by NS Dolkart
A quake struck while Psander was thinking this, shaking the tower from the top down. Psander gripped her book in one hand and the arm of her chair in the other, waiting for the tremors to end. The quakes hadn’t just been coming closer together; the portion of sky affected had been getting larger and larger, its boundary lower and lower. Soon Psander heard a deafening crash, followed by a building-wide shudder. The tremors ended shortly thereafter, and she threw down her book and rushed to the stairs ahead of Phaedra, following them up past the lower bedrooms toward her workshop. Two turns past the bedrooms, the stairway ended in open sky.
“No,” Psander said, as much to the sky as to herself. The entire top of her tower had been displaced, moving far enough to the north that a good three quarters of it had fallen freely off the side of the building. The last quarter remained perched, broken and inaccessible, at the edge of Silent Hall’s new “roof.”
Psander’s workshop was gone. Her bedroom was gone.
Her time was running out.
15
Bandu
Bandu had hoped to leave Salemica immediately, but Vella insisted on waiting for her brother to come home first, and that delayed them by two days. They were not a comfortable two days. Bandu missed her quiet home, and her garden, and those poor cowardly dogs she trained for her neighbors. More than anything, Bandu missed being regarded uncritically, like a person and not some curiosity whose body needed comment. People kept staring, looking back and forth between Bandu and Vella to compare their ages, and whispering to each other. She even overheard one priest claim that island women never aged well.
Not everyone was disparaging. Chara asked gently whether her monthly bleeding had stopped yet, which it hadn’t. “It would be very early if it had,” Chara said reassuringly. “When the change does come, you’re in for quite an experience. Mine has been going for ten years now; you’re lucky yours will be shorter.”
“I want years instead,” Bandu said.
That stopped the conversation short. “Of course,” Chara murmured. “I didn’t mean… I was just trying to lighten it a bit. Bring up the good side, you know.”
Bandu felt bad. She should be more patient with Vella’s mother. But Bandu wasn’t good at all this talk, and she didn’t like being told she was lucky to be losing time, time she could have spent with Vella and Goodweather. Who cared if she missed some discomfort too, along the way? It was still part of living.
Still, it was no good to insult Vella’s mother. Besides, she did want to hear more about Chara’s experiences. She had only learned about “the change” in the last few years, having grown up without any friendly older women to tell her about these things, and she didn’t know what to expect. All she knew was that it was coming soon.
If it hadn’t been for the knowing looks and ominous comments that accompanied talk of “the change,” Bandu might have looked forward to the end of her monthly bleeding. She found it a nuisance. But as far as she could tell from the vague references she had heard, “the change” was not something to look forward to. She supposed that matched up well enough with what she knew of life in general. Nothing was ever easy.
It was hard on her, waiting these two extra days. She could not speak to the Yarek as she had intended, because its influence hadn’t spread to Salemica. The trees in the orchards did not recognize it when she asked – their roots connected only to the earth beneath them. She wondered if the temple of God Most High was blocking the Yarek’s expansion into the area, or at least deterring it from trying. After all, the ancient plant monster had been torn apart by God Most High once already, and must be wary of attracting His notice again.
She walked back from the orchards to the temple, greeted by the stares of the neighbors and the barking of their dogs. She didn’t mind – the dogs were barking more in alarm than hostility. She supposed it was the same way with the people. In any case, she could stare down either if she wanted to, and that knowledge gave her strength. She didn’t like these crowds. Never had.
It had taken her some time to get used to dogs. It was bittersweet working with them, because they were easily wolf-like enough to remind her of Four-foot, and not nearly wolf-like enough to fill his void. Four-foot had been a friend and an equal. Dogs… were not.
But they were social, and that was nice sometimes. They could give uncomplicated love, which was more than could be said for people. She just didn’t like how tame they were, how easily they submitted to the notion of belonging to people. You could befriend a wolf – if you were lucky, that is – but you could really own a dog. That bothered her.
It was wrong to own a creature that way. Bandu didn’t even own her daughter, whom she had made. Goodweather was her own person, and she was at least as influenced by Vella as by Bandu. She loved talking and telling stories, and she could read as well as any Dragon Touched child – Vella had made sure of that. Her magic was more like Vella’s than like anyone else’s – perhaps better at transformations than her Myma, but otherwise too unpracticed to do much more than breathe sparks. As for Bandu’s kind of magic, Goodweather was barely any better than Vella or Criton at speaking to animals or listening to the wind. Maybe Bandu wasn’t as good a teacher as Castle Goodweather had been.
Or maybe she hadn’t really tried. As much as magic had helped Bandu, it had also brought her unwanted attention, both from Psander and the Gods. Why should she press Goodweather into having a similar experience? For now, her daughter didn’t need any magic at all – she lived a safe, unthreatened life. If her abilities were untested, unpracticed, that was a sign that Bandu had given her the world she deserved: one that had never forced her to hide her claws, and never made her survival depend on anything beyond what her parents could provide.
No, Bandu hadn’t really pressed her, and Goodweather still acted toward magic the same way that Bandu had felt about reading: it was excruciating to practice, for a reward she didn’t even need.
Bandu couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. It was too early to tell whether she’d really protected her daughter from the Gods’ attention. If she had, she thought it was worth it. But even so, the weakness was a bit disappointing.
At last Vella’s brother arrived and they were able to say their goodbyes. She half-listened to Goodweather proudly complain about fasting on their way home, her mind preoccupied with the question of what God Most High wanted of her. Vella noticed and generously took on the burden of conversation, letting Bandu think her thoughts in peace. Bandu was grateful to her, for that and for everything.
When they got home, Bandu did not stop by the house but went straight out to the woods to where the Yarek’s voice was strongest. She wondered whether she ought to take Goodweather with her, to introduce her to the Yarek and teach her how to speak with it, but she decided not to. Let the girl stay sheltered a little while longer, at least. While Bandu was here to protect her, and still had plenty of strong years ahead, she would not burden her daughter with these powerful beings and all their nonsense.
Not that the Yarek ever made demands; that was what she liked about it. It was not like the Gods, always trying to make people do its work for it. But Bandu knew that the power to speak with the Yarek was a unique quality, and unique qualities like that were bound to attract all manner of attention. Goodweather could do without all that for now.
So she went alone, and sent her question through the trees with no witnesses but the birds. Among them was a large crow, but that couldn’t be helped – there was no way to chase it off without insulting Narky’s God and bringing even more attention to herself. Anyway, there was nothing secretive about her asking an old ally for information – everyone wanted to know what was going on.
That was what she told herself. But she didn’t like it.
The Yarek was slow to respond, but respond it did. Your world is coming to an end. The pieces of me are pulling together, and soon all will be destroyed. You knew this.
She had. Of course she had. “How do I stop it?”
“How long?”
Not long. This season will not come again.
“You can stop it. You can stop pulling.”
I can’t. Illweather wants these worlds to end, and Goodweather is too weak now to resist. I too yearn for the reunion, though the destruction will splinter me for eons. One day, when this world is only a memory, I will grow together once more and avenge myself upon the Gods. I will avenge you too.
Bandu began to cry. She had been abandoned before, too many times, but the Yarek was supposed to be different. She had grown it from the seed of Castle Goodweather – Goodweather, who had chosen to help her, to save her, even when she had been at her most helpless, even when she had had nothing to offer it but gratitude. Goodweather had always been kind. Its seed was supposed to be the same way.
“I bring you here to make this world better,” she said. “Not break it.”
The wind swirled through the trees, spraying her with droplets from the most recent rain.
Once a seed has sprouted, it will grow until it dies. It cannot become a seed again, nor can an acorn grow to be a flower. You planted me here and made me grow. It is too late for intentions.
Why did the Yarek want her to give up? There had to be a way to save her daughter, to save Vella. There was always a way.
“Why you don’t try to save us? You are afraid for something? Don’t be afraid. If you try, I can help. Tell me what to do.”
The breeze whistled through the leaves like a rueful chuckle. Enjoy the sunlight. It is warm.
16
Delika
Delika found this whole trip boring and awful. Criton didn’t want to talk to her about his conversation with Narky, and for once he didn’t want to make love either, so she had little to do besides speculate about what that horrible man might have said. She’d always thought Narky was awful and didn’t understand what her husband saw in him. Criton didn’t just tolerate his fellow Tarphaean – he respected him. He wouldn’t hear the man maligned by anyone but himself: one moment he’d be complaining about what a rude ass Narky was, and the next he’d be vigorously defending him from all comers.
Delika knew; she had joined in Criton’s complaints about Narky before and been shocked at the speed and passion with which Criton had turned on her. “Narky saved your life,” he had said, “and he saved mine at least three times that I can count. Don’t you dare talk about him like that.”
Now, traveling home with a surly husband, she felt trapped. What could she say to Criton that wouldn’t make things worse? She knew what Iashri would do: she would pout and say something to turn the conversation toward her hurt feelings, giving Criton plenty of opportunity to reassure her. Delika didn’t think she had the skill to make that work. She was too straightforward for that kind of manipulation.
She wished she had brought someone of her own along to talk to. Criton had brought Horda’s cousin Seslero and his friends Kudlon and Pitra, all strong men who could function as bodyguards if need be. She didn’t like the way they looked at her, like she was some delicacy that they wished Criton would share with them. She wished Criton had offered her the chance to invite people who made her feel good.
She didn’t know who she’d have invited, besides maybe Goodweather. Goodweather always made her feel capable, and nobody ever acted vulgar around Criton’s favorite daughter. Delika missed her.
She couldn’t take this. It was too lonely traveling all this way in silence. It might do her no good, but she had to speak.
She held off until that night, when they stayed at one of the many inns that had sprung up along the way to Arca, minor trading hub that it was. The privacy of their separate room let her get away from the men and their leers, which came as a huge relief. Their expressions as they watched her and Criton enter and close the door were bad enough. And the way Criton was acting, she didn’t even have the comfort of his arms around her.
“What did Narky say?” she asked as soon as the door was shut.
Criton turned his head toward her, but then shook it. “It’s not important. Political things you don’t have to worry about.”
She sat on the bed, which prickled and sagged. The straw mattress needed replacing. “He didn’t say anything about me? I don’t believe that. He doesn’t think I deserve you.”
Criton’s mouth twisted into a wry half-smile. “Well, that’s true in a way.”
His words hit her like a blow, until she realized from his expression that he hadn’t meant it the way it had sounded. He had still been talking about Narky’s opinion, not his own.
At least, she hoped that was how he’d meant it.
“He thinks I don’t deserve you ‘in a way?’ It’s not just in a way, Criton; he thinks I’m not good enough for you. He’s never liked me.”
“You’re wrong. It’s not that at all.”
“Oh yeah, then what is it?”
“He wants to protect you from me.”
Delika couldn’t help but stare at him, still standing there by the door. Criton met her eyes for a moment, but quickly dropped his gaze.
“He thinks you’re too much of a daughter to me, and I shouldn’t have married you. I should have let you live your own life.”
“This is my own life!” Delika protested. “This is what I’ve always wanted!”
Maddeningly, Criton shrugged. “Maybe, but ‘always’ hasn’t been such a long time. You’re still very young, and if I’d said no, you’d have had plenty of time to get used to that and find new goals for yourself. A lot can change. At your age, I still thought I was the only Dragon Touched in the whole world.”
“I don’t care!” Delika cried, and she hated the way her voice sounded so young and petulant, like she was making Criton’s point for him. “I was meant for you! God Most High brought me to you Himself. If you sent me away–”
“Nobody said anything about sending you away,” Criton said, finally coming to sit next to her. “But… maybe he’s right. I really was your father, in a way.”
Delika didn’t like where this was going. She could see her whole life slipping away before her eyes.
“You’re not my father,” she insisted, trying and failing to keep the sob out of her voice. “Why can’t I marry the man I want? Shouldn’t I get to decide what will make me happy? Why should Narky have more control over my life than I do?”
“He doesn’t,” Criton said, “but he’s entitled to his opinion, even if I don’t like it.”
“You’re sorry you married me.”
He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Criton?”
Delika’s husband stood up, still looking away, and began to pace. “When I was little,” he said, “my mother’s husband beat me. He did it on purpose, over and over again, and I wished someone would save me, but no one ever did. My Ma was too afraid of him, and no one else even knew I existed. I was afraid of him, Delika. I was so afraid of him. But I’m also afraid of becoming him. I’ve spent my life pretending he wasn’t…”
He trailed off, and when he looked into her eyes, she could see the pain on his face.
He swallowed; took a deep breath. “I’ve spent my life pretending he wasn’t my father. I’ve tried not to be anything like him. When I get angry… I keep away from my children, at least. Right? I know the rest of you find it frustrating, but I don’t want to do that to them.”
He choked and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Delika had never seen him cry before and she didn’t know what to do. “You’re a good father,” she said. “And you’ve always been good to me.”
“No, I haven’t. Narky’s right – I was more of a father to you than mine was to me. And I kept you locked away in my house, isolated, just like he did to me. I thought I was protecting you, but I was just hurti
ng you in a different way.”
“You never locked me up.”
“How many people your age do you know, Delika?”
Delika folded her arms and stared up at him defiantly. “I don’t need seventeen year-old friends, Criton. I have you.”
“Exactly. I failed you.”
She wished she hadn’t heard any of this. She wished she hadn’t asked him what Narky had said about her. Now everything she knew about her life was crashing down, and her own husband, the man she had loved almost her whole life, could barely look her in the eye.
“So, what now?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Now you’re just going to wish me away? If you don’t want me as your wife anymore, just say so.”
“Of course I still want you,” Criton said, “and I can’t change the past now, even if I wanted to. I’m… I’m happy I married you. I just feel guilty.”
“And you miss Bandu.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“I know you do.”
“First love is a special thing,” Criton said. “It was never easy with her, but it was different. She’s a remarkable person, Delika; there’s no one quite like her. She always made me feel powerless. I don’t miss that, but it was… it was something strong.”
“You’re my first love,” she reminded him. “And my last love too. It doesn’t feel good to watch you mooning over your old wife and then acting ashamed of me.”
He hadn’t missed her jab at Bandu; he frowned at Delika disapprovingly. “She grew old bringing me back to you. I’d have thought you could at least respect that.”
“Oh, so now you believe Vella too.”
Criton sighed. “I’ve had to reevaluate a lot of things these last few weeks. Yes, I think I believe her. Bandu never said anything about having paid a price, but she was angry when she brought me back, like she’d just done something she didn’t want to and she blamed me for it. If Vella says I’ve been living off Bandu’s years, she probably heard that from Bandu. God, that’s a terrible thing to know.”