The Other Lands (69 page)

The night before, naked against him, still breathing hard from the conclusion of their lovemaking, she spoke as if it were just another night. True, she did touch on the bizarre realities of their life, but these were topics they turned over many times.

All this that we’re doing,” she had said, “in so many ways, it feels unreal. I live it, yes. I do it. I slay monsters and ride a winged lizard and lead armies to battle. … It’s strange, though, when I step back and imagine how others will hear this story. That’s what it is, you know? It’s a tale from the distant past. It’s Edifus and Tinhadin. It’s Hauchmeinish. It’s the Forms before they were Forms. How is my killing Maeben or slaying the foulthings any more probable than the Priest of Adaval slaying the wolf-headed guards of the rebellious cult of Andar?”

“There were twenty wolf-headed guards, for one thing. You had much safer odds.”

Mena nudged him. “Be serious.”

“Even if people forget the Priest of Adaval, they will not forget Mena Akaran. Not Maeben. Not the slayer who flies with beauty. Not the warrior princess who beat back the savage Numrek. Such things can’t be forgotten.”

Had they said more? Yes, she believed they had. Strange, though, that they had managed to speak of mundane things. She had described a dream she had had in her childhood, one in which she and a girl had tried to catch fish with nets. He had claimed he never dreamed, saying life was strange enough for him by far. They had talked nonsense about which were worse, the bites from mosquitoes in Senival or those of the black flies of the Aushenian spring.

At some point, Mena had rolled away from him and, without thought, out of habit, really, went to perform the brief ritual of cleaning her sex and washing away his seed with the herb mixture he so hated. Perhaps it was at that moment that he parted with her. For, when she slipped back into bed, he turned away without comment or protest. His breathing had been steady, though not yet that of sleep, and she had chosen to wrap an arm around him and hook her ankle over his and share the silence. That silence, though, may have been different to him than it was to her.

The note she held pinched between the fingers of her two hands testified to that.

M
,
You were right about everything, of course
.
I was slow to learn, but I know it now
,
M
.

She knew the words by heart, for she had written them to Melio almost ten years earlier. It was the note she had written him. And below it, the same postscript:

I love you
.
If ever the world allows it I’ll prove it to you
.

Exactly what she had written just after returning from killing Maeben on Uvumal and just before she gave herself up to Maeander Mein. On that occasion, she could not face saying good-bye to Melio. There was too much uncertainty before her, everything in the world at risk, and she had not been sure that she would be able to face it if he asked her not to. She penned the letter and set it beside him and snuck away on silent feet. Cowardly in many ways. Hurtful in others. And yet the things she wrote to him were completely true. He had been right; she had been slow; she did love him and wanted to prove it someday.

How to interpret this newer version of the same? Was he making the same promises to her? No, because he had no need to prove himself. He had never failed her in any way. Or was he reminding her of the things she once promised and had failed, thus far, to deliver? Yes, she thought so. There was only one thing more she could have done to prove her love to him, and she had held off doing it year after year after year. She deserved to be reminded of it. If it really was meant to remind her of her note to him, she understood; and if the world allowed her another chance, she would not fail to give her all to him. She would prove her faith in him, if not in the goodness of the world.

If that was her refrain for the morning, by the afternoon she had taken on another.
She’s only my sister
, Mena told herself time and time again.
I don’t fear my sister
.

The fact that she repeated this a hundred times as she walked to answer Corinn’s summons rather belied the assertion. When Mena entered her office, Corinn stood behind the chart table, studying the array of maps and documents displayed there. She looked up, distracted for a moment, and then calmed her features. “Mena, I’m sorry that Melio has had to leave. I know that must be hard for you.”

Mena cleared her throat, finding the opening kindness somewhat disconcerting. “Thank you,” she said.

“We are coming to times of great sacrifice,” Corinn said. “Much will be asked of all of us. Much taken from each of us. You may believe, though, that Melio will be in my prayers just as much as you are, Sister, just as much as Dariel is.” Corinn did not give Mena time to fumble through a response to that. She came around the table, but instead of approaching Mena she moved off to the side slightly, stopping beside another table. “I want you to have this. The King’s Trust. It is your blade now. No one deserves it more than you.”

The King’s Trust? She did not know whether she wanted that blade. Too ancient. Too much history tempered in blood. If the legends of it were true, Tinhadin himself had infused it with Santoth sorcery, making it a blade that learned from each contest it fought and took something from each person it killed. Hadn’t Tinhadin’s grandson used it to execute prisoners? Something he wished to do personally and with only this sword.

“I have a blade,” Mena said.

“Your Marah sword is special to you, I know,” Corinn acknowledged. “I know well the tale of how you crawled out of the sea with it strapped to your wrist and became that bird god of yours, Maeben. And, true, perhaps the blade is a blessing to you. You’ve certainly accomplished much with it. But this”—she motioned as if to direct Mena’s attention to the ancient sword, something she did not need to do because her eyes were already fixed on it—”this is the very blade that Edifus wielded with his own hand at Carni. It’s stained with his blood. Look there on the hilt. That blackened area: that is the blood of the king’s hand. I’m sure you know the details better than I—how he almost lost his hand when he caught a foe’s blade pinched in his grip.”

Mena’s fingers itched. A real physical sensation. Of their own accord, they wanted to wrap around the stained hilt and slip the blade free. That’s what her body cried to do. She held back. She put one hand to her chest, felt for the eel pendant beneath the fabric of her shirt. She pressed it. There must be awful power in this sword, for the look of it was nothing special. Old, battered, within a simple scabbard with few ornaments, and yet something in her so wanted to pull the blade free.

The last time she had touched that blade was in the hours after Aliver’s death. She had picked it up only long enough to wrap it in a burlap cloth and stow it snugly with the king’s possessions. When next she spoke of it, she gave other soldiers instructions on how to care for it and return it to Acacia safely. Since then, she had had no wish to handle it again.

“Why do you stand there gaping at it?” Corinn asked, a touch of annoyance in her voice. “It’s a great gift. It’s mine to give, and I offer it to you as a demonstration of my faith in you. You are worthy of it. Pick it up.”

This last was an order, no other way to interpret the tone. Despite herself, Mena grasped the scabbard midway down the hilt and lifted it, horizontal, before her.

“Do you accept it?”

“Yes,” Mena said, and then specified, “for now. I’ll take it into safekeeping, and use it if I must. One day, though, I’ll return it to you, so that you can give it to Aaden. It’s rightfully his.”

That seemed to please Corinn. “Good. Yes, good on both counts.” She nodded.

With that confirmation, Mena laid the sword down again.

“Now,” Corinn said, sharpening the edge on her voice, “I give you this sword for a reason. You have a mission, Mena. I can trust it only to you. Even if our brother were with us, this task would go to you. You, more than Dariel, are the wrath that drives the Akaran sword hand. You will soon have to make use of it.” She paused, looking frankly at Mena. “I would have used this language no matter what, but since seeing you fighting the Numrek I mean it with much more sincere certainty. Thank you for what you did, Mena. I had only heard of your feats. I believed in them, but I didn’t understand them. Now I think I do, a little, at least.”

Of all the many persons—generals and foot soldiers, Marah and warriors from around the provinces—who had praised her martial abilities, none had ever touched her with quite the sense of pride Corinn just did.

“I have received firsthand intelligence that the Auldek will begin their march during their own winter. They’re timing it that way, so that even if they suffer in the early weeks they’ll still have solid ice on which to cross the frozen seas above the Ice Fields. Comparing that with league reconnaissance, we estimate that if they are unchallenged they could arrive on the Mein Plateau by midsummer.”

“That’s so soon,” Mena said.

“Yes. Too soon. Look at these charts with me.” She motioned Mena nearer. When they stood side by side, Corinn drew her finger up along the western coast of the Known World, from the Lakelands north, along the Ice Fields, and beyond the boundary that had normally bordered Acacian maps. “I proposed a way to delay them. A small force could hold them for some time along the pass through which they will likely traverse from their lands into ours. It’s a narrow strip of land, all of it mountainous. If they would sail, they could bypass it, but the Auldek fear the sea. So they’ll have to thread their entire force through a series of narrow passes. It wouldn’t be easy in any event, but I plan for us to make it very much harder indeed.”

She is sending me to my death, Mena thought. For a moment she pondered whether that should offend her. Was it a bigger crime to send a sibling to her death, or did it show a sort of valor on her part?

“Perhaps you’ll even repel them. Perhaps you’ll decide the war right there in the far north. That would give the singers something to bray about, wouldn’t it?”

Mena nodded. That’s what her sister wanted her to do. That’s what her queen expected of her, and—though she still didn’t entirely understand—she felt powerless to deny her. What else could she do in the face of Corinn’s certainty?

“We’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow with all those on Acacia who can advise you, but you’ll need to leave soon. Very soon. I’ve arranged a sloop for you leaving three days hence, to carry you first to Denben; then you’ll go by land along the Tabith way. By the time you arrive there, your main generals will have gathered, and soon you’ll head north. Your troops will mostly be Candovian, though I’m putting out a call for volunteers, with the promise of considerable rewards for those who accept. Maybe some of Dariel’s raiders will join you. They’re supposed to like a good fight, aren’t they?” She smiled. “These are just sketches of the details. Tomorrow, you can ask all the specific questions you like and have them answered. I know how much I ask, but whom can I ask but she whom I trust most? Mena—Sister—Akaran, do you accept this mission?”

“Of course,” Mena said. You’ve left me no choice, really, Corinn—Sister—Akaran.

“Wonderful!” Corinn said, smiling radiantly. “Make the brutes regret they ever left home. I know you will.” She rounded the desk again, her fingers trailing over the papers there as she did. Thinking the meeting over, Mena turned to leave.

“By the way,” Corinn asked, in a matter-of-fact tone, “what will you do with Elya while you are gone?”

“I don’t know. As I said before, she is not built for war. I—”

Corinn interrupted her. “That’s become clear to me. I hope you know that she is welcome to stay here. Nothing would make me happier, in fact.”

Really? That Mena had not expected. “Really?”

“Of course.” Corinn stepped around the desk and extended her hand, fingers beckoning. Unsure, Mena lifted one of her hands and let her sister grasp it. “She did save Aaden’s life, after all. Mena, I was wary of her. The way you arrived—quite frightening, really. I thought she might hide some corruption just below the surface, but I’ve seen no sign of it at all. And she more than proved herself by what she did for Aaden. I may just grow to love her as you do. And Aaden, you know how he adores her. It would do him so much good to have her here to greet him when he awakes. One fine thing within all this madness. Do say that you’ll let her stay here. She may reside in your courtyards, just as she has been doing.”

Mena tried to think quickly through the possible implications of this. What about the eggs? She suspected they would not hatch for some time. She did not know this, but it felt that way. The eggs gave off an air of contentment, of peace, as Elya had when she stood watching, wide-eyed and trusting, as Mena gazed at them. She felt they would hatch when the time to hatch was right. Considering that, might it not be better to keep them secret longer? Corinn may have been struck with sudden fondness for her, but it was, as yet, a new fondness. Better that it grow more substantial. And it would. It will. If she lived weeks with Elya and saw her become more and more important to Aaden, well, then she would know for sure, and the eggs—or the hatchlings—would be welcomed as the blessings they would be.

Perhaps I’ll even be back to see it happen. Let the Giver make that so.

“That sounds like it’s for the best,” Mena said. “Elya may follow me for a while when I first sail. She won’t fully understand, but I’ll explain what I can to her. I’m confident she will choose to stay in the palace.”

A thought flickered across Corinn’s face, but it disappeared so fast Mena could not read it. The queen said, “That would be perfect. That all sounds just perfect.”

S
ire Dagon met the others of the League Council in a darkened chamber of the league compound in Alecia. A light distillation of green mist clouded the air, moving in ghostly swirls on the air currents. The first rank of leaguemen sat in a tight circle, each of them leaning back in an intricate reclining chair. Beyond the first ring there was a second, and a third, and beyond that the nonspeakers huddled close, listening. At meetings like this only the first three circles could speak freely, and they all did so without really seeing the others. It could take a long time between the asking of a question and an answer, especially as the group’s mist-drenched state meant that they shared a certain linkage of thought. Their minds hummed like tuning forks that spread the same note among them. They had separate minds, yes, but it was—in the council chamber—impossible for any of them to deceive the others.