“May his teeth fall from his face and stick into his feet,” I say.
“He has argued many times on your behalf,” the Lithos tells me, which once again leaves me at a loss.
“As part of our agreement with them, Ank has requested that I take an outsider as wife to strengthen our bonds and ensure a voice outside of the Pietra once Ank is no longer. The Lithos’s wife would wield great power, as would her children.”
“An empty promise, when the Lithos knows no woman.”
“I would know her,” he says, voice suddenly husky. “And she me.”
“Then your children will die when I do,” I say. “Be it by a blade or the slow passage of time. When I go, I take this land with me, Lithos. Once my body goes to earth, the earth itself goes. I felt the tremor when I pulled the Hadundun poison into me, and again when I snapped an Indiri neck in my hands. Do you think I am only quick in my sword arm and not in my mind? If Stille sails, I will give them time to be gone, then crush my skull upon the stones of my cell, knowing that my death brings yours, and no small comfort that.”
The Lithos watches me for a moment, dark eyes glittering in the starlight. “Or you can strengthen the earth beneath both our feet and give our speckled children great power and memories that their mother was loved and respected until the end of her days—may they be far away. Dara, will you marry me?”
My belly hollows out, and my heart follows. There is nothing between us but air and starlight, yet I feel as if a cord has been drawn tight, one that would bring me nearer to him. I have known desire before, not only for Vincent, and have spent the long spans in my cell denying that I had felt this for the Lithos in the brief moment when he tended to my arm. Yet I cannot do so now, when it is most important.
I have seen despair, the acknowledgment of death arrived, in the faces of many men. Some I have killed, some I have ended only when another’s arrow went astray, or blade did not swing true. But the Lithos wears the same face now, and it is my words that have the power to fell him.
And I have no answer.
Other men have desired me, said rough words or made crude suggestions. Some even were kind, and more than once my head was turned, but never did I consider diluting my blood on their account. I alone can make Indiri children and will not see them selling bread in a Stillean market stall.
“My children would wield power,” I repeat. “How so?”
“However you please,” the Lithos answers quickly. “Even to the point of becoming Lithos, should that be your wish.”
“A speckled Lithos.” I smile at the thought. “Something for the histories.”
“Indeed,” he says, and a silence stretches between us as I ponder.
“You would not harm the Stillean army,” I say, ticking off a finger. “Vincent and Donil would walk from the field as easily as sheep from a Hyllenian pasture.”
“Of course—”
“Not finished,” I say, raising another finger. “One Pietran lancia and one spada aid Stille in building ships, should they still wish to go.”
“They will,” the Lithos says. “Ank brings news that the Stillean queen’s spasms have strengthened. She will be carried to the horizon, or die.”
“Vincent will go with her,” I say, and the thought does not bring the expected wave of pain. “Many will follow him, perhaps my brother as well.”
“If he does not go, he would be welcome here, with you,” the Lithos says, and I nod once, curtly, disbelieving the truth of what is happening.
“Sanctuary for my brother, power for myself and my children, the lives of my friends,” I say aloud.
“Is there anything more you would ask?”
I shake my head, thinking only that it’s a better offer than Vincent’s own father made me in exchange for my maidenhood.
“Then I repeat myself,” the Lithos—Witt—says. “Dara of the Indiri, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I say, and my voice does not falter, though there is a tremor in my hand as it clasps his. We shake as men do, and he releases me.
“I want you to know that I will not . . .” He breaks off, eyes sliding to the ground. “I will not take you unless I am wanted,” he finishes.
Yet there is desire in his voice at odds with his words, and I only nod that I have heard, not trusting myself to speak, that he may not hear the same in my own.
CHAPTER 68
Khosa
Khosa reaches for the crumbled bread on her bedstand, takes a few bites, and chews slowly, swallowing with great care before attempting to sit up. The early-light illness can be managed in ways that her dancing cannot, and she has discovered small rituals that—if followed exactly—will allow her to be on her feet in a room that does not smell heavily of sick.
She stretches out, testing her body to see if it will be true to what she would ask of it today. Though the spasms come and go with little warning, she feels as if today she can trust her limbs enough to leave the bedroom. Khosa grimly looks toward the sea through the bars of her window, where the charred ribs of the burnt ship rest. Curious oderbirds circle, weaving through the spires of smoke that still rise from the wreck.
Vincent came to their room, one eye swollen shut, his hair reduced to cinders, bandages on his hands. She had cried out and gone to him at the sight, wrapping her arms around her husband. To her surprise, there had been no shiver in her skin when they touched, the slow practice of teaching her skin to know his having done its work. He had been in too much pain to notice, only rested his head on her shoulder for a second, held her face in his hands to explain that he would not be back for some time, and disappeared.
Only after he’d gone did she notice the tears he’d left behind on her shoulder.
The ships themselves are a loss, surely, but it is not like Vincent to weep over a thing done that cannot be undone. Khosa dresses simply and with care, slow movements that will not upset the babe inside of her or encourage her body to bolt for the sea, her mind for once on her husband and only him.
Yet she has her own actions to take. The ship that will carry them away may be a loss, but another will be built, and she will not stand idly by, dressed by girls, fed by others, while the kingdom she was born to protect and now fated to help lead slides into the sea.
Merryl snaps to attention when she opens the door, clearing the sleep from his eyes.
“The baby not sleeping well?” she asks.
“Not sleeping at all,” Merryl answers as they make their way to the library. “I spell my wife when I can, but when a new one wants its mother, no one else will suit.”
“Yes,” Khosa says, her hands dipping to her waist. “I’m sure that is true.”
Merryl pushes the heavy doors open for her to pass through, and Khosa critically eyes the progress they have already made together. Fallen bookshelves have been pushed aside, damaged scrolls mended, torn pages pieced together. Some bound spines lie open on tables to dry; a large crack in the ceiling caused by the earth shaking had allowed rain in from a stray storm. The maps that had hung from the ceiling and drifted over Khosa’s head while she muddled over Stille’s past now sit rolled in a corner, waiting for her to decide their future.
She chews her lip for a moment, thinking. The maps are large, but if she asks Winlan to secure hooks on the roof of a lower deck, they will not take up space that could otherwise be filled by Stilleans.
“The maps go,” she decides. “Take them to the loading room while I sort, please.”
“Is it wise to leave you alone?” Merryl asks.
“No,” Khosa concedes. “Perhaps we should call Rook and some others to make the trip?”
Merryl nods and heads for the corridor to find a messenger boy, or another guard, to carry the queen’s request while she surveys the room, wondering what step comes next. The Curator showed her the summaries, large compendiums that draw together pertinent facts from
all the histories, leaving anecdotal stories and smaller details behind. The summaries will go, of course, and she will see that they are loaded first. But she cannot bring herself to leave behind the histories themselves, with mentions of fiverberries and waterleaf rue, descriptions of sunsets that happened only once.
Merryl and Rook work alongside her as she binds stacks of histories with cord, books that have not been touched since they were inked now brushed off and worried over. The shafts of sunlight from the window overhead move across the room. A girl brings Khosa a tray of food when she finds herself ravenous.
“Should you take a rest, my lady?” Merryl asks, but Khosa only shakes her head, pushing the tray away when she is finished. A sense of urgency has gripped her, and she cannot shake it, though the breeze that slips in through the window is uncommonly warm and the sea at rest.
“I will work through the day,” she tells him. “Though you must return home at shift’s end. There’s a wife and baby who need you.”
He nods his agreement and turns away, but not before she notices his gaze slide to her midsection. Khosa turns to a stack of histories grimly, tying a knot with more force than necessary. Instinct has driven her hands to her belly protectively at any mention of danger, something she will have to amend. A bitter smile twists her face at the thought that her body has found yet another way to betray her.
Khosa shakes her head at the thought of betrayal, knowing that she is the bearer of that wrongdoing more so than any other. Dara’s capture and the burning of the ships has left no time for her to speak with Vincent, no gentle way to bring a hard truth to him. Yet she will, no matter what punishment lands on her head for it. He deserves to hear it from her own mouth, and she to bear the consequences.
She is lost to her work as her hands bind stacks of histories together for the guards to move, her mind on the hidden histories that rest in her chamber. They hold truths, but as Madda said, also darkness. Should it be known forever that Dagmar grew corpulent with age, or that Runnar’s children were born out of wedlock, and in her own time, that the man she married has no blood claim to the throne?
It is in her power to erase this from the record, leaving behind the parchment that links Vincent to Madda, no one the wiser except for herself and Dissa. Yet truth and faded ink have saved Stille from the wet death of a rising tide, and the ships that she can even now hear being rebuilt would never sail if not for shameful secrets that have been uncovered. Her mouth twists as severely as the bindings she ties, balancing loyalty and duty. She is so lost in these thoughts that she does not hear Vincent arrive and dismiss the guards, is not aware he is with her until he says her name.
“Khosa.”
It is quiet and sweet, as if her husband holds her as sacred as the common people, calling her the Redeemed and no longer the Given. She turns to him and finds not the man she married—confused and trepidatious, yes, but also hopeful and determined. What she sees now is desolation, the utter loss that paints his features destroying any conviction she had in truth when she sees what the world has done to him in a short time.
She goes to him, hands on his burnt face, her forehead touching his. “What has happened, husband?”
“I am betrayed,” he says, voice tight and still tinged with smoke.
Khosa goes still beneath his hands, the depth of her guilt rising up inside. What should bring her to her knees buoys her, allowing her to stand as he judges her, which he surely will.
“Vincent . . .” she begins, until he collapses into her, exhaustion driving him into her arms.
“Madda,” he manages to choke out, as Khosa pulls a stool over for her own support, her husband still propped against her.
“She did not carry the flame herself,” Vincent says, straightening. “But she knew the ships would burn and allowed them to.”
“I do not . . .” Words fail her, and confusion abounds. The guilt that had infused her spine leaves her, replaced by relief and weakness. She sags onto the stool, face lifted to his.
“I do not understand.”
“Neither do I,” Vincent shakes his head. “Daisy saw Ank in the corridor—”
“Ank the Feneen?”
“Yes, it was he who fired the ships, but Madda played a part in allowing it. It seems . . .” He heaves a sigh, disbelief weighing his words. “It seems she’s been aiding the Feneen and, therefore, Pietra.”
“Why would the royal Seer do such a thing?” Khosa, typically as expressive as the stone surrounding them, nearly scoffs. “She has nothing to gain from the downfall of Stille, no loyalty to the Feneen, and certainly none to the Pietra.”
“Ank is her son,” Vincent says blankly.
“I . . .” Khosa’s tongue moves as her mind rolls, but no words come, only disbelief. “Who has told you these things, Vincent? Surely they are lies.”
“Madda said as much to the guards when she was questioned,” he says, resting his forehead in his hands. “I have yet to speak to her myself.”
“You must.” Khosa puts her hands on his knees. “Urge her to recant these words, claim she has the roving mind of a Seer lived past her prime. Do not let her cling to these words, Vincent. For if she does—”
“If she does, she is a traitor to Stille,” Vincent says.
“But traitors—”
“Yes.” He raises his eyes to hers. “Traitors burn.”
CHAPTER 69
Vincent
Madda sits in the great hall, huddled in blankets. Vincent has looked upon her face his whole life, always in her tower room, the rounded walls echoing her shoulders, leaves of drying nilflower reaching for her hair as she sat, leaning over his palms. Here the ceiling is high above her, and this woman who had loomed large in his life seems very small. He seats himself across from her, eyeing the Scribe who has come to record her words and the guards who flank the door.
“She is no threat,” he says, dismissing them with a flick of his fingers.
They exchange a glance, one of them clearing his throat. “My king, the Seer is accused of—”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Vincent snaps, the flare of anger inherited from his father igniting.
The guards exit, but the Scribe’s pen remains poised, his eyebrow raised.
“I would speak to her in private,” Vincent says.
“With respect, no,” the Scribe contradicts him. “My duty is to the histories, not to my king.”
“And where do you think those histories will end, if your king is displeased? I can send them to water or flame if I choose.”
The Scribe’s eyes are stony, reminding him of Khosa’s when lost in pages. “Histories do not end.”
To Vincent’s shock, Madda erupts into laughter. “He has a point,” she says. “As long as time passes, there will be histories. Though perhaps we will find it difficult when there is no one left to record them.”
“You would have your words written?” Vincent looks to her, for the first time seeing Madda without shadows to darken her eyes or nilflower smoke to soften her features. She is old and frail, an oderbird fallen from the nest not at birth but at death.
“Why should I not?” Madda answers, unconcerned. “How many have I said to you in confidence, to your mother, to your wife, to your father? Why should Madda the Seer’s words always be lost or wreathed in mystery?”
“Is that why?” Vincent asks, ignoring the Scribe’s pen as it scratches. “Did you need to know something you set in motion had come to pass?”
“As opposed to guessing in the dark, looking to changing lines in hands sometimes cruel to me? No.” Madda shakes her head. “I need no great fame aligned with me, inked forever. I acted only as a mother.”
Vincent nods. “You told the guards Ank is your son.”
“He is, indeed.”
“Yet I believed you to be childless. There is no shame in motherhood, even of one bor
n with a caul as Ank was. You could have cut it away at birth, and none the wiser.”
“It was not my shame that sent him from Stille,” Madda says. “It was your father’s.”
Vincent closes his eyes against her. “Do not write that,” he instructs the Scribe.
“Write it,” Madda insists, before the Scribe can protest. “Purcell was not your only brother, Vincent. It should be known.”
“Half brother,” Vincent says, pinching his temples against the pressure that is building there. A deep part of him recoils at her words, wanting nothing but distance between himself and the man who killed his grandfather Gammal.
Madda opens her mouth as if she would contradict him, but glances to the Scribe and keeps her peace. At that moment, the doors of the great hall open and Dissa arrives, brushing past the guards with such authority that they do not question her presence. She takes a seat on Vincent’s other side, her eyes passing over the lines that the Scribe has already inked.
“What have you to say for yourself, Madda?” she asks stiffly.
The Seer shrugs. “Nothing you wouldn’t want me to share.”
Vincent looks from one woman to the other, measuring the tension there. “Madda has given a full confession to aiding the Feneen, along with her reasoning. Her loyalty was divided between her son and her country.”
Dissa nods, facing the Seer. “You understand the penalty for treason?”
“I do,” Madda says, and though her voice does not shake, her eyes slide to the fireplace, and the flames dancing there.
* * *
The pyre is built amid the charred skeleton of the ship, fresh lifesap dripping from boards newly cut to drop into the surrounding ashes. The steps are not sanded, for splinters will not matter to feet that will soon blister and burn.
Most of Stille gathers in silence, stone-faced. Some remain at home, shielding children from the sight even if there is no distance far enough from the screams that will come. The crowd parts for the Seer as she is escorted from the castle, blinking against the sun.
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