Essalieyan Chronicles 04 - The Weapon (7 page)

“Ah, daughter,” the Mother said quietly. She spoke not to Emily, but Veralaan. “I have long watched you, through the eyes of my only child. What do you wish of me?”

“This world, this place,” Veralaan replied. “It is said that time moves strangely here.” “It is true. Time is of passing consequence to my children, but it does not touch me.” “And if I spent time here, would I age?”

“You are mortal.”

“If I were willing to age, would time pass beyond this place?”

“In mortal lands?” The Mother frowned. Emily could feel it as if it were weather, a storm. “Why do you ask this, child?”

If Emily’s use of the word had caused offense, the god’s use did not. “Because I have no

time. Beyond this place, your followers are dying because men with power seek my attention.” “They seek more than that.”

“Then you already know why I ask.”

“I wanted to be certain that you did. What would you have of me? I am no warrior, and I am bound to my lands, as you, in the end, must be bound to yours.”

“I want a son,” Veralaan said. Emily almost stopped breathing.

“I want a golden-eyed son, a god-born child. I was not trained to war,” she added bitterly, “because I am a daughter. I cannot fight. I cannot lead armies, even if there were any willing to follow. Everything I am, I have become in your service.

“But I am not without strength. I am willing to bear such a child, and to raise him as I can—

but only in the lands between; if I bear him here, he will die.” “If you bear him in the lands between, you might, child.” “I am willing to take that risk.”

“I cannot give you the child you seek.”

“I know. But you are sister to many gods, and I—” She struggled now, with the words. “And I wish you to intercede on my behalf with one of your brothers.”

“Which one, child? The fate of the god-born is death in your lands, and there is not a god who easily surrenders his children to death.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Not even a man as monstrous as my father could do that.”

The Mother was silent a long moment. “If you are willing to live in the half-world, there may be among us those who are willing to offer what you ask. But child—those born to the blood are driven by it. Which god would you choose?”

Cartanis
, Emily thought. Surely Cartanis, god of just war. But Veralaan was silent. After a moment, she said, “Which god would you choose for me?”

And the mother laughed. It was a low, rich sound, a sound carried by a host of voices, a multitude of emotions. “It is not a question that I could answer,” she said, when she had stopped. “But think long on what is missing in your world, and perhaps you will find the answer you seek.” She held out her arms, her huge arms, and gathered Veralaan in them, as if she were a babe.

“Emily,” she said, when she had pulled Veralaan from the ground that the mist obscured.

“You have done well. You have struggled, and you have chosen to love this child as if she were your own.”

“No, Mother,” Emily said, bowing her head. “I had no choice. But the others? Melanna, Iain, Rowan—they are worthy of the praise you offer me. They love her. And they will be grieved indeed to lose her.”

The Mother’s smile creased; it blended with sorrow.

“Loss defines us,” she told her only blood daughter. “But more than that, what we choose to lose defines us. I will go. But wait here, Emily.”

* * *

Emily Dontal knelt by the altar. The mists had parted and dispersed, and in the absence of her mother, she felt the world as the grim, dark place it was. No dint of labor could lift that darkness. It was said that the gods had once walked the world, and she bitterly regretted the fact that she had not lived in those times.

But one could not choose.

Mother
, she thought, as she pressed her forehead to stone. Her vision was skewed by a thin sheen of water; there were tears there that she could not shed. She had been bidden wait, and she was dutiful. She waited, feeling, now, the cold of stone in her bones, the ache of age.

She did not see the mists as they returned until they had all but covered her. But she stood as they did, so that she might see her mother again.

It was not her mother who stood before her.

It was a young man. And beside him, another. Two. They gazed down upon her, for they were tall, and their eyes were bright, golden. That light seemed to burn the mist away, and she was captive to it, although—had she been vain—she would have known that those eyes were kin to her own.

“Mother’s Daughter,” the man to the left said quietly. He offered her a hand, and she stared at it for a moment. Then she took it.

“I am Cormalyn,” he said quietly. “And this, my half-brother, Reymalyn. We have heard much about you, and we are honored to meet you at last.”

She shook her head, almost in wonder. “You are the son of Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom.” “I am.”

“And your half-brother, the son of Reymaris, god of Justice.”

“I am,” the second man said, speaking for the first time. “And I am capable of speaking for myself, although my brother is the better with words.” He too, offered her a hand.

She felt her throat constrict.

“We are the sons of Veralaan,” they said in unison, “and as she is, by acclaim, Baron of Breton and therefore the Eastern seas, we are her heirs, and between us, the legitimate claimants to the Baronial lands.”

But she could not speak.
Veralaan
, she thought, staring at the two.

Cormalyn’s smile was gentle. “It is hard, for my mother,” he told her. “But hard, as well, for you. Or it will be. She is coming, Mother’s Daughter. But she is not what she was, and you must warn the others.”

“I—”

But they stepped to the side, and between them, as the last of the mists left, she saw Veralaan. No: she saw through time, down a stretch of more than a decade and a half, to see the woman that her Veralaan might become: Stronger, wiser, but almost silent in her isolation. Her hair was still blonde, and it was longer, and the features of her face were unmistakably her own; she did not look old, but she was no longer a fifteen-year-old girl.

She was a woman.

She had borne these two, and she had raised them.

“Mother’s Daughter,” she said quietly, as if speech were foreign to her. She held, in her arms, a blanket, but she wore the same dress that she had worn on the day—this day, some half an hour past—she had left.

“Veralaan!” Emily said, pushing past the two men who had at first seemed miracle and were now merely adornment. She held out her arms wide, but Veralaan stepped back. She smiled, to show that it was not an act of rejection.

“My sons,” she whispered.

“You were always an ambitious child,” Emily said with a wry grin. “Two?”

“Wisdom. And Justice. Because we need both.” She added, with a rueful grin, “I was never really good at making choices unless they were obvious.”

“What will you do?”

“I will summon the Baronial Court, Mother’s Daughter. They will come, and they will meet my sons and their fathers.”

“You would—you would summon your fathers? In the court?” The two men said nothing, but they looked at their mother.

“I speak too freely,” she said with a pained smile. “I am accustomed to the company of those for whom silence is no barrier. I…have to learn again, Emily. Will you…will you let me stay here, when I abdicate my throne in favor of my sons?”

“Veralaan—they are two men.”

“Yes. But they were raised by their fathers, and they know things that not even you, Mother’s Daughter, can know. They will build an Empire. The Witherall Seer foretold it; my father went to the Seer before he brought me to your temple, and I listened to what she said, although I didn’t understand it at the time. But it has to be the
right
Empire, or else, what’s the point?” She took a step forward, and then stopped. “I almost forgot.” And she held out the blanket to Emily.

“What is this?”

“It is a gift from the Mother, although she wept to part with her.”

And Emily Dontal closed her eyes. “I do not think my arms are strong enough,” she whispered, afraid to open them.

“I do. There is work to do, Emily. I cannot promise that it will be without bloodshed and death. But you’ve always done what needed to be done, and if my sons are driven by Justice and Wisdom, they will
always
need the mercy of the Mother, the compassion of her Daughters. Take your child. I want—I want to see Iain and Melanna. Because they haven’t changed.”

And Emily’s arms closed round the infant whose eyes, golden, were a reflection of her own. Mother’s Daughter.

THE END

Short Stories by Michelle West and Michelle Sagara

The first six stories released are connected to the Essalieyan Universe of the novels I write for DAW as Michelle West. Since those are my most asked-for short stories, those are the stories I wanted to make available first. The rest of the stories will be released in chronological order from the date of their first appearance, which are listed in brackets beside the titles, along with

the anthology in which they first appeared. All of the stories have new introductions (which will probably come through in the samples if you’ve already read the stories but want to read those.)

In the Essalieyan universe
:

1.   Echoes (2001,
Assassin Fantastic
)

2.   Huntbrother (2004,
Sirius, the Dog Star
)

3.   The Black Ospreys (2005,
Women of War
)

4.  
The Weapon (2005,
Shadow of Evil
)

5.   Warlord (1998,
Battle Magic
)

6.   The Memory of Stone (2002,
30
th  
Anniversary DAW Fantasy
)

* * *

7.   Birthnight (1992,
Christmas Bestiary
)

8.   Gifted (1992, Aladdin, Master of the Lamp)

9.   Shadow of a Change (1993,
Dinosaur Fantastic
)

10. For Love of God (1993,
Alternate Warriors
)

11. Hunger (1993,
Christmas Ghosts
)

12. Four Attempts at a Letter (1994,
By Any Other Fame
)

13. Winter (1994,
Deals with the Devil
)

14. What She Won’t Remember (1994,
Alternate Outlaws)

15. The Hidden Grove (1995,
Witch Fantastic
)

16. Ghostwood (1995,
Enchanted Forests
)

17. When a Child Cries (1996,
Phantoms of the Night
)

18. The Sword in the Stone (1997,
Alternate Tyrants
)

19. Choice* (1997,
Sword of Ice: Friends of Valdemar
)

20. Turn of the Card (1997,
Tarot Fantastic
)

21. The Law of Man (1997,
Elf Fantastic
)

22. Flight (1997,
Return of the Dinosaurs
)

23. The Vision of Men (1997,
The Fortune Teller
)