"But the Kialli are not Voyani."
"No, but the two things they fear are the Voyani and the Imperial half-gods."
Cortano's smile was small and chilly. "They are fools, then. And that is to our advantage." He turned toward the screens that, light and easily moved as they seemed, were still almost unbreachable when the proper words were spoken. "Very well. Mikalis."
She was fire and wind, sand and wind, sun and wind—but she was also the oasis and the coolness of dusk or dawn. Her hair was like sunset seen through a thin, brown silk, and her eyes, brown like most Voyani eyes, were flecked with green: life, there. Life, and he wanted so desperately to be a part of it he could almost taste it.
He had done everything he could to attract her attention; everything. It had been easy when they'd been children together. She, he, Margret—they were almost equals in the eyes of the clans. But Margret was Evallen's daughter, and destined to be the Matriarch of the clan. If death took her, than her aunt's daughter, Elena, would take the title and responsibility.
But he, Nicu, stronger and smarter and less quick to anger than either of the two women, would always be passed over. Because he was a man. Because he could not bear life. His mother, Donatella, much favored by Evallen and Tamara, would likewise be passed over.
He had never thought much about it as a child.
He thought about little else now that he had the full growth of his hair—although he kept the beard tightly cropped because Elena didn't care for length in a man's beard. Not, of course, that she noticed, that she ever noticed.
"Hey, Nicu!"
He looked up from the dirt in which he'd been absently cutting lines with the tip of his curved blade. Frowned at Carmello—his second cousin, father's side. Carmello was a year old than Nicu, and at one time—a long time ago—that had mattered. Not now; Carmello had stayed the same, and Nicu had grown up.
"What?"
"Heads up—to the East!"
Nicu swore. There were four men—clan crested, but not easy to tell which clan at this distance—approaching the loosely formed caravans. They walked with an easy gait, two abreast. Sheathed swords. He cursed himself, and Elena for good measure, and then took to the rim of the nearest wagon, using its frame to lend himself about four feet of immediate height.
He swore again.
Carmello's turn to frown and look up. "What's wrong?"
"West—farther down the road—and Southwest. Four men from each direction. I'd bet the Lord's balls we've got 'em coming in from the Southeast as well. Hey, Adam!"
Margret's younger brother suddenly appeared between the flaps of one of the exterior wagons; he was carrying two glass lamps on poles that were probably older than Carmello, Nicu, and Adam combined. "What?"
"Go tell Margret we've got trouble. Hey, Uncle Stavos!" Before Adam could ask a question—and Adam usually did, and usually from underfoot, Nicu was in action, swinging down from the wagon's height and into the thick of his men. If this wind didn't smell of fire and blood in less than an hour, the Lord was napping.
They had almost everything they needed. A wagon or two on the outskirts of the city—left there, for just such an emergency, because you could never trust the hospitality of the clans— would have to house the most precious of the caravan's possessions; the men and the women would walk, and could walk. Lady knew, they'd done it before.
She didn't speak of her mother; no one asked. The assumption that she was dead had spread through her people like wafting smoke in a strong breeze—but Margret had put them all into action immediately, and they knew they had no time. No time.
Questions later. She couldn't stop them from being asked.
This wagon was the hardest to leave: Her mother's wagon. Her family home. Everything she had ever loved that wasn't flesh and blood was here, and the shadows, mingling with sunlight, were an accusation of neglect and flight.
There, when her father had been alive before a Lyserran raid, she would sit in the older man's lap, her brother in hers, her mother on the bench beside them all, knitting or working thread. She couldn't sit still; not Evallen. But her children could, for him, for the father she remembered so clearly and Adam remembered so poorly.
He told them stories of the old days while her mother snorted. Told them about a time when the Voyani—when all of the people of the Dominion—had existed by the Lady's grace, not the whim of the jealous Lord. They had had a home, and hard work to be sure, but it was theirs.
"Alexi," her mother would say, mock-stern. "You fill up their heads with stupid stories."
"I," her father would reply, puffing his chest forward in mock willful pride, "fill their heads up with pride for their roots, and hope for their future, you foolish woman."
"Aye, well," Evallen of Arkosa would respond after a moment, "and maybe that's what men do. But I'll thank you not to spoil the daughter who has to carry all of Arkosa on her back—or her lap, some days—when she gets older. Let the little one dream."
He would whisper into her ear, "You dream, Margret. Without dreams, we're a small, bitter people who eat dust and get worn by the wind well before our time. Adam is a boy, with a boy's heart, but you're almost a woman, and women have always carried the Arkosans. They've carried the Voyani. Carry us somewhere grand."
He was gone now.
She hardly ever thought of him. Funny, that losing the wagon would bring back so much of his pipe-scented, wine-sweet breath, and so little of her mother.
"Margret?"
She half-turned, clutching the last small box that she would take from this wagon with her. Wanting that bench, where her father's ghost was still warm, wanting that flat, wide chest over which she'd slept for years, cushions, pillows, and Adam by her side. Wanting the world to go back to what it had been when the decisions were easy because they'd belonged to someone else.
Lady, she was spineless today.
"What is it, Tamara?"
"Adam came."
The box pressed into her arms as her grip tightened involuntarily. "Trouble?"
"Nicu sent him."
"What word?"
"Sixteen men, at least." Tamara drew breath. "But I think there's probably more."
"Armed?"
"Armed."
"Tyrian?"
Tamara did not answer. Answer enough, from her aunt.
"Shit. Get Elena. Tell them—tell them all not to stand against the clansmen for the sake of pride and a bunch of empty wagons.
"If we've got something to lose, we can fight for it. But we've got a fight already, and it's a big one. I'm going to need all the men I have here, and more, before it's over. You tell them. Make sure Elena tells them."
"Margret, I think you should tell them."
Margret cursed. Reached for her belt and grabbed the hilt of her mother's best sword. Tamara was right, of course. The box faltered in her arms. "I'll tell 'em. You take this, and you don't let it be seen."
"Margret—"
"I'll follow my own advice. I swear it by—" By what? By the heart of Arkosa? She didn't have it. Some clanswoman trapped on the plateau did, and for how long—for how long—Margret didn't know. Wasn't dark enough to pray; she didn't bother. The Voyani learned early that cursing was a lot more fun, and just as effective.
She was the Matriarch now, and no one really knew it. Worse, she had no way to prove it; no heart to unlock. The pendant was more than her history, it was her crown, her staff, her rod—it was the only symbol of office that counted. Because she could make it do things that no one else could make it do. Eldest daughter. Arkosa bloodline.
It gave her pause for a moment, because it made her nervous. Men with swords had always made her mother tense, and her mother didn't get tense without good reason. So much pride here, and most of it for good reason. She'd felt it herself, time and again: They were better than the clans. They were the true survivors.
But she didn't particularly feel the need to prove it by burying her short sword into the chest of one; she'd seen her s
hare of fighting, and she knew that the only rules between the clansmen and the Voyani were ones that ended in death.
Couldn't afford that, not here, not now. She thought that maybe one or two of the men could be winnowed here—they were trouble, and looked likely to get worse before they got better. But they were distant kind and that kind of attitude, before the fact, was exactly the type of thing that the clansmen had. Better to wait. Better to let the crime be committed for all to see.
Her hands shook. She didn't have the Arkosan heart, she didn't have her mother, and there were probably thirty armed men preparing a descent on the caravan as she wasted time striding from the remains of her home to the edge of their circle.
She saw Adam first. His eyes were wide, his sword was out, he was glancing from side to side as if in search of a commander. Of all the men in the caravan, he was her favorite—but sitting in her lap from the time you could sit probably gave a boy an unfair advantage. Sweet-faced, round-eyed, he came flying into her shadow, a frightened man-boy. A proud one.
One day, he'd have to be more than that. Probably soon.
"What are we going to do?"
"What wax does, when we have it. Melt."
"But Nicu says—"
"I know, and this is his watch. But this is bigger than this fight, and bigger than this caravan. I need you all, and I need you to do what we're best at. Survive." Her voice rose on the last word, because she knew the minute she started to speak that an audience had gathered. Waiting on her.
Aye, now was the time, and it wasn't the time. This was her first big choice. She weighed it.
And as she did, Nicu stepped forward.
Nicu, the cousin she'd grown up closest to. "We can take them," he said, his knuckles white around the grip of his sword. "We've got the wagon advantage, height where they don't expect it, crossbows—they're not carrying them—and the edge time buys us."
She nodded. "We can," she said. "We'd injure them. But we'd have to flee, and we'd lose men in the process."
"Margret—"
"I know it's your job, Nicu, and I know if anyone can pull it off, you can."
"Then let me pull it off. Let me prove it."
Behind him, her Uncle Stavos was standing, his expression almost completely neutral. But his arms were crossed over his chest; he looked bearlike, grizzled, his dark eyes giving no light. She hated that look. He was measuring her and her worth, and he was withholding his judgment—because this was a test, damn him, and the judgment might be some sort of clue.
Lady, they had no time. She rose as Carmello took his place beside—and slightly behind—Nicu, his face devoid of Stavos' neutrality. Another man, Andreas, joined Nicu, taking his left where Carmello took his right. Choosing, she thought. Choosing Nicu, making his stand. Andreas, short, stocky, dependable in a fight—but only just.
She put her hand on her hip—some unconscious mimicry of older Voyani women through the four clans—and said, "So this is it? This is your choice?"
No preamble; she was angry.
"Margret—" Nicu began.
She cut him off with the chop of a hand. "You think 1 like to run from the clansmen? From them? Is that what you think? You think I don't think we can win a fight? Is that what you're saying? You think I give you orders and you have to pull off your privates and sling 'em into little bags so you can run, tail between your legs, like some beaten dog?
"Is that what you think I'm leading you to? "
Nicu took a step back; Carmello and Andreas had already taken two. Adam, wide-eyed and pretty-faced, stood at her back, unmoving. She'd remember that later. Was vaguely grateful for it now. Her sword hand came up; steel flashed as she jabbed it into the empty air two feet away from Nicu's chest.
"Does this mean we fight?" he questioned, defiant.
"No, it means we do what I say."
"You aren't the Matriarch, Margret, not yet. And Evallen's—"
"Evallen's dead." She spit the two words out as if they were burning the insides of her mouth. As if they were burning her. She was dry-eyed now. "And the clansmen—or whoever it is who wants us to celebrate the Lady's Festival by their rules— also have Yollana. Do you understand what this means?"
But her first two words were a slap in the face.
Evallen. Dead.
She hadn't meant to say it, and having said it, she could not withdraw it. The Arkosan heart would have to be recaptured, and soon, or she'd lose control. But the heart had a way of coming back to its keeper; it had been lost once or twice before. The Lady made a path for it.
That was the story. She willed herself to believe it. Needed to.
"They killed the Matriarch?" Uncle Stavos' voice.
She met his eyes, the paleness of his skin unmistakable. "Yes," she said softly. "And I want them to pay. But they won't pay if we don't survive.
"Survival is what we do. It's what we are. We've lived with the desert for all of existence because we know when to stand against it and when to let it roar. You think I don't want their blood? You think my blood is that thin?" The sword came up, cutting a swathe through empty air. She was angry. "You think that, Nicu?"
He had been her favorite male cousin when they were growing up and the responsibility of the clan had rested—forever—on her mother's unbreakable shoulders. She met his eyes then, her face falling into an expression that spoke of that kinship, that special relationship, that history.
"If you think it, say it. Say it, and we'll have it out here, where it will cost us the most."
"You want us to run."
"I want us to vanish like shadow under bright light. We're not the Lord's; never have been. We're the Lady's. But we can find what we need in the sunlight, if we have to. I need you all. You're the men of the Matriarch's caravan. We're going to have to be here, and there—" she pointed up, and up again, to the plateau where the Lake lay nestled, "before this is over. Don't make me do this without you. Don't throw away lives we can't afford to lose."
He was silent. Shocked by her announcement. They all were. "And if we can't afford to let them take what we're leaving with?"
Her smile was the Lady's darkest smile. "Then fight, and with my blessing. And remember, while you're doing it: They're no blood of ours."
He took a breath. Then he tucked his sword into his sash. Shook his head, as if to clear it. "Margret—"
"You're my closest cousin," she said, relenting. Taking the free hand off the hip, where it was bunched more as fist than anything, she slapped his shoulder soundly. "My closest kin next to Adam, or you wouldn't have the important job. I trust you. Do it."
Then she lifted her hand to her face.
"We'll mourn," she said softly. "We'll all get our chance to mourn."
And they looked at her; she felt their eyes on the momentary shield of her hand. She was the Matriarch, for just that moment; she was what Evallen had been.
But it didn't make her feel any stronger; if anything, she felt weaker for it. She had used her grief, or the excuse for grief, to manipulate them all to do what she wanted them to damn well do. What kind of a daughter did that with her own mother's death? It made her soul shrivel in the heat of the Lord's merciless light.
"Margret," Uncle Stavos said, coming out from Nicu's shadow, his sword over his shoulder, "They'll be here soon, and they're probably coming for you, Matriarch."
She looked up at his face, at his sun-worn, care-lined face, and she saw neither shock nor grief. It came to her that he was one of the ones who already knew about Evallen's death. That he knew, that he accepted it, that she had somehow passed whatever test it was he had set for her.
"Uncle," she said.
He put his hand on the ball of her shoulder. "Margret," he replied softly, giving her, in a quick squeeze, all of his strength. "Trust yourself. You are your mother's daughter—and we need you to be that. To be worse, to be more, than that." He looked over his shoulder. "They're young," he said quietly. "And I'm needed. Take your own advice, Matriarch. You are Arko
sa, heart exposed or no."
Things would have been different if he hadn't seen Elena. Her sword was out and her hair, as usual, had escaped the binding knot it was so artlessly shoved into. Her cheeks were flushed, skin glowing faintly with sweat and heat. She was laughing. In all of this, laughing.
Oh, not at him; she would never laugh at him at a time like this. But she was the Matriarch's cousin, and until such time as someone was stupid enough to marry Margret—or until Margret found a husband she thought worthy of the clan, Elena was the heir.
They'd given her the children; Adam was by her side and she'd looped an arm over his still-slim shoulders. He was too stupid to know what she offered. Boy.
"Nicu," Stavos said. "Come. They'll be here in ten minutes; less if the crowd keeps thinning. The Matriarch—"
He pulled himself free. Stood there, his jaw clamped. "I'd give her anything she wanted," he said at last, the words rushing together. Uncle Stavos was no idiot; he looked past Nicu's shoulder to Elena of Arkosa.
"Aye," he said, "and if it weren't for your Aunt Ellia, I'd join you in mourning." He winced, that mocking half laugh of his finishing the words. "Nicu, come."
"What do I have to do?" Nicu continued, allowing himself to be led. "What do I have to do to even get her attention?"
"Nicu, women are strange creatures. We men, we know what's best in men—but women, they know nothing. My Ellia," he said, "she spent two years mooning after Pieter of the Havallans."
That stopped Nicu short. "Pieter? "
"Exactly. Told me he had poetry in his heart. Didn't matter whether or not his feet were on the road; he knew how to make a home of the Voyanne." The Voyanne: the homeless road. "I tell you now, I was almost ready to carry her off myself—but I liked living. Those two years were the hardest two years of my life. And," the big man said, laughing from the center of his chest, "I got what I wanted." He mimed a smack across the side of the head. "You be careful of what you want."
"How did you get her in the end? Why did she come to you, if she wanted him?"
"Lady knows," Stavos said. "If I knew, I'd tell you. Come on, Nicu."
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 14