Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  “It won’t happen again,” he swore.

  * * *

  —

  It was not unusual when soldiers were sparring for clusters of people to gather around the low wall that separated the Citadel of Women’s Well from the rest of the town. Those onlookers were almost always women and girls, admiring the beauty and danger of the male form as the fighters danced in the blazing desert sun. But today, the crowd was far larger and denser than usual, with a great many more men in attendance and a strange, tense undercurrent in the air.

  Inside the wall, Lord Jailom had set up a small, temporary pavilion with chairs for Alys and her guests, so that they could observe the proceedings in comfort. Beside Alys, Duke Thanmir frowned at the throng of civilians gathered along the wall.

  “Far be it from me to question your lord commander,” he said quietly, “but I can’t imagine that having so large an audience is going to improve the candidates’ performances.”

  “They’ll have to get used to it one way or another,” his daughter Shalna said before Alys could speak. “He might as well know from the start how they’ll respond to gawkers.”

  Alys smothered a smile, for Jailom had said something very similar when she had questioned his intention to have the potential female recruits for the Citadel “audition” in public. Perhaps Alys should not have been surprised by how open he’d been to the idea of allowing women to enter the Citadel. After all, it was he who’d first offered to teach women the basics of self-defense. He’d had few takers at the time, and it wasn’t until Falcor had started training Shelvon that the idea first got some traction. Even so, she’d expected at least a little shock or discomfort from him when she’d brought him Shelvon’s proposal. Instead, he’d immediately agreed that those of Shelvon’s students who were interested should be given the chance.

  Duke Thanmir made a noncommittal sound and frowned at the handful of women and girls who stood gathered outside the sparring circle, waiting for their trials to begin. Alys quirked an eyebrow at him.

  “Have we finally found a way to shock you with our unconventional customs?” she asked.

  When she had invited him to visit again and to bring his daughter with him, she had not expected him to take her up on the offer so very quickly. And yet here he was, back in Women’s Well less than a month after his previous visit had ended. Alys had not consciously tried to shock him by inviting him and his daughter to watch the trials with her, but she wondered now if there wasn’t some tiny part of her that was trying to discourage him.

  “Shock is perhaps too strong a word for it,” he said uncomfortably. “However, I must say, I find the thought just a little unsettling.”

  Alys caught the brief narrowing of Shalna’s eyes and hunch of her shoulders. “Why should it be unsettling for a woman to know how to defend herself?” Shalna asked—and though she was obviously attempting to keep her voice level, there was no missing the tension in it.

  Thanmir reached over and patted his daughter’s hand. “I was referring to the idea of women as professional soldiers. How could I possibly object to them knowing how to defend themselves?”

  Shalna looked unappeased. “Just about everyone back home would. As we both know.”

  Alys winced in sympathy, then quickly tried to banish the expression. She hadn’t known what to expect from Shalna after her father had described the terrible attack she’d experienced. Alys supposed a part of her had expected the girl to have been broken by it, to be timid and frightened as Shelvon had once been. From the moment she’d first met Shalna, however, she’d known her expectations had been dead wrong.

  Shalna had been brutalized and had seen her sister beaten to death, but there was unquestionably a fire in her spirit that showed in the sharpness of her eyes. And of her tongue.

  Alys could not help liking her—something she suspected Thanmir was counting on.

  Alys could not blame the duke for wanting to protect his daughter, to find a better and happier life for her. It spoke well of his character, as did the fact that he did not openly disapprove of the notion of women joining the Citadel, despite his discomfort with the idea. Alys supposed asking him to join her for the day’s activities had been a test of sorts, and so far he had more than passed.

  Lord Jailom himself put the female recruits through their paces, leading them in some of the basic drills that were taught to first-year cadets. In a traditional Citadel, the cadets would all be boys of noble birth, and they would have studied the drills with private tutors for years before becoming cadets. Women’s Well had already broken with that tradition by admitting commoners to the Citadel, which meant Jailom and the instructors were used to teaching people who were completely new to swordplay. Shelvon’s students were therefore at least as skilled as the average novice recruit, and more so than many.

  Some of them were markedly more advanced than others, though all showed an enthusiasm for the exercise that Alys found surprising. She herself could not imagine how these women and girls could find it enjoyable to put themselves through such grueling physical effort under the hot Women’s Well sun. Shelvon had designed a simple, single-layered shift dress—reminiscent of the plain, unadorned dresses favored by the women of Nandel—that could be worn over the lightest stays that were considered decent, but even so, the women were soon soaked in sweat.

  The crowd of civilian observers shouted out encouragement, with only the occasional jeer. Alys noticed with satisfaction that those few who vocally disdained the fighters were faced with so much censure from the rest that they eventually slunk away. She also noticed that Shalna watched the action with a gleam in her eyes, leaning forward in her chair and catching her breath at some of the more dramatic movements.

  Lowering her voice to a murmur, Alys leaned closer to Thanmir. “I’m sure I can arrange some private lessons with Lady Shelvon while you’re visiting,” she said.

  Thanmir started, then darted a quick look at his daughter, who was too engrossed in the proceedings to notice. His eyes widened in what looked like alarm, for he could not possibly miss the enthusiasm that radiated from the girl’s being.

  “I’m not sure that would be the best idea,” he responded in a voice equally low. “Not if she will have to return to Grunir society.”

  Alys frowned at him. “I think it would be a particularly good idea in that case. Who is more in need of self-defense than a woman whose reputation may be at risk?”

  But Thanmir shook his head. “If word of what happened gets out, no sword skills are going to protect her.” He met her eyes. “There is no hopeful future for her in Grunir,” he said with certainty. “I cannot imagine trusting her to a man who might divorce her and force her into the Abbey, and the alternative is that she live as a spinster on my estate for the rest of her days. Even if no one ever learns what Solgriff did to her—and what she did to him in return—she will be shunned by society if she does not marry, for everyone would naturally assume that she was unchaste or somehow unsuitable.”

  Alys wished she could argue his assessment, but of course she could not. Only in Women’s Well could a woman not be held to blame for the “sin” of having been raped. If Shalna were only a little bit older, Alys suspected she might have been able to find a suitable husband for her here in Women’s Well, but the girl had only recently turned fifteen. It was not too soon to begin discussing potential future marriage arrangements, but there could be no contractual agreements for at least another two years.

  Alys shook her head. “I’m not going to marry you out of pity for your daughter,” she said, feeling once again the frisson of something near panic. It was somewhat embarrassing that her heart sped with fear and she wanted to run away at the very thought of marrying again, but that was exactly how she felt.

  “Of course not,” Thanmir answered smoothly. “I have already laid out my arguments for why marrying me would be to both of our advantages. I prom
ised not to put pressure on you, and I mean to keep to my promise.”

  Alys scoffed quietly, although she did not argue. He might not be demanding an immediate answer to his proposal, but that was hardly the same as not pressuring her. Shalna gave an excited gasp as one of the women executed a particularly clever parry, and Alys returned her attention to the trials.

  When all was said and done, Lord Jailom had offered a place in the Citadel to a half dozen of Shelvon’s students. They would join on a trial basis with no contractual obligation on either side. And if after a trial period the arrangement seemed to be working well for all involved, then Jailom would hold another round of trials and perhaps enlist more recruits from the ranks of Shelvon’s students. Shelvon beamed with all the joy of a proud mama, and Alys was truly happy for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Prince Draios had spent little more than a day at Delnamal’s manor house, but that time had already wrought a conspicuous difference in him, and Delnamal congratulated himself on his deft handling of the young zealot. In some ways, he had his mother to thank for that. Her horror when he had demonstrated his power had helped him hone his pitch, had shown him that he needed to find a way to soothe those who saw its darkness as something that could not possibly come from so benevolent a source as the Creator. Far better to construct a narrative that acknowledged the power as coming from the Destroyer while still crediting the Creator as having gifted it to him than to allow others to imagine some story of the Destroyer working through him to wreak havoc.

  Even with what he considered his deft handling of the story, Delnamal had not been entirely certain he’d convinced the young prince of the holiness of his mission. Surely a man with genuine faith and a modicum of common sense would reject all of Delnamal’s self-serving explanations of his power. In the moment, Draios had agreed that it was best for everyone to explain Bandar’s sudden death as a heart attack—Delnamal could only imagine the whispers in the servants’ hall now that a second member of his staff had died unexpectedly—but he’d half-expected Draios to come to his senses by morning. However, after a night of prayer and introspection, Draios had declared that there was no other explanation for Delnamal’s very existence save that the Creator had willed it.

  Despite all of Delnamal’s careful planning, he still found himself mildly surprised at how malleable faith could be, how easily a man could twist the teachings of the Devotional to his own desires and purposes. Delnamal could see the light of fanaticism in Draios’s eyes, and he had no doubt the boy genuinely believed himself a true and faithful servant of the Creator. But, thanks to his mother, Delnamal had a clear image of what true devotion looked like, and he saw little sign of it in the young prince. True faith required one to bend one’s desires to the teachings of the Devotional; Draios instead found ways to bend the Devotional to justify his own desires.

  Knowing that the battle for Draios’s soul was already won, Delnamal put his mind to getting the most he could out of his conquest.

  Draios by himself was of little use to Delnamal’s plans. Having decided at a young age to enter the priesthood, the prince had acquired little in the way of money or power that could be used to Delnamal’s advantage. The support of a seventeen-year-old princeling would not help Delnamal raise an army, and that was what he needed to conquer Aaltah. Which meant that Draios was nothing more than a stepping stone, a way to finally make contact with the king and present his case. King Khalvin had ignored Delnamal’s letters and dismissed Xanvin’s, but surely he would be more inclined to listen to his priestly son.

  When Draios rose for his second morning at the manor house, Delnamal was ready to set a trap into which the prince would happily throw himself headfirst.

  “I must return to Khalwell today,” Draios said reluctantly as the two of them enjoyed a hearty breakfast.

  Xanvin had once again requested that a breakfast tray be brought to her bedroom, claiming continued illness. She had emerged from that room only briefly to say hello to the nephew she had never met. She’d looked convincingly pale, but Delnamal felt sure what ailed her was no physical illness.

  She was his mother, and as many times as she’d annoyed him over the course of his life, he had always loved her. He remembered exactly what it had felt like to love her and to care about her feelings, and he was very much aware that only a callous and cruel man would care so little about the burdens he’d put upon her when he’d revealed his powers. He remembered not wanting to be callous and cruel—even while his treacherous emotions caused him to be so—but it was so easy now to sweep the guilt aside. Only in the mornings, when he was in that twilight land between sleep and waking, did he suffer the pangs of conscience and self-loathing that had once tormented him, and he often woke to a sense of horror and guilt that convinced him he must throw himself at her feet and apologize profusely for the pain he had caused her. Luckily, those feelings faded into obscurity by the time he rose from his bed.

  “I have duties I must return to,” Draios said with self-importance that might have made Delnamal laugh if he didn’t need to retain the prince’s good opinion.

  “I understand,” Delnamal said, then was unable to resist needling him just a little. “I don’t imagine it was easy to win permission to take a leave from the temple when you are still a relatively new postulant.”

  Irritation glinted in Draios’s eyes at the suggestion that a man such as he needed permission to do anything. But remonstrating would have made him seem impious, for of course all postulants were meant to be equal. Yes, Delnamal had well and truly taken the boy’s measure.

  “I will make time to speak with my father the moment I arrive home,” Draios said. “I will confirm that I have seen your power with my own two eyes and that it is as fearsome as you say.”

  Delnamal made a noncommittal sound and took a sip of tea, wrinkling his brow as if deep in thought. “Are you sure your father doesn’t already believe that my power exists?” he asked. “After all, he has not only my own word to go on, but his sister’s, as well. Might it not be that he fears my power, rather than that he doesn’t believe in it?”

  A muscle twitched in Draios’s jaw, and the table began vibrating ever so slightly as his knee bounced. Delnamal made as if to say something, then fell silent and looked away. It was a pretense, of course, a way to manipulate Draios into “persuading” him to talk.

  The young prince helpfully jumped into the opening. “Please, Cousin, do not hesitate to speak freely with me. We have too little time together to waste it on delicacy.”

  Delnamal looked Draios straight in the eyes—an assessing gaze that made the young man sit up a little straighter and raise his chin. Oh, how he wanted to be an integral part in the revolution that was to come, in the war that would restore the old order to their world!

  Delnamal held Draios’s eyes for as long as the prince could stand it, smiling to himself when Draios finally looked away. Even then, Delnamal waited for the space of several breaths before he spoke again, as if choosing his words very carefully.

  “I have a plan for destroying the Curse and restoring the world to its proper order,” he said. “When I was the King of Aaltah, I bade your former abbess drink a seer’s poison she had invented on my behalf. A poison that allowed her to see how the Curse was originally cast.”

  Draios looked appropriately stunned by the admission, his eyes widening almost comically before a frown took over. “But it was our former abbess who damaged your Well, was it not? It doesn’t sound like we should put much store in what she had to say.”

  Delnamal had anticipated the objection. “I believe she was guided by the hand of the Creator, though she knew it not. It was through her actions at the Well that I gained my powers. And it was through her vision of the casting of the Curse that I learned how we can undo it.”

  Draios wavered for a moment, some part of him rational enough to suspect he was being lied to
. But the part of him that wanted to be a hero was far stronger, and eventually he nodded his acceptance.

  “How can we undo it?” the prince finally asked.

  “It was cast using a form of Kai that was heretofore unknown, called sacrificial Kai. The Abbess of Aaltah, her daughter, and her granddaughter, willingly sacrificed their lives to create this special mote of Kai, which is the only thing capable of affecting the Wellspring itself.”

  Draios nodded again, for the explanation made sense with what was already known about the events of the terrible night the Curse was cast. The Abbess of Aaltah had sent a flurry of fliers to all the kingdoms and principalities, alerting them to what she had done, although she had not specifically mentioned the use of Kai. That he had learned from Mairahsol. He had reason to distrust much of what she had told him, but by her own actions she had proven the value of sacrificial Kai.

  “I believe that to undo the Curse, another willing sacrifice will have to be made,” Delnamal continued. “And I believe that I am the one who is meant to perform it.”

  Draios looked appropriately stunned, and Delnamal helpfully provided some pseudo-doctrinal support for his claim. “I believe the Creator means for me to return the Rhokai with which I have been gifted to the Well from which it originated. That is something that can only be achieved by my death, and I believe that my willing sacrifice will reverse the Curse and return all of Seven Wells to its natural state of holiness.”

  It was, Delnamal had decided, the perfect story to quell the last of Draios’s doubts. No matter how deluded Draios might be, he was unlikely to wholeheartedly support Delnamal if he thought doing so would unleash his unholy power on the world. He must believe that the power was useful to his own ambitions, but that once the great quest was done, it—and Delnamal himself—would pose no threat to him.

  Of course, Delnamal had no intention of casting himself into the Well. Once Prince Draios helped him win the support of King Khalvin, he would have no further use for the boy. And once Khalvin had helped him retake the throne of Aaltah, he, too, would become expendable. All of Khalpar was to him nothing more than a means to an end.