An Accident of Stars (10 page)

The mention of the Shavaktiin made Gwen think of Louis; it always did, ever since he'd joined that peculiar order of storytellers and mystics. Not, of course, that anyone in the compound besides Trishka knew of it, or of Louis himself, for that matter. Suppressing a maternal pang, Gwen turned a close eye on Matu, wondering how much she ought to revise her previous assessment of his drunkenness. Maybe anger had sobered him, she thought – or maybe he really was that good an actor. Either way, he didn't slur his words when he spoke of Amenet.

“She's been hiding on the border,” he went on, when no one interrupted. “Far enough away from Karavos that no one's looking for her, close enough to hear the news. And from Veksh, too. All the news from Veksh.” He lolled his head on his palm and stared at Yasha from a drunkard's angle. “She's heard a lot about Kadeja, you know. Like how the Kenan Vekshi never spoke out against her joining the mahu'kedet.”

At that, Yasha at least had the grace to blush. Contrition, however, had never been one of her strong suits. “And what was I to do – endanger everyone under my care for the sake of a dead woman's pride? What exactly has Amenet been doing all this time?”

“Healing,” said Matu. “She didn't die from the poison, but it still weakened her. It's taken her almost this long to be able to walk again.” He glanced at his sister. “She looked for you, she said, because it's in the nature of snakes to survive the venom of their own species.”

“It takes poison to know poison,” Pix muttered, but without any real rancour. Gwen rolled her eyes. Back when she'd been resident at old Vex Ralan's court, Pix had been famed for her lack of tact as much as for her beauty – but for all that, her loyalties had always equalled her grudges in strength and number. Amenet was a different creature entirely: political to the bone, yet forgiving; graceful in speech and manner, yet sharp as a sword edge when roused. If only Leoden had possessed a lick of sense, he'd have married her instead of trying to dispose of her; but of course, that would have meant a life of constant scheming against a beloved Vex'Mara, one whose family and allies were strong enough to match him when it came to running the realm. Better to kill her straight up, then marry a woman whose instabilities aligned more closely with his own, and who came unburdened with anything so infuriating as independently-minded allies or blood-kin.

“Sister,” Matu said wearily, “please desist from apportioning blame. You know full well Yasha will hit me again if I leave anything out.”

“You deserve it either way.”

“Probably. Oh, gods.” Matu slumped onto his elbows. “It hurt less when I thought she was dead.”

“Only in your case, which hardly matters,” said Yasha, with typical mercilessness. Somewhat unexpectedly, her gaze then flicked to Gwen. “Well, worldwalker? You're the expert. Tell us what comes next.”

Several decades had passed since Gwen was last a student, and yet the matriarch effortlessly made her feel like one. “The obvious option is, replace Leoden with Amenet. He has no heirs yet, legal or otherwise; word is, he hasn't touched that child Cuivexa of his, and Kadeja is his only other consort. But we'd need an army to do that, and thanks to Tevet, there isn't one. Or rather,” she said slowly, “not in Kena.”

“Go on,” said Yasha, as though encouraging a bright pupil who was taking an unexpectedly long time to reach an obvious conclusion.

Gwen stared at her with flat eyes. “You want Amenet to claim the Kenan throne with the help of a Vekshi army?”

“What else is there to do?” Yasha shrugged. “So long as Kadeja is Vex'Mara, the Council of Queens would be fools to sleep easy. Whatever omen she sought yesterday, I guarantee it doesn't augur well for them.”

“Omen?” Matu frowned. “What omen?”

Of course he had no idea who Saffron was, what had happened to her, or why she was even here. Doubtless, he'd just thought her another Vekshi expatriate newly come to the compound.

“It's a long story,” Gwen said, getting in ahead of Pix. “One you can hear about later.”

“Quite.” Yasha favoured her with a rare, approving nod. “Until then, we should make plans for our departure.”

“What departure?” Saffron looked at Gwen. “I don't understand. Did I miss something?”

Gwen sighed angrily, running a hand over her head. Once Yasha made up her mind, there was no changing it, and yet she mistrusted this turn of events. “We're going to Veksh, girl. First to the border and Amenet, and then to the Council of Queens.”

“To raise an army,” said Yasha. “And then to orchestrate a coup.”

“A coup?” The bitter laugh broke free before Gwen could stop it. “Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you? A chance for Veksh to choose who rules her neighbour.”

Yasha's glare was cold and hard. “And that would be less hypocritical, I suppose, than you choosing who rules in a world that isn't yours?”

The rebuke stung, but only because there was some truth to it. “I don't pretend to speak for my world,” said Gwen, with as much dignity as she could muster, “nor for any country in it.”

“And I do?” Yasha's yellow eyes gleamed dangerously. “I live in exile, Gwen Vere. My words have no more sway with the Council of Queens than yours would; less, perhaps, since I have enemies there, and you do not. Kena is my punishment. But perhaps you're right; perhaps I do have aspirations beyond mere penitence. Is that so wrong?” She pushed herself to her feet. “You, at least, may run home when danger threatens. I cannot.”

It was a low blow, and Yasha knew it, especially as she'd been the one to suggest Gwen's most recent departure. That did not, however, keep her from talking into Gwen's stunned silence.

“Leoden will kill this realm. You know it. I know it. The Vex dreams of a new empire, while his Vex'Mara dreams of hybrid gods and heresy with which to rule it. They are scheming, they are traitorous, and they are in power because neither of
you
–” and here she whipped her head to glare momentarily at Pix, “–had sense enough to see through them. Well, as you say, it's a mess that needs fixing. It's a mess you helped to make. But the fixing will be dirty; it will be underhand and bloody, not like those oh-so-glorious days at court when all you did was talk and smile and maybe, if you could spare a moment, think. “You, worldwalker, you only pretend to live here. With your mouth you say,
Karavos is the city of my heart,
but in your head, you remain an alien creature; you wish to love our world, but only on your terms. Hah! Ashasa forbid you should feel the blood on your hands, or suffer the weight of knowing it won't scrub off. And do you know what? I don't care thorns or godshit for your problems, the big ugly
why
that drives you. But at my table, in my house, if you wish to join our treason, then you will have the simple godslapped courtesy to call it by its name. If I call for a coup, Gwen Vere–” and here Yasha raised her staff, prodding it into the soft flesh of Gwen's throat, “–
you
do not contradict me.
” The whole room held its breath – all except Gwen, who let hers out, slow and steady.

“Kena is your punishment,” she said, meeting Yasha's tawny stare. She held her ground, throat pointedly bumping the staff before she pushed it away. “Your words, Yasha. Not mine. You say this isn't my world, that I only pretend to live here – but what are you doing? What is this compound, this piece of Veksh-yet-not that you've built, but a refusal to adapt? The difference between us isn't that I love this place on my terms, where you do not; it's that I
choose
to stay.”
I married here. I raised a son, and kept him from your sight.
“But you, Yasha – we both know you'd fly to Veksh in a heartbeat if your exile lifted. You didn't choose this, now or then; you're
relegated
. You want me to call this a coup, then fine. I'll call it a
fucking
coup.” She dropped the English swearword with relish, drawing strength from Yasha's scowl. “But don't you point that staff at me like your meddling belongs on a pedestal; as though you share no ownership of this–” she waved an angry hand, unable to find a suitable Kenan invective, and reverted to English again, “–
clusterfuck
and its consequences. Are we agreed?” A muscle worked in Yasha's jaw. Her answer, when it came, was bitten off. “Agreed.” Gwen smiled, sharp as flint. “A coup it is, then.”

“Come on, Safi. Let's leave them to it.”

Nodding queasily, Saffron let Zech lead her out of the kitchen. She'd missed some of Gwen and Yasha's argument, her fledgling comprehension struggling to keep pace with their ire, but what she did understand had rattled her badly. The leashed violence of the exchange had been just as upsetting as the content; with or without the addition of weapons, she wasn't used to shouting adults getting in each other's faces. Her missing fingers throbbed, a phantom ache that left her nauseous.

“Wait.”

Saffron froze, though Zech did not. The deep, rough voice belonged to Matu, who'd evidently chosen to leave then as well. He looked dead on his feet, but forestalled Zech's clear desire to help with a weary shake of his head. “No, no. I can manage.”

He shadowed them through the hall, a looming, long-haired presence. Saffron tried not to look at him; it would've felt rude, somehow, though she wasn't sure why.

As they turned a corner, Matu overtook them, moving ahead to an unknown door.“Zech,” he said, not looking at her, “would you do me a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Find Jeiden and make up, will you? No doubt Yasha will insist that you both come north, and it would be easier all round if you make peace before then.”

Zech made an exasperated sound. “Is it my fault I'm a better student than he is?”

“No, but you rile him up on purpose, and that I can and will blame you for.”

Zech flushed at the rebuke. “Yes, Matu.”

“Good. Now leave me be. I need rest.”

And with that, he slipped through the door and left them.

Zech sighed, tugging again on Saffron's hand. “Come on, then. You can be my witness.”

Saffron made it three more steps before stopping dead. She yanked her hand away from Zech's, her pulse so suddenly thunderous, it was almost audible. Zech stared at her, shocked and worried.

“Safi? What is it?”

Saffron didn't answer. She was shaking, not with fear, but anger. She stared at her mutilated hand and fought an irrational urge to smash it against the wall.

“Fuck everything,” she said, almost conversationally. She looked at Zech, who was staring at her, and said it again. “Fuck absolutely everything.”

And then she turned and strode away, ignoring Zech's calls to come back. Her bare feet thumped against the floor, propelling her through halls and rooms until, with a sudden flash of light, she broke out into the courtyard.

The sun was warm on her skin, and Saffron was angry. She had so much to be angry about, she couldn't even articulate it, and now it had taken her over. At home, she spent an inordinate amount of time and energy pretending she was fine, crying quietly if she was upset because she'd get in trouble if she yelled, not exploding at Jared Blake so she didn't get detention, tamping down her distress and rage until they festered like ulcers, and now it had all broken open, because there was magic and war and other worlds and
she'd lost her fucking fingers
, and no amount of soothing words was going to make it better.

Saffron clenched her fists and screamed, a loud, raw noise that ripped itself out of her throat like a rupture, startling a flock of strange birds from the wall. Except for when her fingers were cut, she hadn't screamed since she was a kid, and the volume of her newly-healed voice was shocking. She fell silent, feeling the vibrations fade in her throat, trembling all over. She screamed again. It wasn't as loud the second time, and it hurt more, enough that tears pricked her eyes. Dimly, she was aware of Zech watching worriedly from the doorway, but just at that moment, she didn't care.

Jaw set, she headed for the double gates that led out into Karavos. They were massive and metal-banded, made of weathered wood, held shut by a solid crossbar that was almost as tall as Saffron. Opening them would take time and strength, or – more plausibly – the help of another person. Saffron had none of those things, and so she did the best she could, setting her shoulder and palms to the underside of the bar and trying to shove it upwards. It budged only slightly. She swore and tried harder, pain spiking through her neck and sides. The bar raised three full centimetres before her strength gave out; she let go, and it dropped back with a soft, disappointing thud. She hadn't really expected success – and even if she'd managed it, she didn't have anywhere else to go – but it was still frustrating enough that she stepped back and whacked her fist on the wall.

“Let me
out
!” she yelled. Her voice was hoarse with unshed tears. “I have to go! I have to get home! I have to get back to… to…”

Back to what?
a snide voice whispered.
Back to Jared Blake and the dozen other boys who aren't
quite
as bad, but who still think it's OK to snap your bra and text you dick pics and call you a frigid slut if you don't laugh? Back to Mrs Rutherford's lesson plans and condescending vice principals and sleeping three hours a night because the strain of trying to act like there's nothing wrong is giving you insomnia? Back to taking twenty minutes for the class to read aloud something you could've read yourself in three, and knowing your grades will ultimately matter more than whatever you had to memorise to get them?

She dropped her hand and shut her eyes.
Back to mum and dad and Ruby. Back to my friends, to the people who love me.

Back to everyone who hasn't seen I'm screaming.