Requies Dawn

by J L Forrest

  Like her, the horses had never dwelled inside stone walls, and their anxiousness showed. Nyahri spent extra time with them, and they calmed her as much as she calmed them. The sun stood high, its rays penetrating the courtyard, though the wind carried a chill. The interior walls framed a square of blue firmament, imprisoned by masonry and slate shingles. One wall reflected Sojourn pillar’s ghost-fire of light and shadow, light and shadow.

  Turo nudged her shoulder.

  “No more for now,” she told him, drawing her fingers through his beaded mane and down his forelocks. She hefted her spear, walked back inside, and sparked the lamp with flint and a wad of hemp. The lamp’s dirty glow thrust back the darkness, and Nyahri made her way deeper into the fortress, though following for now the passages which connected the outer libraries.

  She shuffled forward, keeping near the walls. Twice she glimpsed the twin ghost-fires of Templarin eyes, but the librarians paid her no attention, acclimated to her feral wandering between these rooms.

  When she thought it prudent, she chose an inner doorway and followed it. Any hint of sunlight, filtering from high outer windows, soon faded.

  The deeper into S’Eret she went, the more she understood its pattern, like a sunflower’s floret. It spiraled inward toward the pillar, one chamber after another, smaller and smaller the closer to the center she traveled.

  The portals between these chambers sometimes opened in multiple directions, allowing movement through the fortress without following the spiral itself. Simple as this seemed at first, however, it turned S’Eret from a decipherable whorl into an ornate labyrinth.

  Nyahri sought its heart, far into its rocky shell, and there the air hung death-still, stale and decayed, sour on her tongue. Nearer the center, she circumvented chambers with no entrance, volumes isolated by the stonework. Yet always, given enough time to search, she found new routes, and the labyrinth yielded to her.

  Some rooms stored odds and ends, nothing made by Atreian magic, only the tools or clothing or weapons of men. Nyahri recognized no tribal styles, not even those of distant sea-dwellers whose goods had come to the E’cwnii by trade—like the beads adorning her clothes—nor the northerners’ ironworks or southerners’ pottery.

  One room contained roll after roll of woven blankets and rugs. For some minutes, Nyahri sat among them, wondering how she came to such a place.

  Have I not denied my people, she thought, not for the first time, turned aside motherhood and tent wivery to outdo my mother, to outdo every Ahtras who ever lived?

  Nyahri would never be Ahtras of her tribe. She had, she knew, made that decision the moment Suhto proposed marriage. It was not him alone she rejected, but everything he represented, the truth that to wed him meant a life like her mother’s and grandmothers’, priestesses who spent most of their lives in tents while others hunted, traded, raided, and ranged. Those priestesses called for the company and wisdom of the gods, including the Atreianii, and her mother had worshipped them above all.

  Nyahri had already outdone her mother, all her ancestors. For more than one turn of the moons, she had accompanied a living Atreiani, and what priestess before her could ever have said so? Yet Nyahri found that, while she wanted many things from the Atreiani, to worship her was not included in them. Sultah yw Sabi was neither goddess nor horror, was more friend than enemy, and her heart certainly beat.

  Nyahri touched one of the rugs, and it crumbled.

  Ancient, she thought, and nothing lasts forever.

  She recalled how yw Sabi looked at her during that first night, after Atreiani had healed her, when she could have ridden away but chose otherwise. Nyahri recalled, as they had arrived among the E’cwnii, yw Sabi’s over-familiar whisper, I will not harm your family. She recalled yw Sabi’s first fleeting touch upon her cheek in the guest tent of her father’s camp, yw Sabi’s words at Aukensis—I’m becoming quite fond of this one. Nyahri recalled the intense warmth of yw Sabi’s hand, holding her own, on the night they reviewed the planets—Mercury, Venus, Earth. She recalled their growing but uncertain closeness as they crossed from the mountains’ eastern slopes, the Atreiani’s flesh against her own, for the sake of warmth.

  I have wanted more of it, Nyahri thought, since that first night against her. I would have more of it now.

  She recalled, as well, yw Sabi’s words as they entered the Templarin fortress. I am considering her claime, yw Sabi had said.

  An odd word—claime.

  Nyahri stood and, as she swept the lamp from side to side, it sloshed. The oil ran much lower than she expected and, though the fought it, her panic welled.

  Gods accursed, confined spaces!

  Breathing faster, growing lightheaded, she went back the way she’d come, praying all the while to her gods that the oil might last a few minutes more. In time the air cleared, and she emerged into a familiar hall. A hint of sunshine bled from high windows, showing the way back to the library. She turned the corner—

  Kepler clasped his hands at his waist, his eyes glowing in the dusty dark.

  Nyahri recoiled from him. “Apologies,” she said, trying to edge past him.

  “Human.” He stepped in her way.

  She backed to the wall, planting her spear between them, not quite threatening.

  “You and your mistress,” he said, his tone polite, “have all you require?”

  “We do.” In the large hall her voice echoed thinly.

  He looked past her shoulder, the way she’d come. “I find it curious she hasn’t yet descended into the Citadel, don’t you? That she hasn’t yet requested I lead her to its entrance?”

  “She does as she wishes,” Nyahri said.

  “As she always has. What were you doing down there, in the black, with your sad little lantern?”

  “Only exploring.”

  “No more exploring for you. An Oudwni who found his way so deep into S’Eret, you know, would never be seen again.”

  “Do you threaten me? I am an Atreiani’s handmaiden.”

  He laughed softly. “Threaten? No. I merely mean that the old chambers are dangerous and one could be killed digging around back there.” He raised his chin, looking down his nose at her. “And you are not an Atreiani’s handmaiden—you’re no Exemplari, much less a Magistress’s claimèd, not yet. You’re only a human.”

  Nyahri held the lamp to his face and the flame overpowered the ghost-fire, turning his eyes to brown, revealing his pallid skin, a web-work of twisted veins beneath it. “And you are nothing but old meat—something which should have been dead a long time ago.”

  The lamp sputtered, the last drops of oil hissing against the bottom of the wick. Nyahri’s panic resurged, but she allowed none of it to show.

  One corner of his lip curled. “You realize, human, how inconsequential you are? You’re nothing to us and you’re nothing to her. We value the least of our books more greatly than we value you. I know who you are, E’cwni—some time ago your kin tried to burn our library to the ground. Cohltos’s chieftain, Shwn Pawl, knows this as well, and wonders why Sultah yw Sabi has not yet paid him the respect of a visit?”

  “I am not here to burn your books,” Nyahri said, “and yw Sabi owes no visit to anyone. Let me pass.”

  He extended his arm, leaning upon the wall, blocking her progress. “One more thing—after some consideration, we find it unaccountable that Sultah yw Sabi could be the only survivor of Abswyn. Carry that message to her.”

  “I will.”

  “Still,” he said, more softly, almost with a sigh, “if its destruction was accidental, and she’s come to descend and wake Sojourn and submit to the will of her brothers and sisters, she should get on with it. She’s been here a week—”

  Nyahri shoved past him, never turning her back to him, placing herself nearer the reading room.

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “if she had anything to do with Abswyn’s destruction, you best pray to those gods your people keep, because you’ll need their help. Neither we nor any
Oudwni will allow her to do the same here.”

  Nyahri scowled. “If my mistress wanted to destroy this place, she would have done it the day we arrived.”

  “She’s not your mistress, naïve girl, and you have no power here. You’re just a foal without a mother.”

  She backhanded his cheek, the blow spinning him. When he turned to her again, a bloodless gash marred his cheekbone.

  Motherless foal.

  She trembled, cut to her quick, the tender center of her anger. “Yw Sabi is in a mood to read,” Nyahri said, “and she would like to read in peace, without distractions, without your stupid assumptions, and she will do things in her own time.”

  He blinked, straightening his back. Kepler considered his words before he spoke.

  “In one possible future,” he said, “you just might find yourself a Magistress’s claimèd, you really might, blessed beyond your wildest imaginings. In another, your life will be horribly brief and I will be there at your end, as I was for the last one.”

  For the last one? Nyahri wondered. I think I understand. If it is to be yw Sabi and I against them, yea, still I would be content.

  The lamp finally died.

  Nyahri backed from Kepler, closing the short distance to the library’s entrance. It took all her willpower to stop her trembling.

  ◆◆◆

  Once back among the books, Nyahri shut the door. Yw Sabi sat as before, save her head tilted differently than it had been before, or her legs crossed rather than propped. Her book piles climbed higher.

  “What happened?” yw Sabi asked, without looking up from her page. “In the hallways, you raised your voice with Kepler.”

  “He does not trust you.”

  “Of course he doesn’t.”

  “He insulted me and I struck him.”

  “I’m sure he deserved it.” Yw Sabi marked her page and set aside the book. “I’m glad he didn’t strike back. Don’t believe the Templarii’s frail appearance.”

  Nyahri walked to her, stood beside yw Sabi’s chair, and leaned with her hip against the table. The Atreiani lifted her chin to meet Nyahri’s gaze, not much below the E’cwni’s eye level, even seated as she was.

  “What is it?” yw Sabi asked.

  With a moment’s hesitation, Nyahri ran her fingertips along a strand of yw Sabi’s hair, drawing it between thumb and forefinger. Lightless and reflecting no candle flame, nothing in nature matched her hair save night-falcon feathers, and even they reflected some luminance. The plaits whispered through Nyahri’s fingers, gossamer soft.

  If it is to be yw Sabi and I against all, Nyahri thought again, then let it be she and I, not halfway.

  “What is this about?” yw Sabi asked, lifting her hand to Nyahri’s, setting her palm on the back of Nyahri’s wrist.

  Nyahri remembered the last time yw Sabi held her wrist, the iron strength of her grasp. The Atreiani had been trying to protect Nyahri then, caring but harsh. Now those fingers communicated hesitant warmth, their caring much softer.

  “My mother spoke of you,” Nyahri said, “when she recounted the traditions. Your emblem does appear on ruins, all over the ranges. I have seen it, on stones in the north, the night-falcon bound in a square, flanked by feathers.”

  “Defaced, I am guessing.”

  Nyahri nodded. “It is said you were hated before the Eventide, your creations torn down, and your kind hunted you.”

  “Mostly true.”

  Nyahri coursed her fingertips to the end of yw Sabi’s hair, past her elbows, then back up to a length across the Atreiani’s ear. “What happened? Why are you so unwelcome here now?”

  Yw Sabi dropped her hands into her lap, still countenancing Nyahri’s attentions, but her expression grew colder. Nyahri focused on yw Sabi’s long, straight, depthless mane, by the moment more confident in her touch.

  “Why did your kind call you enemy?” Nyahri asked.

  Yw Sabi became her imperial self, one who answers no questions, and she sat back from Nyahri, enough to widen the distance between them. “There is no need to talk of it.”

  “Nay? Kepler all but threatens us openly,” Nyahri said, “we are ‘guests’ in hostile territory, gods know how many archers in this city, and corpse devils walk the halls with us, cook our meals, and look after our horses. It is clear to me, yw Sabi, the Templarii fear you but, just as you said with Dhaos and his men, they may turn on us. Will turn on us, I think, unless you do as they desire.”

  “I agree.”

  “I have been listening, mistress. Kepler asks you to power the Citadel, whatever that means. They wonder why you do not descend, whatever that means. They expect other Atreianii to awaken, they are anxious for it, and it is clear as spring water you will do anything to prevent this. You are delaying for some purpose only you can explain.”

  Yw Sabi folded her arms across her chest.

  “I know it,” Nyahri said, “you know it, they know it.” She leaned on the tabletop. “They are your inferiors, mayhap, but how long before they abandon politeness, mistress? I will fight no less for you than I would have when we first met Dhaos’s men, when we stood in Orÿs Hall with his beast of a father and two score of arrows pointed at us, or on the Lwvlnda Pass where you saved my life. I am still here, yw Sabi. I have not returned to the E’cwnii yet, have I?”

  “Make your point.” The Atreiani’s tone remained even, husky, and low.

  “I am still yours,” Nyahri said, remembering how yw Sabi rebuked her more than a month before when she spoke similar words, “but I might serve you better if I knew why your enemies hate you, and what you intend.”

  Yw Sabi drew a breath, held it, and considered. “Among other things,” she said at last, “I killed a great many of them.”

  “You did kill—” Nyahri questioned her own assumptions. “—other Atreianii?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Nyahri lowered her brow, fighting equally with dismay and a desire to understand—a goddess who killed other gods. The Atreiani’s purpose shown clear. “You mean to destroy Swyn Templr?”

  Yw Sabi nodded.

  Nyahri tensed and, under the weight of that realization, she scooted a chair from the table and sat. Her gaze centered on yw Sabi’s charcoal-dark eyes. “You destroyed Abswyn?”

  “I overrode its string core and allowed it to destroy itself.”

  Ay, Atreiani, I do not know what string core means, but I understand the rest. Nay, you did not kill Suhto with your own hands, but you would have slain me too, even yourself if I had not been there to save you—

  “As you slaughtered the C’naädii—” Nyahri shook her head. “You slaughtered your own kind too, long ago.”

  “Before my peers finally captured me.”

  “You could have told me sooner.”

  “I share nothing, with anyone, until I wish.”

  “Share everything with me, yw Sabi. Do you not need one person to trust, above all others?” Lofting the Atreiani’s own words back at her, seeing where such arrows landed.

  “You have been listening. Willful girl,” Yw Sabi said, as she had said once before, but this time more warmly.

  “Why have you done all this?”

  “Long ago, humans failed themselves and the world, and we Atreianii punished them horrifically for it. Not long after, we Atreianii failed the world too, and we paid little price at all. Hardly seemed fair.”

  “Riddles!” Nyahri closed her fists, shaking her head. “That is no explanation. Help me understand, mistress, and no lessons. Be clear!”

  “What did you say to me when we first spoke? What had your legends taught you about the coming of the Atreian devils to the world?”

  Nyahri remembered, “When they came, they found free men and women and they enslaved them?”

  “Before the enslavement there was a Culling—we killed more humans than you can imagine. What do you think will happen if my sisters and brothers rise again? To your father and sister? To Dhaos and all the Oudwnii? To anyone?”

 
“Why favor humans over Atreianii? Over your own kind, nay? What do you care, yw Sabi?”

  “All the Atreianii I ever loved, I could count on my hands.” She held up both palms, her fingers open, then closed one into a fist. “My enemies had killed this many before they stuffed me into the ground.”

  Nyahri leaned against the table, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “For all your seeming hardness, you mean to help humankind?”

  “As a whole.”

  “Yet you have done terrible things, yw Sabi, yea?” Nyahri sat back again, furrowing her brow. “To your cousins and to—to us, to humans?”

  “To my cousins? You think of my relationship to other Atreianii like your relationship to other E’cwnii. It isn’t so but, yes, I did terrible things to many of them.”

  Closing her eyes, Nyahri remembered an Aukensin girl’s blood-flecked lips. “Will you give medicines to the Oudwnii, to Aukensis?”

  Nyahri found the Atreiani beautiful, thin and even frail-seeming. Her frosty lips neither frowned nor smiled. Her straight hair framed her face. Her eyes, despite their blackness, appeared liquid and warm.

  “If I can,” yw Sabi said, “I will.”

  “Both good and evil,” Nyahri whispered, accepting the Atreiani must believe wholly in something else. “You killed Atreianii because of what they did—to humans?—but you were part of the killing of many of us, yea?”

  “Yes.”

  “What changed your heart?”

  “Time, in part.”

  “In part? You killed Atreianii because of what they did to those you loved? It is more complex than a matter of time, yea? Who did you love most?”

  “I—” Yw Sabi lost focus, her gaze in the middle distance, and she spoke only a name: “Ekaterina.”

  As Kepler said, Nyahri thought, soon after we arrived here.

  “Tell me?” she asked.

  Yw Sabi said nothing.

  Why does she not tell me?

  Nyahri stood and turned away, clenching her hands at her sides.

  How many suitors did I turn away in these last two years? Nyahri wondered. How many before Suhto? How many from the E’cwn tribes, from the Inwn, all those men come and gone? I wanted none of them.