On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  Deep in the ruins, Vess smiled as he awaited them both.

  It was late; a chill wind blew down across the valley from the east, bending trees and moaning around the Tower. Ylia snuggled into her cloak and followed the Ylsan Healer Fiyorona down the deserted street. Lamps burned here and there in windows, giving form and shadow to obstacles.

  “How long?” she shouted. The shrill wind and the clatter of a loose barrel rolling down the cobbles nearly drowned her words.

  “What? Oh. How long,” Fiyorona shouted back. “An hour at most. She won't be long, I don't think.”

  “How is she?”

  “How? She's fine.” The Ylsan woman snugged the hood down around her liberally silvered hair, mined up the narrow side-street and knocked hard at the door of the last house. Brelian himself let them in. He was grey with worry.

  “Lady Healer, I'm glad you're returned, she needs you.”

  “Her mother's in there, and so is Malaeth. They're doing all she needs just at the moment. And I needed fresh air, my young friend,” she added tartly. “Had to clear my brains a bit, didn't I?” But she smiled at him in a friendly enough fashion, pushed by and dropped her cloak across his arm. “Here, make yourself useful, hang that up for me, and did you get the oranges she wanted?”

  “Golsat went for them, I couldn't leave. I think he might be—” Another knock at the door proved to be Golsat himself, two small, soft oranges clutched in one hand.

  “All I could find, Brel.”

  “They'll do,” Fiyorona assured him. “Get Brelian some wine and make him sit down. Lady, you come with me.”

  Ylia didn't want to, suddenly; memories of Berdwyn's birth assaulted her, bringing with them such a sharp sense of recalled pain she nearly doubled over with it. She found herself nodding, piled her cloak on top of the Healer's and took Golsat's oranges with her.

  But it wasn't so unpleasant an experience; she was too busy for her own thoughts to bother her. And almost before Malaeth could finish peeling and sectioning the orange, Lossana was holding the Good Fortune blanket she'd woven, receiving her grandson into its soft folds.

  Ylia came down to breakfast a five-day later to find fresh messages from Nar, a letter from Ysian, a pile of contracts from the Lord Mayor. She had expected them, but had not expected to find Malaeth waiting for her. The old nurse seldom left the children at this hour. Ylia watched her with a curiosity that became deepening unease while food was set out for her. Malaeth's jaw was set, the muscle knotted under her temples. More ominous: the small wooden box gripped so tightly that the old woman's knuckles stood out white. Malaeth drew up a chair, sat and waited in silence until the serving woman was gone. Before Ylia could say anything, she drew a deep breath and plunged into what was clearly a planned speech.

  “This comes from Ysian, I asked her for it. So you can blame us both for what it contains.” She glared; Ylia closed her mouth, successfully battled her temper—riddles before breakfast?—and waited. “I know you'll argue with me, I expect it, but I want you to hear what I have to say first. Every word of it.” Ylia nodded. “Good.” She set the box down between them.

  “This is Kabada.” Ylia drew in a sharp breath. “I know ye have heard of it, and ye know what it does.”

  “It's Ylsan, a combination of herb, bark and a spell beyond most Ylsans, these days. Obviously not beyond Ysian. It prevents children. You make a tea of it, take it once a five-day, and it prevents them until you put it aside. Or you take it once a day for a six-month, and it prevents them for good.” Ylia looked up from the box with frightened eyes. “Malaeth, I can't take Kabada! Not yet!”

  “Ye said ye'd hear me out!” Malaeth hissed fiercely. “Ye nearly left Galdan to raise two orphans when ye had Berd, he all but killed ye!”

  “But, Malaeth!”

  “Is that the manners I taught ye? Or the way to keep a promise?” Malaeth snapped. Ylia swallowed. “Ask yourself how strong ye feel yet. It took a mortal lot from ye. Another child would take more; it would kill ye for certain.” Silence, Ylia picked up the small box, slipped the fastening and gazed expressionlessly at the coarse-chopped dry contents. A brief note in Ysian's fine print lay on top of the drug, explaining dosages.

  “Your House has its heirs,” Malaeth said. “You can die a happy old woman, many years hence, knowing your father's line goes on, as does Lord Erken's. You have Nedao, a responsibility greater than just making children. Think of the hundreds of children across the valley. In a sense they're yours.”

  “It's not that, Malaeth.” Ylia closed the box, set it gently back on the table. Dark hazel eyes met pale old blue ones. “It's—to do something so irrevocable, to take full dose. What if—what if there was need for another child?”

  “If one died?” Malaeth asked bluntly. “Or both did? Another child is the one you'd never live to see. You took the responsibility for this valley, these folk, and they need their Queen, alive and ready to lead the armless’ gods help us, all! If things come to the point that another child is needed, we're already lost, don't you see that, girl?”

  “No,” Ylia said flatly—and untruthfully. She let her head fall forward onto her hands. “Gods and Mothers, Malaeth, you can't just hand me this box and expect me to agree to what you're asking, just like that!”

  “Lisabetha did.”

  “She has one, has she? You've had a busy morning, old woman. ‘Betha needs Kabada, I'm not the one who couldn't carry a baby, remember?”

  “No, ye just nearly died giving it birth,” the old woman said grimly. “D'ye think trouble like that just goes away? Happens once and never again?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I do, and ye should listen to me. Ye listen to your Duke when it's time to fight. Such problems don't go away, they get worse. Ask Fiyorona, if ye won't trust me.”

  “Malaeth, I—” Ylia began desperately.

  Malaeth pushed the box into her hand and closed unwilling fingers around it. “Answer me this, lass: How have you kept yourself from conceiving since Berd's birth? AEldra control or Nedaoan sops?”

  “Control,” Ylia replied faintly. Her hands drove into her hair; her head slumped further. “Vinegar sops aren't very effective, you know that.”

  “I do, but I didn't know if you knew.”

  “Well, I do. Control's simple. I don't need Kabada!”

  “Control's easy, until you forget. Women do. Some women can afford that, you can't. Take the Kabada; start now. Don't leave your Galdan to rule Nedao by himself, to raise those two sweet babies alone, he won't thank you for it.”

  “I—black hells, Malaeth!” Ylia exploded. “I can't just do this! Give me a chance to think, will you?” She jumped to her feet, stormed out of the small breakfast room. But at the door she turned back again. “Did ‘Betha cave in when you bullied her, or did she talk with Brelian first?”

  “Why should she have?” Malaeth demanded. “It's her body, isn't it? And doesn't he want her alive?”

  “That's all very well,” Ylia said flatly. “But Galdan figures in my choice.” The door banged shut behind her. Malaeth pushed her chair back, got slowly to her feet and picked up the box. Well, it hadn't been as difficult as she'd feared; at least the girl was thinking about it. She'd do more than that, though. And Malaeth would be there, every evening, with that tea in hand, watching that she took it down.

  Ylia paused at the top of the stairs. Interfering old woman! A corner of her mouth twisted. All right. If she's just an old busybody, if she's merely causing trouble, why are you clinging to the railing while you try to get your breath? Maybe Malaeth was right; she'd taken too long recovering from Berd. A month after Selverra, she'd run up those same stairs without her heart even beating faster. Old age? Hardly.

  She pressed the heel of her palm against her lower stomach; the short, pale scar ached, now and again, as though what lay under the muscle had never healed properly. That had been Lyiadd's worst and deepest cut; it hadn't bothered her until after Berd.

  But to cut hers
elf off from further children! She wasn't certain she wanted more, but Kabada was so final! And once she agreed to take it, Malaeth would insist on full dosage. As she had with Lisabetha. Poor ‘Betha. She's only the one child, only baby Brendan. It must terrify her. And poor Brelian.

  Galdan knew she used AEldra control, to prevent a child immediately on Berdwyn's heels. She didn't just tell him, either, they talked about it. The children were theirs, not only hers. He had a right to know what she intended, and he had a right to say what he thought.

  But she had no business standing and brooding at the top of the stairs with the morning slipping away from her. Two hours were promised to Eveya and the upper-rank women for practice, then a session of double rapier practice with Golsat, Brelian and a few of the advanced armed. An hour with the children, and after noon-meal the Main Council had enough small, irking matters to settle that it seemed unlikely they'd finish before dark. Evening-meal would be with Grewl and three of his clerks.

  After that, she would most likely try to tutor Galdan, though she was finding it increasingly difficult to hide a growing sense of hopelessness from him. Perhaps—perhaps after that, she could talk to him.

  Vess clasped a sweating, grimy knuckled hand in his own, turned it gently palm up. He brought his amused gaze up to meet the boy's glassy-eyed stare. The smell of salt, leather, dried and fresh sweat—stale wine and onion on the boy's panting; terrified breath—assaulted him. In the triumph of the moment, he scarcely noticed it. “Take this,” he murmured. A gleam of gold, a flash of red as he dropped the light chain and its token into the boy's hand, closed the fingers over it. “Take it, and keep it hidden, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” Jon whispered; he was nearly sobbing, fighting to hide his terror, knowing this horror of a man could sense it, however he dissembled. Mal wouldn't be afraid, he tried to tell himself. Mal wouldn't, you can't! He was. Without the wall hard against his back, without the hand that clasped his, he would have fallen.

  “That is good, I am glad you hear me. You will hear me from now on in places far from this Isle, for I am part of you now. I go with you, in this gem that I give you.” Jon shivered, closed his eyes. “Do not do that, look at me,” Vess said in a deceptively gentle voice. His fingers curled into muscle. “Do you know what this pretty toy is? Of course you do not, so I will tell you. It is a focus stone. A magic jewel, just like in a tale. You will wear this always, from now on; you will never remove it. Swear that.”

  “I—I swear,” Jon whispered.

  “I wear such a stone myself, do you see my ring? The ring, the pendant, they will bring us close together, nearer than lovers, Jon Bri Madden. Through this focus stone, I will hear your words and your thoughts. And you will tell me what passes when you are away from this place. Do you understand?”

  “I—you want me to—to spy—” Worse than he could have imagined, worse than he had thought! “You—want me to be a traitor to Mal—!”

  “How can you be a traitor, if you are loyal to me?” Vess murmured. “You will do this thing, just as I tell you.”

  “No.” He shaped the word, but no sound came. The thing burned the palm of his hand, but Vess’ fingers held his fist closed, he couldn't let go of it. “I can't!”

  “You will. Because you are mine, now. Because I can reward you more than this Lord Captain; and because you will obey me and the stone. Because there will be great reward for you when you obey me. But because the stone will also do this if you do not comply with my least wish.” Jon caught his breath on an agonized little cry; his hand burned, agony spread up his arm, something was pressing upon his mind, driving everything he thought of as Jon back into a dark, fetid hole. Pain gnawed at his fingers. “Do not speak, do not cry out, do not try. You cannot.” The pain faded, slowly; a little of his mind was his again. “Besides,” Vess purred, “someone might hear you. You don't want anyone to hear you. Do you?” Jon shook his head violently; tears flew, splattering them both. The terror crouched deep inside him, hovering just at the edge of consciousness, where he knew he'd feel it all his days—however long or short those might be. Vess stroked his cheek, gently brushing tears away. “You're mine. I own you, all of you. You will wear this Thullen, my gift, my focus stone. You will wear it as token of my ownership of you. You will tell me all your captain plans, when he plans it.”

  “No, not Mal, please not that!” He forced that much past chattering teeth. The blackness swarmed through him, searing pain wracked his entire body: Jon tore at his hair, writhed against the wall until the stones shredded his shirt and left his shoulders raw and bleeding. Vess maintained his grip on the hand with the focus. Silence, save for Jon's whistling pant.

  “Learn from this. You do not defy me. I am not your Mal Brit Arren, I do not reward for good behavior. I only punish what is unacceptable to me. Do you understand that?” Jon choked violently, fell to his knees as Vess released him, and vomited. “Put the pendant on.” Jon dragged the chain over his head and let the Thullen fail to, his breast. Vess knelt and tucked it inside the boy's shirt. “You must keep it hidden, it is our secret, yours and mine.” He smiled with cold satisfaction, caught the boy's head between his hands and placed a light kiss on his brow. “Bless you, my loyal servant. Go.” Without a word, Jon rose and stumbled away, further into the maze of shattered buildings.

  If there is anything more unpleasant than being ripped untimely from a warm sleep by cold terror, I do not wish to know of it. May the Nedaoan Mothers grant a day comes I need never hear such a summons again!

  5

  Marrita exhaled slowly and a red sound came from her lips. It tore through Ylia's inner being, ringing her like a bell. She was half aware she slept, was trying to move—an arm, even a finger—something so she would waken. Claws raked her shoulder: She screamed and found herself trembling on the edge of the bed, Galdan's fingers digging painfully into muscle. Her ears still rang and it took her two shuddering breaths to realize what it was: Horns blared across the valley and the market bell was ringing wildly in answer.

  “Are you all right?” Galdan was already across the room, pulling on his breeches. Nisana came into the room as lamps were lit the length of the hall.

  “No.” Ylia reached for the lamp: Baelfyr crackled from her fingers, the wick spluttered. “Bad dream,” she added, a little less shortly. Not his fault she was susceptible to such things, or that she had woven the warning horns into the nightmare. “Black hells, but I wish they'd find another hour for attack!”

  “You speak for me.” Galdan yanked the leather jerkin down and combed wildly tousled hair and beard with his fingers. Across the hall, through an open window, they heard a company of horse tearing by. The night guard was on its way to the fight. The message in the horn-call “They're at Ifney's southern pastures. The company will be a while getting there.” Ylia folded her breeches flat to her ankles and began pulling her boots on. “Levren is on his way up here.” It was working just the way they'd planned it: A force of ten of the Elite Guard, accompanied by Levren, Golsat or Brelian, was now sleeping fully clad and armed in one of the Tower guardrooms each night. If an attack came, the regular horse company would ride out but the ten would be there and ready to bridge at once. After so many night battles with Mathkkra since the snow had gone for good, the War Council and even the conservative Main Council had offered no objections to the plan.

  Ylia buckled her sword belt and caught up the dagger when she heard Levren's shout. Galdan was already half-way to the stairs. Ylia caught up her dagger sheath and followed.

  It was the dark of a moonless, cloudy night, the deeper dark of tree-shade. Gusts of chill wind blew young trees nearly sideways. They could hear fighting; could see nothing at first. With the second level of sight, Ylia saw men and women in Ifney's colors fighting a veritable horde of Mathkkra. They heard the Lord Holder bellowing somewhere deep in the woods. A spluttering and flare as Eveya got torches kindled; flame crackled wildly. She and Levren split them, shoved them into the ground in a ha
lf circle behind them. Mathkkra cried out and shrank away from the sudden and unwelcome light.

  Galdan's voice rose above the noise: “The Elite Guard is here, we're coming in!” A ragged cheer answered him. “'Ware, you archers, hold fire!” Levren shouted. He fitted an arrow to his string, moved forward with four archers at his back. Moments later Ifney fought his way into the open, two lads still alive to guard his back. The Mathkkra avoided the torches; otherwise they fought with stunning ferocity.

  That was no good sign, for Mathkkra ordinarily fled once the odds shifted so greatly against them. Even Ifney's company should have been large enough to discourage them, but in the short time since he'd confronted the creatures, he'd lost half his armed.

  Ylia stood with her back to the torches, watching. She disliked using the sword unless she must, and the fighting was too close for her to attempt Baelfyr; she'd burn her own folk trying it. She blinked as wind-driven smoke covered her. It shifted; she rubbed her eyes, then stared. One Mathkkra stood just under the trees, well back from the fighting. Everything about the fight was odd, but this creature was the oddest thing of all. It gazed at her flatly, unafraid, almost as though it knew her. Torchlight flared in a gust of wind; it gave the Mathkkra glowing red coals for eyes, and picked out a flash of red deep in the dark red of its rough-woven short robe.

  “What is that?” She was unaware she'd spoken aloud until Eveya peered over her shoulder.

  “What is what?’

  “That.” Ylia pointed. The Mathkkra still stared straight at her, she would have almost said in challenge had it been a human foe. Something depended from a leather thong, something that glowed red in one place and seemed to swallow the light in another. “Eveya, back me, I want him.” Eveya set herself against Ylia's left shoulder and the two women hurled themselves forward, leaping over small pale bodies. The red-clad shaman jerked and would have slipped back into the trees, but it was too late: Her left hand caught the thong, her right brought the sword down in a flashing sweep, nearly separating head from body. She dragged the leather thong and its jewel free; they backed away to the comparative safety of the torches.