It took all of the self-control he possessed, so close to Scarran, to be treated so by a mere mortal. His fingers sharpened; his teeth elongated; he could feel his skin losing its mortal softness. He fought; he fought it back. The feeding would come, and soon. He could wait.
"Nicu," he said again, putting power into his voice.
The man who was more boy than not stopped.
"Did I not honor my word? Did I not give you a weapon with which you could slay enemies? How have my actions betrayed you?" His voice contained intent and power, and this pretty young man with the darkened eyes and the gaunt cheeks had prickly edges of desire that cut him no matter which way he turned.
It was really almost too easy.
"Your children are important. I will make you a hero, but you must listen, you must listen with care."
The suspicion was there. The boy was wild with desire and the certainty that he had no worth, but he was not quite stupid. And the children were the one thing—or so Ishavriel had managed to glean from his limited study—that mattered to the Voyani. They were called the heart of the tribe.
He intended to give the boy a moment of heroism.
Staged, planned, crafted.
He had decided that the youngest of the Matriarchs would survive the slaughter because he needed one Matriarch. And he had decided that the young man who had survived the loss of her trust by the grace of her affection—for he watched them all, making his plans—would win both back. Would have to before he was of use again.
"What do you want?"
"Want? I want to help you, Nicu. I want you to have what is rightfully yours."
Nicu winced. "Your back isn't scarred," he said at last. That surprised Ishavriel.
"Yes," he said softly, "it is. You cannot see the scars, they are so old, but I made my choices, and I paid for them; we all must." He turned to leave, and then turned back; the man's eyes, unblinking, were upon him.
"I came only to warn you," he said. "The Lord of Night is coming. You've heard the whispers, surely. You know that's why the Matriarchs have gathered."
Nicu's lips thinned.
An overstep on Ishavriel's part. He was outsider, and in the heart of their camp. He immediately changed his posture—an act of will, again, a test of the resolve that was his plan—and let his shoulders slump slightly; bowed his head and upper back.
"Forgive me this intrusion," he said softly. "I did not realize the effect the sword would have upon your Matriarch. I thought, perhaps rashly, only of your people. And I am outsider; I do not know their ways."
Silence. Long and hard.
"But I will give you no weapon; not this time. You have a sword, I have been told, that bears your adult blood. I offer you only a shield that will protect you from the magic of your enemies—or from the enemies of your Lady. You may take it or you may set it aside as you desire. You may run to the Matriarch and tell her of what has transpired.
"I leave the decision up to you."
He stepped back as Nicu continued to stare at him, his expressions changing so rapidly no single emotion had dominion. No fear. Ishavriel did not smile; instead, he bowed low, and let the cape he wore slip open. Beneath his arms, held wrapped in a heavy, rough cloth, was indeed the shield of which he spoke. It pained him to touch it this way; uncovered, it burned, and the fire that it started could not be stopped by anything but magic wards. Obtaining the shield from the room of antiquities had injured one of his most powerful lieutenants; it was, however, meant both as a test of his lieutenant's power, and a way of diminishing some of that power while Ishavriel was not within the Palace to guard his political interests personally.
He wondered if the mortal would appreciate the enormity—and the danger—of the gift. The construction; the design; the magics, all ancient, and all inimical to one of his kind. To one, in fact, who was not mortal. A gift manufactured in the forges of the Cities of Man, taken as trophy—and as object of study—by the Kialli before the rift.
The perfect gift.
Be a hero, he thought, dropping his difficult burden and stepping as far away from it as he could. "I must leave. My time is short. Decide for yourself what to do, Nicu of the Arkosans. But I will say now that you will know when the moment is right to use what you have been given."
Nicu's eyes fell to the cloth-covered curve in the grass. Hunger there, but caution and pain as well.
Lord Ishavriel winced; his attention was taken from the boy, from the grass, from the interplay of hunger and desire, of depthless shame and uncertainty, by something powerful. He felt it. The youngest Matriarch was almost at the center of the cross.
She had been wounded before.
She had been wounded before, and more deeply than that, and she hadn't had the cloth on hand to bind herself with. Elena had seen it. She knew it for truth; hadn't she been part of the same fights? Hadn't she suffered similar wounds? Hadn't they held each other up while help came, held each other's hands, spoken while they could as they waited? Yes. There was no way that Margret could be so weak so suddenly unless there was something wrong with the blade. The blade was poisoned. It had to be. The wind was wild where she stood, and the Lady's hand, sharp-nailed on her shoulder. But so, too, was the foreign bard's.
"Do not," he said, his words so heavy with the weight of command it did not occur to her to disobey them—not immediately.
But he was outsider, and she was family. She shrugged herself free.
And was caught again before she could take another step. Margret was struggling. She could see it; she wasn't even certain that she was going to make it with that bowl to the center of the cross.
"Let me go," she said, without looking at the stranger.
He didn't answer. And anyway, there was only one answer she wanted: His hand off her shoulder. The Voyani were not a patient people. She counted one, two, and then in silence, she drew her dagger.
It was out of her hand and across the grass before she could move, silvered by the turn of flat in the moonlight, but the hand on her shoulder—as far as she could tell—hadn't shifted once.
"Let me go," she said, letting the snarl transform her voice.
"You cannot go to her." He shook her slightly to punctuate the words. It was the most animation she had ever seen from him, except strictly speaking, she couldn't. See him, that was. She turned, and this he allowed, lifting his hand. "You do not understand. The wood was cut, yes, and the wine and water and unguent of forest and earth placed upon pine to summon the fire. But the fire that you are summoning here is an old fire; the protection you demand demands its price. Your cousin is not bleeding to death."
But Elena watched her slow crawl. She knew what Margret looked like when she was in pain, and she was in pain.
"But you—"
"She is paying the price that the fire demands. She will survive it."
Something in his voice. Elena's eyes narrowed. "Or?"
He raised a brow. "You have… exceptional hearing."
She turned around again. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Do not force me to stop you, Matriarch's heir." Something in his voice was as black as the Lady's longest night. As merciless as the Lord's glare, but hidden by cloud, by pretty features, by a soft voice.
"Don't force me to choose between your threat and my cousin," she shot back, although she was chilled. She'd seen death before, and she recognized it here.
"Let me force you instead, Matriarch's heir, to choose between your cousin and the Lord of Night; your cousin and the children.
"Help her, break her concentration, take her away from the giving, and there will be no fire."
Elena could be swayed by pretty faces; a weakness of hers she readily admitted to anyone who would listen. But this man's beauty was shorn by the ice of his words into starkness that she could not trust. His words, however, were true. She felt them settle and take root, and she turned away from him again to watch.
At least the argument had served one useful purpose. It had spared her the w
atching.
Margret was almost there.
She had never had to crawl this far. Not physically. Not emotionally. Her mother, as mothers will—or as she assumed they all did—had put her through her tests; endurance, patience—she failed that one frequently, but her mother was indulgent enough because, well, it was in their blood—and subterfuge. She had crawled because crawling was a way of hiding. She had crawled because it was a way of moving when too injured. She had crawled when her mother had dropped the bones, branches, smooth stones, and rings that she used to make herself look either mysterious or gaudy, depending on how much the clansmen could be taken in by appearances, her face to the ground because each of the fallen items was precious, some bit of history, some important artifact of Voyani life.
And she had crawled as a baby, a time of her life so long past memory that only the motion itself remained true: the struggle to get from one place to the other without falling face first or having one's knees slide out. Why? She couldn't remember. Maybe to get to her father's side, her long dead, much-loved father; maybe to get to her mother's—because surely her mother might pick her up, might offer her comfort? Might drive away the terrible, terrible fear that pressed her into the ground as if it were a foot getting heavier and heavier against her back.
Inch by inch she spread her blood against that wood. She had never been much for smell, but there was salt in the air, and wood was so tangy in scent, so fresh, it overpowered her a moment. But only a moment. Fire was for burning, and she had to get to the center.
She was Margret of the Arkosans.
If she couldn't walk—and she couldn't—she'd crawl. And when her body became too heavy for that; when the lights had dimmed until she could follow the wood by touch and smell alone, she dragged herself along, lifting the dish with care, moving, always moving, toward the center, dabbling her fingers in blood that had cooled but had not yet become sticky and tracing its pattern—her pattern—into the grain.
Lady, she said, as she crawled, or she thought she said it, she couldn't tell for sure whether her vocal chords had the energy to express the sound, Lady, we are Your servants; the darkness is coming. We have cleaved to the road; we have followed the Voyanne into the darkness and out of it. If it leads us into darkness again, we will follow; we will fight it, we will never again be its subjects, slaves, or allies.
So swear the Arkosans, so swears Margret of the Arkosans as their Matriarch.
I ask for no mercy. I offer no mercy. But as we enter the darkness, save our children. Show me a sign that they will see light if they follow the road. Show me a sign that the road is our home that the road leads to home that there's life if we follow your road.
The wood ended. Suddenly. Just like that. The trail she had laid was gone; the center open before her. All she had to do was offer the last of her blood, and the fires could be summoned.
Give me, she tried to open her eyes, and to her great surprise, succeeded. She lifted the dish, holding it as far out as a shaking arm would reach. Emptied it. Refused to let it fall to earth where it might somehow be damaged. Give me a sign.
Light flared as she squinted into its radiance. The Matriarchs had not yet summoned the fire, but Margret had summoned something very like it: A nimbus of white light that burned vision as it spread upward and out like a beacon in a darkness that she had been afraid would be without end.
A sign.
From the light a hand reached out, and a voice that sounded very, very human said, "I'm not sure where we are, and I'm not sure who you are, but you look like you could use some help."
She started to say, It's not allowed, but the hand seemed a sign from the Lady.
She took it; felt its very firm grip, and felt strength come down through this unknown woman's palm into her own. Shakily, she rose, blinking back light as light died into night sky and the stillness of held breath.
"I'm sorry," the woman said quietly, "I've been traveling a very strange road, and I didn't know where it would finally end." She had hair, dark and tangled, like a Voyani's, but her skin was paler. She was short; too short for a miracle, but there was something about her eyes as she looked around the clearing, taking in the four women and the carefully laid out logs that led—to her.
"If you don't mind, I think I'll get out of your way for a bit."
Margret was on her feet. "I—I don't think I mind," she said shakily. She looked to the other Matriarchs.
But the young woman, the stranger, eyes narrowed, looked beyond them all. And her eyes stopped, her expression shifting between surprise, pleasure, and oddly—relief.
"Kallandras!" she shouted.
The Northern bard that Yollana trusted did something strange: He smiled. "ATerafin," he replied, nodding quietly as his strangely soft voice carried the distance. And then, "Jewel. Well met."
"Which means," was her dry response, "that you knew we were coming. Gods, I hate that woman."
"That woman?" Margret had to ask.
"Evayne," was Jewel's curt reply. "And if Kallandras is here, I have no doubt whatever that you've already met her."
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
"She has indeed," Evayne replied. "I am acquainted with all of the Matriarchs in this generation, and in the last."
They looked up, almost as one person. Four Matriarchs, and those who had been chosen to witness or aid in the building of their historical fire.
Her cloak was dark; it stretched in either direction like enemy shadow; her hood was low. Margret had not seen her many times in her life, but at no time had she looked like this. She was frightening. The youngest of the Matriarchs almost embarrassed herself by taking a step back. Almost. But anger held her in place.
Because this woman had robbed her of both mother and heart, and she never came without demanding—and receiving—her price. And what did they receive in return? Cryptic comments. Assurances that there were no other choices.
It was too much.
And it was Margret's camp.
"What," she said, almost losing the word as this Evayne turned, hooded, to meet her gaze. But anger was her shield and her prize; she held on to it; held it up. "Have you come for now? Have you finally come to give us the help that you've demanded from us for as long as I can remember?
"Or have you just come to make sure another one of us dies?"
"Margret," Elena hissed, but Margret was past caring. It was as if anointing the heart wood with her blood had cleansed her of something. Not fear, not exactly. But something.
Blue robes twisted in the stillness of the night as if the wind was wild and dangerous. It seemed that that would be the only answer the midnight woman offered. But when she spoke, Margret did take that step. "There is death, there is death coming."
Kallandras, the bard from the North who seemed to serve all interests that involved Evayne, stiffened. "Evayne," he said.
"The road," she said softly. "It is wide, this year; darker and longer than it has ever been."
"You traveled—"
"Do not ask. I have come with my message and my warning. I have come bearing gifts."
"And the price?" Margret said, although her voice was shaky; not the voice she would have liked to use. "The price for those so-called gifts?"
"It has already been paid," the woman responsible for her mother's death said. Margret wondered by whom. And she heard a strangled voice ask the question, and it was her own. She hated this woman, for just this moment, at just this time.
"Shall I tell you their names?" Evayne said coldly. "Shall I tell you the names of their families? There were four, Margret. Do you want to know what their deaths were like?"
She stepped back. Stepped back. Stepped back.
But Yollana stepped forward until they were shoulder to shoulder, and although it was a breach of etiquette, Margret was almost grateful to have that bent back to hide behind.
"No, Evayne a'Neamis. We have no desire to know how they died. Or their names. Or their families' names. The
re will be deaths in plenty to weep over. She is young. She has not been tested. Do not test her here, where we have power."
"Yollana, you do not seek to threaten me? I have traveled a long road, and there is a power here that will take that threat gladly."
"Then take it," the old woman said, the steel in her voice. "But there are four, Winter Lady, and we are stronger together than apart."
"I don't understand," Elena said. "She's our—"
But Kallandras' hand on her shoulder was so sharp she lost voice. He said, "Evayne." And then, when she did not turn her attention from Yollana, said again, but in a different voice, "Evayne a'Nolan." Her head turned. Her robes, wild twist of night, turned with her. "You have swallowed Winter, remember it. You have swallowed Winter."
Her breath changed. It became labored; the breath of someone struggling to breathe. She looked up, and they could see, for just a minute, that her eyes were of blackness; they were not human. But her expression was—aged, and tortured—she reached out with a shaking hand, and they saw it: fear. That was worse than menace. Worse than darkness.
She said a single word, and it was a prayer.
"Kallandras! "
He spoke, his word a song, the tone and texture of it so beautiful that Margret could forget the sense of raw power she felt when the words left his lips. She wanted to weep with sorrow, sudden and sharp, because she could not understand a single word.
The words were all for her.
The darkness did not leave her. But the wildness left her clothing, the struggle to breathe became breathing, simple and spare.
"I have not much time," she said, in a voice that was menacing but somehow almost normal. "Take these. Do not light your fire until the night itself. Gather your children, all of you—if they reside near the Tor—gather them here, and light fire only when the sun has fallen completely from sight. Send out those that you trust, and those with the power; you must search out the four Founts that sit on the points of the city circle, even as Matriarchs, you stand upon the points of this fire. Those Founts must be whole; the waters cleansed with these," she took from her robe a crystal decanter with a silver stopper, and a small clay jar. "There will be circles of gold or brass; they must be from start to finish unbroken. These things must be done before the night of the Festival Moon, for it is upon that night that your enemies will be at the height of their power; they must not catch you—as they expect to—unprepared.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 68