“I used to believe Hallieth Suriytaiän’s entire hobby was petty provocation,” Quòn said in a soft, wry voice. “But of late it has become clear that whatever his ambition, it is not petty.” He slanted a sidelong look toward Kehera.
Torrolay Elin Raëhema took a breath.
Outside, somewhere beyond the encampment, Kehera heard a bird sing, a liquid trill of notes. A breeze wandered in, stirring the sheer draperies, bringing in the scent of sun-warmed earth and horses, of blood and physickers’ salves. Out there, wounded men still cried out and the women who tended them murmured reassurance and sympathy. But here, within this gilded pavilion, the whole world seemed somehow to have paused.
Her father said, his tone level and quiet, “Quòn came to me . . . not quite in time, with warning that Hallieth Suriytaiän had taken the Immanent Power of Talisè and fed it to his Great Power. Alas, I did not understand in time what he meant, or that Suriytaiän might do the same to Cemerè. Or what he might do next, or threaten to do.”
Kehera didn’t understand. Talisè was the Emmeran sister-city of Cemerè; it lay directly to the north, right across the Imhar River. Kinder days saw a good deal of trade move back and forth between the two towns. She said, “But Talisè is an Emmeran city. Surely even the Mad King wouldn’t have . . .” She faltered.
“I came from there,” Quòn told her. His tone was perfectly matter-of-fact. “I can tell you: Talisè is indeed hollow. It’s unmistakable even to me, though I haven’t a drop of Talisaiän blood. Its Immanent is gone. As is Cemerè’s now. One must hope the Fortunate Gods will protect the folk of Talisè and Cemerè from the dragons that ride the midwinter storms and from the Unfortunate Gods. It will surely take many long years for another Immanent Power to grow in either province.”
Kehera couldn’t help giving the man an incredulous look. Without an Immanent Power actually inhabiting the land, it would be almost impossible for Raëhemaiëth alone to turn aside the terrible storms of midwinter. Everyone knew that the Fortunate Gods were weakest during the uncounted Iron Hinge days between the death of the old year and the birth of the new. Those were the days on which the Unfortunate Gods sent their dragons riding the obsidian winds, destroying what they could. Even a child knew how perilous those days would be for every creature living in a land with no Immanent Power to turn the storms and the ill luck.
She could not understand how anyone could say things like that and sound as Quòn did. Unmoved. Unaffected. As though none of it were anything to do with him.
Her father did not seem surprised nor offended at the man’s tone. He didn’t even glance at him. All his attention was on Kehera. He said quietly, “Hallieth Suriytaiän sent word to me just before he . . . did what he did to Cemerè. Unless we prove able to stop him, he intends to take one Harivin town after another and give their Immanences to his Great Power of Suriytè, until all Harivir lies empty, vulnerable to storms and winter dragons and all Gods Fortunate and Unfortunate. Or”—and her father took a breath and then finished, his voice steady—“or else, he declares he is willing to take Harivir peacefully, through you. Through your children, heirs to both kingdoms and both the Great Power of Raëh and the Great Power of Suriytè.”
For a long moment Kehera could not quite parse her father’s meaning. Her brother was staring at her, plainly as stunned as she felt. His eyes were wide, dark with horror. It dawned on her at last that this horror was on her account. Only then did she begin to feel horrified herself. Then she wished she were still numb. She said, “No.”
Her father came to her and touched her cheek, but he said nothing.
Quòn said, “I believe Hallieth Suriytaiän has been feeding the least among Emmer’s Immanences to his own Great Power for some time. I fear Caftan’s Immanent has disappeared. Possibly Tamad’s as well. Some reports suggest so. I’m bound for Suriytè myself, next, in fact, to see if I can find out precisely how all this has been affecting its Great Power and whether some method for countering its . . . startling innovation may suggest itself.”
Kehera shook her head in dismay, but Tiro said angrily, “Well, maybe it’s not true! It’s all you believe, you fear, reports suggest, but maybe you’re wrong! Maybe—”
Torrolay Raëhema began, “Tiro—”
The boy spun back around. “Devouring Immanences? That’s not a Great Power; that’s a monster! Let the Mad King meet us outside Raëh, let his Immanent Power meet Raëhemaiëth, and then let him make such threats and demands!” He took a step toward their father and said fiercely, “You can’t possibly send—”
“Tiro,” the king said again, gently. “I may not have a choice. Raëhemaiëth could not protect Cemerè’s Power. Obviously. How many other Immanences shall we spend, how many towns leave open to the malice of any Unfortunate God that has a whim to meddle with the lives of men and beasts? We—I—have little time to consider. By dawn. That is the ultimatum. At dawn, if Kehera Raëhema has not set foot on the north bank of the Imhar, Hallieth Suriytaiän will ride upriver and do to Leiör what he has done to Cemerè. Do you know how to stop him? Because I do not.” He turned quietly to Quòn, who had waited, to all appearances unmoved by the exchange between prince and king. He asked the same question again. “Do you know how to stop him?”
Quòn inclined his head. “I fear not yet. No one has stopped him so far.”
Her father nodded. He had expected just that answer, obviously. He said, “Kehera?”
Kehera shook her head. It seemed a terrible idea, but of course she would feel that way, and she had never studied tactics. Her father must think this was the wisest course, the best course for Harivir, or he would never have frightened her with the merest suggestion of this plan.
She tried to think what it would be like, to leave Harivir—to leave Raëhemaiëth—to go into Emmer, to the court of the Mad King. The whole idea seemed worse and worse the more she tried to imagine it. “Dawn? Tomorrow’s dawn?” she asked. She tried not to let her voice falter, but she sounded weak and uncertain even to herself. “If the Mad King presses for so swift a surrender, perhaps that means—mightn’t it suggest he is constrained somehow, that time is running through his hands faster than through ours? Perhaps it would be better to play for time—to put him off, to try to find a way to stop him, stop the Suriytè Power. Perhaps he will prove weaker later than he does now—”
Tiro nodded emphatically, but her father only asked her, “And if we don’t find a way? If he in fact does to Leiör what he has already done to Cemerè? There are many towns north of Raëh. If we can’t stop him until he reaches the very boundaries of Raëhemaiëth’s own lands, how many of those towns will be left hollow and empty?”
“But—” said Tiro. “No, listen, what’s to stop the Mad King from taking Kehera and then destroying Harivir’s Immanences anyway? This is a terrible idea.”
This seemed all too possible. Kehera looked at their father.
“It might be,” their father said quietly. “It might be ill will and treachery from front to back, but what it will not be is the surrender Hallieth Suriytaiän demands. I need you to do this, Kehera, not because I intend for you to wed the Suriytaiän and bear him an heir with a double tie. I need you to do this so that I have time to prepare an adequate defense. And an adequate offense.”
Kehera stared at him. “You mean—” she began in a small voice. “You mean you—oh. You think you can get Kosir to help us?” Kosir, to the northeast of Harivir, was the smallest and poorest of the Four Kingdoms, and generally it tried to avoid the affairs of its neighbors, but if the Mad King of Emmer was truly feeding lesser Immanences to his own Great Power, well, she could see how that might very well be enough to force the King of Kosir to ally with Harivir.
“I believe I already have a useful understanding with Corrièl Immariön of Kosir,” said her father, with the ghost of a smile. “But this will compel a practical alliance. If Harivir cannot withstand Emmer, then certainly Kosir will not be able to do so. Corrièl cannot help but understand this. Howe
ver . . .” The smile disappeared again. “I will move as swiftly as I can, Kehy, but it may all take some time. I’m sorry, but I can’t promise to move against the Suriytaiän quickly . . . quickly enough to prevent this . . .” His voice tightened. “This utter obscenity of a marriage. If that is indeed the Suriytaiän’s intention. But I promise you, Kehera, I promise you, I will never abandon you. I will bring you home, as soon as may be. Yet I see no alternative but to ask you to take this risk. And, utterly unfair as it is, to pay this price.”
She could see that. She understood that. She did. It seemed terrible, and terribly risky—dangerous for her and not offering enough hope for Harivir. But her father seemed to think it was necessary, and she knew he would never ask it of her unless he were sure.
Tiro took her hands in his. She could feel the pressure of her brother’s grip, but it was as though she felt that pressure from a long way away. He met her eyes and shook his head, just a little. “You can’t,” he whispered. “Don’t you know—you know what it would mean.”
Kehera pressed her brother’s hands in return. She did know. She wanted to say to Tiro, Of course you’re right. Of course I can’t. This is impossible. She wanted to cry to her father, I’m your heir. I’m heir to Raëh and Raëhemaiëth. I can’t leave the lands bound to Raëh! Because of course that part was true. Her father’s heir could not possibly leave Harivir, or enter a foreign land bound to a foreign Great Power. Of course his heir couldn’t do anything of the sort.
It took her a long moment. It took time enough to almost fool herself that if she only tried, she would be able to think of something else. For that lingering moment, she thought she would turn to her father—she could almost see herself turning to him—and say, Of course I can’t leave Harivir and Raëhemaiëth, but listen, here’s what we can do instead.
But she couldn’t think of anything. Not though the seconds trickled by like grains of sand down a glass.
When she was silent, her father, bound more deeply to Raëhemaiëth than any of them, said gently to them both, “We can’t let the Mad King destroy Harivir’s Immanent Powers. Can you imagine what might happen to us, if more and more of our people were left helpless before Hallieth Suriytaiän in the north, aggressive Pohorin lords coming across the mountains to the east, and winter dragons riding the winds down upon us at the dark turn of the year? Never mind the Unfortunate Gods.”
Tiro began to answer, but Kehera shook her head because she knew her father was right. She could see everything he said coming true: all the northern and eastern provinces and the smaller towns being torn away from Raëh and from Harivir. And then the winter dragons coming down upon lands with no Immanent Powers to protect them. She said unsteadily, “Tiro, if it’s true . . . if it’s true, then you must see that I have to do this.” Turning to her father, she said to him stiffly, forcing out each word, “I’ll do it. If you think I must, then I will.” It was harder to say so than she’d expected, even with her father’s promise that he didn’t mean to abandon her to the Emmeran king. Because whatever happened to her later, what must happen to her first was terrible enough. Nevertheless, she managed to tell him, to tell everyone, “I’ll do it. I’ll go to Emmer and—and marry Hallieth Suriytaiän. If that’s what he demands, I’ll do it.”
Her father gave her a quiet nod. “I know you will. Be brave, Kehy. We have a few hours yet—we will need every one of them, I fear.”
She nodded. It all still felt oddly distant, as though her father were discussing an academic situation that had everything to do with tedious political maneuvering and nothing to do with her. That was fine. She didn’t want to feel that any of this really had anything to do with her. Not now. Not yet. It was only going to be worse. Because . . . She said, feeling each word fall off her tongue as though a stranger was speaking, “I can’t take a deep tie to Raëhemaiëth into Emmer—to the Mad King.” They all knew this, but saying it aloud made it feel more true and more real. Every word seemed to cut her like a knife: as though in a moment it would hurt quite a lot. “I’m sure Hallieth Suriytaiän couldn’t actually do anything to Raëhemaiëth, but it’s not worth any risk. If I have to do this, then I have to give up the heir’s tie, let Tiro take it—” She flinched and stopped at the look in her brother’s eyes.
“Yes,” her father said. “That is necessary, whatever else we may contrive. You have always had a fine grasp of a ruler’s necessities.” He sounded unlike himself on those last few words; his voice went flat and steady and hard.
Tiro shook his head in unvoiced protest.
“My son,” their father said in that same flat voice, “I fear that you, too, must develop that clear sense of necessity. I know you will. You are my son, a Raëhema born, and you must recognize your sister’s necessity, and your country’s, and your own.”
Tiro swallowed. He didn’t protest, But I don’t want it, though Kehera knew this was true. He didn’t say, But you can’t send Kehera off like this. What if it doesn’t even work? You can’t sacrifice her just to buy time. He didn’t say any of that. Because he was Raëhema, and he knew as well as Kehera did what kings and queens were for: to stand between their country and the Gods Fortunate and Unfortunate, to channel the Great and lesser Powers of the land, and to bear whatever burdens fate or chance laid down for them in order to protect their kingdom and their people.
“Very well,” said Kehera, distantly surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. “Very well. How do we do it? Shall I . . . ?” And now she faltered and had to start again. “Shall I repudiate Raëhemaiëth once I am across the river?”
She could do that. She knew how. It wasn’t even difficult. One gathered up a handful of the earth that had given rise to the Immanent and stepped outside of its precincts. One cast the soil away and repudiated the Immanent and its tie upon one’s heart and blood and bone. She knew how it was done, but she could not actually imagine doing it. Even if she had wanted the Immanent Power of Suriytè to lay claim to her, which she passionately did not, she could not imagine rejecting Raëhemaiëth so entirely.
Her father took her shoulders and drew her close. “Kehy, no. I would never ask that of you, and I hope it will not happen. You must give up the heir’s tie. That is unavoidable. But we shall ask Raëhemaiëth to keep a claim to your heart. A thin tie. A thread of a tie. But enough you shall not be utterly bereft. Enough that at need you may yet hope that Raëhemaiëth may hear you.”
Kehera nodded, her face against his chest, hoping it would prove so, terribly afraid that she would lose everything. Everything except the knowledge of her duty. Which would have to be enough, even if she lost everything else.
It was surprisingly easy to do this, in the end. Also far more difficult than Kehera had believed possible, but . . . also easy. Kehera only had to tell Raëhemaiëth what she wanted in her heart and mind and soul. The words were just for herself, so she could know her own intention clearly, because that would help Raëhemaiëth understand. Immanent Powers weren’t like people; they didn’t understand the same things. But they understood some things. Kehera said out loud, holding Tiro’s hand, “I, Kehera irinè Elin, renounce the Raëhema name and the throne of Harivir. I renounce Raëh and Raëhemaiëth. I relinquish forever all rights and privileges, all duties and responsibilities of the throne and the tie to my brother, Tirovay arrin Elin Raëhema.”
And her father murmured, “A thin tie, a whisper of a tie, do not let go entirely of our daughter, Raëhemaiëth! Wherever she goes, let her be drawn back to us!”
And the Great Immanent let her go. The air became warm and heavy for a long, lingering moment. That was all. It didn’t hurt, except that Kehera felt the weight in the air was both somehow a part of her and something outside herself. It rose fast and then it dwindled . . . and dwindled . . . and was gone, as the Power withdrew from her mind and heart.
It had happened so fast. So easily. She hadn’t understood how easily the Power of Raëh, where she had been born and had lived all her days, might let her go. As though Ra�
�hemaiëth didn’t even care. That was . . . Actually, that was one more grief in a day filled with sorrow and anger and fear. She gave the heir’s tie to her brother, and Raëhemaiëth let him take it and let her go, even though the heir’s deep tie had been part of her for her whole life, since the moment she was born. If any thin tie was left, she could not feel it. Maybe there was a thread, but she felt . . . so alone.
It was like giving away her own body. It was like her own body was glad to turn away from her.
Kehera had meant to give up the tie. But she had not known how much it would hurt, to have the Raëh Power give her up as well. She thought it must be as though a lover turned his back on her. No. Worse: as though her own mother turned her back and walked away. She felt as though she could not quite draw breath. It felt as though she had been pithed like a reed and left hollow. It did not actually hurt her. It was the worst thing she had ever experienced.
She blinked, and blinked again, feeling her vision had failed, and found her father holding her. Her face was against his chest. What they had done had hurt him too. She knew that, and she was almost glad of it, and ashamed she should feel that way. Tiro was kneeling beside her, but his head was bowed and his attention turned inward: He was discovering what the heir’s tie would be. For just a moment, Kehera almost hated her brother, and that was worst of all. She shut her eyes and pressed her face harder into her father’s shirt, trembling.
“Kehy,” he said, very gently.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know. It’s all right. I’m all right.” Actually, it felt worse and worse. She felt as though she had forgotten how to breathe, as though she might never be able to breathe again.
“Brave heart,” her father murmured, and stroked her hair again as though she were a much younger child, until she was finally able to still her shaking—mostly—and push away from him. She rubbed her hands across her eyes and face and straightened her shoulders.
Winter of Ice and Iron Page 4