On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  The nursery was quiet and dark, save for the tiny blue-glass lamp Malaeth kept burning the night: Berd slept peacefully in the cradle next to Malaeth's narrow cot. Ylia reached down to stroke a tiny hand; Berd licked his lips and shifted slightly. Ysian noiselessly withdrew; Ylia leaned over the padded edge to kiss him, followed. Malaeth came out with them.

  “Selverra's all right?” Malaeth nodded.

  “She surprised me, Ylia. She wants that little closet for her own, and she wanted the door shut from the first tonight. All you lasses liked tiny places like that. I just checked her, she's asleep. Ysian, should I come plait your hair for the night? I can get Therea to watch them.”

  “I'll let Ylia, you stay with Berd. It's so good to see you again, Malaeth.”

  “You're a sight too thin,” Malaeth said flatly. “I'll have to feed you, I can see that. Don't stay up all the night gabbing.”

  Ysian sat at Ylia's dressing table while the younger woman worked a plain three-section plait and bound it with one of her own leather ties. “That's better. I've become so used to a plait, it feels odd to let my hair hang loose. I've worked hard, Ylia, I won't be a liability this time.”

  “You said that earlier. You weren't exactly useless before, Ys.”

  “I was and you know it. Practically passing out before we could get everyone away from the Tehlatt, weeping myself soggy when we got back to safety.” Ysian stared at the far wall. “How is he?”

  “Golsat?” Ylia asked. Ysian nodded. “He's well. He'll be very glad to see you.”

  “He—did he like the brooch? I didn't know if I should, if he'd be offended.”

  “It hasn't left his cloak since it came, Ysian.”

  “I'm glad,” Ysian said softly. She turned to look around the spacious and well-lit chamber and was suddenly all brisk business. “I like your Tower, I particularly like your rooms.”

  “It was Erken's doing.”

  “I know, you said. Let me see them, would you?”

  “Let you see—oh.” It was going to be hard to adjust to Ysian's sudden shifts in topic when she spoke, her cryptic style of conversation that was often as much mind-touch as speech. Them. Shelagn's Gifts.

  The sword was in its usual place when she wasn't wearing it: slung by its belt over one of the bedposts. The shield and horn were kept in the clothing box at the foot of the bed. She laid them on the bed; Ysian came over and sat on the furs, ran her fingers lightly over the hilts, touched shield and horn. “By the One himself. The sword Shelagn used against the Lammior! I wish I had not left Aresada when I did. Another day or so—I could have been with you when you found them. But—just to touch a thing that old, and hers—! Do you feel better about it now? Not so pressured? Used?”

  “Sometimes I still do. I've adjusted,” Ylia shrugged. “You can adjust to anything, given enough time.”

  “You're proof of that, aren't you?” Ysian set the horn down next to the sword. Ylia laughed. “What's so amusing?”

  “You're proof of that yourself, Ysian. Look at you.” Ylia's gesture covered plaited hair to dark, capable boots.

  “Well, but I had to adjust!” Ysian considered this, then smiled. “Well. I guess I am, aren't I?”

  High tide had washed oddments of grass and weed onto the sand in a thick line. The tide was retreating, leaving behind mounded detritus, clouds of flies and a high; rank smell. Fury lay at anchor, hard against the outermost edge of the northern breakwater. A candle stub guttered on the table in the captain's cabin, casting jumping shadows against the bed-curtains and the walls. The light of a moon near full touched the slow swell of receding water, the blue-white ruins of towers, the rotted pilings and ghost ships in the south crescent of the bay.

  The candle flared briefly, went out. A shaft of yellow lanternlight came through the opened door then, and Jon stole in barefoot. His shadow covered the table, moved on. Brit Arren lay face down, head pillowed in his arms, a winejug at his elbow. Jon moved forward, scarcely daring to breathe, reached for it, but as his fingers touched the unfinished clay, a square, capable hand shot out and gripped his wrist. The lad caught his breath in a startled, frightened little cry.

  “Don't take it. I haven't had enough yet.” Brit Arren's voice was slurred, but there was no mistaking who was captain.

  “Yes—I mean, no, Mal. I just thought—”

  “Don't think!” Brit Arren roared as he sat up. Jon, released, fell back a pace, dropped into the opposite chair.

  Jon swallowed hard. “Mal—Mal, listen, you are doing what you told me not to do. You're thinking about the killing.”

  “I'm not,” Brit Arren snapped. “I am thinking of a man made a fool by three foreign sorcerers. I am thinking of a man trapped by weak thinking, and I do not like what I see!” Anger thickened his speech more than the wine did. “Sorcerers. Wizards. Bastards! I have looked at it all wrong, Jon. I am not held to an old oath, not when it harms us. They need us, just now, but we don't need them, do we, Jon?”

  “I—”

  “We don't need them.” Brit Arren's eyes were hooded; he stroked his chin. Stubbly beard prickled his fingers. He shoved the wine aside; the jug sailed across the smooth surface and crashed into the wall. What was he doing, sitting here? “Pay heed, Jon. We have always been strong, we Sea-Raiders. We have never depended upon any man for what we can do ourselves—and what we cannot do, we do not need! These Three will dangerously weaken us, if we sit and cringe, and fear them, or depend upon them. If we let them bluff us. For I believe there are times a strong man could overwhelm them. If he chose carefully, if he waited and watched.” He closed his mouth, compressed his lips. No need to say more: It wasn't safe. Jon would know what he meant anyway.

  Brit Arren peered at the boy across the darkened cabin. Jon was white and sweating and his hands shook. “Well? What ails ye?” he snarled. Jon started convulsively, shook his head.

  “No—nothing, Mal.”

  “Have ye been taking steam again, boy? I warned ye—!”

  “No, Mal, I swear—! What's that?”

  The two men stared through the open shutters. The entire Tower glowed a sullen red, as though fire burned around its base. The cliffs, clouds and even the moon went ruddy, and a thin, whistling cry rose to a shriek. Brit Arren clapped his hands over his ears, shutting out Jon's terrified cry. As suddenly as it had come, it was gone, gone on a bolt of blood-red lightning, tearing north faster than the wind.

  Ylia took the horn and the shield, knelt to replace them in the chest. Ysian stood and stretched, walked toward the window. She stopped in front of the pedestal bearing the statue of the Yderra. “That's lovely.”

  “It is, isn't it?” Ylia closed the chest and joined her.

  Ysian touched the arching neck. “Where did you get it?” She turned to find her niece gazing at her in astonishment.

  “I—Ysian, you gave it to us—!”

  “I gave you a statue of Shelagn,” Ysian began. Both women stopped and gazed at each other in sudden dread. Ysian laid her fingers on its neck again. It took concentration and she was so tired: layer upon layer, deception. But that was falling away, and under all was a malice and hatred so deep and harsh she quailed before it. “Oh, gods, no.”

  “What?” Ylia staggered, caught off guard as Ysian leaped away from the pedestal and shoved her hard.

  "Don't touch it! That's Power, can't you feel it? Not AEldra Power! Blessed Nasath, look at the stone!” The emerald was no longer green: It had gone deep, sullen red; the beast's eyes were a smoky, opaque grey.

  “Gods and Mothers, it's his, it's Lyiadd's! Let me at it, Ysian, it's his master focus, it's changing, I have to get it out of here!” Ylia snatched at the statue, two-handed. Power hit her like a fist; sooty lightning arced through the chamber. The women were thrown to the floor.

  Ylia staggered back to her feet, half-blinded, and flailed for the Yderra again: She froze, hands outstretched, as terrified screams came from across the hall. From the nursery.

  It is the one thing
of which I would not speak, ever—what happened that night. The one, worst night of my life, the one graven deepest upon my inner being.

  8

  The cries echoed, grew in volume as others answered them. Ylia's voice rose above them all: “No! No, not that!” She flew across the room, her shoulder slammed into the doorjamb, throwing her, but she was through it then, boots pounding downhall toward the nursery. Blood dripped from her fingers. With a terrified look at the quiescent; brooding statue, Ysian fled after her.

  The hall was a mass of frightened people, a babble of high-pitched voices. Ysian forced her way through, back up-hall. Ylia was briefly visible in the doorway to the nursery, a ruddy glow giving color to her ashen face. She shook off one of the serving women standing there and plunged into the room. Ysian swallowed, ran after her. People stepped back in sudden, frightened silence as she reached the doorway. Nisana came bounding up from the balcony, leaped to Ysian's shoulder and teetered there.

  “Ylia?” Ysian hesitated, blinded by a harsh, pulsing light that filled the nursery. ‘Ylia?’ Nisana's inner voice echoed. But as Ysian stepped forward, the cat nudged her. ‘No, Ysian. Wait. It is a trap, can you not see? Wait.’ Sensible, painful advice. Ysian caught at the doorjamb with both hands, and waited.

  Boots thudded up-hall, echoing in the unnatural silence—Galdan, followed closely by Erken and Brelian. Galdan pressed Ylsan noblewoman and cat aside, but he stopped just inside the room. “Malaeth?”

  Ylia's weeping answered him. “I can't—I can't reach her, oh, gods, Galdan, I can't get through, help me!” Her words tumbled over each other, barely intelligible. She stood in the middle of the room.

  The cradle had fallen over, spilling blankets across the floor. It was almost hidden in that pulsing red glow. The boy was a tiny huddle in the midst of the blankets, and Malaeth was sprawled between her cot and the cradle, one arm under the baby, protecting his head. As Ysian watched, Malaeth made a dreadful effort, brought her other arm up to wrap over the child. She tried to turn her head, but could not move any further. Her harsh, faint whisper barely reached them: “Go! Run!” Her eyes closed then, she let her head down next to Berd's.

  “No!” Ylia's scream echoed through the hall but in the nursery the sound was curiously deadened. Galdan grabbed for her, too late. Ylia was across the small chamber, arms outstretched, oblivious to all but her son and her old nurse. She cried out in fury as her hands were stopped by the Power field. Her body shuddered convulsively. “Berd!” she screamed, and threw herself forward. She seemed momentarily to catch fire; the Power threw her across the room. She staggered, fell into the wall, and Galdan snatched her into his arms while she fought air into stunned lungs. She writhed in his grip. “Let me go, let me go, they've got Berd, let me go!"

  “Stop it!” Galdan shouted against her ear. “You can't reach him and dying won't help Berd!” Ylia gazed at him in shocked silence and crumpled, weeping. Galdan half-carried her into the hall, handed her to Brelian. Lisabetha, her hair loose and her feet bare, a cloak thrown over her nightrobes, hovered anxiously behind him. “Hold her, don't let her back in here. I have to get Selverra!”

  Ysian backed out of the chamber, eyes still fixed in blank horror on Malaeth and the baby. Nisana pressed against her ear, hard; one hand came up automatically to steady the cat. The Power in the little nursery was pulsing, spreading ever so slightly. “No,” she whispered. There was another cry deep within the room; she started.

  'It's Selverra, Ysian.’ Nisana's thought was meant to soothe but it was as ragged and frightened as her own. The cat glanced at Ylia. Brelian had her by the shoulders, holding her against the wall, and for the moment she wasn't fighting him. Her eyes were closed; her hands were twitching where Lyiadd's Power had burned them; her sword hand still bled sluggishly from the initial contact with the Yderra statue. She appeared to notice none of it. ‘Galdan has gone to get Selverra, he'll bring her out.’

  Galdan emerged a moment later, his badly shaken daughter clinging to is neck. He whispered against her ear. Her tiny hands gripped even more tightly. “Brel, bring Ylia. Everyone else, stay back from that room, what is there is black Power and nothing to trifle with!” He needn't have worried; most of the people in the hall had already backed away. Ysian stood alone, Nisana on her shoulder, staring into the chamber. Galdan carried Selverra down the hall, down the main stair. Brelian caught Ylia by the elbows, pulled her toward him; she reached for the wall, missed it completely and fell. Lisabetha knelt beside her. “She's fainted, nothing more.” People moved aside as Brelian picked her up and followed Galdan.

  'Ysian, you may not be safe here.’

  'I can't leave, cat. It's—still moving.’

  'You can't stop it. I can't.’

  'I don't know that. I might be able to slow it.’

  'I think it is slowing, else it would be in the hall already. But Ysian, don't trust that. You're in danger, standing here. Come.’

  'I can't leave Malaeth, I can't leave Ylia's baby!’

  'You can't help them here.’ There was subtle inflection in the cat's thought. Ysian turned her head to meet the green eyes so near her own, and Nisana returned that gaze levelly, her inner voice oddly silent and a warning in her look: Speak and think nothing. The Three watch and they listen. Of course they did; but she must do something! Destroy the Yderra? But she knew she could not, not with it fully activated. To try would be death. But to stand and wait—?

  No! She kept her own thought carefully blank, but she knew what Nisana wanted. What they must do. They exchanged that look again, and this time it said, Watch me. Be ready.

  Malaeth drew a slow, shallow breath. The pain had subsided to something she could bear. Old bones felt so much in a long life. She knew how to fend pain off, how to deal with it. Pain didn't matter. The babe had no such defenses. Had nothing but her. ‘Shhh. Hush, small love, I'll take what I can of the hurt from ye. Hush, small precious love, I'll keep ye safe.’ Berd's infant mind-touch clung to her desperately. Terror; pain. Poor child, too young to understand. That was the worst of it, worse than the fact that he hurt. But she could not cure it, she could only help. She fought her own panic, her own pain and fear, and soothed, calmed, lulled. My little one, my Berd. I won't let them hurt you, won't let them have you. My Ylia will save you, your mother will find a way to save you.

  It hurt to think, hurt to try, and her formidable will was briefly shaken. What could Ylia do? What could any of them do? Berd whimpered as fear pressed him again. Malaeth cleared her thought of anything that was not this baby. Ylia would find a way. Meantime, she could keep Berdwyn calm, could keep the pain from him. Ease his terror, protect him. She could do that. And she could wait.

  Galdan left Lisabetha with Ylia and Selverra and came back up the stairs, Brelian, Erken and a dozen of the Elite Guard at his back. The hall was immediately cleared, the upper chambers evacuated, the household shifted into the great reception hall. Silence reigned once again.

  Ysian and Nisana still stood in the nursery door. In that spill of light, the cat's eyes were coals, Ysian's hair a banked fire. Galdan touched the Ylsan woman's shoulder and Ysian cried out, started away from him. Her eyes were wide and blank. She was less prepared for this than we, Galdan thought, and strove to make his thought and the hand that reached for her a reassurance. “Ysian. It's all right,” he soothed. “Ylia needs you. Come away from here.”

  “Don't touch me,” Ysian whispered. She slid down the hall, hands braced against the wall.

  It worried him, this on top of the rest. Had they attempted to enter the nursery while he was gone? Galdan turned his attention to Nisana, and found still greater cause for worry: He could not read her thought at all, the cat might not have been AEldra. Nisana clung to Ysian's shoulder, claws drawing blood, but neither she nor Ysian noticed. The cat's dark fur stood up along her spine and made a ruff around her neck. Her ears were flat, her eyes all pupil. They were terrified, both of them; he could feel it and it nearly drowned him. He blocked what he
could of it. “Ysian, come away from there, you'll be safe with Ylia. Nisana, we have to get her away from here.” Nisana growled; Ysian stared at him in black-eyed horror. She edged another step away, another. Erken came up the hall.

  “What's wrong with her?”

  Galdan waved him back, extended his hand another few fingers’ worth. Ysian cast one frightened look through the nursery door, another at Galdan and beyond him to Erken, stumbled back along the wall. “Don't touch me, don't!” And as Galdan lunged for her, she and the cat vanished.

  Someone down by the staircase cried out as the two AEldra disappeared. Galdan staggered back, stunned. Erken turned and bellowed at the guard: “That was nothing to frighten any of ye, she bridged, nothing else! Hold steady there!” He caught his son's arms in a rough grip. “You've had enough. Take the advice you gave Ylia and go. You can't think, standing here.”

  “I know.” But Galdan stood where he was, staring blankly into the nursery. Malaeth—his son—there, within reach, if a man could reach them. But Ylia had proven he couldn't reach them and he wouldn't try. There might be another way, he would wait—he realized he'd taken a step forward and his father was trying to drag him back. “Gods. What's in there—it's pulling at me.” He let Erken lead him back toward the stair.

  They stopped on the top step. Erken still held his arm tightly. “What must I do?”

  Galdan tried to think. “Watch. Stay clear of the nursery and our chambers, both. The statue, the Yderra. Somehow it's theirs. The focus we have been looking for, it's in that statue. It's—that's where the Power is coming from. Stay away from it.”

  “We will. What else?”

  “If it moves, if it spreads, get away.”

  “I doubt I'll have to order that," Erken said; he gazed uneasily up the silent hall. “And?”

  “Let no one into the nursery. Not even me,” Galdan said bleakly. He turned away and went down the stairs.

  Erken watched him go, then turned back to the silent huddle of guard. “You heard. We'll spot ourselves two lengths apart all the way from here to the royal bedchambers. We can see the nursery from the west wall and from the bench there.” He pointed. “Stay clear of the entrances to both chambers, the source of the Power is in there, you don't want to stand between it and the nursery.”