It’s the threat I’ve leaned on myself time and again, in the darkness of my own chamber whenever I hear footsteps outside my door, my guards straightening at their approach.
“Perhaps,” Merryl says again, and glances over his shoulder at his fellow guard, slumped against the stone in the heat of the day, a thin line of drool leaking from his mouth.
I put down my quill. “Speak freely.”
Merryl takes off his helm, and for the first time I see his face clearly. It is not much older than my own, but already heavy with care. He sits next to me, resting an arm on the table, but careful not to disturb my papers.
“It’s true that no Given has had violence done to her in the past,” he says. “But . . . that was the past. And a different king on the throne.”
“You do not have faith in King Varrick?”
“I do not have faith in every man,” Merryl says, evading treason neatly. “And in the barracks there are talks of . . .” He pauses again, choosing words carefully. “Talks of a reward being offered for—”
“For impregnating me,” I finish, for once grateful for the cold, clipped tones I produce.
“Yes.” Merryl raises his eyes to mine. “By any means.”
“I see.”
“Some of the men vie for the duty of guarding you. If fate handed you two guards of a similar mind, I fear the result.”
I nod; even the pinched tones I do manage have clogged in my throat.
“You can request your own guards. Myself, of course, and I can provide you with the names of others who are trustworthy.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“But . . . my lady—”
“Khosa.”
“Khosa,” he amends. “We can keep you safe only for so long.”
“I am aware of my duties, and will fulfill them.” It’s a phrase I repeated often to my Keepers, a phrase that once meant something, some pride at being the Given leaking into me, even though I knew how the blessing would end. And yet, in Stille—the place where the Given should be most sacrosanct—I have become merely Khosa, a girl who found friends and would take Donil as a lover for the pleasure of it, not as a means to an end.
“Why is it that you dislike the Indiri?” I ask Merryl.
He sighs, avoiding my gaze. “I see how you light at the sight of him, and know that perhaps your duty may be more easily fulfilled at his hands. But if the sea should rage at her creature being forced by a mate not her choosing, then how would it accept a body polluted by Indiri seed? And what would the histories have to say of a Stillean guard who allowed such a thing to happen?”
“I cannot change your opinion of the Indiri,” I say to him. “But you would do well to remember that I choose my mate, not you.”
“And I took a vow when I became a guard to protect the sacred from the profane. To my mind, you are the former, and the Indiri, the latter. I cannot forsake that vow, and would not even were you to ask it of me.”
“Very well.” I push aside the inkpot, my irritation rising. “I appreciate loyalty to your vow, but you cannot be with me every moment. Decency stops my guards from entering my bedchamber, and it does have a window.”
Merryl’s face stiffens. “This is no game, my lady.”
“If it is, then I am playing it very badly.” I smack the table, tears rising to my ears. “What is this life, where I wield power over the entire kingdom, yet cannot bed whom I please?”
My head goes to the table to hide my tears, but my back rises with sobs I try to still. A light snore rises from the guard in the corner, and I hear Merryl shift in his seat. Moments later, there’s a light pressure on my back, his hand resting there giving some comfort, his glove preventing a shudder.
“I know decent men,” Merryl continues, voice low. “I myself am married and have an infant daughter of my own. I hold her after dinner sometimes, watch her sleep. The small twitches in her face make me laugh, and I told my wife I don’t know how your Keepers could raise you up from that and send you to your fate.”
“Well, my face doesn’t twitch all that much.” I raise my head, pointing to the blankness there.
Surprised at my joke, Merryl laughs, then covers his mouth as the sleeping guard changes position, head rolling to the other shoulder at the disturbance.
“As I said, I know good men . . .” he says, letting me draw the conclusion on my own.
“Men who would get me with child if I so desired?”
“Yes, with kindness.”
I shake my head, and he holds up a hand. “Just remember that I said so, should the time come.”
“I will remember, and thank you,” I say. I return my eyes to the flowing lines of a Scribe long dead, and Merryl puts his helm back on, reclaiming his post. The tension flows from my shoulders as I work, the pain in my chest ebbing, for I know I am safe with him at the door.
But as he said . . . for how long, I do not know.
CHAPTER 45
Witt
WITT STANDS BENEATH THE LEAVES OF THE HADUNDUN trees as they rustle together; many of the group gathered with him edge toward the clearing at the sound. The rust-colored leaves could take off a finger if they fell at the right angle, slicing through skin and bone. More than a few Pietra have gone to boats after losing a hand to a combination of bad luck and a stiff breeze. But it isn’t fate or weather that will bring the serrated edge of a Hadundun leaf to a throat today. It is treason.
“Willa of Pietra,” Witt calls, and the woman steps away from the few family and friends who came along with her. “Share your crime.”
Willa’s chin goes up. “I have none.”
Witt glances at Pravin, but his eyes are combing the woods, alighting on Hadundun trunks in a manner that puts an edge in Witt’s voice when he speaks again.
“You sheltered one who was no longer useful. Food meant for bodies that can fight and work went into one that can do neither.”
“Food that came from my hand went to my father,” Willa says. “As he did for me when I was small, so I do for him when he cannot. I find no fault in that.”
“And when you were a child, did you not work?” Witt counters. “Did you not gather bait for the Lures and find edgestones for the smith?”
Witt doesn’t wait to be answered, but instead motions to one of his men, who pulls her father from the crowd. He falls to the ground the moment the support of the soldier’s arm is gone, hand impulsively going to cup a growth that springs from above his ear, creeping its way toward his eye.
“What is your father’s name?” Witt asks Willa.
“Broca,” she answers, and her father’s head jerks up at the sound.
Witt nudges the man with his foot. “Pietra, what is your name?”
“Tan,” he says, hand still covering half of his face as if the assembly would forget his growth if they could no longer see it. Willa’s mouth goes into a thin line, but her chin remains high.
“And your daughter’s name?”
“Tan.”
“And what is your duty to Pietra?”
“Tan.”
Witt steps back and addresses the small gathering. “This man is no longer capable of serving, something his daughter hid so that a boat would not be made for him. This deception weakens Pietra, at a time when strength is more important than ever before.”
“I would not build a boat for the one who raised me,” Willa says, speaking without permission. “My mother’s last breath came when I drew my first. He’s all I know.”
“In a way, you have succeeded,” Witt says. “There is no boat in your father’s future. Or yours.”
For the first time, she wavers, her eyes slipping up the black trunks of the Hadundun trees to the leaves. “I know what awaits me.”
“Then let it be over with,” Witt answers, and she goes to her knees beside her father. Pravin reaches up a
nd carefully breaks a leaf away, handing it by the stem to Witt.
“Willa of Pietra.” Witt raises his voice so that it can be heard by all. “Your blood will feed the trees. May this drink speed their growth, so that all may have boats.”
The slice is quick and clean, her throat not the first that Witt has opened. He steps to the side as the spray of red coats the nearest tree and is neatly sucked into the bark before it can even drip. Blood spills from under Willa’s fallen body, and tendrils of black roots erupt, dark fingers crawling toward her. Witt moves to her father as the tree behind him groans, stretching higher as it drinks.
“Broca of Pietra,” he says, and the man again reacts to his name, looking up at Witt. “What grows from your skull condemns you, yet a boat was not built. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Broca looks at his daughter’s body as the shade from the Hadundun spreads, branches growing longer as life leaves her. His face contorts, pain and wrath chasing each other through the muscles that still work, and when he meets Witt’s eyes all the grief pooled there is poured into his only word.
“Tan,” he says, dropping his arms and baring his throat. “Tan.”
Witt slices. And the tree grows.
“Have you given more thought to the Feneen offer?” Pravin asks, taking a seat beside Witt on the edge of the cliff.
Witt plucks a stone and tosses it before answering, and they both watch as it sails far out to sea.
“I have,” Witt says. “There is no easy choice. Let Pietra die when Feneen could do so instead, but betray our customs by taking a wife. Or give up a battle advantage and make a new enemy when they could easily be an ally instead, which goes against all I know.”
Pravin nods. “The Feneen is cunning. He gave you options that will betray your people either way. But if you deny him, his attack will be twofold. The guards he returned to us know the offer has been made, and our men will know that you willingly endanger them when not necessary.”
“Dissent is sown from within, and we invite an attack from without,” Witt says, thinking aloud. “There was a buried threat in his saying that many of their fighters are Stillean, ready to kill those who abandoned them.”
Pravin pitches his own rock into the sea. “Meaning that many others are Pietra-born, and equally inclined.”
“Indeed.”
They watch the high arc of Pravin’s rock, and the soundless white splash that follows.
“The girl this morning . . .” Witt finally says.
“It was treason,” Pravin says. “And her father not pretty to look upon.”
“Yes, treason, and how many more will I punish in the same way? The Pietra have always kept to their ways admirably, allowing their weaknesses to be fed to the Lusca, making us stronger in their absence. I saw many things when I was being tried for Lithos, but never did I witness a death under the trees.”
“It does not happen often,” Pravin admits.
“How rare?” Witt pushes. “I had to send the Keeper for a history to learn the words before I slit her throat, as you did not know them yourself.”
“I have never seen one fed to the trees,” Pravin says, eyes on the ground. “Nor did the Mason before me.”
“But it is in my time as Lithos that a woman takes it into her head to shelter and save her father,” Witt says bitterly. “She saw me show mercy to the Hyllenians, and expected the same for one of our own. How can I follow Pietran ways, sending one such as Broca to his death, then ask my men to fight side by side with a man who may have two heads, and welcome him as brother after?”
Silence falls between them and two Lusca tails break the surface of the water, scales flashing brightly in the light.
“The Feneen has trapped you neatly,” Pravin finally says. “But there is a way for the Lithos to stay true to Pietra custom, without giving offense to Ank.”
“I do not see it.”
“Take the Feneen offer, use his soldiers, choose a wife but do not take her. Your word to Ank is good, and your bond as Lithos unsullied.”
Witt considers it, tossing a rock from hand to hand. “But would the people believe I have not been a true husband to my wife? I cannot in good conscience cut oathbreakers’ throats beneath Hadundun trees if Pietrans think me guilty of violating my own.”
“Separate rooms, guards who are known to have wagging tongues . . . it could be accomplished. Ank will get what he wants if the Feneen live side by side with Pietra, but that doesn’t mean the Lithos has to share his bed with one.”
“It belies his goal, though,” Witt argues. “He hopes to mingle our blood, truly make them no longer separate, much as you say will happen with the Hyllenians.”
“I think with the Hyllenians, it’s more easily accomplished,” the Mason says. “Although the guards who spent time among them said there are many children born to Feneen who are as like any Pietra as you or I. For the most part, the Feneen are easily spotted and won’t be sought after as bedmates. If a few of the less repulsive ones find their way into our bloodline, so be it. In a few generations, the Pietra will have absorbed what’s left of both the Hyllenians and the Feneen, and if they stay to our customs, there is little harm done.”
“And have the histories say that I suffered the Feneen to live among us?”
Pravin shrugs. “Pen the histories yourself, have them say what you would. You may be the only Lithos ever to take a wife, but she is only relevant in the moment to gain Ank’s goodwill. The histories need not mention her. The matter is a minor annoyance, and at least you get to choose her.”
“If I’m not bedding her, what does it matter?”
“You still have to sit across from her at mealtimes,” Pravin counters. “Having only one mouth in her face would be to your benefit.”
Witt laughs, the sound bouncing across the cliffs. The Mason smiles, but his eyes grow troubled as they go to the sea, and the wet cough that follows doubles him over.
“My Lithos—” he begins.
“Don’t.” Witt stops him. “I saw you choosing your tree today. It is not your time to build a boat. I won’t allow it.”
“And how can I stand beside you while you open throats with leaves, feeling a weight in my lungs and a hitch in my breath?”
“Your duty is to me. We strike Stille again soon, maybe beside an ally I don’t fully trust. The next Lithos has not been chosen or groomed. I either face dissent in my ranks or inform Pietra that their leader abandons tradition and takes a wife. I need you by my side.”
Pravin wordlessly holds out his palm, wet with saliva mixed with blood.
“Not yet,” Witt says, shaking his head. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER 46
Vincent
ALTHOUGH IT IS MY FATHER IN FRONT OF ME, IT IS Madda’s face I see, and her words that echo in my ears. Even my fight with Donil could not drive her declaration from my mind, and the thought that I am destined for the sea has played out in dark variations during the night hours: me clasping hands with Khosa when she dances and never letting go, Donil standing over me in the surf, one foot planted on my chest as the tide comes in. I even thought of Dara, sword in hand, her face stonily set as she drives me back from the shore as I try to come inland, my laughter at the idea of marrying an Indiri to be paid for with a wet corpse.
“Do you hear me?”
My father’s voice cuts through the reverie, and I jump in my seat, the Elders avoiding my eyes as I rejoin the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was . . .” There are no words for what I was doing, and I don’t make the effort of concocting a lie.
“Leave us,” my father says, waving one hand, and the others filter out of the hall, the last closing the doors behind.
“I asked you how it goes with the Given twice, Vincent. For the prince of Stille to pay no heed at an Elder meeting on a matter of high importance is an embar
rassment to both of us.”
“I apologize,” I say, clearing my throat. “I have not been myself lately.”
“No, Vincent,” my father says, black eyes even darker than usual. “You’ve been exactly as you always have, and it needs to change. With your grandfather gone, and me sitting a throne at war, you need to be prepared to take responsibilities.”
“I am. I was distracted.”
Father snorts. “Shall we be as the Pietra, then? What is their saying? The Lithos cannot be distracted?”
I ignore the jab and attempt to answer the question originally asked. “The Given is recovering from her wound nicely—”
“To the depths with the wound,” Father yells, slamming his hand against the table. “And with her too, if someone would get a child on her. Why you didn’t take the opportunity when she was senseless from the fall, I don’t know.”
“That seems a bit unprincely,” I say.
“Then allow someone else. It’s clear the girl has no intention of choosing a mate of her own accord, and those around her lack the taste to—”
“To rape her?” I shout, rising to my feet. “To perform an act we publicly lash others for? Truly, Father—you call this a taste?”
I’ve always known my father as a man of appetites, seen his gaze travel down women he had no right to look at in the manner of a lover.
“She must be bred,” he says. “It will happen, Vincent. If you prefer it be your doing, then so be it. Royal children are easily come by, and a daughter less of a loss than a son. This is not a question of what the Given does or does not want, but of what will happen should she not have a child.”
“And what will happen? A wave of old? One to pull Stille up by the roots and leave only sand behind? If this is what we’ve come to, then so be it. I’ll not take part.”
I think of the Stillean babe with unlined palms, and my own, telling a story that ends with smeared ink and wet pages. If the sea will claim us all, I go knowing I’ve hurt none.