The Ruling Sea (9 page)

“Now, beloved Prince. What would you avow?”

Prince Falmurqat took Thasha’s hand, and stroked it ever so gently with his thumb. He was about to speak when Thasha wrenched her hand away.

“Your Highness, forgive me. I cannot wed you. This marriage is a
tr
—”

She got no further. At the back of the congregation Arunis made a furtive gesture. The lethal necklace tightened. Thasha reeled, clutching at her throat.

Pazel dropped the ribbon and lunged to catch her. Pacu Lapadolma screamed. Eberzam Isiq leaped onto the dais, shouting his daughter’s name. The cleric dropped the sacred milk.

Pazel held her to his chest, hating himself, hating the world.
No answer but this one. No other door to try
. He whispered to her, kissed her ear. Falmurqat watched in speechless horror. Thasha writhed and twisted, her face darkening with every beat of her heart.

“Away! Give her air!” Dr. Chadfallow was battling forward. Behind him, wrathful and suspicious, came the sorcerer.

Thasha’s struggles grew so violent that Pazel almost lost hold of her. He was flat on his back, arms locked desperately around her chest, face buried in her shoulder. Then all at once her struggles ended. Her eyes widened in amazement, then dimmed, and her head fell back with an audible
thump
against the stone.

Pazel surged upright, raising her, choking on his tears. “You Pit-damned devil!” he shouted. “You killed her this time!”

None knew who he was accusing—the boy was clearly hysterical—but from the gaping crowd Arunis babbled in protest.

“Not I! Not with that little squeeze! Look for yourselves! The chain is loose!”

Few heeded the raving merchant from Opalt (by now everyone was shouting something), but to Thasha’s friends his words meant just what they had prayed for: an instant when the very power that had laid the curse was consciously holding it at bay. Pazel’s hand shot out, caught the necklace and snapped it with one brutal wrench. The silver sea-creatures Isiq had had fashioned for Thasha’s mother—naiads and anemones, starfish, eels—flew in all directions. The necklace was destroyed.

But Thasha lay perfectly still.

Pazel spoke her name again and again. Dr. Chadfallow felt her bloodied neck, then bent an ear swiftly to her chest. A look of pain creased the surgeon’s face, and he closed his eyes.

Utter pandemonium broke out.

“No heartbeat! No heartbeat!” The cry swept the shrine. Already guests were spilling out through the arches, taking news of the disaster with them. A vast howl rose from the mob outside.

“Annulled!” shouted the Father, raising both his scepter and the ceremonial knife. “Without a marriage the Treaty of Simja is annulled! There is no peace between the Mzithrin and cannibal Arqual! I saw death, did I not tell you, children?”

“There
must
be peace, there must!”

“There won’t be!”

“We’ll be killed! They’ll punish Simja for sure!”

“Death! Death!” screamed the Father.

“Get that blade out of his hands!” shouted King Oshiram.

“Where is the monster?” bellowed Isiq. “Where is he, where’s the fiend who slew my Thasha?”

But Arunis was nowhere to be seen.

Falmurqat the Elder took his son by the arm. “Let us away!” he said bitterly. “This is all a deception, and an old one at that. To marry off a convulsive, one not long for the world, and thus to shame the enemy when she expires.”

“Hush, Illoch, what nonsense!” cried his wife.

But the old prince paid no heed. “Some of us read history,” he said. “Huspal of Nohirin married a girl from the Rhizans. She died of seizures in a month, and the Mzithrin took the blame. This pig admiral must have counted on his girl lasting a bit longer, that’s all.”

Pazel thought the worst had come. Isiq would fly at the man; the insults would reverberate beyond the shrine, beyond Simja; in hours or days there would be sea-battles, by week’s end a war. But Isiq did not react at all, and with immense relief Pazel realized that the older prince had used his native tongue. But what if that changed?

Switching to Tholjassan, he looked up at Hercól.

“We’ve got to get her out of here
now.”

Hercól nodded. “Come, Eberzam! We must do as Thasha would wish, and bear her to the
Chathrand
. A proper burial at home in Etherhorde must be hers.”

“But it’s months, months away,” Isiq wept. “Her body will not last.”

“There are remedies,” said Chadfallow quietly.

Isiq turned on him savagely. “Want to pickle my daughter like a herring, do you? False friend that you are! Never again shall
you
touch one of mine!”

“Steady, Isiq, he’s a doctor,” said the king.

“What do you know of him?” roared Isiq, making the crowd gasp anew. “Fatuous fool! What do you know of
any of this
? Puppets on strings, that is all I see around me! Little helpless dolls, twitching, dancing to the hurdy-gurdy.”

New gasps from the onlookers. “Do not touch him!” shouted Oshiram, for the guards were already starting for Isiq. No tragedy could excuse such words to a sovereign, in his own realm and before his peers; men had been executed for less. Only the king himself could pardon Isiq, as everyone present knew.

“But she
must
go to Etherhorde,” wept Pacu Lapadolma.

“Indeed she must, Your Excellency,” said one of the Templar monks. “Only this morning she put it in writing, when we inscribed her name in the city register:
Though my body rot in transit, let me be buried at my mother’s side on Maj Hill
. She was
quite
insistent on that point.”

To this Isiq made no rebuttal. Someone spread a cloak upon the floor. Gaping, the admiral watched Hercól lift Thasha’s body and place her on the cloth.

Pazel felt a hand on his elbow. He turned, and to his amazement found himself face to face with the
sfvantskor
he had caught stealing glances at him during the ceremony. Below the white mask the lips trembled slightly.

“The Father was right. There’s evil on your ship. Are you part of it?”

It was the voice of a young woman, speaking broken Arquali, and whispering oddly as though trying to disguise her voice. Nonetheless Pazel felt certain he had heard it before.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Turn away before it’s too late. You’ll never belong among those who belong.”

“What did you say?”

She made no answer, only turned her back and fled, and then Neeps was tugging at his arm.

“Wake up, mate! It’s time to go!”

Pazel’s mind was in a whirl, but he knew Neeps was right. Bending, he seized a corner of the cloak on which Thasha lay. Hercól, Neeps and Fiffengurt already had their corners. Together they lifted her body, and amidst fresh wails from the onlookers bore her down the aisle and out through the arch.

The sun blinded them. Isiq followed on their heels, weeping: “For naught, for naught! My morning star—”

Before they reached the bottom step they heard King Oshiram above them, ordering his guards to form a phalanx before the corpse-bearers. “To the ship! Drive a wedge if necessary! Let no one hinder them in their grief!”

The palace guard did as they were told, and the stricken mob gave way as the men and tarboys rushed Thasha back toward the city. Most were too shocked even to give pursuit. Pazel knew their paralysis would not last, however. And what then?
The crowd may go mad
, Hercól had warned them.
It can happen, when the world seems poised to collapse
. Would there be a revolt? Would they try to seize her body, steal a piece of her garment or a fistful of hair, bury her with the martyrs of Simja?

The others might have had similar thoughts, for all four ran as quickly as they could. When Pazel glanced back he saw that the admiral was falling behind.

“Do not wait!” Isiq shouted, waving him on. “All speed, Pathkendle! Protect her!”

Affection as well as grief in the old warrior’s voice. Pazel raised a hand to him—he meant it as a promise, though it looked like a farewell—and staggered on.

When he was six years old, Pazel’s mother disappeared. It was his first taste of terror, of the possibility of wounding loss, and he never forgot it, although his mother returned in just a week.

A sentry on the city wall had watched her departure—men were always watching Suthinia Pathkendle—all the way to Black Stag Road, where she turned east toward the valley of the Cinderling. The neighbors relayed this news to Captain Gregory Pathkendle with their usual blend of sympathy and scorn. The Cinderling was an old battlefield, left for dead after the Second Sea War, and still a place of bandits and beggars and unmarked graves. The neighbors had sighed and clicked their tongues. Only Suthinia, they said.

Pazel’s sister had taken the news with a shrug and a laugh; she was determined not to care. Captain Gregory had just rolled his eyes. “She’ll be back,” he said. “This isn’t the first time, but we can hope it’s the last.” Pazel had waited for his mother in silence, too frightened for tears.

As it happened Gregory was right on both counts. Suthinia came back, sunburned and road-filthy but otherwise unharmed. Nor did she ever vanish again—until the Arquali invasion, when every beautiful woman in Ormael vanished, mostly into Imperial hands. No, Suthinia stayed put, because a few months after that mysterious week Gregory himself sailed out of Ormaelport, never to return. To make matters worse, Captain Gregory’s sister, who had helped out often with the children, picked that spring to elope to Étrej with a fallen monk. Suthinia, never the most attentive mother, was suddenly on her own.

Pazel liked to think he’d not added to her worries. His father had declared him bright. Dr. Chadfallow, their illustrious family friend, had challenged him to become trilingual before his ninth birthday, and he was well on his way. Pazel wanted to sail like Gregory, but once he opened the grammar books Ignus provided, he somehow had a hard time putting them down.

Neda was eleven and at war with everything. She hated her father for abandoning them, Suthinia for giving him reasons to, Chadfallow for not talking him out of it and Pazel for not hating the others with her own intensity. To top it all, her mother and Chadfallow were becoming close. This, she told a mystified Pazel, was a betrayal of the father who had betrayed them.

Pazel just wished everyone would shut up. He loved them, despite a growing fear that they were all insane. Or rather all but Chadfallow—he was a gift from the Good Lord Rin. He had traveled the world; he could speak of medicine and history, wars and animals and earthquakes and ghosts. And in those days he still laughed, once in a long while, and the sound always surprised Pazel with its unguarded joy.

Years went by, and their mother’s peculiarities deepened. She locked herself away with books, scaled the roof in thunderstorms, gave Pazel syrups designed to loosen his bowels and then studied the results with a long-handled spoon.

Then came the day of the custard apples. From dawn to dusk, Suthinia had forced a gruel made of the strange fruit on her children, although one sip told them that the drink was dangerous. In fact it proved both poisonous and enchanted. After a monthlong coma, Pazel had awoken with his Gift, Neda with her anger at Suthinia redoubled.

Their mother had become a witch. Or stopped hiding the fact. Either way it made her odder and more dangerous. She stopped bathing, and neglected to cook. When Neda moved out it took Suthinia three days to notice that she was gone.

Later that year Mzithrini warships had begun raiding the Chereste coast. The mayor of Ormael turned to Chadfallow, Arqual’s Special Envoy, and begged for Imperial protection. Pazel learned another reason to adore Chadfallow: he was the Man with the Emperor’s Ear.

One day Captain Gregory’s ship was spotted near Ormael, with Gregory himself at her wheel: but now the ship was flying the colors of the Mzithrin. Gregory was at once renamed Pathkendle the Traitor, and Pazel’s family shared in his disgrace. The neighbors looked through them; Pazel’s friends discovered that they had never really liked him at all. Neda, who had taken work on a goat farm, paid them brief, resentful visits, leaving gifts of sour cheese, but she never again spent a night under Suthinia’s roof.

Only Chadfallow was unchanged. He still came to dinner—brought dinner, usually, for Suthinia was all but destitute—and drilled Pazel in Arquali for an hour. He was the best thing that could have happened to a traitor’s son. Until he became the worst.

The night before the invasion—about which Chadfallow had breathed not a word—Pazel had found himself seated beside the doctor, under Neda’s orange tree, assembling a kite. Pazel could not recall much of what they talked about (his mind was on the doctor’s present more than his words), but the last part of the conversation he would never forget.

“Ignus, where did my mother go? That time she ran away.”

“You should ask her, my boy.”

Pazel said nothing; they both knew he had asked a thousand times.

“Well,” said the doctor reluctantly, “let us say that she went to be with her own people awhile.”

“My father never came back. What if she hadn’t either?”

“She came back. You’re her son and she loves you.”

“What if she hadn’t?”

Pazel’s question was a plea. As if he could already sense them, somehow: the fire and the death shrieks, the enslavements, the notion of rape, the battle-axe history was about to take to his world.

Chadfallow looked at him squarely. Lowering his voice, he said, “If she had not returned I would have taken you to Etherhorde, and made a proper Arquali of you, and sent you to a proper school. One of the three High Academies, to be sure. And when you graduated, you would not have received a pat on the head, but a line of your own in the Endless Scroll, which the Young Scholars of the Imperium have signed for eight centuries. And you should have had friends who loved you for your cleverness instead of being jealous of it. And though you may not believe me, in a few years you would have forgotten these dullards and jackanapes, and been at home as never before.”