Children of Earth and Sky

by Guy Gavriel Kay

What neither of them had expected was the third person who entered behind the other two.

  —

  THE RETREAT ON THE ISLE was beautiful, perched on a rise of land, views in all directions. Terraced gardens sloped south and west, with a vineyard beyond. They’d come up from the dock along a path shaded by cypress trees. Drago remained outside, near the entrance to the complex.

  “I won’t be far,” he’d said.

  The Eldest Daughter of the Sinan retreat was also beautiful, her skin pale and perfect, cheekbones high. Her welcome to Leonora Miucci and Pero Villani was courteous, formal, regal. There was something cold in this room, however, Danica thought, watching from a few steps behind. From Rhodias, Drago had said this woman was, on the isle a long time, and—

  Her thoughts were interrupted. But not by anyone who was speaking.

  She’d seen someone. Her eyesight had always been good.

  Drago had told them about the older woman who lived on Sinan Isle. Pero’s command to visit had come from her. On the way across in a morning breeze the captain had spoken of the mother of the last emperor—Valerius XI, who had died, and been beheaded and mutilated in the final assault on Sarantium. The empress-mother had made her way here not long after. She had been sent from the city by her son before the siege began. The last siege.

  She wasn’t just on the isle, however. The Empress Eudoxia was, Danica realized, in this room with them.

  She was in shadow, an alcove to their right, in a high-backed chair with wide arms. A small woman, face difficult to make out there. But Danica knew who this was, and where the truly regal was therefore to be found here, so far to the west of where she belonged.

  Do you see her?

  I do, her zadek said. She could feel his emotion. Child, I never thought to ever . . .

  I know.

  Danica surprised herself. Sometimes you did that. She crossed the tiled floor, moving from where sunlight fell from a wide stone terrace, into a shadow like shadows of the past.

  She knelt, aware of how insignificant she was, how little she could bring to this woman. She said, hearing a huskiness in her voice, “My lady, permit me, please.”

  And she kissed the slippered foot of the woman sitting here, so far from glory, from shining, from what had been, by all accounts there were, brighter once than anything the world knew.

  “You are permitted,” the old woman said, a thin, clear voice. Then, “You are . . . ?”

  Call her “your grace.”

  “I am no one, your grace. My name is Danica Gradek, once of Senjan, now serving in Dubrava.”

  “Serving?”

  “The Djivo family, as a guard, your grace.”

  “Ah. You are the one who came in on their ship.”

  “Came in? She attacked that ship!” It was the Eldest Daughter, the beautiful one. “A murderous Senjani joins us. How interesting.”

  Murderous? Danica, be careful.

  But how can I matter to her?

  I don’t know. But there is malice there.

  I see it. Surely not towards me. Not from Rhodias!

  I think it is, child.

  The old woman looked at the younger one who ruled here and it was impossible to miss the malice there, too. This morning might not proceed, Danica thought, as they had imagined it.

  She stepped back, because Leonora and the artist had both come to do exactly as she had, in turn.

  “The Senjani,” said the woman who had been empress of the eastern world, “was first to know and salute us. It is worthy of note.”

  “Is it?” said Filipa di Lucaro. “An appeal for clemency?”

  “Why,” said Leonora Miucci, “would Danica need clemency here?”

  The Eldest Daughter looked briefly disconcerted. She hadn’t expected quickness, or a challenge, from the young widow, perhaps.

  “Really? Are you unaware of what Senjan does to Seressa? To Dubrava?”

  “Hardly unaware. I was also in the council chamber yesterday when she saved a life, and on the ship when she avenged my husband’s death. She is owed gratitude. The rector said as much.”

  “He did say that. It has been reported. What do you say?” asked Pero Villani, looking at the First Daughter.

  “A Seressini asks me that?”

  “He does,” the artist said. “And the High Patriarch you serve has commended the Senjani as loyal servants of Jad on our border with the Asharites.”

  A moment of stillness.

  “There were also Senjani who fell on the walls of Sarantium.” It was the old woman who had been an empress.

  “Even so,” Filipa di Lucaro replied, “they deny the god and despoil his faith. Fighting Asharites is one thing, but stealing from—”

  “How dare you!” said Danica.

  Oh, child. Be careful.

  No!

  “You speak to me like that?” The cheekbones seemed even sharper now, Danica thought. “In this place, where I am armed with the will of the High Patriarch and the sanctity of Jad?”

  “Are you?” Danica said. “You heard Signore Villani. The High Patriarch, may he be blessed in light, has defended and commended us.”

  “We understand,” said the old woman from her shadows, “that this is true.”

  You could hear cold pleasure in her voice.

  “And,” Danica added, “Senjan did have men die at Sarantium. They sent eighty all the way east from a town of several hundred souls, and every one of them died for the emperor and the god. Were any of your family there when the love of Jad died? Where were the Rhodian soldiers, or Seressini ships and men? Singing love songs on canals? Making money among Asharites in Soriyya? And you denounce us? Name as barbarians those still fighting and dying for the god’s faith?”

  Child, you have an enemy now.

  She was an enemy when she knew me. I don’t know why. Unless . . .

  What?

  Unless she isn’t from Rhodias.

  Oh, Jad. Don’t say—

  But she did. Because if she was right, it explained why Leonora had been summoned here. Not to be given comfort, but for instructions.

  She didn’t feel like being careful, suddenly.

  “Are you even from Rhodias?” she asked the woman who ruled here. And heard, from behind, dry laughter from the older woman who had sat a throne in a greater realm.

  “What? Of course I am!” said Filipa di Lucaro. “Do you want my family’s lineage? To know if they are worth pillaging?”

  “I’m certain they are,” said Danica. “We don’t require much.” There came another chuckle from the shadows.

  And unexpected laughter—from the Eldest Daughter herself.

  “I deserve that, I suppose,” Filipa di Lucaro said. She smiled. She had a very good smile. “I believe I have let my dismay at the death of Doctor Miucci in a Senjani raid overcome my duty to guests. Whatever else, that is what you all are. I would be grateful if we might begin anew, with wine on the terrace here.”

  “That might indeed be better,” Leonora said.

  Danica looked behind her. The old woman in her chair said nothing, but her eyes had been waiting for Danica’s. She moved her head very slightly sideways. No more than that.

  You saw?

  I saw, zadek.

  There was a scraping sound, the chair on the tiles. The empress stood up, easily enough, though she held a walking stick in her right hand. With it, she thumped on a door behind her chair. It was opened instantly by a nervous-looking acolyte.

  The empress-mother looked at Pero Villani. “Signore, attend upon us. We would speak privately.”

  A command. Pero followed the old woman through the door. The acolyte went after them and closed it.

  Another brief silence. Filipa di Lucaro smiled again. She said, “I do have words to share with you, Signora Miucci, after we s
hare a cup of wine, the three of us. Might I request you to have your guard withdraw, after, perhaps into the gardens?”

  “There is nothing,” Leonora said, “I do not share with Gosparko Gradek. I owe her a great deal.”

  “I have no doubt you do, but our guards do not, surely, know everything about our lives.”

  “This one does,” Leonora said. “Everything that might matter here.”

  The other woman’s smile remained but Danica thought there was effort to it now.

  Leonora added, “She knows, for example, that Doctor Miucci and I were never married.”

  The Eldest Daughter’s smile faded.

  She shouldn’t have said that.

  Probably not.

  Be careful, Danica.

  I will try, zadek. Should I leave? And ask Leonora what happened after?

  There may be danger for you out there.

  And not here?

  Here, as well. Watch her.

  And watching, Danica saw.

  There was a heavy, handsomely made oak cabinet against the wall beside the writing desk. It had a panel that dropped to make a flat surface. Filipa di Lucaro used a key from her belt to open and lower this. She took out a flask of pale wine from inside. She claimed two silver goblets—and then a third, reaching farther back in the cabinet.

  That one will be yours, child. Do not.

  Danica felt suddenly cold. There had been a sense of danger, but nothing immediate, not the feeling she could die here. That had changed.

  She looked at Leonora. The other woman was already gazing at her, brow furrowed. Their host was pouring the wine.

  Filipa di Lucaro put the flask back down. She brought their wine on a silver tray, smiling again. She placed it on her desk, nudging cups towards each of them. The third, the one from the back, was indeed Danica’s.

  Danica removed her bow and quiver and set them down. Leonora came over to the desk and took her wine, also smiling. She walked across the room towards the terrace with the gardens and the vines beyond.

  “You can see all the ships coming in and out, it seems.”

  The other woman strolled after her.

  “We can. In good weather it is a pleasure to be out here. And we know who has returned or arrived before anyone else. I enjoy that.”

  “I imagine you do,” Leonora said.

  The two of them stood together, looking at grass and trees, sea and clouds.

  Danica reached across and took the cup Filipa di Lucaro had intended for herself. She left hers on the tray.

  You know what she did?

  I think so. Poison already in the cup so she didn’t have to put it in?

  That must be it. A vicious woman. You may have been right, Dani.

  That she is from Seressa?

  It makes too much—

  He stopped. The other two were coming back. Leonora had known exactly what to do.

  Filipa di Lucaro said, “I hope you will let this serve as my apology and that you might now . . .”

  She stopped, staring at her writing desk.

  “I am happy to,” said Danica. “Shall we drink to the triumph of Jad and virtue? And of course I will leave you to talk, after. I am only a guard.” She gestured towards the cup that had been meant for her, which remained on the desk.

  Filipa di Lucaro’s smile was gone. She was polished, however, immensely experienced. A long time doing this. She said, “I never actually drink wine in the morning, myself. But I will touch cups with you and—”

  “In Senjan, it is an insult not to drink with guests when the wine has been poured by oneself.”

  “I am fortunate not to be in Senjan, then, aren’t I?”

  Leonora was pale now. She was prone to that, her face showing her state of mind.

  Danica said, “You are. But if you don’t drink with me I will be offended and will also draw a conclusion about that cup.”

  “Why would I care what conclusions—?”

  “Drink it,” Danica said. “It was meant for me. Drink it down.”

  “I cannot imagine taking instructions from someone such as you!”

  “Ah. The apology is withdrawn?”

  “I simply do not allow barbarous behaviour here.”

  “Only you are allowed?”

  The other woman turned to Leonora. “Forgive me, your servant is unspeakably ill-mannered. It is not acceptable. I must call my guards to escort her out.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Leonora.

  And she put her own cup down and took the one remaining on the desk. She strode back to the terrace.

  “Drago! Gospar Ostaja! I have need of you!”

  Drago was out there, as promised, within earshot. They heard him reply. An immensely reassuring man.

  “Signora?” he said, coming around to the terrace.

  But another man could also be seen approaching, almost running. Big, young, broad-chested.

  Leonora said, “Take this cup, please, gospar. Handle it carefully. I have reason to believe there is poison in it. We need it kept safe to take back.”

  “That is beyond an insult!” cried Filipa di Lucaro. She looked at the other man coming through the garden. “Juraj, I command you to stop this.”

  Danica said, “He will die if he tries, Eldest Daughter.”

  “What?”

  “If the cup is blameless our contrition will be real. If it is not, the rector and council will be informed.”

  Leonora was still holding the cup. Filipa di Lucaro moved suddenly towards her, a hand drawn back to strike it.

  Her life ended.

  A thrown blade. The same knife that had killed Vudrag Orsat in the council chamber.

  It was an awkward angle. Danica’s dagger caught her in the heart, slightly to one side.

  Oh, child.

  I had no doubts, zadek.

  There came a wordless scream from the man in the garden. He had no tongue, Danica realized. He did have a short sword at his belt. Not very usual for a gardener. And he was running now.

  “Back!” she said to Leonora. “Quickly!”

  It wasn’t necessary, in the event. Drago Ostaja, burly and stocky and happier by far on sea than on land, was nonetheless extremely quick himself—and no good sea captain was ever without his own blade.

  He met Filipa di Lucaro’s tongueless assassin as the man approached the terrace. The bigger man turned to face him, still making that high, unholy-sounding noise. Blades clashed. Danica was turning for her bow when she saw it end.

  He was good, Drago, and he didn’t fight with anything that might be called gentility. He kicked the other man in the kneecap as he parried a swing. Then he stabbed him in the midriff as the other man stumbled. A straight, short sword thrust. Efficient, you could call it.

  The screaming ended. It was suddenly very quiet out beyond the terrace. They could hear seabirds calling from the dock where their boat was moored. The birds were darting and diving in sunlight. The waves sparkled in the breeze from the west. The air was bright, the world was bright, the god’s sun was rising through the sky.

  So many people I’ve killed now, zadek!

  Child, stop counting.

  How? she asked, in pain.

  She was trying to kill you, Dani.

  I know! But so many. And not one of them was—

  Child, stop.

  They heard a door open behind them. Danica whirled, reaching for her second knife. She stopped.

  “It is past time someone killed that one,” said the empress-mother Eudoxia, coming forward to where light from the terrace fell on the tiles. “It is acceptable that it was you.”

  Pero was behind her. He had stopped by the desk, put a hand upon it for support. Not a man, Danica guessed, who had lived a life that contained much violence. He was looking
at Leonora, who still held the cup of poisoned wine.

  —

  HE HAD SEEN DEATH SO MANY TIMES.

  Everyone saw death, the plague made certain of it, and the gallows, and Seressa was dangerous at night.

  But in the past few days he had seen people slain in front of him, or newly dead. Pero Villani thought, This is much too much. I am an artist. I only want to be permitted to do my work.

  Given the conversation he’d just had in the room on the other side of the door, that might become a challenge.

  “You are going to Sarantium?” the old woman had asked, turning to face him. The room was simply furnished, with a narrow bed against the far wall, a sun disk above it. The young acolyte had looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but here. Pero, to be truthful, felt much the same. He didn’t correct the empress-mother as to the city’s name. He doubted she ever used any other.

  “I am, your grace.”

  “You are commissioned to paint the hound? The enemy of light? His portrait?”

  He was quite sure she never used any other names for the khalif, either, unless they were worse.

  He cleared his throat. “I am,” he said. “I have been honoured by Seressa and—”

  “You will paint from life?”

  “That is possible, your grace. If I am . . . if he permits—”

  “Good. If so, you will use the opportunity to kill him for us.”

  She said it with calm precision. But you knew, Pero Villani thought, you had to know how much undying fire was here, how much hatred, rage.

  He was shaken. He struggled to think what he should say, what he could say.

  She smiled at him, as if encouragingly. Her hair was white under a purple cloth cap. Porphyry, they’d called that colour in the east—and reserved it for emperors and empresses. She wore a dark-blue cloak over a green robe. Her face was small, wrinkled, her eyes wide-set, blue and brilliant, still.

  She said, casually, “They will kill you, of course. You will be martyred in Sarantium, die where so many died. A Blessed Victim in years to come—venerated, prayed to. This is not being honoured, being sent to put paint to canvas or wood. That will be the honour that clings to your name with the scent of eternal grace.”

  “My lady,” Pero began, “I am not a man of violence or war. I am—”