asked, turning back to Sayri.
Sayri shook her head silently. She hadn’t moved.
Wissa nodded slowly. “At th’ very edge of history, there was a place; the Collectors call it th’ Repository. They both came from there.” She turned back to the portal. “The Spire, they train m’ as a spy, an’ a killer. But most of all, they train me t’ fear Collectors. All-powerful. All-knowing. All.”
As she reminded herself of her years of training, her eyes began to tear over. She wasn’t sure why; was it for Welgray? For her lost childhood? Or was it for the lies she had lived with all those years?
Emotion welled up inside her as she realized that she had Welgray to thank for her awakening. A sob caught in her throat; she saw Sayri’s reflection start to move towards her, but she held up a hand to stop her, still facing the sea through a circle of glass. She put her hand out, and placed it flat against the glass. It was cold; soothing.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 49