Blackstone

by Shea Godfrey

  Jessa understood what the next day would bring, but the night would be theirs, and if she could, she would give Darry what knowledge she could find about the threads from the past that were entangled with their present.

  “What are these?” Darry asked as she scooped an armload of scrolls from the first of the trunks to be opened. “Something that will turn an unsuspecting suitor into a desert snake of some kind?” She sat on the floor and crossed her legs as she tried not to drop them. She caught the yellow ribbon that held the nearest scroll in her teeth and pulled.

  Jessa laughed. “Do not open that.”

  “Why?” Darry asked. “Will something bad happen?”

  “It might,” Jessa answered. “Radha’s method of arranging things has always mystified me. I believe that to be the main reason I never found what I was looking for—sheer trickery on her part, meant to annoy me, no doubt.”

  Darry grinned and the ribbon fell from her lips. “Were you a bad child, my sweet?”

  Jessa’s amusement filled her throat with more laughter. “Never.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly been naughty since,” Darry said drily and held out the scrolls. “You pray to your gods with the same tongue you’ve used to make me cry out in reverence to a rival deity—it’s no wonder she had to resort to deception.”

  Jessa stared at Darry, her hands in midair between them as Darry tried not to laugh. “Does the wicked Lewellyn tongue speak ill of the competition?” Jessa demanded as she grabbed the scrolls, and several spilled to the floor.

  Darry chuckled, her eyes filled with a sudden sparkle as her dimple pressed deep. “I see you’ve been talking with Emmalyn. The Lewellyn women can be quite sarcastic, you’re right. Even odious, I’m told.”

  “Odious?” Jessa asked.

  “Unpleasant, I suppose, perhaps even nasty.”

  “Naughty?”

  “No, that’s something different.”

  “How so?”

  “Naughty is rarely a transgression, but nasty often is.”

  “I rather like naughty,” Jessa replied with sass and placed the yellow-ribbon-tied scrolls into their own pile. “But I don’t think that makes me nasty.”

  Darry chuckled happily. “No, it makes you bloody well perfect, my love.” She swiveled to her knees and dug deeper into the trunk. She lifted out a heavy scroll that was tied with a strip of rawhide with a thick braid of black hair wrapped just beneath it. “What about this one?”

  Jessa’s eyes went wide. “Hiyah, love!” She scrambled to her knees but her hands stopped just short of the scroll. The parchment was thick and dark, and though Jessa had never known exactly what she was looking for, she knew at that moment she had found it.

  She took in the scroll’s texture, and the ties that held it shut. She could smell the singed edges, and she could sense the power of the words still hidden within. When she smiled at Darry, it was a smile that had been waiting for over a decade. “I have been searching for this one my whole life.”

  Darry inspected it with keen eyes. “What’s in it?”

  “The past,” Jessa said softly, “and perhaps the future.” She took hold of the scroll with no small amount of reverence, set it carefully on the floor between them, and then sat back upon her heels. “We must speak of things before we open it.”

  Darry shifted her position, crossed her legs, and set her elbows upon her knees as her curls fell forward about her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”

  “Do you remember when you spoke of what you felt in Tristan’s Grove? Of how you felt about you and me?”

  “Of course,” Darry answered. “And that feeling has only grown stronger.”

  Jessa used her hands to pull herself forward, and the knees of her borrowed trousers slid upon the floor. The scroll was pushed until it was trapped between them as Jessa came to a stop and touched Darry’s face. “You said your love was beyond what you understood, and that it was old and bottomless. You said it was meant to be, perhaps even from the moment you had been born.”

  Darry took Jessa’s hand from her face, kissed it, and then held it within her own. “Aye, this is true. I’m sorry I can’t explain it better. It sounds sort of silly, actually.”

  Jessa smiled. “But you’re not wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  Jessa gave a soft laugh. “Yes. It is Senesh Akoata.”

  “The Great Loom of the world, you said.”

  “Yes, Senesh Akoata is the spirit woven upon the Great Loom.” Jessa paused, organizing her thoughts. “Some spirits are new to the world, and a new color is added to the tapestry when they enter into their life, a new thread is born. But some spirits…some spirits have been woven within the Loom since the gods first fashioned it.”

  “Even when the body is gone from the world, the spirit still moves upon the Loom,” Darry said. “I remember.”

  “Yes.” Jessa gave Darry’s fingers a squeeze and then lifted both her hands into the air. “This air around us, there is a pull, it creates a desire within us. You can feel it deep within your soul.” Her hands moved in a graceful arc. “And there is energy everywhere. Inherent within the air, and in all living things”—she set her hands upon her knees—“but it is also present within each of us, and in the things we feel. This creates forces in the world that are too numerous to count. When you see something of great beauty, and it takes your breath away, this feeling you have inside”—Jessa touched her chest—“the sensation of happiness, the joyous reaction you have, this is a kind of majik in and of itself. All things have energy like this, though most especially love. Love can pull you through time itself, and time is not what people think it is.

  “But those souls, those spirits that have the ability to absorb this energy into their own life force—those spirits walk a deeper path upon the Great Loom. Some threads become weak, or their colors fade as they lose sight of this power, and though their splash of color within the tapestry may be bright, it is short-lived. But those that are strong, who allow this majik into their blood, they live long upon the Loom, and though their bodies die, their spirits do not. They move on, and some never fade. They move in threads of power and love through the tapestry, always in search of a familiar touch. They look for a new place to bloom, if only in part.”

  Jessa smiled and took hold of Darry’s collar. “There are gifts in life that need substance, yes?”

  “If I could not have the feel of your mouth upon my breasts? If I could not look up from my thoughts and see you standing in the sun, or see your hair shine in the light from the fire? To hear you laugh again?” Darry said.

  Jessa gave Darry’s collar a gentle pull. “Yes, my love.”

  “I would search every thread upon your Great Loom, until I found even the smallest piece of you.”

  Jessa smiled happily. “And I would blossom within the birth of a new thread and make it old with my presence, bringing all that I could into a new body and a new life. I would endure any loneliness or any danger for just one more taste of the majik that was my love for you.”

  Darry’s eyes were bright.

  “This is Senesh Akoata,” Jessa proclaimed and brushed the backs of her fingers against Darry’s cheek. “But always there is a harmony, a pattern, a cohesion of substance. One spirit may travel down the ages, floating along their family’s bloodline as if it were a boat upon a river. Another may be drawn to the beauty of a very specific object or a place, always returning. Those things that may pull at a spirit, they are as many as the stars in the sky. Only the gods may know them all. And some things? They are just meant to always be, and the Loom will let them travel as they will.”

  “This is a strong precept of your faith, yes?”

  Jessa nodded as her attention strayed to Darry’s lips. “Yes.”

  “I have heard this story before.”

  Jessa’s eyes snapped up. “Where? Where did you hear it?”

  Darry’s
expression was somewhat bemused. “I don’t know.”

  “Do your priests tell of this?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a face with the memory?” Jessa asked with care. “Can you see the person who spoke to you, in your mind’s eye?”

  Darry’s grin was almost sheepish. “No.”

  Jessa’s heart was filled with love. “It’s all right, Akasha.”

  “What’s in the scroll, Jess?”

  “You and I, we move within the realm of Senesh Akoata. This is what you felt within Tristan’s Grove, and what you continue to feel now.”

  “I’ve loved you before, haven’t I.”

  It was not a question and Jessa knew it. “Not as Darry, no. You are who you are now, and no one else. But there is that in your spirit which has traveled through the Loom, and I believe your thread is very, very long.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “It is the same with me,” Jessa added. “I have loved you before, Akasha.” She reached out and laid her hand upon Darry’s chest. “I have loved your beautiful spirit always,” she whispered. “And in my dreams, you have always been there.” Jessa dropped her hand to the scroll and picked it up. “And this,” she said, “may have a great deal to do with us.”

  “Then let us read it,” Darry replied simply.

  Jessa undid the rawhide tie and the braid of hair came free as well. Darry grabbed them both before they hit the floor. She brought them to her nose, her expression filled with surprise.

  “What?” Jessa asked.

  “Jasmine.”

  Jessa laughed softly, leaned close and claimed a soft kiss. “I love you.”

  Darry’s eyes flared brightly. “Open it already.”

  Jessa took hold of the lower edge and unrolled the scroll, the heavy parchment revealed before them as it settled upon the floorboards. The scroll was thick with writing, several languages accounted for, and littered throughout with runes, filling the surface to the edges.

  “Bloody hell,” Jessa cursed.

  “I can’t read that,” Darry said in a disgruntled tone.

  Jessa laughed. “Neither can I.”

  “What?”

  “Not all of it,” Jessa amended. “My lovely Radha plays to win.” She ran her fingers gently upon the uppermost text. “This I can read”—her touch skated down the parchment—“but this is High Vhaelin, and written by a Shaman. I will need several books to translate it properly.”

  “Do you have them?”

  “In my rooms within the Jade Palace. But this, this here…” Jessa felt the runes near the bottom of the scroll, mixed within a script she did not recognize. “I have no idea what this is.”

  “That is most unfortunate,” Darry commented, her tone annoyed and amused at the same time, “and quite possibly, the very definition of nasty.”

  Jessa laughed.

  “What does the top part say?” Darry’s touch was careful as she ran a finger along a line of letters. “It’s very pretty, actually.”

  “Let me see, my love,” Jessa said softly and leaned over as Darry pulled her hand away. “Unto the hide of the stag, here I commit the history of the Vhaelin High Priestess, Neela Jhannina de Hahvay, mother of all sacred peoples, and that of Tannen Ahru, War Chief of the Red-Tail Clan and protector of all sacred peoples. All knowledge in its proper time shall be revealed.”

  “Tannen Ahru?”

  Jessa’s eyes were quick to find her lover’s as her heart gave a hard beat within her chest. “You know this name?”

  Darry was shocked by the question. “Do you know of Tannen Ahru? I mean, you have to, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know of Tannen Ahru. But how do you know of her?” Jessa insisted.

  “Are you asking me how I know about one of the greatest swordswomen to ever live?” Darry sat back. “My mother used to tell me stories, when I was small and I would grow angry at my wooden sword while my brothers held only the finest of steel. She said the day I could put a proper name to the brave deeds and the daring adventures that were my bedtime stories was the day she would give me a true sword.”

  “Cecelia told you of Tannen Ahru?”

  “My mother is very well-read, and I had no idea the tales she told me were of a woman until I read about the Craven Men at the Singewood. I spent many hours in the library at Gamar’s temple, which I’m sure was my mother’s true purpose.” Darry’s pleasure at the memory was obvious, and then Jessa watched the joy in her eyes change into something else altogether.

  Jessa’s left hand found her lover’s face. “Akasha.”

  Darry tipped to the side and Jessa’s hand was quick to find the back of Darry’s neck in order to steady her. She slid closer and Darry stared into her eyes.

  “All is well, Akasha.” Jessa felt tears well up in reaction to the stricken look upon her lover’s face. “You are Darry, and no one else. You are still the girl who lamented her wooden sword and tipped over the Blackwood Throne. You are Hinsa’s Cha-Diah child and Bentley’s dearest friend. This thread has always been a part of you, remember? There is nothing new that has suddenly been added.”

  “Lovers?” Darry asked softly.

  “Neela Jhannina de Hahvay, hers is the thread that I walk, just as you walk Tannen Ahru’s. And in their time, they were the greatest of lovers.” Jessa smiled. “If we must live up to anything, let it be that, yes?” Jessa kissed her and her lips lingered for a tender moment.

  “Your mother’s name,” Darry whispered as she began to regain her balance. “Jhannina.”

  “Yes, I didn’t know she was named for Neela.”

  “A name for the poets.”

  Jessa kissed Darry once more as she remembered their night upon her small terrace in the Keep. To have finally spoken her mother’s name aloud had been a great victory for her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, truly.”

  Jessa looked hard into Darry’s eyes and made the judgment for herself. “There’s a bit more that I can read…should I read it?”

  Darry considered the question and then gave a nod.

  Jessa let her go and turned, then pulled the scroll closer with a quick tug. She flipped the lower half under and concentrated upon the Vhaelin script she could understand. “All knowledge in its proper time shall be revealed,” Jessa read, “though a token is to be given at once, returned to its rightful owner.”

  “A token?” Darry asked quietly.

  “First and foremost, my daughters,” Jessa continued, “I return the Blue Vale sword of Tannen Ahru. Look no further, Darrius Durand”—Jessa looked up slowly and searched across the room—“than your own sword belt.”

  Darry’s eyes widened and she turned. Her sword belt hung upon the peg near the curved staircase and the twisted silver guard caught the firelight and flared brightly.

  “Lost for fifteen generations, this blade is rightfully yours.” Jessa looked up as Darry spun upon her hip, rose to her feet, and walked across the chamber. “Stolen in the Battle of Black Notch, at the foot of the Kistanbal Mountains, it is my greatest honor to gift you with its return.”

  Darry took hold of the scabbard and the belt slipped from the peg. She slid the fingers of her right hand about the grip, her touch slow and deliberate as she turned back into the room.

  The sword felt good in her hand. It felt as if it belonged there, more than any other sword she had ever held. She had felt that within the Great Hall as she had moved through the Dance. The steel had sung its song and matched her every breath, and she knew even then that this sword would be hers until the end of her days. It was perfectly weighted and balanced like no other weapon she had ever seen. It contained the strength of a backbreaking wind, but it had moved with the ease of a soft summer breeze—the power and the simple grace made absolute within the steel as she had carved her way through the enemy.

  “I knew it,” Darry whispered and drew the sword.

  The Blue Vale steel hissed from the scabbard and hit the air with a clean ping of so
und, its bright edge instantly alight with reflected flames.

  “The scroll says that it’s called—”

  “Zephyr Wind,” Darry said. “She’s called the Zephyr Wind.”

  “Yes,” Jessa whispered.

  Darry considered the weapon in her hand and then lowered it, her eyes traveling down its length as the firelight flashed in a bold manner upon the steel.

  Her imagination had never been found lacking, and she had always taken pride in an open mind. That there were gods in the world that were not hers, she had accepted, and she had always respected them. Those that found comfort and strength beneath their grace were no different than she was, and she had always honored the freedom to choose.

  But Gamar had blessed her at birth, and though she did not find her way to his temple as often as she should, the path to his door was her path. She had always known that, and she had been consoled by the certainty of his presence. She had prayed to him in need and she had honored him in wonder, and she had known peace in the fact that he would appreciate both.

  It was said that Gamar honored a life well lived, and even in the dark times when she had lost her hope, she had tried to live well.

  “Akasha?” Jessa asked softly.

  “I don’t understand all of this, not really,” Darry admitted as she met Jessa’s eyes across the room. Jessa wiped away a stray tear and smiled. “If you tell me that I once lived life as Tannen Ahru, I’m not sure I believe that.”

  Jessa pushed to her feet and took a tentative step. “Do you feel it?”

  “I feel you,” Darry answered, and it was the truth. All that she had ever wanted was but a few steps away, and that was a strange and delightful comfort. Strange, because she had lived without it for so long, and delightful, because she could not remember what that felt like at the moment. “And that is all I have ever believed.”

  “Senesh Akoata does not need your belief, my love.”

  “What about my faith?”

  “Your faith is your own. The Great Loom of the world goes on whether we are here or not. It has no need to quibble with matters of individual faith.”