Buried Heart

by Kate Elliott

  The night before the trial I’m restless, so I walk the Avenue of Triumphs. At the base of the steep incline up to the king’s palace I pause. From high on the hill drift the sounds of revelry.

  Our success rests on my gamble that Kal will do what is right for Efea, that he sees the justice in our cause. That he wants out and knows this is the only way. And if I’m honest, it rests in part on my belief that he still cares for me.

  What if I’m wrong? What if he can’t do it and means to betray me as Father once betrayed Mother? Yet it isn’t the wine of power and the glitter of ambition that might weaken his resolve. It’s the enormity of what I’m asking of him, a repudiation of his entire life up to now, turning his back on his own family. What if he can’t go through with it? What if all I’ve done is walk the Efean rebellion into a trap? Will I be able to tell before it’s too late?

  I won’t know until the trial. That’s the gamble we’re taking.

  For the first time since I’ve returned to Saryenia I make my way to the eight-spouted spider fountain at the heart of the Warrens. Heart Tavern is crowded but eerily silent. People watch me without offering a single greeting although a couple of women touch their wrapped or braided heads with expressions I am sure show envy for my elaborate knots. By the oval terrace I enter the inner passages. At every turn I am inspected and allowed to pass by armed Efeans.

  One soldier about my age can’t stop glancing at me so I finally acknowledge him.

  “Honored Cousin?”

  He whispers, “I love your hair. My grandmother used to wear hers like that.”

  I flash him a kiss-off gesture, and he chuckles and flashes it back. Between one breath and the next a sharp and solid sense of comradeship soaks me like an unlooked-for cloudburst. We share a destiny. We are together, all of us.

  A modest curtain separates the last passageway from a bowl-shaped courtyard surrounded by high walls and a circular terrace of seats: the heart of the Warrens. Beneath a mural depicting the Mother of All the seats are crowded with dames and elders and so many people that I’m dizzied at the energy pouring off them amid the flare of lamps. For an instant I think some of them have taken on the faces of animals and then I realize the officials are wearing masks.

  I take a quick step sideways into an alcove to catch my breath and almost trip over a boy. He’s sleeping on a blanket on the ground. Three crows roost, one on his leg, one on his hip, and one on his thin shoulder. A cloth binds his sightless eyes.

  “Jes?” A shape rises beyond him.

  “Polodos! Is Maraya here?”

  “Yes, and I don’t thank you for insisting she walk into such danger in her condition. But she was certain your message said for her to come to the city.”

  “If we fail, every part of Efea will be dangerous for her.”

  I step out to see what the dazzle of lamplight obscured from me. Seated upon boxy stools inlaid with faience, the Honored Protector and the Honored Custodian face the dame council and an assembly of elders and officials: Inarsis in his lion mask, Mother the butterfly in all its graceful colors, with ribbons stirring in the soft night breeze. The honored poet stands between them, holding a braided whip against his chest. Of course he isn’t wearing a mask, since it would conceal his handsome features, and Ro never passes up a chance to be the center of attention. He is the voice of the Mother of All.

  The tiered aisles are lined with soldiers on guard, some wearing spider scout gear. I recognize Dagger’s silhouette, lean and honed. A tall woman at the top of the stairs turns as I step forward to get a better look.

  “Jes,” she whispers, but she doesn’t step out of line; this isn’t the place or time for hugs.

  “Mis? What are you doing here?”

  “We had to sneak the general back into the city.”

  “But Inarsis is already here.…”

  That’s when I see him. He’s wearing the same humble spider scout’s gear as the others but he walks with the pride of a man who has nothing left to prove except that he can be trusted to protect the ones he loves. Among so many Efeans he stands out with his golden-brown complexion and stocky build laced with muscle from years of soldiering. His tightly clipped hair sticks straight up as if he’s just pulled a dusty desert scarf off it, one that would conceal his features. There’s a streak of dirt on his right cheek that he’s not had time or water to wash off.

  The silence in the courtyard and the judgment of the Efeans settles into my bones.

  Even the city beyond seems to have fallen away, as if nothing exists except the man who kneels and sets his sword on the ground. Inarsis nods regally in acknowledgment but Mother sits as still and stares as straight ahead as the figures painted on the wall.

  He does not address himself to her but rather to Ro-emnu. His Efean is heavily accented by his Saroese birth but he knows the language even if he rarely spoke it at home.

  “I ask for nothing except their honored permission to fight for Efea.”

  Tears run down my face.

  Even yet he does not look at Mother, makes no plea to her, asks for nothing in exchange. Perhaps he’s playing the long game, ever the strategist. Or maybe he really is fighting for Efea because it is the right thing rather than what he needs to do to get her back.

  The Honored Protector picks up the sword and returns it hilt first, trusting Father not to stab him on the spot. “You are welcome among us. Our war council will begin.”

  Dismissed as if he is a mere adjutant, Father retreats from the center and stands amid the Efean captains, hands clasped behind his back at parade rest. On the other side, three clerks are keeping an account of the proceedings, scribbling away, and I am not surprised to see Maraya among them. There’s a dab of ink on her nose, and she’s squinting at the page with prim satisfaction as she writes. I’m not sure if it is Father’s presence, Mother’s coldness, the general atmosphere, or my brilliant plan that pleases her.

  Inarsis pulls his mask back to sit atop his head but Mother keeps her face hidden, her back ramrod straight.

  “Let the four Challengers who will run this trial come forward,” says Inarsis.

  Ro looks up at me so quickly I realize he must have noticed me come in. I offer him a nod as I descend, and his wry smile answers me, as if he guesses at the words I’ve not said and the choice I’ve made.

  Dagger kneels next to me and gives me a friendly kiss-off. Pythias, an Efean man who ran for Garon Stable, is the third adversary; he nods a greeting. The fourth adversary surprises me: he is the stocky older Saroese man who protested my victory in my first Challenger trial, angrily accusing me of cheating. Yet here he stands in the heart of the rebellion, for what reason I cannot know except that someone whom Inarsis trusts vouched for him. But it makes sense. Adversaries meet as equals whether they are Saroese or Efean.

  “You know your part,” Inarsis goes on. “Now disperse to your respective stables so there can be no chance that in the morning you are seen to arrive in company with the others.”

  Mother says to me, “Please wait, Spider.”

  Obediently I retreat to the alcove where Polodos is seated on a bench, peeking out at the proceedings as the boy sleeps. I sit beside him.

  “Why aren’t you clerking?”

  “My Efean isn’t good enough yet. I can’t record that fast.”

  Mis slides back into the alcove. We embrace.

  “Take care, Mis. Be safe tomorrow. Are the spiders ready?”

  “Your father has taken over command of our unit. I must say, he’s a harder taskmaster even than you.” Before she goes back out she adds, “I brought your Fives gear. Your sister has it.”

  When the council is over, Father departs with the spider scouts, not once speaking to Mother. As Maraya enters the alcove she is huffing from climbing the stairs. We hug, although her huge belly gets in our way.

  “I’m ready,” she says. “But I have to tell you, Jes. What I found in the crow priest’s gear that you brought me… and what I’ve learned from Sandos… it
’s astounding.”

  “Sandos? Oh, the crow priest. I’m surprised you trust him with our secrets.”

  “He’s a boy who had his eyes burned out because he performed well in a blindfolded test of agility. It’s remarkable what a little kindness and my perfect Saroese diction will do to draw out a vulnerable child. He was so young when he was dedicated to the temple that all he remembers is he had an older sister who cried the day the priests took him away.”

  “Where is Gargaron’s son?”

  “My exceptional scholarly skills were no match for Amaya’s allure. He stayed in Ibua with her and Denya. Anyway Mother didn’t want Menos here. Menos knows who he is. He would try to escape.”

  “So he’s being held as a hostage.”

  “Of course he is a hostage. Efea has been held hostage for a hundred years.”

  Ro slips inside the alcove and shamelessly smiles at me. Why am I blushing? I look away as Mother arrives, draws the curtain, and pulls off her mask without preamble.

  “Jessamy, is your father’s presence here your idea? Inarsis did not have the courtesy to warn me in advance. I feel I am being worked around, and I don’t like it.”

  Sandos coughs in his sleep, and at once Mother says to me, “Shhh!” as if I were the one talking in a loud voice.

  “Doma, will you have something to drink?” Polodos asks her.

  “You’re on edge, Mother,” says Maraya. “Please sit down.”

  “Efea needs Father’s help now that the original plan didn’t go as expected,” I say.

  She looks away with a frown, and I can see her collect and set aside her anger, just as she’s always done over the years. After a pause she takes my hand.

  “My dear Jessamy, you must take care tomorrow. I objected to your part in this, but I was outvoted. In case of trouble I have specifically asked Ro-emnu to get you safely out of Saryenia, as he did before.”

  “Mother! I’m not ten anymore. I’m the one who led the revolt at the mine! And most of this plan is my idea!”

  That’s when I see in my mother’s face the months of endurance, the shock and the misery, and the way fear has made her irritable. She lost the life she built over twenty years, the life she gave everything to. It’s no wonder she’s willing to place herself at the forefront. Her Efea is gone. What’s left for her is a future she hopes to shape through the lives of others.

  “I love you, Mother,” I say.

  She embraces me for the longest time, then sets me back and examines me searchingly. “Who did your hair? It’s an old-fashioned village style, a little complicated and showy. It suits you.”

  I’m slightly taller than her now. When did that happen?

  “You must live, my daughter. That is all I ask when I pray to the Mother of All: that my children, and the land of my birth, can live the lives that should be rightfully theirs.”

  29

  The Royal Fives Court is built of marble and hung with painted silk tapestries depicting famous adversaries of old, Saroese and Efean alike. A Fives court is the only place in Saryenia where Patrons celebrate Commoners who have dared and won. A buzz of lively and nervous chatter rises from inside the walls. I make my way along the servants’ lane of the outer court amid a group of Efeans carrying baskets of grapes and figs for the kitchens. The highborn crowd must be fed the sweetest and freshest of delicacies. Spiders patrol the exterior, two crouched motionless by each of the main gates.

  I glimpse latecomers in the arrival yard scurrying out of their expensive carriages. Highborn women with hair done up in the most outrageous ribbons and bows take comically mincing steps toward the gates, followed by their impatient lords. Sons follow in order of age, oldest at the front and youngest trotting at the rear. Not a single family has more than two daughters.

  The gates will be closed when the king and queen make their entrance. Everyone must be in their seats or be locked out, the worst possible fate for people wanting to claw their way into the favor of the new royal clan.

  As an adversary I descend through a different gate, one crowned by carvings that depict each animal of the menageries and guarded by men wearing the badge of the firebirds. No onlookers crowd the adversary’s gate today to cheer our entrance, because the highborn are intent on making their presence known inside. But despite their absence, the stairs have been strewn with blossoms of jasmine. Kal has arranged for this offering, I’m sure of it. As our feet crush the blooms their rich scent envelops us.

  Two Garon stewards by the entrance mark my spider mask and my gear of ordinary brown, but they don’t try to stop me. We’re still on the court, Gargaron and I. He thinks he’s an obstacle or two ahead, and that’s exactly what I want him to think.

  The attiring hall is unusually crowded. If this many adversaries ran we would be at the court for three days. But of course they aren’t all adversaries. Few speak; the atmosphere is one of tense expectation.

  As I push my way toward the ready cage a man says my name.

  “Spider.”

  Lord Perikos stands by a locked door that leads into the undercourt and its secret mechanisms. He nods at me, but I hesitate before I go over to him. Adversaries are never allowed to speak to any of the Fives administrators or engineers.

  “What did General Inarsis say to convince you to join our cause?” I ask.

  He answers in a somber voice. “It was the king who persuaded me. Of course he mentioned my son, but that’s not all we discussed. Some years ago my wife and I dedicated a daughter to Eternity Temple. When the holy priestesses were expelled from the temple we went at once to the queen’s palace to find her, but she wasn’t there. We were told she was given the honor of accompanying the oracle to the tomb of Clan Tonor. King Kalliarkos revealed to me that she could not have been among the oracle’s attendants. The priests did not even have the decency and courage to admit that she is dead, and that they killed her.”

  “I’m sorry.” The heat of his sadness fuels my resolve. I wonder if it was her spark that walked Lord Ottonor to his tomb, if the vitality of the nameless girl lives on in Wenru. “I thank you for what you have done for us today.”

  “I have done as the king requested. You’ll see some familiar patterns, Spider. May fortune be with you.”

  He retreats into the undercourt. Through the briefly opened door I glimpse a passage and beyond it a dim underhall packed with people.

  A fanfare announces the arrival of the royal households. No boisterous cheers greet the king and queen, because the highborn are above such enthusiastic displays. Even Father tempered his behavior after he was raised to the rank of captain and stopped socializing with the companions of his early days. I see now that Mother, wanting him to be happy, went along with his efforts to turn our family into a mimicry of a highborn Patron household.

  “First trial!” shouts the custodian at the ready cage.

  It’s time for the last obstacle in the fight for Efea.

  I’m ready.

  I’m not surprised when I am given the same belt I received the other time I raced at the Royal Fives Court: the brown belt, for Pillars. Like the flowers strewn at the entrance, like Perikos waiting to reassure me, I feel Kal’s hand in this. He’s sending me signals, telling me that I can trust him.

  I have no choice but to trust him now.

  I follow my custodian up a ladder into the dim passageway that leads to the start gate. From above only a thin skin of conversation buzzes. It seems awfully muted. Do the highborn Patrons suspect? Have the lords come armed, as they would normally never do on the Fives court? What if I’m wrong? What if Kal intends to betray us? Will I be captured and killed? Will the rebellion die here, put to rest for another hundred years?

  Or what if Kal doesn’t have the strength I believe he does? What if he simply doesn’t have the courage to go through with it? But that’s what Gargaron would say, the man who never believed his royal nephew had the toughness to succeed.

  I won’t follow Gargaron’s lead. I’ll know when I see Kal with
my own eyes.

  We halt beneath the closed hatch, where I rub chalk on my hands and shoes. The gate-custodian and my custodian nod at each other. They are conspirators too, although they are Saroese.

  “Why do this, when you know what the outcome will be?” I ask them.

  The gate-custodian shrugs. “I work for Clan Rikos. I do what Lord Perikos tells me. I trust him to take care of his retainers.”

  The other custodian says, “My beloved daughter fell in love with a mule like you. When I shut her in her room to keep her away from him she ran away. We didn’t see her for five years and my wife stopped speaking to me because of it. Then she came back with her partner and their two children, the sweetest little babies you ever saw, our first grandchildren. I still wish she’d accepted a decent Patron suitor, but since she didn’t it would be better if her and her love could get married like respectable people.”

  A shout of excitement heralds the canvas’s being pulled back, unveiling today’s configuration. After the siege and the uncertainty of the last months, even highborn Patrons willingly break into the customary song that begins the Fives. The words convey such a different meaning to me now.

  Shadows fall where pillars stand.

  Traps spill sparks like grains of sand.

  Seen atop the trees, you’re known.

  Rivers flow to seas and home.

  Rings around them, rings inside,