Chapter Eleven
A
RAVELLE TURNED AROUND
, her stomach cramping with fear.
‘Vella? Vella, come here.’
The oldest of Charsoria’s inner circle beckoned from the galley door. Aravelle had spent her first morning with the brotherhood scrubbing pots. To think she used to long for the beauty and culture of the Celestial City. She would probably have scrubbed pots there, too.
Aravelle glanced to the cook, who sent her off.
She wiped her fingers on her cleaning smock and hurried over. ‘Is Itania all right?’
‘She’s fine, but she does miss you.’ Redravia shuffled down the hall, speaking over her shoulder. ‘You’ve been called to serve the all-father.’
‘Why?’
‘How would I know? Charsoria wants to see you first.’
Aravelle braced herself and stepped inside the cabin. ‘You sent for me, all-father’s-voice?’
Charsoria looked Aravelle up and down, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. ‘This will not do. You can’t go before the all-father looking like a kitchen drab.’
Since these were the garments she’d been told to wear and Charsoria had sent her to the kitchen to work, Aravelle bit her tongue. As she took off the smock, Itania broke away from the other small children and ran to her. Aravelle hugged her little sister.
‘Hurry up,’ Charsoria snapped. She opened a chest and began sorting through various items of clothing.
A toddler bumped into Nariska, who was clearing away the breakfast things. The fourteen-year-old dropped the tray, and bowls and plates shattered. Children yelped with fright as the women hissed with annoyance.
‘Stupid girl.’ Hariorta clipped Nariska over the ear. ‘Now you’ll have to clean it all up!’
The girl dropped to her hands and knees to pick up broken crockery.
‘Stay here.’ Aravelle put Itania on a bunk and knelt to pick up pieces of broken crockery. Nariska sent her a surprised look.
‘What are you doing, Vella?’ Charsoria caught her arm, hauled her to her feet and thrust some clothes at her. ‘Get dressed.’
Aravelle dropped her drawstring pants and stepped out of them.
‘At least you’re not pregnant,’ Charsoria said, gesturing to her thighs.
Aravelle glanced down to see blood smeared on her inner thigh. That explained the stomach cramps. Her mother had promised that Father would build a room for her when she became a woman. But here she was...
An angry sob escaped Aravelle.
‘Here, now. No call for tears,’ Redravia said. ‘Your first time? Feeling crampy?’
Aravelle could only nod.
‘I’ll brew some soothing –’
‘No time for that,’ Charsoria snapped. ‘Show her where we keep the rags.’
Soon Aravelle was dressed in soft woollen trousers, vest, and a rich tabard of deepest indigo. The brotherhood symbol of a snake swallowing its tail was embroidered in buttery yellow thread along the hem. All her clothes came from the communal chest. From now on she owned nothing; not even her own privacy, it seemed.
‘Let me see you,’ Charsoria ordered.
Aravelle turned.
The all-father’s-voice frowned. ‘I can’t do anything about that split lip or the red eyes. Stop moping, girl. Your first blood is a time to rejoice. Your hair should be neater.’ She turned Aravelle around with a sharp jerk and ruthlessly plaited her waist-length hair, tying it off with a leather thong. ‘There. Now for shoes. Can’t have you going before the all-father barefoot like a Mieren street brat. Let me see your feet.’
Aravelle lifted the hem of her trousers to reveal pale, scratched feet.
‘She looks about your size, Redravia. Give her yours. I’ll have another pair made for you.’
The old woman sat to remove a pair of simple black slippers.
Aravelle slid her feet into them. They were still warm and... ‘Too small.’
‘They’ll do for now. Now, look at me, girl. I don’t know what the all-father wants you for, but don’t you shame me by giving him any lip. Now, go.’
Aravelle hesitated. ‘I don’t know where...’
‘Show her the way, Redravia.’
With a quick hug for Itania, who began to wail despite Aravelle’s entreaties for her to be good, they hurried off. Itania’s accusatory cries followed them out the door and down the passage. Up on deck, Aravelle found Malaunje from both brotherhoods hard at work. It was a fine morning, and they were taking stores out of the hold and reorganising them.
She wriggled her toes in the too-small slippers. It seemed she could do nothing to please the all-father’s-voice.
‘Why does Charsoria hate me? And who is Hariorta, her mother?’
Redravia gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Don’t let Hari hear you say that. She’s Charsoria’s older half-sister.’
‘She’s also my aunt?’
‘No, different mother. One day I’ll show you in the lineage book. Your mother and Charsoria share the same mother, and she was the last all-father’s-voice. Charsoria only has the position now because your mother ran away. Hueryx has forced her to honour you and Itania as her choice-daughters. Worse, she has produced only sons, so when the time comes and she must look for a suitable girl to train, the all-father will expect it to be you.’
‘Oh...’ No wonder Charsoria and Hariorta hated her. ‘But I don’t want to be all-father’s-voice. I’ll tell her.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Redravia sniffed. ‘Besides, she’d never believe you.’
‘It’s not fair.’
‘Who said Malaunje life was fair?’ Redravia entered the passage under the foredeck, stopping at the last door. ‘You go ahead. And remember’ – her faded mulberry eyes fixed on Aravelle – ‘you have rights. You cannot be forced to do something you don’t want to do. You should have been trained to resist their gifts, but...’
Aravelle’s stomach churned. ‘They won’t –’
‘They won’t force anything on you, but watch out for their honeyed tongues. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up doing what they want and being grateful for it.’
Heat rushed up Aravelle’s throat and over her cheeks. Other than warning her to beware the wiles of brotherhood T’En, her mother had not prepared her for this. But she hadn’t had any formal training, and somehow she’d resisted Ronnyn’s power all last summer. Even so, he was a boy; these were the brotherhood’s most powerful T’En men. She fought the first flutterings of panic.
One glance over her shoulder told her Redravia was headed for the door to the mid-deck. ‘Thank you,’ Aravelle called softly.
The old woman paused then shook her head. ‘Sasoria should never have deserted us.’
Aravelle swallowed and knocked.
The cabin door swung open and three young T’En men strode by, brushing past her as though she was invisible.
‘Come in.’
Aravelle stepped into the dim cabin. A row of windows, larger than the ones in Charsoria’s cabin, ran along the far wall. Their light silhouetted three men kneeling on cushions, and illuminated richness beyond anything Aravelle had ever seen. And she’d thought the Malaunje quarters opulent.
So many things gleamed: copper, pewter, crystal, gold and silver. All the colours were incredibly vivid, blues and purples, a red richer than blood. Her gaze was drawn to a banner hanging on the wall. It was as tall as her and a snake swallowing its tail was picked out in gleaming gold thread on an indigo background.
But what hit her most was the smell.
It made her nostrils sting and her heart race. It spoke of danger and it promised everything. With a start, she realised it wasn’t a smell at all.
The T’En had been gift-working.
‘Don’t stand there, come in and shut the door,’ All-father Hueryx said.
With Charsoria’s admonition to keep her tongue between her teeth, and Redravia’s more cryptic warning still ringing in her ears, Aravelle stepped cautiously into the cabin.
‘She’s been knocked around but, even so, I can tell she’s pretty rather than beautiful.’ The one on the left sounded petulant, as if life had proved a disappointment to him.
‘Is my all-father’s-voice treating you well?’ Hueryx asked.
The irony of this made her smile and she heard a soft gasp from one of the men.
‘Come closer,’ the one on the right ordered. He was big and he spoke with a soft lilt. Had to be the brotherhood’s hand-of-force.
She picked her way through the discarded bedding and heaped clothes. A chest of weapons had been opened and scattered about as though someone had been looking for something.
When she was about a body length from the men, she stopped and waited with her left hand folded over right, both clasped in front of her. As was appropriate, her gaze remained on the floor. She could pretend to be the perfect Malaunje servant if she had to.
‘You should punish her, not reward her,’ Hueryx’s voice-of-reason advised. ‘Malaunje who run away should be –’
‘No one will be running away now. And Vella was an infant. She had no say in what her mother did.’
‘Sasoria stole your T’En son.’
‘And now he is returned. Besides, no one looking at Ronnyn could deny he’s mine.’ The all-father returned his attention to Aravelle. ‘You must be, what, nearly fourteen?’
She nodded. ‘Just after winter’s cusp.’
The hand-of-force cleared his throat. ‘What will you do with her?’
‘Do you read and write, Vella?’ the all-father asked.
‘Of course.’
The voice-of-reason stiffened. ‘The insolence!’
‘Don’t you get tired of insincere subservience, Dragomyr?’ Hueryx countered.
‘What will you do with her?’ the hand-of-force asked again. Even kneeling, he seemed to radiate energy.
‘I hear the causare has a renowned Mieren scholar on her ship, who set sail with us specifically to write our history,’ the all-father said. ‘I am going to write a history of the last thirty years. If I don’t, only the sisterhood version of events will be remembered. Vella can scribe for me.’
‘Very well. But if she is going to be underfoot, she can be useful,’ Voice-of-reason Dragomyr announced. He was stockier and very fair. His lashes and eyebrows were so pale he had a slightly unfinished look. ‘I want this cabin cleaned.’
‘I live to serve.’ Aravelle gave the appropriate bow.
She heard the softest of chuckles from All-father Hueryx and felt a tug of like to like. She shut it down immediately. She hated him. He was the reason her mother had fled, which meant he was the reason Charsoria hated her.
‘Make yourself useful,’ Dragomyr told Aravelle.
‘But first she can make us some spiced wine,’ Hueryx announced. ‘Do you know the spiced wine ceremony, Vella?’
She nodded, glad her mother had taught her.
‘Show me.’
But she did not know where anything was.
There should have been a garden or another chamber where the men could admire art or poetry, lulled by music or sublime silence. As the host, All-father Hueryx should have selected a poem with accompanying artwork to be the theme of the ceremony. Nothing was as it should be. Panic welled up in her.
‘Our spiced wine chest is on the desk,’ Hueryx told her. He came to his feet, opened another chest and selected a small statue, unwrapping it and placing it on the centre of the low table.
The three of them knelt at the table and placed their hands on their laps, fingers interlaced to form cups, their gazes on the statue. They prepared to meditate.
Aravelle opened the chest. It was a more ornate version of the one back home, with individual layers that lifted to reveal drawers beneath. Everything was exquisitely made, from the cups to the herb jars.
For some reason, it was very important to Aravelle that she do this right.
She prepared the scented water for the brotherhood leaders to cleanse their hands and faces. A pot of water was already warming on the brazier. But first she placed the ceramic pot over the stove and poured in the wine. Then she measured the herbs and spices: dried orange rind, ginger, honey to taste, a cinnamon stick, cardamom and a little brandy. She used the recipe her mother favoured.
Once the spiced wine was heating, she made up three bowls of warmed scented water and selected three fine cloths. These she presented to the brotherhood triumvirate in order of rank. Each man took a bowl, washed his face, then his hands and patted himself dry before handing back the utensils.
She gently stirred the wine, enjoying the familiar scent. Judging it ready, she removed the pot from the heat and poured a small measure of wine into three glasses before placing them on the tray. Again, she served them in order of rank.
Hueryx inhaled, sipped his wine and smiled. ‘Just the way I like it.’
‘Piquantly pretty and accomplished.’ The hand-of-force raised his wine to salute her.
Aravelle wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘piquantly pretty.’
‘Bring the pot. I will pour,’ Voice-of-Reason Dragomyr said. She noted that, after that first polite sip, he did not touch his spiced wine. ‘You may start work as long as you are quiet.’
She knelt and bowed before coming to her feet.
The cabin was a mess. Where to start? The simplest and most silent thing to do was pick up the bedding and fold it.
While she worked, the all-father and his two companions speculated on what was going on in Kyredeon’s brotherhood.
‘If it were possible, I’d suggest you assassinate him,’ the hand-of-force said. ‘Strike him down, before he can strike at you.’
‘Reyne...’ Hueryx shook his head fondly. ‘We made a solemn vow not to attack our fellow leaders.’
‘You think that’s going to stop Kyredeon?’
‘Thanks to Imoshen, he’ll be an oathbreaker if he moves against me.’
‘When we went into that all-council you were going to denounce her for the debacle on the wharf,’ Dragomyr said. ‘I was all set to call for a vote of no confidence and then nominate you, but I didn’t get your signal.’
‘Imoshen anticipated me and moved to counter my greatest fear for our brotherhood, and she did it in such a way that...’ He shook his head. ‘Did you get shivers when she cut her hair and swore that vow to unite us?’
‘With her short hair she looks like a common Mieren,’ Dragomyr muttered. ‘Yours will take years to grow back.’
‘Drago...’ Hueryx shook his head. ‘You have no vision.’