“For a while,” was his bitter answer.
And two weeks later, when healers had come at the Baron’s command, and failed to emerge from the bowels of his dungeons, Lanaris ABreton passed away. Rowan was white with anger, and with a bitter admiration. “I would have healed him,” she told Veralaan, as she cut bandages into the long strips that were most useful in the healerie. “I would have healed him and been damned.”
“They didn’t.”
“No. And they will never heal anyone else as a consequence of their choice.”
“What does it mean?” Veralaan asked, in the pause that was wedged by anger between the gentle healer’s words.
“It means that Baron Halloran Breton is now without heir. He has a wife,” she added, “who has had no issue. This was less of a concern, before.”
Veralaan said, with a shrug, “He will find another wife.”
* * *
He needed one. He had come through war to rule the Baronies to the North, the South and the West; he owned the seas. His armies were like legend and nightmare, and where they traveled, they were not forgotten. While he lived, he held them all.
But not even Halloran Breton would live forever.
As Veralaan had so coldly said, he found another wife. But when she was pregnant, she died of poison. Many, many men perished in her wake.
He came to the temple one evening, with four men. He came on horse; the carriage was slow and noisy, and it afforded lookouts the ability to grant warning. But he did not enter the temple; he waited at the door as if he were simply another supplicant. If he did not wait with grace, he
did not wait with ire, and Lady Veralaan ABreton agreed in due time that she might speak with her father, Lord Breton.
He left his men at the doors, and they fanned out, brightly burnished fence beyond which, for the duration of the interview, no one living would pass. Emily Dontal led him from the door to his daughter. She did not ask him why he afforded Veralaan this courtesy; he did not offer. But he looked aged, in a way that she had never seen him aged. Not with the death of his sons, certainly, nor the death of many wives.
She led him into the small chamber, and when she made to leave, he lifted a hand. It was an imperious gesture, but he did not follow it with words; instead, he met his daughter’s level gaze. She nodded.
“Please,” he said, with just a trace of irony, “stay, Mother’s Daughter. What I say may be of concern to you in the future.” He did not add, do not interrupt. Nor had he need. She bowed to him, and moved to stand beside the wall farthest away.
Veralaan did not run to him; she did not smile or lift arms. She regarded him from a distance. If he noticed, he said nothing—and Emily thought it unlikely that he did notice. It would pain Veralaan, but she had grown strong enough over the years to hide pain from all but Melanna and Iain.
“I will be brief,” Lord Breton told his only living child, “because your safety is served best by brevity. Your existence here has long been known, but it has never been of grave consequence. I fear that this is about to change, Veralaan. There will be, among the Lords who serve me, men who will offer you much if you will consent to marry them. There are those who would not bother to ask your consent, were you not now in the hands of the Mother. They will not risk her wrath at the moment—if they choose to fight among themselves, they may well need the blessings of the Mother.
“I know them all. I know their weaknesses and their strengths. I have chosen two who I believe are likely to be able to hold what I have built. They could simply take it, but I think they are canny enough not to spend men where it is unnecessary. You are the bloodline,” he added quietly. “And therefore, your presence by the side of the right man will signal legitimacy.”
She looked at him. “I am to marry?”
“Not yet,” he said quietly. “But soon. You will know. Choose wisely.” He hesitated for just a moment, as if he might say something more. But he was Halloran Breton; in the end, he retreated in silence, taking nothing of her with him.
And when the door was closed, Veralaan turned to Emily Dontal. The presence—and the
absence—of her father cast long shadow; some hint of the wild fear she had shown as a young child now darkened and widened her eyes. She raised her hands, and they shook, but she did not bring them to her face; she held them out before her, turning them so that she might inspect their
palms.
* * *
The room was cold and quiet; the thin door was shut. There were chairs around the table, because they had chosen the dining hall for their meeting; it was one of the few rooms that could easily seat them all.
They sat in a tense silence, one punctuated by sudden motion, by words that almost demanded voice. Emily Dontal waited until she was certain that no one would speak.
“This is what we expected, isn’t it?” she asked them all. Melanna’s glare was tinged with red, although she did not cry. “This is why we trained her. This is why we taught her. She isthe Baron’s daughter. Did any of you truly think that she would spend her life here?”
It was an unfair question, for it had only one answer. “Iain?”
“I have studied the Lords of the Baronial Court,” he said quietly. “My sources—and they are few—have given me what information they can.”
“And you trust them?”
“Not at all. They understand why I have requested the information, and they seek their own advantage from the giving.” There was no bitterness in the words. “Of the men that consider themselves powerful, I think I know the two of whom he spoke.”
“And they?”
“What would you have me say, Emily? That they are good men?” Ah, bitterness there. “That they will be kind husbands?” And all of Melanna’s rage, but cultured, quiet.
“Yes, if it were true.”
He rolled his eyes. “In a different story, Mother’s Daughter. In a different world.” He drew the circle across his chest, a jittery fidgeting motion. “But if she must choose—”
The door that led to the kitchen swung open.
In it, hands by her side, stood Veralaan. “I won’t,” she said softly. She had heard everything.
“Veralaan—” Melanna rose almost blindly.
“I won’t. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know? One of them will be responsible for my father’s death.”
Ah. “Veralaan—”
“And even if they’re not, what difference will it make? I know their names. I hear them every day, in the healerie. I know what they do, in my father’s name. I know what they will do. Am I expected to leave the Mother’s heart so that one of them may rule?”
“If you do not,” Iain said, without fire, “they will war among themselves. And in that war, there will be more death than even you can imagine. You have some power, Veralaan. If you choose—”
“I won’t. I will never marry.” She lifted her hands; they were fists. “Why didn’t you train
me to wield sword, Iain? You know how. Why didn’t you teach me about armies, about strategy? Why did you—all of you—let me labor here, let me think I was making a difference?”
“You are making a difference, Veralaan.” “And when I leave?”
They did not lie to her. And, because they couldn’t, they said nothing.
* * *
Six months later, Baron Breton passed away, leaving behind one living child. She was a girl, and although in theory she was heir, it was tenuous theory; no one would follow a woman. But as Baron Breton had surmised, the Court did not immediately fall upon itself, although there were deaths. They decided, instead, that they could wait for Veralaan to make a choice. They signed treaties in blood to that effect: they acknowledged her as Breton’s only heir.
Word began to arrive in the hands of trusted emissaries from all stratum. Letters were followed by gifts, and gifts by requests for audience.
Iain saw that Veralaan’s wardrobe suited her station, but he also demurred when presented with these
requests; the Lady Veralaan, he said, was in mourning for her father, for her much loved father, and she could not entertain others until the period of mourning had passed.
It was not—entirely—a lie, although Veralaan did not cry or weep. She refused, however, to meet with these men. And for a year, they accepted this refusal with outward grace. But it was a
thin veneer.
* * *
The first girl who came to the healerie with a message from one of the Lords had two broken
arms. The girl could not be more than eight years of age, and she was weeping and frightened— but she was alive. Veralaan was not in the healerie, and Rowan and Melanna managed to keep this from her for a day and a half.
A day and a half was all it took for the next injured victim to arrive. After that, there were a dozen, and each man, woman or child carried a message for Lady Veralaan of the Mother’s Temple, writ in broken bone, in gaping wound: a simple greeting.
Veralaan tended them all herself; she insisted on it. She wept with them, and openly begged their forgiveness. It was the only time she would do so.
Iain said, quietly, “what one lord does, they must all try. But Veralaan, if you accede to these…requests…they will never stop.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked. She was bone-white.
“I can’t say,” he replied at last. “If they kill, the message will never reach you.”
“What would you have me do?” She turned to Rowan, hair now gray, skin as white as
Veralaan’s, and for the same reason.
“I—I can’t advise you, Veralaan.” She turned away. “Rowan!”
“I think Iain’s right. Start, and it will never end. All they will have to do is fill the healerie with the dead and the dying, and whoever can do the most damage will, in the end, be the one who holds the most power over you.” But her hands were bunched fists as she said it, and the cloth around her legs shook as she shoved those fists into her lap.
Melanna tried to drag Veralaan away, as if, for a moment, she were once again a three-year- old child. Veralaan shook her off without speaking. But her face did not regain its natural color.
“Don’t do it,” Ian told her, “If you do, they will know that you’re weak.”
“And is this how strength is defined?” she asked, staring at the closed doors of the healerie, her voice very soft.
“In the Baronies, yes.”
One day passed.
* * *
Melanna wept quietly, her voice shorn of bark, and therefore of strength. Emily put an arm around Melanna’s shoulder. “Why are you standing in the hall?”
“Veralaan won’t see me,” was the choked reply. “She sent Iain away as well, I’m afraid of
what she’ll do—”
Emily held Melanna tight. “We are all afraid,” she whispered. “I prayed. The night she
came, Melanna. I prayed to my mother for a child. For the child she has long denied me. I always wondered—I wonder still—if it is because of my weakness, my anger, my inability to simply forgive.
“I don’t know. Perhaps the gods do listen to those who aren’t born with their blood; Veralaan came after the prayer.”
“There is no god of Mercy,” Melanna said bitterly. “No. Only the Mother.”
“Where are the other damn gods?” Melanna snapped harshly. “Where are the heroes? Where are the men who could stand against those—those—” She lifted a hand to her face.
“You know the answer,” was the bitter reply; they were of a mind this evening. “But I—” “She won’t see you.”
“She will,” the Mother’s Daughter said, without stiffness or determination. “Because she sent for me.”
“Don’t—” Melanna gripped Emily’s arms. Her wide fingers would leave bruises there, but it was unintentional. “Don’t let her do it.”
“She cannot stand to see them suffer because of her. To see them suffer? Yes. Because she has practically lived in the healerie when she has not been learning how to be a Baroness, she has grown calluses, as we all have. But this is new. Until now, they lived because of her. She is young, and her heart is not scarred enough. I do not think she will survive this.”
“We should have done things differently. We should have—”
The door opened, and Melanna choked in her rush to contain the rest of the words. But she stared at Veralaan’s pale face. She lifted her hands to touch it, and Veralaan, instead of withdrawing, lifted her own, catching Melanna’s beneath her youthful palms.
“You are my mother,” she said quietly.
Melanna, already given over to tears, cried more of them. “And Emily, you, too. Amalyn, Rowan. Even Iain.”
“Not father?”
“No. I would never disgrace Iain by calling him that.” The words were bitter, but the bitterness was a ripple. “Mother’s Daughter?”
“Lady Veralaan.”
“I require your presence in the inner chamber.”
“The inner—” Emily’s eyes widened. “The Mother’s chamber?” Veralaan nodded quietly.
“Veralaan, the Mother is not of this world. She cannot offer you guidance, and she cannot protect you. She—”
“She cannot even hear me, if you will not intercede,” Veralaan said. “I know. I know all of this, Mother’s Daughter. And I know that Rowan is also right. But I can’t—I can’t go into the healerie again. I can’t—” She stiffened. “It won’t end with strangers, even the strangers to whom you’ve dedicated your life. If injuring—and disfiguring—outsiders won’t work, they’ll try insiders. We’ll lose Novices. I might lose—” For a moment, the younger Veralaan was there, in the wide eyes, the frightened eyes, of a child who had been abandoned by her father. “I’ve made my choice.”
“What choice, child?”
“I am not a child, Mother’s Daughter. I am Baron Breton, by the acknowledgment of the Lords of the Baronial court. And in the end, it was not a request. You will accompany me to the inner chamber.”
“There is no magic in the inner chamber, Veralaan.” “No, Mother’s Daughter.”
“Then why?”
“The Mother will hear you. And when you call her—if you call her—she will come.” She turned to Melanna and hugged her tightly. “Tell Iain—”
“I won’t. I won’t tell him anything. You want to tell him something, you have to be here to
do it.”
* * *
The inner chamber. The room in which the prayers of the Mother’s Daughter were made. It was a small room, with a modest ceiling, stone walls, and a small altar. Upon the altar was an empty bowl, an empty basket, a small candle; things that were entirely modest and ephemeral.
“It is not a very fine room.” The Mother’s Daughter came to stand by the altar; she did not kneel.
“What need have gods of finery?”
“Ask men who envy the gods the power they think gods possess,” was the bitter reply. “What do you wish me to ask of my mother?”
“I don’t,” Veralaan said evenly. “I wish to ask it myself.”
The Mother’s Daughter was silent for a long moment. “Veralaan—I can summon my mother. And in reply, she will summon us. We will walk in the world that is neither man’s nor god’s. It is…not an easy place to endure.”
Veralaan, however, was young; she would not be moved. “Call her.” And Emily Dontal did.
The mists ate away at the floor; they severed the walls from their moorings, until only the mists themselves remained. They were not gray, not black, not white, but all of these things, and interspersed with them, colors, muted and moving as if at the behest of strong breeze. But none of these things moved Veralaan; she endured them as if they were simply a matter of fact.
Emily was impressed.
But when the Mother came, Veralaan lifted chin and looked up, and up again, for the form the Mother chose was not comforting, and not small; she was tall as the skies of mist, her arms long, her shoulders wide. She came carrying no baske
ts; she came attended by no beasts of burden, no emblems of unearthly authority. She wore the workaday robes of a field laborer, and her face was lined by sun and wind.
“Daughter,” she said to Emily. “Why have you summoned me?”
“At the behest of one of your Novices,” was the quiet reply. “And no, Mother, I do not know why.”
“Ah, daughter,” the Mother said quietly. She spoke not to Emily, but Veralaan. “I have long watched you, through the eyes of my only child. What do you wish of me?”
“This world, this place,” Veralaan replied. “It is said that time moves strangely here.” “It is true. Time is of passing consequence to my children, but it does not touch me.” “And if I spent time here, would I age?”
“You are mortal.”
“If I were willing to age, would time pass beyond this place?”
“In mortal lands?” The Mother frowned. Emily could feel it as if it were weather, a storm. “Why do you ask this, child?”
If Emily’s use of the word had caused offense, the god’s use did not. “Because I have no
time. Beyond this place, your followers are dying because men with power seek my attention.” “They seek more than that.”
Essalieyan Chronicles - The Weapon Page 4