An Accident of Stars (26 page)

“None of us has the zuymet. It's a valuable skill, one the temples guard jealously when they have it, and which pays well even without them.”

“The same could be said of the sevikmet,” Gwen countered, “and yet you have two healers.”

Halaya laughed. “Perhaps. Yet there's a greater inherent altruism to healing, I think – not everyone needs a translator, but everyone gets sick. Those with the gift are encouraged to use it freely, even within the temples. Other talents, though… I'm amazed your flock boasts even one with the zuymet, let alone two.”

Gwen snorted at that. “My
flock
? They're hardly birds, and they're certainly not mine.”

The Shavaktiin tilted her head, her green veil fluttering coyly. “Are they Yasha's then?”

“Why wouldn't they be?”

“Why not indeed?” Halaya murmured.

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Very cryptic. Consider me suitably puzzled.”

“Noted,” Halaya said, and though her face was hidden, Gwen could have sworn the other woman was smiling.

That had been yesterday; now their company rode two by two while the remaining Shavaktiin, Halaya included, took turns as vanguards and scouts, protecting the column at a distance. Yasha and Yena led, with Zech and Trishka close behind. Then came Matu and Saffron, clearly engaged in their daily lesson. That should have left Gwen paired with Jeiden, except that she'd fallen behind, the boy more than a horse's length ahead of her. Nudging her own mount to a faster walk – and wincing, as she did so, at the stiffness nearly a fortnight's riding and sleeping rough had forced into her joints – she pulled alongside and found him staring fixedly at Zech.

“She's hiding something,” he muttered, not moving his head.

Gwen blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“She's hiding something,” Jeiden repeated. Then he sighed, running a hand through his feathery hair. “Ever since Pix and Viya left, she's been acting odd. Secretive, you know? Asking questions when Yasha's not around.”

“I hadn't noticed,” Gwen said, and mentally cursed herself for being unobservant. Part of her had noticed Zech's change in behaviour, her sudden avoidance of Yasha, but she'd put it down to a combination of post-battle trauma and resentment at the matriarch for making her fight in the first place. The possibility of a third explanation had never even occurred to her. “What's she been asking?”

Jeiden shook his head, frustrated. “I don't know. That's just it. She's been asking the Shavaktiin, not me – sometimes Trishka, too, but mostly Halaya and the others.”

“And you're worried about her?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.” He finally turned to look at her, his entire posture despondent. “I just wish she'd let me in on it.”

Gwen chose her words carefully. “Maybe she's being secretive for a reason. For now, it's best just to trust her. She'll let us know when she's ready.”

Jeiden nodded dutifully, but it was clear he didn't believe her – and why should he, when Gwen wasn't sure she believed herself? It wasn't like Zech to be secretive, let alone to go behind Yasha's back. Or at least, not seriously: pushing at rules and boundaries, sneaking out of the compound and eavesdropping on her elders was all behaviour understood to be tacitly endorsed by Yasha, so long as Zech didn't get caught. But this smacked of something different, and the more she thought about it, the clearer it became that, even if Gwen had spotted it earlier, she still wouldn't have had a clue what it was about.

A shout from up ahead broke her thoughts. It was one of the Shavaktiin outriders, arm raised as he pointed at the road ahead. At first, Gwen couldn't see the reason for his alarm – but then, like so much else, her long distance vision wasn't what it used to be. Squinting at the horizon, she ground her teeth in frustration as Jeiden, too, let out a cry of shock.

And then she saw it: successive showers of golden sparks, each one greater than the last, appearing suddenly in the naked air less than a hundred metres from the head of the column. As she watched, small lightning's followed, spiderwebbing outwards like fractures through stone, until a crackling web of energy arched across the body of the road. The brightness built, intensifying steadily. Then, with a whiplash-roar, a gleaming, gold-edged portal appeared before them. The column ground to a halt, formation forgotten as their snorting, wide-eyed mounts bunched tightly together, until everyone but the Shavaktiin was within two metres of everyone else.

“Arsegullet!” Yasha swore. And then, with only the slightest betraying shake to her voice: “Everyone be still. I know what this is.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” Gwen muttered in English, eyes glued ahead as the blinding portal, now apparently stable, disgorged three riders mounted on matching white mares. All three were women of Gwen's age or older, their hair respectfully shaved to stubble and crowned by simple circlets of braided copper, gold and platinum. Each one wore the dou and kettha – the traditional Vekshi tunic and trousers – in matching white cloth embroidered with red and gold thread. One, the middle rider, bore facial scars that were no less prominent for being old: even at a distance, Gwen could see she was blind in one eye from where some triple-clawed blade had raked down the left-hand side of her face. All carried staves that were more like ceremonial scythes, their ends fitted with curving blades, and as they approached, Gwen saw that none of them was smiling.

“Are they…” Jeiden gulped.

Gwen nodded grimly. “Representatives from the Council of Queens.”

S
affron stared at the riders
, wide-eyed and frightened. The last time they'd met strangers on the road, things hadn't ended well, and now her fight-or-flight reflex was screaming at her to turn around and run. Only the gentle pressure of Matu's hand on her wrist kept her steady, and even then, she could feel her pulse thumping against his fingertips.

“It's all right,” Matu murmured quietly. “Trust me. It's all right.”

It's not
, Saffron wanted to say, but somehow she forced herself to nod. Ahead of them, Yasha kicked her horse forwards: far enough to set her indisputably at the head of their party, but close enough that everything she said was plainly audible. Despite all her lessons in Vekshi, Saffron still found it strange both to hear and to understand the language. She forced herself to listen. Now more than ever, she needed to know what was happening.

“In Ashasa's name, greetings,” Yasha said. “To what do I owe the honour of your presence?”

The riders – the queens, for surely they couldn't be anything else, not crowned as they were – came to a halt, close enough for their mounts to touch noses with Yasha's. The eldest queen, distinguished as much by her scars as her age, narrowed her eyes.

“You dare to greet me in Ashasa's name? You, Yasha a Yasara, who turned your back on everything our Mother Sun stands for – who abandoned clan and duty both to live among Kenan savages as little more than a thorn in the flank of righteous Veksh? You dare call
my
presence an honour? Tcha! You lie as you breathe, traitor, and yet you have crossed the border. Why here? Why now? Speak!”

Though Yasha's face was hidden, Saffron saw her tense. When she spoke, her voice was fury-soft, the strength of her answer building like a storm.

“You of all people, Ruyun a Ketra, ought to know why I left. Tell me, where is your daughter? Where is Tavma now? You speak of Ashasa as though she was never a mother; as though she doesn't hold sacred a mother's rights. You would've seen my child broken and dead before she was old enough to cut her hair or share her sheets, and all through jealous grief that I had the strength to refuse what you could not. Shame on you, and shame on the Council, now as then! Ashasa's Knives were once pure and clean, but now they stain themselves red with the blood of children.” Yasha spat to one side, contempt in her every gesture. “I am no traitor. But you, Ruyun, your whole existence betrays our Mother Sun. You chose power over a daughter's life. That can never be forgiven.”

“Thorns and godshit,” Matu whispered. His grip on Saffron's wrist tightened. Saffron felt sick to her stomach. What had Yasha done? All three queens looked furious. And yet – and yet! – she saw that Ruyun had visibly paled; that the other two looked shamed as well as angry. Ruyun opened her mouth, but another queen spoke instead.

“Save your rage, Yasha,” she said flatly. “You didn't answer the question. Why are you here?”

“Goddess above, does it matter?” This from the third queen – the youngest of all to Saffron's eyes, though still more than old enough to have been her mother. “Would you have the portal wait all day and prove her point eight times over? You must come with us now, to Yevekshasa. All of you.”

“A happy coincidence,” Yasha said, “as we desire to be there.”

She frowned. “Your return has raised questions among the queens. You would do well not to treat their interest lightly.”

If her words held a warning, Yasha plainly chose to ignore it. “My thanks for your courtesy, Mesthani a Vekte. My people will come gladly.” And then, in Kenan, loudly enough for even the farthest Shavaktiin to hear, “We ride through the portal to Yevekshasa! The queens will be our escort. Ride close, and do nothing without my say-so.”

For a miracle, no one argued – not even Halaya, who had the greatest cause to dissent. Instead, she signalled her Shavaktiin to ride in, so that they once more flanked the party in a protective ring. Ruyun reined her horse to the side of the road, watching as the other two queens led on through the portal.

Saffron looked at Matu. “What just happened?”

“I have no idea.” Belatedly, he dropped her wrist. “Or at least, I have some idea. But as to the rest, I don't know enough of the Council's current state to say.”

By this time, Saffron was starting to get a feel for politics. She glared at him. “You mean, you know exactly what that was about, but you don't want to tell me in case I go around repeating it.”

“Sometimes,” Matu said sourly, “it wouldn't hurt you to be a less insightful student.” Then he sighed to take the sting from his words. “You're right. I do know. But it's not my place to say – not yet, at least. Doubtless it'll all come out eventually, but until then I wouldn't dare risk Ashasa's wrath by presuming to speak above my station.”

“Fair enough,” said Saffron.

They fell silent then: the portal was only feet away, an impossible white-gold mouth. Saffron gawked at it in unabashed awe. Unlike the unstable tears she'd seen Trishka produce, this one was massive, so tall and broad that their party could comfortably ride through three abreast. As they passed through the eye of it, Saffron shivered, her shorn hair standing on end. They passed into yet another strange new world.

Into Yevekshasa.

Though the little she'd seen of Karavos had looked, if not actually familiar, then like an interesting patchwork of familiar elements – markets, murals, fountains, stalls – Yevekshasa felt wholly alien. They'd emerged into a grassy space about the same size as a small football field, but that was where the comparison ended: the silky grass was knee-high to the horses, the stems milk-white and veined with orange. The whole place was enclosed on three sides by rampart-topped walls that easily stood three stories high and whose inner sides were faced with bright red tile, smooth and seamless except for the inclusion of regularly spaced, perfectly circular alcoves, each of which housed a burning flame in a small copper bowl. This last detail gave Saffron the oddest sense of déjà vu, as though she'd somehow seen the design before, but she didn't dwell on it; there was too much else to hold her attention.

Directly ahead, where the fourth wall should have been, was a two-storey building built from creamy stone and roofed in the same red tile as the walls. Broad, shallow steps led up to a pair of imposing, red-lacquered doors, while to the right was a small archway perfectly sized to admit a single mount and rider. The doors were guarded by two tall women in red armour, both of whom – Saffron looked twice, to be sure – wore their blonde hair long and braided. When the leading queens dismounted at the base of the steps, the rightmost guard came forward to take the reins of their horses, inclining her head in deference as she did so.

A sudden electric
crack!
from behind caused Saffron to whirl in the saddle, watching open-mouthed as the portal, having safely disgorged their entire party, collapsed in on itself. Only then were its origins revealed: eight red-robed, long-haired women standing against the rear wall, hidden until now by the portal they'd created through combined use of the jahudemet. Frowning, she recalled the words of Mesthani, the youngest queen:
would you have the portal wait all day and prove her point eight times over?
She could see now that eight referred to the number of mages, but what point of Yasha's would their prolonged use of the magic had proved? Once again, the words came back to her:
you would've seen my child broken and dead
. With that realisation, something clicked into place – not the whole story, not by a long shot, but enough that when she looked at Matu, he saw that she understood, and sighed in aggrieved confirmation.

“Like I said, little worldwalker, you could try to be less insightful. Or at least try to keep your knowledge from showing so plainly. Your face is open as a beggar's palm.”

“Sorry,” said Saffron. She wasn't though, and when Matu winked at her, she grinned back. Her fear had gone, quieted both by Matu's reassuring presence and her newly reawakened sense of curiosity. She would've said more, but then Yasha was yelling for everyone to dismount and leave the horses, and what else could they do but obey?

Just as it had done every day since their rapid flight from Karavos, her body groaned in protest as she swung her leg over the saddle. Though not as sore as she'd been that first day on the road –
the day of the battle
, she thought, then promptly shied away from the reminder – she was still profoundly stiff from hours spent on horseback. Her thighs and lower back ached, and even though Yasha was calling again to leave the horses and walk to her, she still took a moment to rest her head on her mount's neck, uncaring of the sweaty hairs that ended up stuck to her forehead. It suddenly felt strange that she'd neither learned the animal's name nor given it one herself. He'd served her well, though, and on impulse she stretched her arms around his thick, bay neck and hugged, and was rewarded in turn with a rumbling, friendly whacker.

“Goodbye,” she told the horse, and then moved to stand with the others, who were grouped behind Yasha at the base of the steps. In the time it had taken the portal to close, Ruyun had joined the other queens on foot, passing the reins of her mare to a guard who led all the queens' mounts away through the arch. An eerie stillness settled over the square (or whatever it was – doubtless it possessed some grander-sounding name), broken only by the snuffling of horses.

“Well,” said Yasha, when their hosts remained silent. “Things certainly have changed. Tell me, when did the queens of Veksh become so beholden to Ashasa's Knives that petitioners were brought to temple, not court?”

Ruyun smiled icily. “Since the queens of Veksh remembered to whom they owe their first allegiance.”

“Power?”

“Ashasa,” Ruyun shot back. “And as for your being petitioners – well. Your presence may have been
requested
–” her emphasis made clear that refusal had not been an option, “–but that doesn't mean the queens wish to sully their eyes with the sight of you. By what right do you claim audience with the Council?”

“By right of blood!” said Yasha indignantly.

Ruyun smirked. “Traitors have no blood-rights. You are denied.”

“You cannot…” Yasha began, but Saffron missed the rest of the sentence, distracted by the sudden appearance of Zech at her elbow.

“I need your help,” the girl whispered urgently. “Safi, I wouldn't ask, but there's no one else – I wanted to explain in waking first, but we don't have time. I need to know if you'll stand with me.”

“Of course,” said Saffron, puzzled by the request. “Why wouldn't I?”

Zech bit her lip. “Because you don't know what I'm asking.”

“Still…” She broke off again, disrupted by the sudden opening of the red-lacquered doors. A stream of figures emerged: all women and all long-haired, dressed alternately in flowing robes or the red-plated armour of guards. All were armed – the priestesses with belt-knives, and the guards with short, bladed staffs. Flowing down the steps, they spread onto the weird, white grass. One by one, the priestesses began to lead their party's horses away through that single arch, leaving behind the guards, who formed a generous yet menacing perimeter around their group.

“I don't like this,” Matu muttered, oblivious to Zech's arrival.

“Please, Safi,” Zech asked again. “Promise you'll forgive me?”

“I promise,” Saffron said, bewildered. “And of course I'll stand with you.”

Zech exhaled, visibly shaky with relief – and something else too.

Fear.

Fuck,
thought Saffron.
What the hell did I just agree to?

Minnow-quiet, Zech gave her arm a final squeeze and slipped ahead of them. Uneasiness and anticipation stirred in Saffron's gut.

I guess we're about to find out.

She turned her attention back to where Yasha was still arguing with the queens. For all her passion, it was clear her words were falling on deaf ears; Mesthani interrupted her mid-sentence, one hand raised in irritated apology.

“Your need is immaterial; the Council declared you a traitor the day you left Veksh. Right or wrong–”

“Right,” Ruyun interjected.

Mesthani glared at her. “Right or wrong,” she repeated, “you cannot dispute that verdict now – not without a lawful petitioner to plead your case to the Council or the support of at least one queen, neither of which you currently possess.”

Yasha's clenched fists visibly shook with fury. “My daughter then,” she snapped. “Trishka a Yasha. Or my granddaughter, Yena a Trishka. Both will plead my case. I might be branded traitor, but that doesn't change their rights.”

“They have no more rights than you do!” Ruyun hissed. “You took your daughter from Veksh, but that didn't change her duty to return once she came of age. For that failure alone, the Council can and will hold her in contempt; and as for your granddaughter, our intelligence is not so poor that a traitor's child being given a gift of the soul-skin escaped our notice. We know she bears the mark of Kara – and even if she did not, her uncut hair is blasphemy enough to deny her audience. Or have you forgotten so much of our ways as that? Well, old woman?” Ruyun's tone turned mocking. “Who else would you have petition us? Who else here claims the right to speak? “And into the terrible silence where Yasha faltered, Zechalia said, “I do.”

Everyone stared at her – even Yasha, who spun on her heel to watch open-mouthed, as Zech stepped forward onto the stairs. She was visibly trembling, and yet every line of her skinny girl's body was taut with defiance, shoulders pushed back and chin raised.

“
You
?” Mesthani asked, her tone both incredulous and intrigued. “You're not even of age. On what grounds do you claim a petitioner's rights?”