The Witchwood Crown
“High Master Viyeki, we have been waiting for you!” said the small, slender one, executing a shallow bow. The voice was female. “I give you greetings from my master Lord Akhenabi. I am Host Singer Sogeyu.” She then indicated her tall, sharp-featured companion. “And this is General Kikiti of the Order of Sacrifice.” The general inclined his head. Viyeki knew Kikiti, as did most of Nakkiga, from his vigorous suppression of dissent during the Northmen’s siege of their mountain. Some people claimed as many had died at the hands of Kikiti’s warriors as had been killed by the mortals.
“And why are you here?” Viyeki asked.
“To accompany you,” said Sogeyu, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. She drew back her hood to reveal a shaved head like an acolyte’s and an unmasked face, but Viyeki could tell from her spare, thin-skinned features that the host singer was by no means young. “In fact, I carry your orders from the Mother of All, which I will give you when the time comes.”
“My orders?” Viyeki was caught by surprise. “But I thought that Commander Buyo was going to give them to me.”
Sogeyu showed the closest thing to a smile that Singers generally revealed, a slight thinning of the lips to denote amusement, though her eyes remained as hard and lifeless as blackstone. “Oh, no, Magister. Your mission is too important to be entrusted to mere league commanders. Our all-knowing queen and my master wish to be sure these important directives are given directly to you—at the proper moment.”
Without leaving the hands of the Order of Song, you mean, Viyeki thought, caught between deep unease at all that was strange here and anger at how he was being manipulated. “Does this mean you two will accompany me to the edge of our lands?”
“Oh, and beyond, great magister.” Again, the tiniest stretching of the mouth, but the host singer was not being so openly expressive by accident, Viyeki knew. A message was being sent.
But what does she mean by ‘beyond’? Where are we bound?
The additional troop of Singers and Sacrifices fell in behind them. As Viyeki’s troop marched out past the last of the ruined walls and into the wilderness around the derelict outer city, the magister did his best to recover some kind of equanimity.
I do not understand what is happening here, he thought, but for you, Great Mother, I will go anywhere, do anything. May the memory of the Garden preserve you and all the People.
And so Viyeki sey-Enduya, lord of the Builders’ Order, rode out of Nakkiga and into the wide world, a world that he knew hated him and all his kind.
He is gone, Tzoja kept thinking over and over. He is gone, and I am alone and helpless in a house full of enemies.
She was ashamed of herself for thinking such weak thoughts, and she knew Viyeki would have been disgusted, but that was just the problem: for all his wisdom, the one she loved did not understand his own household, his own people, in the same way that she did. How could he? Magister Viyeki was a noble of an old noble family and he was male. He did not notice the silent hatred that slaves felt for even the kindest masters. He could not grasp the murderousness of a spurned wife.
Still, though, despite her worries, she was surprised when the knock on her door came less than a bell after the High Magister had departed. She opened it cautiously and was relieved to discover that it was only one of the serving girls. Tzoja did not even have a chance open her mouth before the servant spoke, as emotionless as a cat yawning.
“My mistress sends to know if you will join her for the evening meal, now that the master is gone.”
So the bitch Khimabu was ready to begin hostilities before Viyeki had even reached the outskirts of Nakkiga-That-Was. Tzoja was caught off balance, and was furious with herself for not being ready. She had expected a respite of a day or so before Viyeki’s wife began her campaign in earnest, but obviously that was not to be.
The easiest thing to do would be to refuse, of course, to claim she didn’t feel well. That was probably what Lady Khimabu expected. In fact, that might very well be the excuse Viyeki’s wife would use to take Tzoja into her own care, and then to make sure that the mortal woman’s health took a sudden and surprising turn for the worse. Good sense dictated she should go nowhere near Khimabu’s end of the residence.
“Tell your mistress that I offer her many thanks and will come at the appointed hour.”
The servant gave no sign of surprise except for a very slight hesitation before bowing and retreating, but Tzoja knew she had managed an unexpected maneuver. She could only hope that either it would intrigue Khimabu enough to convince her to hold off a little longer, or that the dinner was only meant to be an exploratory gambit anyway, the opening of a cat-and-mouse game that could keep the lady of the house cheerfully occupied during the early days of her husband’s absence.
Still, Tzoja knew it was a very dangerous gamble on her own part. She was not entirely helpless: She had a poison-stone to protect her, one she had brought with her from her days in the household of Valada Roskva, so many long years ago—or so many to Tzoja, at any rate. But poison was only one of many ways the mistress of the house could remove Tzoja as a rival.
All the centuries the Norns have lived in this dark mountain, she thought. How can a people live this way—hiding from the sunshine, barely sipping at the light as though it were some dangerously potent liquor? But it was no good to yearn after sunlight, however much she missed it now. This mountain was where Tzoja would have to make her stand if she was to survive. And the most dangerous skirmish yet was only hours away.
She began to take garments from the cedar wood chest. Dressing to confront a rival was a difficult chore in any situation, but dressing for a rival who embodied a race with a history and outlook so different from hers, a rival who also wanted her dead, made the choices even more complicated.
As she held up and considered two possible gowns, Tzoja wondered if she dared to carry her poison-stone with her. If she did, she would need a place to hide it, a billowing sleeve or something similar where she could reach it quickly when the situation presented itself, and then hide it away again just as swiftly. She lifted it from the secret box where she kept the few mementos of her previous life and held it up to the flickering light of her lamp so she could see its tiny holes, delicate as Perdruinese lace. She was certain it had saved her at least once, when she had first arrived in the household, and she certainly would feel much safer with it somewhere near her hand tonight. But to be caught with such a thing would be a mortal insult; if it were discovered, Khimabu would not need to destroy her in secret, but could claim that Tzoja was carrying it because she herself had put something poisonous in the meal. At the very least, Khimabu could send Tzoja back to the slave barracks without Viyeki’s protection, making her available to any Hikeda’ya male who wished to claim her. She did not doubt that in such a situation, Lady Khimabu would be happy to send a few suitors Tzoja’s way, the rough sort who might have an accident with a fragile mortal woman.
Reluctantly, she set the poison-stone back in the small box and hid it once more behind the panel. If she truly was to dine at Khimabu’s table, it would be without protection. She would be staking everything on one throw of the dice. Still, what chance did she have otherwise? The lady of the house, especially a lady as well born and well connected as Khimabu, always had all the power. Tzoja, as usual, would only have her wits.
Such an uneven contest, she thought. But is life itself any different? That is a game nobody wins. Even the Hikeda’ya eventually must die.
Except for the queen, of course, Tzoja reminded herself. In any country, in any time, the Norn Queen remained the exception to all rules.
• • •
“I give you greetings in the name of the Queen and the Garden.” Lady Khimabu did not rise from her low couch. Her pet ermine poked its head out of her voluminous sleeve and gave Tzoja a brief, critical appraisal before disappearing once more.
“As do I, grea
t lady,” Tzoja replied. “I thank you for inviting one such as me to your table. The honor is above me.” She waited to be asked to sit, although since there were only two couches set out, it was fairly obvious where her place was to be.
Khimabu did not seem in a great hurry to indulge her. “No need for false modesty, dear younger sister Tzoja. All know the great service you have performed for our master’s house. But I see you have dressed with a modesty that befits your humility.”
Tzoja bowed. She had put on her finest gown, of course, an intricate weave of flowing, faintly shimmering spinsilk beaded with tiny pearls. This was just Khimabu’s way of poking at her, reminding her of her low station in the household. The gown was not showy, it was true, but no auxiliary wife, still less a mortal one, would make the mistake of outdressing the mistress of the household. Khimabu wore a beautiful, billowing swirl of pale green with gold tones that glowed beneath the outer fabric, the whole garment covered with an elaborate fretwork of knotted cords in darker green. Donning such a gown was the work of several servants over a goodly amount of time. Khimabu’s beauteous swirl of dark hair and her peerless face had also been brought to perfection with the help of many trained hands.
“Come, sit, Tzoja,” she said. “There is no need for such formality with me. The sort of intimacy we share makes us family!” Khimabu spread her long fingers just below her chin, an ancient formal gesture called “the fan” that indicated a kind of pleasure at the speaker’s own daring.
As Tzoja lowered herself onto the couch with as much grace as she could manage—none of the half-dozen servants came forward to help her—the ermine poked its head out of Khimabu’s sleeve again. Its eyes were like black stones set into the white fur of the face. It abruptly slithered across its mistress and vanished into her other sleeve. The creature’s brief reappearance gave Tzoja the beginning of an idea.
“You are most kind, my lady,” she said out loud. “It is an honor to join you. I have always thought this was one of the most beautiful rooms in this beautiful house.”
In truth, the dining salon was quite striking, a room many times as high as it was wide, not uncommon among the Hikeda’ya, whose greatest sign of wealth and privilege was access to the light wells that stretched across the northern and southern faces of Do’Nakkiga—the mountain Tzoja had once called Stormspike. Never in her childhood had she ever dreamed that she would one day be living in such a terrifying, infamous place.
The salon’s stone walls were softened ever so slightly by long hangings decorated with what Tzoja had come to understand was a sort of poetry, bits of old tales about the Garden or praise of the Queen, painted in ways Viyeki’s people found pleasing to the eye. The few pieces of furniture in the room were spare, made from polished black and gray stone, another habit of the Hikeda’ya, who largely shunned color in their homes, though not always on their persons: the green gown her enemy wore would be considered a very daring thing to wear outside of this house.
Khimabu was beautiful. There was no doubting it. Tzoja had grown up among people who thought the Norns demons and monsters, but if they could see Khimabu’s sculpted features, her long, regal nose, her splendid high cheekbones and large, liquid black eyes, they would have had to admit she was a lovely demon indeed.
“You stare at me,” Khimabu said, and made the fan sign again, but this time with a small twist at the end that suggested a certain impatience. “Has it really been so long since we have spent time together, dear younger sister, that you have forgotten how I look? I know that time seems to pass more swiftly for your people.” A glint in the eye, the meaning quite clear. “Forgive me if I have been forgetful.”
“No, Lady. I am, as always, astonished to find your beauty is even greater in life than it was in my memory.”
Khimabu laid one finger beside her cheek, a gesture Tzoja did not immediately recognize. “You flatter me, my dear one. You have charms of your own, as you well know.”
In other words: My husband liked you well enough to bed you. And if you hadn’t borne a child, you would have been back in the slave pens long ago, or worse. Tzoja spread her hands in what she knew was a clumsy version of a Hikeda’ya gesture, but whose meaning was too clear to mistake: How can anyone guess what males will do? “I am grateful,” is what she said out loud.
Khimabu made a tiny gesture. One of the Bound servants left his position against the wall and was at his mistress’ side so quickly he seemed almost to dissolve and reform. “You may serve,” she told him.
The ermine was out again and watching Tzoja, whiskers twitching. She had never liked Khimabu’s pet. Its eyes were too bright, too . . . intrusive. It felt like she was being watched by an unpleasant child. But for once, as she watched it frisking in and out of Khimabu’s sleeves and around the low couch, she was grateful for its presence.
The servants brought dishes to the table, roasted glacier waxwings and the bitter puju bread made from the barley grown in the cold valleys below Stormspike’s eastern flank, cooked in the ashes of a fire until it was as crisp and hard as wood. The Hikeda’ya had a great fondness for it, but Tzoja had never learned to like it. All she ever tasted was the ashes.
As she made appropriate sounds about the arrangement and quality of the food, she took a morsel of puju in her hand and broke off a piece, then pretended to take a bite, rolling it between thumb and fingers until she had made it into a stiff ball. She then dropped it onto the floor as surreptitiously as she could, and kicked it with equal caution toward Khimabu’s couch.
“And the birds look especially delicious,” she said out loud, doing her best not to make it obvious she was also watching the floor. As was the custom, the waxwings were served all but whole, feathers scorched away but feet and heads still attached, the beaks like black thorns, the eyes like burned currants.
The ermine had noticed the morsel of bread, and now balanced on the edge of the couch, nose twitching. It looked up at her with a nasty twinkle, as if it knew what she was doing, but after a moment, as Tzoja pretended to take another bite, it leaped down and snapped up the small tidbit, then slithered back onto the couch.
“As you know, our generous lord, High Magister Viyeki, has been given a great honor by the Mother of All,” said Khimabu. “All blessings upon her, the queen has put fortyfold soldiers at his command to watch over and guard his engineers and laborers.”
“It’s quite wonderful how the queen recognizes my master’s worth,” said Tzoja dutifully. Judging by the still-twitching nose and malicious little bead eyes, the ermine was not suffering from his taste of puju. This time Tzoja took an actual bite, doing her best to hide her dislike of its harsh flavor. “Do you know where he is bound?”
“By the Garden, no!” Khimabu made another graceful gesture, this one signifying that it was beyond her powers to know the counsels of the wise. “He goes at the queen’s bidding and is sworn to secrecy. It is clearly a mission of some importance, though, so we must bear the burden of his absence bravely.” She spread her hands in a double fan. She was changing the subject. “But you have already had to bear the sadness of your daughter’s absence, although that brings high honor to our house as well. Imagine—despite her . . . drawbacks, she is a Queen’s Talon!”
“She was very lucky to be chosen, but of course the queen is never wrong.”
“Never. And Nezeru so young!”
Tzoja had flicked a couple of shreds of the roasted waxwing into the ermine’s hunting range while concentrating on her puju. She did her best to watch without seeming to as the little creature approached, sniffed, and then gobbled them down. Another few moments, then if the animal survived, she could move on to eating some of the bird as well, which to this point she had only pushed around on her platter. “You have been very kind to Nezeru, Lady Khimabu. You have treated her with the kindness you would show your own daughter.” That was a dreadful exaggeration—Khimabu had never been anything other than coldly correct to
her husband’s child by another woman—but neither of the two women were paying much attention to what the other appeared to be saying.
“Oh, it is only right to do so. Is she not my husband’s child? Have you not gifted us—gifted our entire household—with her birth?” The bland look on Khimabu’s face was indistinguishable from murderous rage, but that was usually true with the Hikeda’ya. “But you must fear for her, so far away.”
“I do, but I trust in the queen’s wisdom.” As Tzoja watched, the ermine coiled itself on Khimabu’s shoulder and almost seemed to be paying attention to the conversation. The animal did not appear to have been poisoned, though, so Tzoja began picking at her own bird with the scraping-fork the Hikeda’ya preferred to use on cooked meat, taking it in only in small quantities. “My Lord Viyeki once told me that part of the reason for our daughter’s swift advancement was your own family’s support of her, my lady. That was very generous of you.”
Khimabu’s gesture was a strange one, water on flat rock, which usually meant that all would be revealed in the fullness of time. The magister’s wife seemed to notice this herself only after beginning, because she quickly turned it into a more ordinary sign, one that represented a carefully prescribed amount of social gratitude. “That which helps my husband helps me and all my family. Not that my relatives are themselves overlooked or unappreciated. The queen has often been kind enough to take notice of them.”
“Your uncle is high in one of the orders, I’ve been told, but I have never known the details.” Tzoja had always assumed it must be the Order of Sacrifice, since that was the order that had taken Nezeru and awarded her with great responsibility. For once the conversation and her actual curiosity had dovetailed in an acceptable way. “Is it permitted to ask which?”
Khimabu’s eyes positively glittered with what looked to Tzoja like malicious amusement, although her face showed nothing that was not correct. “Of course it is permissible to ask, dear little sister. We share so much already. My uncle Inyakki is one of the chief clerics in the employ of Akhenabi, Lord of the Order of Song.”