Essalieyan Chronicles 04 - The Weapon (4 page)

“I do not know what you intended. I do not wish to know. Leave me with the illusion of your mercy. Melanna will grow, from this. She will remember things that will hurt her, but once she is past the pain, she will remember things that will define her.”

“She will love this child.”

“In time, Emily, accept that we will
all
love her.” “She is the daughter of—”

“She is a child. Whose child has yet to be determined; it is not in blood and birth that such decisions are made, but in the life itself.”

“Iain—” She held out a hand. It shook. “I have looked long and hard at this city, harder still at the Baron who rules it; I have evaluated, as I can, the foreign Barons who bark at the gates. They are of a kind, Baron Breton and the others; if he loses his war, there will be death and slaughter, before and after. I cannot see a way out of this darkness if not through her. If blood and birth matter little to the Mother, they matter to those whose power destroy our people, generation after generation.

“I saw her as a gift. As an opportunity—perhaps our only one. I thought to be a weapon- smith.”

He placed his hand across hers. “Have you spoken with the Mother?” She shook her head. “I know my mother. I
know
what she’ll say.”

His frown was edged with humor. “There are other ways to fight,” he said at last.

“In stories,” she replied bitterly. “In song. But in song, the god-born walked freely among the villains, carrying the blood of their parents, and using the power it granted them. Where are their like now? We do not even have a god-born child of our own—” She choked back the words, the bitter fear. “I have seen those who would be heroes. They were not gentle men, and they were not kind, but had they succeeded, they might have been better rulers. If she is soft, if she is weak, what favor have we granted her? What good have we done ourselves? She will be killed by her own naivete. Had she stayed with her father, she would be capable. If we love her, will that not in the end make her a victim?”

“Let the definition of weakness be made by men like Baron Breton, and you have already lost; make of her a woman who can stand against him upon his own ground, and you will simply make another like him. Perhaps she will be beholden to you; perhaps she will kill you, as Baron Breton killed his father. I cannot say.”

“If we—”

“But if we have no hope, Emily…” “Hope did not save Melanna’s child.”

“No,” he said quietly. He did not speak again during that meal.

* * *

Prayer afforded hope to those who gathered at the Mother’s altar; it afforded little to the Mother’s Daughter. But in the end, she
was
the Mother’s Daughter. She watched as Veralaan grew, claiming, as Iain had predicted, the love and affection of the Priests, the Priestesses, and the Novices. Melanna was her protector and her guardian, and each time the child was introduced to a newcomer, it was by the side of the ferocious Priestess, whose grim and loving demeanor made clear what would happen to those who judged her for her father’s crimes.

In a different world, this might have produced a different child. But in this one, not even

Melanna—as she had learned so bitterly once—was capable of protecting a child completely.

* * *

When she was six years old, Iain began to teach her how to read, how to write, and how to comport herself as a young lady of wealth and power. The former, he had done in the Novitiate for years, but the latter? Not for a lifetime. Melanna hated it, of course. But Emily insisted on it.

“Why?” Melanna demanded.

“Because she
is
the Baron’s daughter.” “Why Iain?”

“Because he is the
only
son of a noble family to grace these halls.” “It’s no damn kindness to remind him of it. It just reminds him—” “Of what he’s lost?”

Melanna fell silent. It was a mutinous silence.

“Melanna, if he is unable to teach her, he will tell me. Trust him.” She paused, and then added, “trust yourself. Trust Veralaan. To understand the odd customs and the graces of the patriciate is not to become what they are; if that were true, Iain would never have come to the Mother.

“He cares for Veralaan. Let him do this one thing for her; you have done almost everything else she requires.”

“I don’t see why she
requires
this!”

No
, Emily thought, but did not argue further.
You don’t want to see it.

* * *

Emily Dontal used the excuse of the temple’s care to keep her distance from Veralaan, but it was a distance that time eroded so slowly she couldn’t say when it broke at last, and she, too,

was swept up in the joy—and fear—that came of caring too much for a child.

But she knew the exact moment she became aware of it, and she did not forget.

Iain had, uncharacteristically, bemoaned the lack of a “proper” staircase. The cathedral boasted stairs, but they were subtle, and meant to be traversed with silent dignity; he wanted something that would lead from the heights to the altar in full view of an audience.

And he was embarrassed by the desire.

“She’s graceful,” he said lamely, “for a child her age. But she has to practice the stairs,” he added, his voice wilting even more, if that were possible. “It’s the one time when all eyes will be upon her.”

“She’s seven, Iain. And at that, a quiet seven. I’m not sure she’d be happy if all eyes, as you say, were upon her. We found the funding for the harp that you requested. We found funding for the dress. But, Iain, the funding to add such a staircase is well beyond our means.”

He winced and lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, Emily. She reminds me of my youth, that’s all. I

see so much potential in her—” He shook his head. She stared at him.

“There was a time,” he said softly, “a time in my life when I could see beauty and it wasn’t tainted. She
is
that time. I have learned to appreciate beauty in more subtle forms. I see it daily in the struggles of the Mother’s children. But this is different.

“And she’s the Baron’s daughter. She has to know how to make an entrance.” “Iain—”

One of the Novices burst into the room, throwing the doors wide. “Mother’s Daughter!” she cried, all ceremony cast aside by panic. “Come quickly!”

“What has happened, Carin?”

“The Baron’s men are in the healerie!” “What? Why?”

“Three of the injured. They want to take them.” The Mother’s Daughter stiffened. “Iain.”

But he was perfectly composed now, and he followed where she led. The halls were long and narrow in her vision; the lights were dim. She had seen this many, many times. “Carin,” she said sharply, “who is in the healerie?”

“Edwin. Harald.” She hesitated and then added, “Rowan.”

Rowan was healerborn. Emily Dontal lifted her robes and ran toward the bend in the hall that would take her at last to the bitter scene she had supervised so often. But as she rounded the corner, Iain her shadow, she saw that the doors to the healerie had been left open, and in the frame of that door, she saw a broad, bent back that she could not help but recognize. Melanna.

She slowed; a collision and its subsequent lack of dignity would hold her in poor stead. Melanna did not seem to hear her; she had to touch the older woman to get her attention and when she did, she forgot why she wanted it; Melanna was so tense were it not for warmth she might have been a statue.

“Priestess,” the Mother’s Daughter said cloaking her voice with the weight and authority granted the god-born.

Melanna shifted slightly, providing barely enough space that one adult might slide past her. But her hands came up in fists, and as Emily stepped into the healerie, she saw that Melanna’s face was white, bleached white.

And she saw why in an instant.

Veralaan was standing in the healerie. She wore the deep, dark velvet that had been so

costly, and her hair had been gathered above the nape of her neck; were she not so short, she might have been years older.

Rowan was crouched beside one of her patients. The child. Why was so much that was bitter twisted around the lives of children? But the child was unconscious, and Emily thought it

unlikely that he would wake before this was over. And it would be over. The Baron’s men were not to be denied. It was the harshest of lessons that the novices learned, and it was repeated over and over again, the birth and death of hope.

Gathered just beyond the door at the other end of the healerie were the Baron’s men. They wore the surcoat of Breton, and carried the swords forbidden to any other citizen of the city. They had lifted their visors, but they did not remove them; they numbered eight. Eight men, to take two who would not wake and one who could barely walk.

But she saw the subtle signs of hesitation in their stance, and she moved forward. Because she did, she could clearly hear Veralaan’s voice. The ceilings in the healerie did it no justice.

“Why are you here?” Veralaan demanded, her arms by her side, her shoulders straight, her chin lifted.

“We’ve come for those three,” the soldier replied. “They are wanted by the Baron.”

“They are in the temple of the Mother,” she answered evenly, the words so smooth they bore none of the stilted effort that spoke of practice. “They came seeking sanctuary and healing, and we granted it.”

We.

“It is not yours to grant,” the man said. He shifted his blade.

“It is the Mother’s right,” Veralaan replied. She lifted a slender arm, a child’s arm. “And you are not welcome here if you come to disturb the Mother’s peace. You can lay down your arms, or you can leave.”

His eyes widened. So, too, did the Mother’s Daughter’s, but none of the men seemed to notice. Their attention was captive to the girl.

Iain
, she thought,
you need no staircase here
. But she walked forward until she stood to one side of Veralaan.

“Mother’s Daughter,” the man said, a hint of relief in the words, “we have come to take three criminals to the courts of the Baron.”

“But you have not taken them?”

“They can’t,” Veralaan replied coldly. She did not look up to meet Emily’s gaze; her eyes were fixed upon the man who seemed to be in charge. “They are not noble.”

“They serve the Baron—”

“And I,” she continued, brooking no interruption, “am. I am Lady Veralaan ABreton, and I

have ordered them to leave.” “Mother’s Daughter—”

Iain had come up behind her, as he so often did. “Lady Veralaan is entirely correct,” he said, speaking to her, but pitching his voice so that the intruders might hear him. “The laws of the Barony are quite clear. Lady Veralaan ABreton is a noble, and she has given these soldiers her command.”

“Only the Baron may command us.”

“Then take the men,” he replied evenly, “and offer public disobedience and insult to your master’s only daughter.”

The moment stretched out. The Mother’s Daughter waited. She had meant to put a hand on Veralaan’s shoulder, as both warning and protection; she would not have dared now. She saw the indecision upon the man’s face, and saw it, inexplicably, shift in a direction that she had
never
seen in all her years of service.

He bowed, stiffly and angrily, to a seven-year-old girl. “We will take word to our Lord,” he said, just as stiffly, when he rose. “And you will see us again.”

“Send my love and respect to Baron Breton,” Veralaan replied calmly, “and tell him that I

look forward to his visit.”

She stood in the same perfect posture until the men backed out of the healerie. The silence that surrounded her seemed like it might never be broken again. Not even the one man who was awake could speak.