And it was, Maria knew, all she had in the world. Brief world. Her arms ached. She could hear Aviana say, "Mother you are too damn soft." Yes. She was.
And she hated the visions. Hated the gift. Hated the responsibility of being Voyani and Serra both, when all she desired was a home with the indulgent husband who had, quite probably, saved her life in every meaningful way.
But she wouldn't let her daughters ran from their responsibilities.
"If I could see," she said softly, "how these masks killed their wearers—"
"Not now, Serra Maria. Not now, but soon."
It took four hours. Four hours, through crowds that thinned suddenly as the East gate came into view. The gate was an old one, and the city had spilled beyond it, but it was manned now, and the merchant wagons had been stopped before they could pass the rebuilt guard post. The barrier between the new Tyr's cerdan and the old Tyr's Festival was wide and tall, for all that it was intangible.
The only moment of difficulty that they encountered was at the gate itself. A cerdan wearing the rayless sun stopped them; three others joined him before he had finished asking the first of his droning questions. They were armed, but they did not draw their weapons, and Maria, a merchant wife of some standing, prepared to wait them out. Ser Tallos was a man who navigated the bureaucracy with the skill of an eagle hunting desert mice; she did not feel threatened into foolish action by the mere presence of armed clansmen.
But her companion did not feel a pressing desire to play such waiting games, and perhaps wisely. Had she been any other Matriarch—Elsarre, for example—she would have actively resented the fact that he seemed to know more of Yollana's plan and mind than she, a Sister in kind.
Or perhaps it was because she lived in a world of men, and in it, men dealt with men and the women circled like beautiful birds of prey, or even vultures, watching and learning but never interfering without confidence of privacy.
For whatever reason, he spoke, this Northern bard, his perfect, fluent Torra such a joy to her ears she would have listened to him speak while the Tor burned. She wondered, not for the first time, who he truly was, and how he had become the Lady's servant. She wondered what his gift was when the cerdan, four men who were trained to be wary, accepted the explanation that, to her ears, was weak and fanciful.
But she was thankful for it; as a Matriarch prepared for difficulty she was a match for the four, but no Voyani sought Lord's light where shadows would do.
Kallandras brought the Lyserran Matriarch to the encampment slightly earlier than the agreed upon hour. She greeted the Havallan Matriarch as if it were an acknowledged fact—and not an unacknowledged truth—that Yollana was their leader. He wondered if she made the gesture so open as a reminder to Margret of the differences between them, but decided against it; Serra Maria was a practical woman; she had pride, but she was graceful, and she understood the practicality of necessity in a way that one not raised by clansmen could not.
The greeting she offered Margret was different; laced with sorrow and quiet respect. He understood, then, why the Voyani— even her own, perhaps especially her own—were so suspicious of her. All the scouring and scraping the winds had done she hid beneath a placid surface—and the Voyani were not a placid people.
Yollana said, "Well, Margret, will you build the heart's circle, or will I?"
"I think," the Serra Maria—and he thought of her this way, although she was indeed Mother of Lyserra—said quietly, "that this discussion is of a nature, Yollana, that such a fire should be built by eight hands, and not two. You have summoned us; we have come."
"Not all of us," the older woman said sharply. "Kallandras." Pepper, her words, and salt. He smiled. She called him the way most would call an errant child or a stupid but well-loved dog, and he came. "Where is she?"
"She?"
"Don't play stupid with me. You found Elsarre?"
"Yes, Matriarch, I found her."
"You gave her the token."
"Yes."
"Then where, in the Lord's fire, is she?"
"She's probably," Serra Maria said, with the faintest hint of a smile—and not a friendly one, "making an entrance." Her gaze rose to the sun's height; fell to the sun's shadow. "She will not be here for at least another half hour, if I am any judge of her." Her smile diminished slightly. "Matriarch, if I may be so bold, I believe it pointless to be angry; it is what she desires. If you offer her no reaction at all to being kept waiting in this fashion, she will have failed in her goal."
"And if this is more complicated than we think, she'll have cost us ours."
"She is young."
"She is an idiot."
"Yollana, I realize that she does not always keep your favor, but I must ask you—for this particular meeting—that you keep your distaste to yourself. She is rash, and she is impetuous, but she is also Matriarch, and if your summons is not an over-hasty reaction, she is necessary. Please."
"And I should bend?" Yollana snapped. "I should bend when that clansman's get—"
"Yollana, please."
Margret, notably, chose to say nothing. She was both youngest of the four and childless, and more aware of each as the shadows grew longer. She knew that Yollana expected Elsarre late; knew that she had given orders that Elsarre arrive early, and knew as well that she knew they would be disobeyed. It seemed pointless and circular, especially given that Elsarre, attractive and wild, had never been easily contained.
"Easy to say," Elena said quietly, when Margret mentioned it in passing, "but be as calm when Elsarre lords it over you as the youngest and the weakest of the four now that Evallen is gone."
"She wouldn't dare."
Elena laughed grimly. "We all have our weaknesses. Are we to gather wood?"
"No. We're to wait. Yollana and Maria have decided that the circle must be built by fire, and the fires blessed by four, if we are to speak freely, or at all."
Elena nodded. She was quieter than usual, which normally made Margret suspicious. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong?"
" 'Lena…"
Elena turned to her cousin. "I don't know how to say this, Margaret, but all I see is fire, everywhere I turn. Heart's fire, Lord's fire, dark fire. I—I don't want to do this. I don't want to be here. I've never attended a meeting of the Matriarchs before."
"You used to say—"
"Scorch what I used to say! Can't you feel it? It's in the air, we're going to lose our own to this, and we don't even know what we're doing."
Margret slapped her.
Hard.
She didn't think; she just lifted her hand and heard the sound as if it came from a great distance. It went on and on.
"I guess," Elena said, when the thunder of the gesture had finally passed, "You really are the Matriarch." Her smile was lopsided, but it was genuine.
"No," Margret said, shrugging. "But I'm the one who worries and panics, and you're the one who shrugs and laughs. Don't panic on me, 'Lena, or we won't survive it."
"Margret—"
"I mean it. You're heir, until I have children—and if we're gathering like this, there's a good chance I won't survive to—"
"Don't say that," her cousin snapped back, voice like a slap, hand raised. But Margret's temper was legendary; a true Matriarch's temper; Elena's temperament was legendary, but it wasn't the same thing. She let her hand fall. "Margret—"
"I'm lucky," her cousin said, looking as if she felt anything but. "I've got an adult heir. A partner. Don't fall apart on me, 'Lena."
"But I've been seeing—"
"I know. I know what the visions are like. I started them after I started first blood."
"I remember that. That was when Stavos was trying to get you to spend time with his nephew—"
"The great hulking idiot who was in love with his muscles and his little bits of dried body part trophies. Yes, I remember. He said we would make strong sons. I said we'd make no sons because I'd castrate him first." She laughed. Elena laughed.
&nbs
p; They struggled to hold onto the laughter for just that extra minute, but both of their glances strayed to the camp. The Lord had left his heights. The night was coming.
"I'm sorry, Elena," Margret said. "I should have warned you—but I didn't think—I thought I had the visions because I was her daughter not because I was her heir.
"I was younger, but I was prepared. I should have known you'd start having those flashes. You're like me. We are blood." She knotted her fingers. What she didn't say, what neither of them could, was that a third of the knot was missing.
But she said, "What did you see?"
Elena met her gaze without blinking and said, "Nothing important—but it was unsettling anyway. Come on. I think I see the Serra and her entourage arriving."
"She's already here."
"I was talking about Elsarre." Elena grimaced. "Maria, she doesn't put on airs, she just makes the rest of us feel old and wind-burned and ugly by nature. Elsarre is like the rest of us but does her best to try to rise above us and look as young and perfect as a Serra." She shrugged and shook her head. She had never cared for Elsarre.
Margret looked, and across growth flattened by wheels and heavy steps she saw Elsarre and her companion. She whistled. "I wouldn't travel with him," she said as she looked the slender, dark-haired man up and down.
"No? He's really pretty," Elena replied. "Really pretty. I wouldn't push him out of my wagon. Why wouldn't you travel with him?"
"I make it a rule never to be involved with anyone prettier than I am," Margret said with a laugh.
"Well, that would explain why you've stuck me with the position of Matriarch's daughter."
The slap that Margret offered was a much better-natured one; they started up the hill together. "Come on, Cousin," Elena said, as she picked up her pace.
"What are you hurrying for? Elsarre isn't going to."
"I know. But I don't want to miss a minute of Yollana's reaction when Elsarre finally does get to the circle."
Elena was to be disappointed. She had so hoped for a fight, something that might put Elsarre in her place—which place, it was lucky no one asked Elena. And it had started out with such promise: Elsarre had sauntered in—no other word for the casual gait—taking the time to be seen by the Arkosans in the fine, fine silks she wore. Her hair was still dark, and long; so much about Elsarre was rooted in vanity, and it would have been nice—for Elena, who couldn't stand her—if that vanity had been misplaced.
It wasn't, of course; that was the way the winds blew. Elsarre was striking, lovely, the lines of her face elegant enough.
Not only did she come in finery that would have been costly for a Serra, but she also brought a companion. Where the Matriarchal heirs were of age, they were expected to be included in the meeting of the Matriarchs that occurred during the Festival of the Moon. Elsarre's companion was not her heir, which was, strictly speaking, a breach of protocol. A breach that had also been committed—and it was clear that she knew this well in advance—by Yollana's use of Kallandras. This man, this newcomer, was, on the other hand, striking; pleasant enough to look at that Elena wondered why he didn't have better sense than to spend his life guarding Elsarre.
For it was clear that he was there as her shadow; that he put himself, subtly, between her and anyone who approached her save the Matriarchs themselves.
Perhaps his presence threw Yollana off—although Elena doubted that anything threw the old woman off—but the explosion expected by both Elena and Margret did not come. Yollana spared Elsarre a glance—half a glance—and then said, "We make the fire."
Elsarre was thrown off. "Pardon?"
"What we discuss today we discuss at the heart of a fire built by the Voyani as a whole. Gather," the old woman said, her words clipped, her tone so matter-of-fact and flat it almost defied argument, "and return."
"We are gathered," Elsarre said, stumbling over the words as if speech itself were an obstacle.
"The wood," Yollana replied, speaking slowly and as if to a fool.
The finest and most expensive powder in the Tor Leonne couldn't hide the ugly flush that stained the younger woman's cheeks. She started to speak, cut herself off two syllables into Yollana's name. She cast a cool glance at Margret, ignored Elena entirely, and stared for much longer at the Lysseran Matriarch. Then she started, as they had all done, to roll up her sleeves.
She was not dressed for the gathering of wood or the making of fire; she assumed—as Elena and Margaret had done—that the heart's circle was the Arkosan responsibility because it was the Arkosan camp.
"Elsarre," Margret said, before Elena could stop her, "I would hate to see you ruin those beautiful silks; the forest where the wood has fallen is dense. Might I offer you—"
"No." The second youngest of the Matriarchs removed herself from the circle, nodding her companion in the direction of the woods. ."I dress like a Serra, but I know my duty and I can do it without changing clothing."
She passed a scornful glance—if anything that short and dismissive could be called a glance—at the Lyserran Matriarch; the woman returned the most gracious nod Elena had ever seen.
It made the younger woman feel ugly and dirty and heavy and ungainly. She turned her head slightly and met Margret's eyes; then she burst out laughing, it was so obvious they were thinking the same thing.
"And what exactly does the Arkosan daughter find so funny about our current situation," the oldest and least gracious of the Matriarchs snapped.
Elena tried to swallow her tongue. "Nothing, Matriarch."
"Perhaps the Arkosans don't realize the gravity of the situation," she continued, showing them all that a woman with hobbled legs and the weight of years of responsibility for her family was a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, it was a fact that had never been in question. Elena could almost feel the cringe that Margret kept hidden.
"Don't just stand there like useless sons, go out and gather the wood!"
"Yes, ma'am," Elena said.
Margret cringed.
Yollana's frown grew extra creases and her eyes narrowed to slits. "You'd do best, Matriarch," she said to Margret, "to watch this one carefully."
Before Elena could say anything else, Margret grabbed her by the arm. "Wood," she said, in as severe a tone as she ever used with Elena, "now."
"And I, Matriarch," Maria said, "would offer you any aid you require if I did not fear the same tongue lashing the Arkosan daughter received."
"You'd get worse if you offered me that," Yollana said.
Maria smiled. "I will tend to the fire, as Elsarre and Margret do. I will leave you to your companion, and will thank you for his aid."
Yollana nodded. "We've got an hour," she said. "Maybe two. Donatella's cooking."
"Who is feeding the children?"
Yollana's smile was unkind. "One of the Arkosan men."
"The men? He is braver than many Lyserrans would be."
"Yes. The children call him Uncle Stavos." Yollana bowed her head a moment. "We sent the Northerner out on the roads, in search of safe passage from Raverra, but the Tyr has been gathering his army. We keep the children here, and we hate it."
Maria's smile dimmed, but her forehead didn't wrinkle, her expression didn't sour. She and Yollana seemed to be opposites in every possible way. "Yes," she said softly, "the future is in their hands, and we risk it. Your daughters?"
"Safe. Yours?"
"Safe as well, if that has meaning in this place and time."
"Good. Wood, Maria. I tire of your endless grace; it wears me down and makes me feel as old as I actually am."
She watched them go; Kallandras watched her face, the lines of it losing the mockery of true anger. In its place, skin cracked and weathered by as long a stretch upon the Voyanne as any Matriarch had been known to have, something pensive, something like fear. "Matriarch?"
She nodded. "I miss my daughters." It was unexpected. "And the children here, it's too easy to get attached to children, even when they aren't your own."
"In the North, the Mother—the Lady's harvest face—calls all children Her own. Perhaps you approach the wisdom of our gods, Matriarch."
She snorted. "No, just the age. And is it 'our' gods now?" She snorted again. "Come. You'll have to carry me if I'm to make good time. Bring the Serra with you."
"The Serra?"
"Teresa."
He paused a moment.
"And show some of those flashy Northern manners, Bard. Speak in a way that I can hear." She paused, grunting with the effort of pulling herself to her feet. "She does."
"She must trust you, Matriarch."
"That or be desperate. Or both, more fool she."
The Serra Teresa emerged from the wagon that had been appropriated for the Havallan Matriarch's use. Dressed as a Voyani, she was very like the Serra Maria en'Jedera: unable to shed the grace and the elegance of her upbringing when she donned the clothing. "Yollana," she said quietly.
"We go for the wood," Yollana said. "And the herbs; the flowers we want will not blossom here until sunfall, so we'll skirt night's edge and wait."
"You told the others to be here in an hour."
Yollana stared pointedly in the direction that Elsarre had wandered in, and smiled—a brief, sharp quirk of the corners of her mouth. "They can wait on us."
"Teresa?"
"Yes, Yollana."
"There, under those leaves."
The Serra who had commanded the best trained serafs in the Dominion bent, graceful and delicate in the motion, and turned over the heavy, low leaves of a plant she didn't recognize in the deepening blue of evening. They felt odd beneath her fingers; a texture of something at once supple and swollen.
"Be careful not to break them. What's beneath them?"
"Flowers, Matriarch; but small and white."
"Good. Take the leaves—break them at the stem; take care that they are otherwise unbruised—and the blossoms." She paused to curse. She cursed frequently. Her fingers were splintered from the exercise of cutting wood, and the Serra Teresa di'Marano, accustomed in all things to a grace and gravity of manner when exposed to the open air, found herself smiling.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 66