by Shannah Jay
'Then get going up to the Quoin!' Quedras roared suddenly, and folk scattered to collect their children, pull pans off the fires in the cookhouse, make sure animals were safely locked in their pens, all at a run. Then they looked for their relatives and set off. When Quequere called, you went in your family groups.
It took the oldest people over two hours to puff their way up the Quoin, to the great rocky outcropping where Quequere lived, keeping watch on his people. By that time, Quedras was pacing up and down outside the caves, sputtering with annoyance at the delay.
When the last old man had toiled up the hill and found the rest of his family waiting for him on the flat apron of rock in front of the entrance, Quedras nodded. 'Rrright, then. Inside.'
It took a few minutes for people's eyes to grow used to the darkness. They hung around the edges of the great central cavern, no one wanting to be the first to climb the stone stairway that snailed its way round the rocky walls.
Quequere let out a sniff of scornful laughter, pulled Querilla by the hand and stamped off up the
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stairs. Their three children followed them, for once not quarrelling or making a noise. Next came Quall, body doctor to Those of Quequere, and his apprentice Queverith, who also happened to be Quall's nephew and who had a similar aptitude for caring for the sick and injured.
No one spoke as they climbed the stairway. When Quequere summoned them like this, it was usually because he wanted one of them to become his Voice. That person might spend months or years serving Quequere, who was part of the rock and couldn’t communicate with them without a Voice.
The last person to be called had been Fiana. She’d arrived with Herra's group, but not been able to leave with them. She’d been acting as Quequere's Voice for the past twelve years. Was she dying? Was she about to be released? Who would take her place? The questions were in everyone's eyes, but weren’t uttered. From now on, you went in silence. You did your duty without comment or complaint.
You owed that much, and more, to Quequere.
By the time they reached the top of the stairs, people's eyes were accustomed to the dimness. Up here, there was always just enough light to see by, though where it came from, no one could tell.
At the top was a short, wide passage, then a pair of massive white marble doors, which swung open of their own accord as Quedras approached them. He led the way into a huge cavern which was a perfect oval in shape. A stern-faced example to his people, he sat with his family in the front row of the grey shelf-like tiers of rock that provided seating for more people than had ever lived here in the Sandrims – even though more seats were filled now than ever before.
In the well of the amphitheatre was a raised dais, and on it stood a square of white rock, big enough to hold a human being. It gleamed with threads of gold, as if inlaid by a master jeweller, and seemed to glow in the dim light, so that all eyes were drawn to it.
Each family sat together, and the single people who had no relatives in the Sandrims sat with someone from their squad. No one spoke and not even the smallest child needed telling to keep quiet.
Tension built up as people filed slowly in. Throats grew dry, hands sought out those of loved ones.
Who knew which person might be called? Who knew which person might be left grieving in the darkness when they walked out of here again?
Once the last group had entered, the doors closed, swinging together noiselessly. An intake of breath betrayed the nervousness of those gathered there.
A sudden thunderclap made everyone start. It was followed by a flash of lightning which released a bolt of searing light. Folk flinched as it passed over them and so brightly did it shine that they were temporarily blinded. It circled the chamber, then struck the white rock in the centre of the cavern, causing a shower of sparks. When the brightness had died down, a figure could be seen huddled on top of the rock.
'Quequere calls.'
The voice that echoed around the cavern seemed louder to Quedras than usual. It boomed painfully in his ears, causing him to shake his head, as if to clear it of sound. He stood up. 'Quequere's people answer,' he called loudly.
Another flare of light over the rock, then, 'Quequere calls twice.'
The old words came easily. 'Quequere's people stand ready to serve.'
'Quequere calls thrice.'
Everyone in the chamber chorused, 'We hear you, Quequere. We hear you.'
Again the thunder boomed and an even larger bolt of incandescent light was released to circle the amphitheatre. This time the people it lit up were unable to move a muscle and most faces were blank, as if even the capacity to think had been suspended.
Quedras remained standing, one of the few still able to think, though very slowly and painfully. He wondered whether it was Fiana who lay on the dais and who among them would now be called to serve as Quequere's Voice.
The light moved more rapidly, hurting his eyes and suddenly everything went dark around him.
Beside him, Querilla was unable to groan in anguish as she saw her beloved mate begin to walk stiffly forward, haloed in light. The mere thought of losing him made her want to weep, something she hadn’t done since she was a tiny child.
'Quequere chooses.'
On the rock the tumbled figure stirred, sat up and looked around in bewilderment. As Quedras reached the dais, the figure slid off the edge of the rock and walked out of the circle of light, leaving Quedras to clamber on the plinth and lie down.
The light wrapped around the dais and its reflection lit the rest of the amphitheatre quite vividly.
Fiana stumbled forward until she reached the seat left vacant by Quedras, collapsing into it as if her legs wouldn’t hold her upright for a moment longer.
There was another boom of thunder, an outpouring of brilliance from the white rock that made everyone close their eyes against the pain of it, then the light faded, and everything grew utterly still.
The figure on the plinth had vanished. The brilliance began to fade.
Querilla bit her lip to hold back her tears, then stood up and helped Fiana to her feet. 'Come on,'
she said, her voice rough with her loss. 'It's over now. Quequere has chosen.' She led the way from the room, turning only once to check that her children were following. She held her head high. Quedras had been called to serve. You didn’t complain about doing your duty, however much it hurt.
Outside the chamber, Fiana sank to her knees. 'Sorry. I can't - walk any more. I feel - so weak.' She looked round. 'Where's Herra? And Davred? And the others?'
Querilla realised Fiana didn’t yet understand what had happened to her. 'They've gone on ahead. I'll tell you about it later.' She looked around and beckoned to Quall. 'I think we'd better carry her down to South Vale. Just check that she's all right, will you, while I go and organise a litter.'
Keep busy, she told herself. Don't think about anything, especially Quedras, just keep busy. Save your tears for tonight. For she would weep, she knew. She’d suddenly realised how bleak life would be without him. So happy were they together that they hadn’t changed partners after a few years as most did. Even quarrelling with old Queddie was fun.
Quall set about arranging a litter and Fiana lay down on it with a sigh of relief, closing her eyes, utter weariness showing in the whiteness of her face and the limpness of her body.
Querilla glared around. 'Well, let's get moving. What are you all standing around for? Am I the only one with a brain still functioning?' By keeping her anger burning brightly, she managed to keep the tears at bay as she strode down into the valley. When little Quossim asked where Pa was, one of the older children shushed him. He stared pleadingly at his mother, but thank goodness he didn’t pester her again because she couldn’t have answered him without weeping.
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When they arrived at the house she’d shared with Quedras for over ten years, ever since her people had abandoned their felt tents, Querilla summoned up the dregs of
her self-control. 'Carry Fiana inside.
She can join our squad.' She led the way to the guest room, gestured to one of the six beds there and shouted for food and drink to be brought, then strode up and down like a caged sand scorpion while Quall gave Fiana a more thorough examination.
'Well?' she demanded when he’d finished. 'How is she?'
'She's weak, but perfectly all right. Give her a few days to exercise, to get the tone back in her muscles, and she'll be as good as ever. But you'll have to watch out for the sun at first. Her skin's as pale as the underbelly of a rockrat.'
Fiana lay between them, quiet and incurious, as if she had no energy even to think clearly. Quall studied her again. She didn’t seem to have aged during her years with Quequere. Indeed, she looked much younger than the bitterly unhappy woman who’d arrived in the Sandrims with Herra. Younger and more feminine, somehow.
It was like that sometimes, with Quequere. He took the broken unhappy souls as his Voice and helped them. Quall smiled. It was good to be Quequere's people. They owed him everything. Without him, they’d still be homeless rascals, fighting one another to survive, instead of living and working together for the good of all. Deep satisfaction filled him. They must never let the younger people forget what they all owed to Quequere.
A tray was brought and offered to Fiana, who brightened at the sight of it and struggled to sit up. 'I hadn't realised how hungry I was?' She picked up a spoon. After a few mouthfuls she paused to ask,
'Will Herra and the others be long? What's happened to them?'
'Finish your food, then I'll tell you.'
Fiana stared at her, worried. Querilla looked different. Surely that was grey in the other woman's hair where no grey had been before? And wrinkles around her eyes? She opened her mouth to ask, but the smell of the food was too tempting, so she pushed her worries aside and concentrated on eating until the tray was clear.
'Now,' she said, letting Querilla take it away. 'Tell me what's happened.' She saw the doubt in the other woman's eyes and added, 'I'd rather know, whatever it is.'
Querilla began carefully. 'Do you remember going up to the Quoin when Quequere summoned us?'
Fiana nodded. 'Yes, of course I do.'
Querilla cleared her throat. This was cursed difficult. 'Well, as it happened, Quequere chose you that day to serve as his Voice.'
That day! Fiana opened her mouth to ask what Querilla meant by 'that day', but shut it again, saying nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Querilla looked at Quall for support. He nodded, ready to come to her aid should Fiana become hysterical.
'That all happened over twelve years ago, Fiana,' Querilla said in a tone that was, for her, very gentle.
'You've been serving Quequere for years now. Until today.'
Fiana stared at her blankly, then drew in a long slow breath, moving instinctively into one of the Sisterhood's minor Disciplines to keep herself calm. After a while, she inclined her head in acceptance.
'Herra and the others aren’t here, then. They’d have had to continue the quest.'
'No, they're not here. They left quite soon after you were summoned to serve Quequere. Herra went to speak to Quequere first and then left you a note.'
'Do you have it?'
'Me? No. She left it with Quequere.' As Fiana stared at her blankly, Querilla turned to Quall for help.
'Maybe he put it in one of your pockets,' Quall said, in the calm gentle voice he used to deal with sick people.
He was the best body-doctor that Those of Quequere had ever known, Querilla thought. The mere sight of him smiling down at you made you feel better.
Fiana fumbled in the pockets of her leather jerkin, which was, as far as she could tell, the same one she’d been wearing when summoned. Sure enough, a crackle of paper revealed the note. She clutched it to her for a moment, as if it brought her closer to Herra, then slowly opened and read it.
Querilla was nearly jumping up and down with impatience by the time Fiana had read it again then folded it up and slipped it back into her pocket.
'What does it say?'
'Herra bids me follow her to the rendezvous we’d arranged.'
'Ah. And where would that be?'
Fiana shrugged. 'A long way from here.' She saw the annoyance on Querilla's face and stretched out one hand to touch her. 'It's not that I don't trust you, but surely you'll agree that the fewer people who know where the rendezvous is, the better?' she asked gently. 'You are, after all, one of the war leaders here on the Sandrims. You must know how to keep your own secrets.'
Querilla fought with herself for a moment, then nodded acceptance. 'I suppose you're right. Though there's not much fighting going on around here nowadays.' Then the realisation that her Quedras had been summoned to serve Quequere hit her again, and she sucked in her breath in an angry sound that only just missed being a sob.
Fiana noticed instantly. 'What is it? What's wrong?'
Quall saved his friend the trouble of trying to answer without breaking down. 'Quedras has been summoned to serve as the Voice in your place, Fiana, so Querilla is still a bit upset. It was his duty.
We're all quite prepared to serve if summoned. But it's hard to lose someone you care about, especially so unexpectedly.'
Fiana's face went blank for a moment and she stretched out to touch the stone wall, as if to give herself courage. Her voice was different as she said slowly, 'Quedras will serve only a short time. Just a few weeks. He needs to learn some new skills. And I must wait for him before I leave here. ' She sat perfectly still for a moment or two longer, then gasped and sagged back, looking disoriented.
Quall felt her forehead and frowned at the chill of it. He picked up a blanket and wrapped it round her.
Querilla was still gaping at Fiana. 'Did you mean that about my Queddie? Did you?'
'Yes.' Fiana sat with eyes down, staring at her clasped hands, then raised her head to say, 'It's all starting to fall in place. I'm beginning to remember. A little, anyway. And - and Quequere can speak
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through me sometimes now - though not easily. Without me being with him in the Quoin, I mean.'
'Queddie's really coming back?' Tears were coursing down Querilla's face now and she was making no attempt to stop them. 'You hear that, Quall. You hear that? Queddie's coming back soon!' She smeared the tears away with a mutter of annoyance, but more flowed after them.
'I think,' Quall said softly, 'both of you need to rest.' To his amazement, Querilla nodded and lay down on one of the guest beds, pulling a blanket over her.
'Stupid, isn't it?' she asked the air around her. 'I miss him already? And he's only been gone an hour or two.'
Fiana also lay down and was asleep almost immediately.
Querilla smiled drowsily at the ceiling. 'I'd better make sure everything's in good order for when you get back, then, Qued old fellow. Don't want you thinking I can't manage on my own, do I?'
CHAPTER 11 SANDRIMS COHORTS
'What was it like, being his voice?' Quall asked Fiana the next day, ever eager for knowledge. It was said people could remember nothing of their time within the secret parts of the Quoin, but from the way Fiana talked, she remembered quite a lot.
'Strange, dreamy, as if I had no body, but still had a mind.'
'And could you actually talk to Quequere, as you're talking to me now?' His thin brown face was alight with interest.
Fiana gave him, a long thoughtful look. How much should she tell him? Would he be likely to work against what Quequere wanted, which was what she and the Kindred wanted, too? No. The answer formed immediately in her mind. This man would never prevent another from following the path fate had laid out. This man was honourable. It showed in his eyes, which were warm with years of understanding human frailty from his calling as body doctor. And although grey speckled his hair, he still had a boy's enthusiasm for life. You could see it in the very way he walked, the way he sat, ready to rush off and do something, always eager to
learn.
'Could you?' he prompted.
She realised her thoughts had been wandering again. It was hard sometimes to focus on what was happening around her since Quequere had let her go, all too easy to slip back into a dream-like state.
'Oh, yes, we used to have long conversations, Quequere and I. Before he summoned me, he didn't try to talk much to those who served as his Voice, for he often took people who were - um, damaged. But since he’s met Herra, he wants to understand everything he can about the Kindred and Those of the Serpent. He's changed a lot, I think. He's been helping them - but I don't know exactly how, because I wasn't conscious while he was doing that - I was acting as his Voice. Um, having a Voice also helps him to take action, but don't ask me to explain how.'
'Those of the Serpent sound filthy types to me,' Querilla stated, emphasising her opinion by a vigorous nod of a head covered with short greying stubble. Quedras teased her sometimes about the way she chopped off her hair, but she hated to have it flopping in her eyes, and she teased him in return for the way he let his curls grow. His dark hair had threads of silver in it, too, now. When pushed too far that teasing had been the cause of several quarrels. She wished he were here to tease her again - or to quarrel with. Life would be cursed boring without him.
'Utterly despicable, they are,' she continued, following that thread of thought. 'Lower than sand scorpions. Should be consigned to the Vortex. I don't know why people in the Twelve Claims put up with them. I mean, if anyone tried to whip me, I'd soon make them regret it. I'd strangle them with their own whip thongs!'
Fiana smiled. Everything was so simple to Querilla, black or white, good or bad. 'Herra says it's the incense they burn in the shrines that does it. That's what attracts people, and what keeps them going meekly back. It mesmerises them, brings out the worst in them. She thinks someone devised that incense on purpose. Sen-Sether, probably, or one of his grandsires.'