Essalieyan Chronicles - The Weapon

by Michelle West

  “Let the definition of weakness be made by men like Baron Breton, and you have already lost; make of her a woman who can stand against him upon his own ground, and you will simply make another like him. Perhaps she will be beholden to you; perhaps she will kill you, as Baron Breton killed his father. I cannot say.”

  “If we—”

  “But if we have no hope, Emily…” “Hope did not save Melanna’s child.”

  “No,” he said quietly. He did not speak again during that meal.

  * * *

  Prayer afforded hope to those who gathered at the Mother’s altar; it afforded little to the Mother’s Daughter. But in the end, she was the Mother’s Daughter. She watched as Veralaan grew, claiming, as Iain had predicted, the love and affection of the Priests, the Priestesses, and the Novices. Melanna was her protector and her guardian, and each time the child was introduced to a newcomer, it was by the side of the ferocious Priestess, whose grim and loving demeanor made clear what would happen to those who judged her for her father’s crimes.

  In a different world, this might have produced a different child. But in this one, not even

  Melanna—as she had learned so bitterly once—was capable of protecting a child completely.

  * * *

  When she was six years old, Iain began to teach her how to read, how to write, and how to comport herself as a young lady of wealth and power. The former, he had done in the Novitiate for years, but the latter? Not for a lifetime. Melanna hated it, of course. But Emily insisted on it.

  “Why?” Melanna demanded.

  “Because sheis the Baron’s daughter.” “Why Iain?”

  “Because he is the only son of a noble family to grace these halls.” “It’s no damn kindness to remind him of it. It just reminds him—” “Of what he’s lost?”

  Melanna fell silent. It was a mutinous silence.

  “Melanna, if he is unable to teach her, he will tell me. Trust him.” She paused, and then added, “trust yourself. Trust Veralaan. To understand the odd customs and the graces of the patriciate is not to become what they are; if that were true, Iain would never have come to the Mother.

  “He cares for Veralaan. Let him do this one thing for her; you have done almost everything else she requires.”

  “I don’t see why she requires this!”

  No, Emily thought, but did not argue further. You don’t want to see it.

  * * *

  Emily Dontal used the excuse of the temple’s care to keep her distance from Veralaan, but it was a distance that time eroded so slowly she couldn’t say when it broke at last, and she, too,

  was swept up in the joy—and fear—that came of caring too much for a child.

  But she knew the exact moment she became aware of it, and she did not forget.

  Iain had, uncharacteristically, bemoaned the lack of a “proper” staircase. The cathedral boasted stairs, but they were subtle, and meant to be traversed with silent dignity; he wanted something that would lead from the heights to the altar in full view of an audience.

  And he was embarrassed by the desire.

  “She’s graceful,” he said lamely, “for a child her age. But she has to practice the stairs,” he added, his voice wilting even more, if that were possible. “It’s the one time when all eyes will be upon her.”

  “She’s seven, Iain. And at that, a quiet seven. I’m not sure she’d be happy if all eyes, as you say, were upon her. We found the funding for the harp that you requested. We found funding for the dress. But, Iain, the funding to add such a staircase is well beyond our means.”

  He winced and lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, Emily. She reminds me of my youth, that’s all. I

  see so much potential in her—” He shook his head. She stared at him.

  “There was a time,” he said softly, “a time in my life when I could see beauty and it wasn’t tainted. She is that time. I have learned to appreciate beauty in more subtle forms. I see it daily in the struggles of the Mother’s children. But this is different.

  “And she’s the Baron’s daughter. She has to know how to make an entrance.” “Iain—”

  One of the Novices burst into the room, throwing the doors wide. “Mother’s Daughter!” she cried, all ceremony cast aside by panic. “Come quickly!”

  “What has happened, Carin?”

  “The Baron’s men are in the healerie!” “What? Why?”

  “Three of the injured. They want to take them.” The Mother’s Daughter stiffened. “Iain.”

  But he was perfectly composed now, and he followed where she led. The halls were long and narrow in her vision; the lights were dim. She had seen this many, many times. “Carin,” she said sharply, “who is in the healerie?”

  “Edwin. Harald.” She hesitated and then added, “Rowan.”

  Rowan was healerborn. Emily Dontal lifted her robes and ran toward the bend in the hall that would take her at last to the bitter scene she had supervised so often. But as she rounded the corner, Iain her shadow, she saw that the doors to the healerie had been left open, and in the frame of that door, she saw a broad, bent back that she could not help but recognize. Melanna.

  She slowed; a collision and its subsequent lack of dignity would hold her in poor stead. Melanna did not seem to hear her; she had to touch the older woman to get her attention and when she did, she forgot why she wanted it; Melanna was so tense were it not for warmth she might have been a statue.

  “Priestess,” the Mother’s Daughter said cloaking her voice with the weight and authority granted the god-born.

  Melanna shifted slightly, providing barely enough space that one adult might slide past her. But her hands came up in fists, and as Emily stepped into the healerie, she saw that Melanna’s face was white, bleached white.

  And she saw why in an instant.

  Veralaan was standing in the healerie. She wore the deep, dark velvet that had been so

  costly, and her hair had been gathered above the nape of her neck; were she not so short, she might have been years older.

  Rowan was crouched beside one of her patients. The child. Why was so much that was bitter twisted around the lives of children? But the child was unconscious, and Emily thought it

  unlikely that he would wake before this was over. And it would be over. The Baron’s men were not to be denied. It was the harshest of lessons that the novices learned, and it was repeated over and over again, the birth and death of hope.

  Gathered just beyond the door at the other end of the healerie were the Baron’s men. They wore the surcoat of Breton, and carried the swords forbidden to any other citizen of the city. They had lifted their visors, but they did not remove them; they numbered eight. Eight men, to take two who would not wake and one who could barely walk.

  But she saw the subtle signs of hesitation in their stance, and she moved forward. Because she did, she could clearly hear Veralaan’s voice. The ceilings in the healerie did it no justice.

  “Why are you here?” Veralaan demanded, her arms by her side, her shoulders straight, her chin lifted.

  “We’ve come for those three,” the soldier replied. “They are wanted by the Baron.”

  “They are in the temple of the Mother,” she answered evenly, the words so smooth they bore none of the stilted effort that spoke of practice. “They came seeking sanctuary and healing, and we granted it.”

  We.

  “It is not yours to grant,” the man said. He shifted his blade.

  “It is the Mother’s right,” Veralaan replied. She lifted a slender arm, a child’s arm. “And you are not welcome here if you come to disturb the Mother’s peace. You can lay down your arms, or you can leave.”

  His eyes widened. So, too, did the Mother’s Daughter’s, but none of the men seemed to notice. Their attention was captive to the girl.

  Iain, she thought, you need no staircase here. But she walked forward until she stood to one side of Veralaan.

  “Mother’s Daughter,” the man said, a hint of relie
f in the words, “we have come to take three criminals to the courts of the Baron.”

  “But you have not taken them?”

  “They can’t,” Veralaan replied coldly. She did not look up to meet Emily’s gaze; her eyes were fixed upon the man who seemed to be in charge. “They are not noble.”

  “They serve the Baron—”

  “And I,” she continued, brooking no interruption, “am. I am Lady Veralaan ABreton, and I

  have ordered them to leave.” “Mother’s Daughter—”

  Iain had come up behind her, as he so often did. “Lady Veralaan is entirely correct,” he said, speaking to her, but pitching his voice so that the intruders might hear him. “The laws of the Barony are quite clear. Lady Veralaan ABreton is a noble, and she has given these soldiers her command.”

  “Only the Baron may command us.”

  “Then take the men,” he replied evenly, “and offer public disobedience and insult to your master’s only daughter.”

  The moment stretched out. The Mother’s Daughter waited. She had meant to put a hand on Veralaan’s shoulder, as both warning and protection; she would not have dared now. She saw the indecision upon the man’s face, and saw it, inexplicably, shift in a direction that she had never seen in all her years of service.

  He bowed, stiffly and angrily, to a seven-year-old girl. “We will take word to our Lord,” he said, just as stiffly, when he rose. “And you will see us again.”

  “Send my love and respect to Baron Breton,” Veralaan replied calmly, “and tell him that I

  look forward to his visit.”

  She stood in the same perfect posture until the men backed out of the healerie. The silence that surrounded her seemed like it might never be broken again. Not even the one man who was awake could speak.

  When the last of the soldiers had left the healerie, Veralaan turned to Rowan. “Please close the door,” she said quietly.

  Rowan rose instantly, and tendered the Lady Veralaan a perfect obeisance. She also obeyed. “Lady Veralaan,” Iain said, offering a perfect, shallow bow.

  She looked at him, then, lifting her chin to better meet his gaze. “Did I do it right?” she asked softly.

  “You were perfect,” was his grave reply. “But I think that—”

  “They are not allowed to enter uninvited into my home. They are never allowed to enter my home uninvited.” And then she walked over to the unconscious boy who slept on the mat upon the floor. “He’s younger than me,” she added quietly.

  At any moment, Emily expected the child to crumple, to show the strain of the confrontation.

  “What could he have done to my father, at his age? There must be a misunderstanding.” No one spoke. They should have. And if they did not, the Mother’s Daughter had that

  responsibility. But the girl’s desire for her father, her love for his memory, was something that, bright and shining, not even Emily desired to tarnish. It came as a surprise to her. Bitter surprise.

  Melanna ran into the room. But even Melanna hesitated awkwardly on the outer periphery of Veralaan’s sheer presence. “Veralaan?”

  “Lady Veralaan,” Iain said, his tone as severe as Emily had ever heard it.

  Melanna glared at the side of his face, but it was a helpless anger. She had watched her charge from the frame of the door, powerless before her power.

  “No, Iain,” Veralaan said quietly. “She is Melanna. She can call me whatever she wants.” And she turned to Melanna, “I’m sorry.”

  Melanna looked confused.

  But Veralaan, clear and confident as children could sometimes be, had no intention of allowing her the grace of confusion. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t with you when your son died. I could have saved him. You would be happy, then.”

  Everyone froze again.

  “You loved him,” she continued quietly, ”more than you love me.”

  Melanna bit her lower lip. She sank to her knees in the healerie, and she held out her arms— looking, in her roundness and her sudden pain, like one of the few perfect paintings of the Mother. “Not more than you Veralaan,” she whispered.

  Veralaan walked slowly into Melanna’s arms, and disappeared as they closed round her back. “Never more than you.”

  The Baron did not come.

  II.

  “LADY VERALAAN.”

  The young woman so addressed arched both eyebrows and rolled her eyes in mock frustration. The Priestess who attended her almost snickered. But she didn’t speak, and after a moment, the Lady Veralaan ABreton turned almost regally. “Yes, Iain?”

  “We have kept the Courtier waiting for as long as we can safely do so. He is, if I recall—” “Lord Wendham,” she replied curtly.

  “Lord Wendham, then, and if you know that much, you know he is seldom given to patience.”

  “He has come to visit me,” she replied coolly. But she rose, wiping bloodstains from her hands upon the apron that hid her clothing. “And I have duties in the healerie that I consider to be more important.” But for all that, she spoke quietly. “Mother’s Daughter?” she said at last, and Emily Dontal, silent until that moment, nodded. The years had aged her. But not unkindly.

  “He will wait, Lady Veralaan. Your reputation precedes you, and if you do not tarry for much longer, he will pretend not to be insulted.” She paused and added, “Rowan is capable of watching the healerie.”

  “Rowan,” the healer said curtly, “is also capable of speaking for herself, Mother’s Daughter.” She turned to Veralaan, and offered the young woman a brisk nod. “I can watch the healerie. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tarry.” Her grim eye fell upon the pallets, the floor, the crowded confines of the room that was her life’s work.

  Veralaan offered her a perfect bow. An unnecessary one. Rowan accepted it; long years had come and gone in which the arguments about form and necessity had at last been eroded by Veralaan’s tenacity. But as Veralaan left the healerie—by the interior doors—Rowan turned to the Mother’s Daughter, her gaze shadowed.

  “Do you know why Lord Wendham has come?” Emily Dontal frowned. “No.”

  “I believe I do, Mother’s Daughter. There will be a funeral that Veralaan will be required to attend.”

  “Whose?”

  “I’m not certain,” she replied quietly. “But there has been death in the streets in the past two

  weeks, and if I had to guess, I would say the funeral of one, if not two, of her brothers.” The Mother’s Daughter closed her eyes. But words didn’t require vision.

  “She’s learned more here than we could have taught her had we planned it all,” Rowan continued, speaking words that should never have been spoken. “She’s seen, every day, what is done in his name, by his men. Or by those who serve him. She knows. No one speaks a word against her father. None of us speak of the wars—not in the temple. But the injured who come to us speak when they dream. The dying? She tends their injuries; she knows how they were

  caused, and even why. She hears.

  “I was against her working in the healerie,” Rowan added softly. “From the beginning, even after she saved those three lives, I was against it. I do not know when that changed, Mother’s Daughter. But it has. Her presence here—it does something that my power can’t.”

  “What?”

  “It gives people hope.” “Rowan—”

  “Hope for the nobility. Hope for Breton. It is a bitter hope—to me—but not to all, and it has spilled from the temple into the city streets, traveling—like hope does—by whispers couched in awe. People know that if they can reach her side, they are safe.” She paused, and then added, “if she is taken from us, that will no longer be the case.”

  * * *

  At fifteen years of age, Lady Veralaan ABreton presided at her father’s side over the burial

  of two of her brothers. She wore the black and the white, and it was edged in the color and power of gold; she wore gloves, and a dress so fine it would have fed the temple’s beggars for two

/>   years. She was tall and straight, slender with youth, and her eyes remained utterly dry.

  The Mother’s Daughter was allowed to attend her, and accepted the insult conveyed with

  this permission. No other Priests or Priestesses were likewise allowed to be present. It was just as well. This close to the highest echelons of power, it was almost difficult to breathe. There was no grief offered the dead; their mothers had gone before them to the Halls of Mandaros, and their father? Grim and dispassionate. She offered no blessing; was asked to offer none.

  But she saw how the Lords of the Breton court circled Veralaan, and she did not like it. The girl herself, however, seemed above them; if she noticed that they eyed her like jackals, she paid them no heed.

  In fact, she paid only one man respect: the Baron Breton. And he was graceful and perfect in his reply. But distant as well.

  “It is a pity,” he told her softly, but not so softly that Emily Dontal did not hear the words, “that they attempted to prove their power when they had not yet mastered it.”

  “Lanaris is still heir,” Veralaan replied. It was the first time—the only time—that Emily was to hear her speak her brother’s name.