On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  Bendesevorian closed his eyes, remained hunched over the cat for some moments. He shook his head reluctantly. “I am sorry. There is only fear, blackness that hid everything. She suffered her injuries when she fell—or someone threw her? Surprise and terror, then dreadful, overwhelming pain. Your face, Galdan. She was determined to find you. I see nothing else.”

  Bendesevorian's voice was as gentle as the fingers that straightened Nisana's back leg, pressed torn skin back onto her thigh. “There is one other thing. She feared a trap before the trap caught them. Lyiadd's Power has touched Nisana. I can feel it in her and on her.” Silence. “I do not think Ylia fell with Nisana. I cannot yet tell.”

  Galdan stared at his knuckles: He'd hurt them on the wall; blood ran down his wrists. He walked back to the council table and dropped into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

  Vess sat up. “Now. Was that so terrible after all?” She closed her eyes. He sighed, stood and rearranged his tunic, brushed straw from his sleeves. “I could have been harsh with you; I know men who would have been harsh. I was not. I will never willingly hurt you, my Lady. Because I want more from you than harsh men might want. Think of that, before I come again to see you, sweet cousin.”

  Silence. He ran his finger along the line of her jaw. A muscle jumped under her left eyelid. “You are a stubborn and foolish woman, my pet. Think on this, then: If you repay my kindness freely, I shall see you housed in proper chambers—in say, a day or so. It will cost you nothing but cooperation, cousin; cooperation and—a little gratitude. Is that so difficult for you, considering what I give in return?”

  He kissed the pulse in her throat. Ylia swallowed. Other than that involuntary movement, she gave no sign she felt or heard him. “I ask so little of you. Kindness and a lady's favors. I will go now, but you may have water and freedom of this chamber.” He unlocked the chain, crossed the small room and tapped on the door. The guard opened it, set a small jug on the table and took the lantern. Vess pulled the door behind him. A bolt clattered into place. The line of light around the doorway faded, faded again, was gone.

  Ylia stared dry-eyed into the darkness. Water. She sat up slowly. Water. She kept her thought carefully blank beyond that. She brushed straw from her hair, pulled her breeches and shirt straight with slow and deliberate care. Felt for her discarded tunic—it was gone, somewhere on the floor along with her belt. Find them later. Water.

  She groped her way to the door on legs that threatened to fold at every step. Her hand brushed the table, touched the clay jug, The water was warm, the jug had held cooking oil and been imperfectly washed. She held the liquid in her mouth, swallowed reluctantly. Not much there; she had better save some. There might not be more for a while. She took it back to the bed, set it where she was not likely to kick it.

  She lay back down on the cot, stared at the ceiling she could not see. Tears slipped silently down her face.

  Vess fought to keep his face expressionless all the way up from his uncle's cellars. After so many years, she was his! She would be! The scheme was going as he'd planned and its conclusion—he could almost grasp it. Though it was odd, the way she'd reacted to his skilled touch: One or two maids in Teshmor had gone limp on him in just that way. After all, Ylia was scarcely fifteen and protecting her maidenry! Married women had no such virtue and no right to pretend to it, in his opinion. They seldom pretended to it when he seduced them; what was the matter with her?

  Perhaps she was still shaken from the bridging she had not initiated, or possibly frightened for the cat. It was too bad he could not have reset the bridging focus to go after the hellish beast and make certain it was dead, but his father had been adamant: The trap could be used once. The reason hadn't made sense: something about leaving trails for skilled eyes to follow.

  Nisana didn't matter; Vess had the one thing he wanted. The horrid cat had to be dead, nothing could survive such a fall, and whatever else it could do, it couldn't fly. That must be Ylia's problem, though: She was grieving for the cat. Women were sentimental over pets, and this one had been with Ylia all her years.

  Vess fought a shudder, dismissed his armsmen at the foot of the main stairway. Magic: Yes, all right, he had it now, and it became easier by the day to think of it as his own, as though it always had been his. After all, he was half AEldra, just as Ylia was. That cat, though: No loss to him if it was dead, and as for Ylia, he could comfort her. He was good at that. She would forget it, before long, she'd forget all of it: Cat. Galdan. And he could give her another son, that would please her, wouldn't it? That would bind her to him as nothing else would, though by the time she bore his child, she would be long since his. If not wooed and won, then turned with drug and Power; he'd prefer the former but the end was more important than the means it took. He wouldn't let false pride keep him from altering her thought, if it took that.

  It likely would not; he knew how to bind women to him, and Ylia, most definitely, was woman. A little after-shock of pleasure washed through him.

  “Patience,” he whispered. “She'll be mine.” And through her, once Galdan and the girl-child were removed, Nedao would be honorably his. Just as he'd always planned.

  I remember Galdan's face, and Ysian's. Bendesevorian's touch. Nothing then, save dreams of falling—falling—

  I could never understand Ylia's fear of heights. But now it is I who find it difficult to stand upon an edge, who cannot sleep upon a balcony in the warm sun. I who fight irrational terror each time I bridge.

  18

  Galdan sat in his chambers, as he had for so many long hours, his attention fixed upon the pile of cushions on Ylia's side of the bed and its small, sleeping occupant. Ysian had healed Nisana's ribs, the torn and smashed hind leg, the internal injuries. The cat slept, completing the healing. They could only wait.

  Galdan was numbly aware of Ysian's coming and going. She resolutely held him to eating and drinking, and somehow, he could never put her off as he would have anyone else.

  Bendesevorian slept on a pallet near the bed. His face was pale and drawn: He had taken Galdan's place among the Elite Guard when Mathkkra attacked and had been awake most of the night.

  Galdan stared down at Nisana. Berd's death hurt; he still couldn't think about Berd. But Ylia was all he had. If she was gone, there wasn't anything. If she is gone, I am Nedao. lnniva help me, I cannot bear it!

  Selverra came in before her nap, again before bed, worried about her mother, in need of her father's reassurance, frightened for Nisana. He soothed her somehow, though later he could never remember what he had said. But he sent her to her room with a smile on her young face, in company with her new nurse Chedra. There's Sel; she needs you as much as Nedao does. Words; they came out in certain shapes and made sounds. They made no sense.

  He sensed Erken hovering uncertainly in the hall. Galdan got half-way to his feet once, thinking to go to his father but he sat back down on the bed. It took too much effort to move; besides, Nisana might waken. “Poor Father,” he whispered, “I know he wants to comfort me. He and I still aren't good enough at showing love.” Learn, before it's too late and he's gone, too. But even that thought was dulled and couldn't move him.

  Hours passed. Bendesevorian was gone again, so was Erken. It was quiet in the hall, quiet out in the streets. Nisana's side rose and fell smoothly; perhaps she was breathing more deeply. Perhaps she'd fallen into true sleep; it might be hours, yet, before she woke. Gods and Mothers, Ylia might be dead by then!

  He shook himself, walked across the chamber and back again; his legs were stiff, his hair matted and snarled, his eyes overdry from too many hours awake. His mouth too was dry. He found the water jug, poured, drank, and let his head rest against the stone of the windowsill. Two days. Nearly three. How many more would he have to count, before he gave up? How many are there left in my life?

  'Galdan—’ The faintest of mental whispers brought him around and sent the cup flying across the room; it shattered against the wall, but Galdan was already kneeli
ng beside the bed. Nisana opened one green eye, reached with one tiny paw to touch his trembling fingers. The paw fell against them, her eye closed again. ‘Tired.’

  “Shh. Rest.” And, in a mental shout that reverberated through him, ‘Ysian!’

  Nisana moaned, shifted uncomfortably. ‘Don't—it hurts. My head aches.’

  “I'm sorry, cat.”

  'Galdan?’

  “I'm here.” Gods and Mothers, she was so weak! He was suddenly terrified for her. Ysian came flying barefoot into the room. “Ysian's here, Nisana. Wait, rest.”

  'No, I can't. Ylia—’

  “Precious, don't” Ysian, a thin cloak wrapped around her for modesty and warmth both, laid a light hand between the dark ears. “You're hurting, let me fix it.”

  'That's better.’ Nisana opened one eye again. ‘Head still aches.’ Ysian merely nodded, concentrated. The fingers moved across the fur on the cat's spine. ‘Much better. Thank you, Ysian.’ Her mental voice was hard to hear, each word spaced from the next, as though she must think them individually or not at all. ‘Bendesevorian.’

  'Out, He will have heard me, Nisana. He'll come.’

  'Good. I—’ Her breath went out on a sigh. ‘Won't wait for him. Can't. Galdan.’

  'I'm still her.’

  Nisana cast him a sour look. ‘I know you are, don't coddle me! I'm—worn. Not lackwitted. The old man, Verdren. I read him, things didn't feel quite right. But—he was all right. I know. Children, Nedaoan children, Tehlatt prisoners, south of the Marshes. I saw them, in his thought.’ She let her eyes close. ‘But—children—not there. Trap. Caught Ylia. She—’ A longer silence

  Ysian laid a light hand on the cat's flank. “The old man was tampered with,” she said.

  'Tampered?’

  “One of them interfered with his thought in such a way you could not tell. We could not read the truth in him, and we can't find anything of his inner being now the lie is gone.”

  Galdan shuddered. He couldn't look at the old man without hating him, however unfairly; but he pitied him too. It horrified him to touch the shell that had been a man, to sense the hollow where there should have been Verdren's thought.

  'Gods. I knew, somehow, it was all wrong. But children—she saw them and that was—I could not stop her from going. I tried to.’ Galdan closed his eyes. Show you where we went.’

  “Later,” Ysian said. “First finish telling us.”

  'A set, focused bridge. Lyiadd's only, I think. Sensed no one else. It caught us both. I would have been drawn through also, but she—threw me. I fell—gods, I fell. Was black dark when I woke. Waited until I could see a little, until I could move. Had to bridge so many times, such tiny distances—’ Her thought trailed weakly. ‘I failed her.’

  “No.” Galdan touched her forepaw. “Don't think that. Wherever she is, she must be glad to know at least she got you free. You know she'll think that. It's not your fault, any of it, cat. But this thing do you know where it went? Where she was taken?”

  'No. It was un—undeniably theirs, the Three. Set just to take Ylia. Reeked—of Lyiadd.’ Without warning, she closed her eyes and went limp.

  Ysian touched her ribs; shook her head as Galdan leaned forward. “Sleeping,” she whispered. “Oh, gods, Galdan! If Lyiadd has taken her to Yslar!” Galdan merely nodded; words wouldn't come. He closed his eyes and waited.

  She was losing track of time, here in total darkness. Vess had come six—no, seven times. Do not forget, she admonished herself, not even the least of things. Not even the worst of things, Vess. She felt unspeakably soiled, all of her. Just to touch her own face took courage; she hadn't much courage left.

  They'd brought her food—dry bread and a few strips of jerky that was too spiced for her taste—and two other times, someone had come with water. She ate and drank, not really caring what it was.

  The dark was wearing. Even after days, her eyes could not adjust. She hungered for the moments when food and water was brought, fought with herself not to weep and beg them to leave the light behind. There was light, too, when Vess brought his lantern and—and stayed. Though once he had come without it. She had wakened with a sudden, horrid certainty of someone standing there in the total dark. When he'd touched her, she'd fought, but Vess had merely laughed, overborne her with nightmarish ease. She'd felt him, never seen him; had not even seen the door open and close as he left her.

  After that, she slept poorly and woke often: Panting, terrified she would find him there again, standing in the dark, waiting.

  Her hair was pulling from its plait, she was desperate for light and clean air, a comb, a change of shirt and breeches. But mostly, passionately, for light and air.

  There was light around the door again, coming near. She threw one arm across her eyes as the door was flung open. Torchlight blinded her.

  “You are sent for.” She blinked, rubbed her eyes, blinked again. Two of Vess’ Ylsan bodyguard stood there, but Vess was not with them.

  She bridled at the man's flat voice. “Who sends? And why?” she demanded.

  “We were told not to answer questions. We obey our orders and you are to obey ours. Here are clothes, water and towels.

  Wash and dress, now, or we are to do it for you.”

  “No.”

  “If you make a fuss, we will take the things and leave you here.”

  Dark—deathly silence—Gods and Mothers, no. “Give me the clothing,” she said. There was a gown of brocaded rose silk—the thin, rare stuff that came across the deserts east of Holth—a sleeved underdress and soft leather slippers. She held the gown like a shield, painfully aware of her disheveled shirt and breeches. “I cannot undress with you here. And I need the light to wash.”

  “No. No light in here without a guard.”

  She could have laughed. “Why? I can't burn this room! Or do you think I'll set fire to myself?”

  “No. Orders.” He stared at her; she gazed back. And, just as she thought she must give in, lest they leave her in the dark again, he sighed loudly and said, “Foolish. But I will mount the torch in the hallway and leave the door open. We will stand where we cannot see you.”

  “That will do.” She wouldn't thank him, not for such an ordinary courtesy; and he obviously still thought she was making unnecessary fuss. He watched from the door as his companion set a bowl of water and cloths on the floor by the bed, then turned and left.

  “We have been overlong already, woman. Do not dawdle, or we will take the light and leave.”

  She waited until he was out of sight, then knelt to dip one of the cloths in the water. The water was scented with rose and clove, but it was some time before she could smell it above the reek of herself. Foolish: The Ylsan was probably right. Why should she care if he watched while she shed her filthy shirt and breeches? Because some things still matter. They must. If I lose the sense of what matters, I lose Ylia.

  It took her a while to work the shirt sleeve over the Thullen bracelet, and she could feel the impatience out in the hall. The underdress had sleeves that were too long but fortunately not snug fitting or she'd never have gotten it on. It laced up the front. The rose silk was cut lower than she liked and it trailed on the floor; the lower edge of the sleeves belled nearly to her ankles.

  Her feet were swollen or the slippers would have been too wide. It was not new, any of it; Vess had borrowed or taken from some woman near her size. There was a plain kerchief of the same brocade as the gown stuffed in one of the slippers; she tucked it across as much of her bosom as it would cover. She drew a deep breath, settled the skirts and stepped into the hall.

  Surely the hallway to the cellars was never that narrow and long when she had lived here! Two men couldn't go abreast, even one—she froze, breath stopped in a tightened throat. I've been buried, buried in a hole at the end of that—!

  One of the Ylsans grabbed her shoulder. “Hair. Unplait it.”

  She couldn't hear him, couldn't see anything but a narrowing tunnel; a high scree filled her head
and set her swaying. The men exchanged irritated looks; the nearest pulled her face-first into his jerkin and the other undid the plait. I can't breathe! she thought, and fought to free herself, but the Ylsan merely tightened his grip until she went limp. As soon as her hair was loose and the larger bits of straw picked out of it, he released her.

  Ylia caught hold of the wall for balance. “How dare you?” An ungentle hand stopped her mouth.

  “Be silent.” They put her between them and started toward the stairs. Ylia opened her mouth as they started up the stairs and the men moved to flank her. She closed it again as the man on her right gripped her arms and shook his head. “This is as much for your protection as to guard you. Keep still.” She did. They both had her arms now, but left her hands free so she could lift the skirts of the gown as she climbed. They were long enough to trip her anyway; stairs would have been dangerous.

  What, Ylia; afraid you'll break your neck? Somehow that wry thought gave her a little courage; that and the knowledge that she was climbing toward honest daylight.

  They emerged in the back hall short of the winter kitchens. The stone walls had been recently whitewashed, and the heavy doubled kitchen door was new. Gone the wonderful carving that had covered the doors to even this mundane chamber. She doubted they would remain plain for long: Vess would never be satisfied unless his Koderra outshone the Koderra that had been Brandt's.

  Her eyes prickled and she swallowed tears as they came through the side door into the Great Reception. She had stood here that last day when Brandt had again named her heir, had sworn the nobles to her. Here, Lisabetha's brother Gors had died, bringing news of Teshmor's fall. Here—it didn't bear thinking.

  The chamber was too white, the wash on the walls thick. Vess had replicated most of the flags that had hung from the rafters and had added his new arms: Those of the House of Ettel left, divided, palewise, and on the right, gules, a Thullen, displayed, noir, above three chevrons, gules, braced. Over the throne hung the arms of the Three: The Thullen as on Vess’ arms. The whole was on an enormous red banner with Mathkkra supporters on the left, a black-hulled ship of the Sea-Raiders on the right.