"Laramae of Seldareth's skill in drawing the Moon was unparalleled." Desteret showed no sign of shock or anger, but each word she spoke next fell with momentous clarity. "Lay clear this matter."
The woman, Seldareth, gave a tiny nod of acquiescence, then paused as if to muster her thoughts. It was impossible to see her expression while she faced Desteret, but she retained a frail dignity, her stance upright and determined. Was this their enemy?
"It is not excuse but explanation to say that in the years before her death I believe Laramae of Seldareth – she who was my mother – suffered from [fault-distortion-backlash]."
Another fractional pause. The word had been azrhul, and lingered unpleasantly. Her companions had lowered their eyes at it, a gesture Soren thought might be grief, or resignation.
"Her purpose in creating the boy lay in a discovery made by Acander of Seldareth little more than a century after Daseretal's Gift." Seldareth's voice firmed as she continued, as if beginning this tale had been the hardest thing. "When Daseretal laid upon the People that none should act against the human possession of Telsandar, there was great resentment. But none broke the interdiction. Acander watched closely as Telsandar became Darest. He hoped, I believe, to discover–" Minute hesitation. "– some failing in the Gift which would warrant Daseretal breaking the Covenant and expelling the humans. This he did not find. Instead, over several decades he isolated something new. The ill-will held by many of the People toward those who had been given Telsandar was a powerful thing. There was more than one who said they would rather see the Morning Reaches stand forever empty than have them trampled by the blind and unknowing. Over time, this resentment gained substance, drew power from those who would not relinquish it. What Acander found was a malison, no structured enchantment or distinguishable curse. Merely dissatisfaction taken on life."
Biting back her own increasing anger, Soren had watched Strake throughout this speech, but her Rathen remained tightly intent. It was Aristide who reacted. The smile had long been absent and now his lips parted, just a fraction. He had gone beyond pale.
"The effect of the malison," Seldareth continued evenly, "could not be considered an act against Darest. There was no choice in it, no single will driving it. It simply was. Well-pleased, Acander waited for the Darien endeavour to fail, for defeat to spread, for all but the luckiest and most stubborn to be driven out. He knew very well how this would be interpreted among the People.
"And it did not happen. Darest waxed in power, grew populous and flourished. The malison remained, but it was impotent against them. It was Laramae of Seldareth who found the reason why."
Seldareth stopped speaking again, and stood very still, then turned part of the way around, looking first at Strake and then directly at Soren. Her eyes were moss green, and for some reason struck Soren as too dark, an incongruous note she clung to against the dragging weight of Seldareth's grief. She didn't want to feel sorry for this Fae lord, who, even if she spoke like a spectator to events, had known and not told. Who had kept this secret while Darest withered like an orchid in winter.
Who looked like she'd never known a moment free of regret.
"The Covenant of the Gift was sealed by enchantment," Seldareth said, holding Soren's gaze a moment more before turning to again face her Queen. "And that enchantment maintained by every heir of the kingdom. It turned the malison aside as if it did not exist. Thus the boy."
She lifted one hand, a command to one of her companions, who turned with great reluctance and departed the pavilion. For a moment sound broke in from outside, a hush of falling water, the murmur of distant voices. Bird song. The Court simply waited, while Soren uneasily wished this was over, heard Captain Vereck shift from foot to foot, saw Strake's hands relax their hold. Aristide's colour had returned to its usual alabaster clarity.
Was this woman saying that the boy had been created to kill Rathens? That their deaths had been secondary, that it was the Rose which had been the target, all along? That it was the Rose which protected Darest from this malison.
And yet, if the boy disrupted magic as the Tzel Aviar claimed, why not simply send him straight to Tor Darest and remove the enchantment at the source? And why hadn't he attacked her?
That brief intrusion of sound came once again, and the man walked forward, carrying with him a leather-bound book, old and well-used. He paused for direction, then handed it to Tzel Damaris. Although the two men were in different pavilions, in different countries, the transfer was accomplished without any sign of difficulty.
"It was a lie, of course," Seldareth said, as if she had never paused. "Self-deception and semantics. Killing the line of Domina Rathen to weaken Darest's protections is an act against the Darien possession. Against Law. The boy was an attempt to muddy matters further, to place the act at one remove, to give it the same status as the malison. Laramae wished to create a creature whose very being was fused with death, whose purpose was put on him beyond the blood, so that no-one need command him to seek out Rathens and slay them, any more than a moth is ordered to fly to a flame. She wished for a perfect killer, caged force rather than a servant, untraceable, untouchable and impossible to hold to account.
"The enchantment took hold beyond the boy's blood: power and purpose were endowed as she had wished and showed every sign of increasing as he passed out of infancy. But he was still a child of the People, possessing will and frailties, far too easy to detect, capable of resisting the casting. And the need to kill extended far beyond the Rathen line. For Laramae's purposes, flawed in almost every way. She studied him, searching out her errors in hope of correcting them. But the Moon would not answer a second attempt, and I was born unaltered."
Bottomless silence. Of course the killer had to have parents. Being Fae made that an inescapable progression of logic. From there it was only a single step more to conclude that the most readily available child to a Fae enchantress would be her own. The boy, and this woman. Soren refused to allow her hand to creep toward her stomach.
Seldareth forged on, like a runner bound by a need which surpassed exhaustion. "He can resist the kill," she said. "As the Moon wanes he becomes more in command of himself, and if he avoids...everything, he can pass without shedding blood. Laramae – our mother had him provided with a steady stream of small animals, and – he would adopt them, go through agonies of care and live in horror of the waxing of the Moon. It is one of my earliest memories. Watching my brother weep, clutching to his chest the corpse of the latest pet he had slaughtered."
The line of her back shifted minutely, and there was another of those pauses Soren was beginning to dread. Each time, it seemed only to herald some worse revelation. This was their enemy? A boy made monster by his own mother? Another child no more than a failed experiment? How old would Seldareth have been when this happened? Twelve? Ten? Even younger? Decisions had been made for her, and she had borne the weight of them ever after. But, she too had kept this secret. It had to be remembered.
"He grew in strength far more quickly than Laramae anticipated. Barely fifteen and he was gone and my mother and his keepers lay torn beyond recognition. The bodies were not discovered for days, and before that there were other deaths. Seradonthial – he who was my Regent – called in the Tzel Aviar never realising the identity of the killer. It was only after the death of the Darien Princess Sethane that the record of Laramae's endeavour was uncovered. My brother had vanished as suddenly as he had escaped, was thought dead. Out of cowardice or shame, Seldareth kept its silence. Then came the plague. No doing of ours, but it accomplished precisely what my mother had wished. Many Rathen heirs died, the protective enchantments spent themselves trying to sustain them. The malison began to gain ascendancy, though it has yet to attain complete victory."
And Seldareth ground to a stop, standing mutely in the centre of the pavilion. There was a collective sense of a breath taken, the Court's focus shifting back to the figure of the Queen. The ropes of silver looked as if they had not moved since the Sky spat out
the world.
"Who gave the order for his death?"
"I did." Seldareth lifted one hand an inch from her side, then let it fall. "It seemed best."
For a moment something touched Desteret's eyes, clouds crossing the face of the Sun. But her face remained clear and still, and her voice unhesitant as she pronounced judgment:
"Asterall of Seldareth, the People turn their face from you. You have no lands. You have no title. You have no name. Walk into the Heart and seek an end."
Soren, who had been more than eager for retribution a moment before, immediately wanted to protest. This Asterall's role had been so peripheral, more a victim herself. What of this Serandonthial, and the others who must have known? There was no balance here. But the Court's only reaction was to bow their heads in grieving acceptance. Glad, perhaps, that a suitable scapegoat had presented herself?
Without a word Asterall unfastened her wristlet, placed it on the grass at her feet and walked, head high, from the pavilion. Soren could mark the faint resemblance to the boy now, this woman's older brother. For some reason, as she walked out through the mist of the waterfall, her step was lighter than before. She looked almost happy.
Then the Queen's gaze was on Strake, and Soren could feel him turn into knots beside her. This wasn't even close to over.
"Seldareth will make compensation for the act of Laramae against your possession, and this malison will be investigated. Blood price is yours to name." The Queen was austere, but Soren imagined she heard the echo of distant thunder, felt that mountain-weight poised above them. "Aluster of Darest, the Aseratal would beg mercy for the child," she continued, each word distinct and exact. The silver bells swung, though there was no movement to disturb them. "The imperative placed on him is a [weight-aegis-must] we bear."
Every muscle in Strake's face spoke his reaction, the painful need for revenge and the affront he felt at her request. She wanted them to let the boy go, to never hold him personally accountable for Vahse's death, for any of the deaths. On Strake's far side, Soren saw Aristide look down, pale lashes shading brilliant sapphire eyes. But that was all he did. This was Strake's moment of vengeance.
"I have a question."
The bells swayed.
Strake's voice was hoarse, as if it was an effort to speak beneath that gaze, but very much under control. "During your rule, this boy began killing. No explanation was made of the deaths. Then my family began to fail, rapidly. Then Darest followed suit. I understand the Couerveur regents requested aid during various incidents, then registered protests, made accusations. These were denied, or not answered. I would hear why."
There was a new stillness when Strake stopped speaking. Soren pictured herself at the foot of a cliff, looking up, heart thumping, because a single pebble had fallen. The Queen of the Fair was not one lightly held to account.
But she gave them their answer.
It was the Tzel Aviar who spoke, the faint movement of those silver ropes translating to direct command.
"Telsandar, now become Darest, was one of the oldest parts of the land of the People. A sacred place, which suffered a disaster which is [taboo-impolite-repugnant] to speak of. Those who dwelled there perished, and the region was held to be tainted. Seldareth and Calondae's increasing enmity was considered evidence that the taint endured. But the lands of the west – now Sax and Ceria – showed no such effect. Daseretal of the Fae formed the view that healing would only come by removing Telsandar from our influence, that only those not of the People could safely dwell there. So it was excised, given as Gift."
"A poisoned chalice," Strake said. His eyes had gone very dark.
"The experiment subsequently appeared only to have blunted the peril, and Darest declined as you have described. It was felt that if Telsandar's taint could adapt, then its current inhabitants would in time grow more and more susceptible to it. The petitions were not answered because a decision had been made to allow Darest to die."
This was beyond candour. The previous Queen had made it against Law to act against the Darien possession. This one had done precisely that, purely by doing nothing. Like standing on a beach, watching a man drown.
Strake's eyes glittered black and dangerous, but still he maintained control. "Is this...malison an expression of the older problem?"
One of the bells sounded, a flat, discordant note which somehow set a flutter loose in Soren's chest. Wrongness. Then the Queen spoke again, seven words:
"I do not know, Aluster of Darest."
Their eyes were locked: Strake fulminating, Desteret with ultimate calm. In a roundabout Fae way she had admitted error. The Fair had mistaken the effect of the malison as a symptom of something worse. And instead of warning Darest, attempting to hold back the threat, or even making a clean blow of it and breaking the Covenant, they had said nothing and waited. Allowed generations of Dariens to struggle and fail. And now they asked for a favour.
A pulse beat visibly at Strake's temple, and his hands had again found that stranglehold on the throne. Soren bit her tongue to keep from speaking, to leave him to face this himself. In truth, she didn't know what she wanted to say. Her first impulse toward sympathy had been countered by anger at Desteret's unapologetic admission. And, lingering at the back of her thoughts, the fact that a powerful Fae who was inexorably driven to kill Rathens was not the sort of person with whom they could afford to be lenient.
"I will accept blood price in his stead." The words were forced out, and Strake sat back in the throne as if immediately wanting to repudiate the concession. Soren bit her lip, sure she was happier her Rathen wasn't so expedient as to have the boy killed for the sake of prudence, certain she would rather not have to face the threat he posed. Telling herself that was so. She felt bruised, crushed between mercy and fear, and the Queen's response only made her feel angrier.
Desteret simply inclined her head. She did not look grateful, say thank you, or even appear pleased, just turned to the Tzel Aviar, his arms full of book. Done with them.
"It is laid on you, Damaris of the Wryve, to deliver the Moon-cast child."
Imperturbable as ever, Damaris bowed, and the Court shifted, as if an end had been signalled. All without a word of apology or regret. Laramae of Seldareth had schemed to kill Rathens, and her successor had kept it secret. Desteret had decided Darest was a failure and shut a door in the face of the Couerveurs seeking a solution. Her predecessor hadn't even warned Domina Rathen about this oh-so-mysterious taint lurking beneath the surface of her gift.
Strake, glancing up at Aristide, looked more than ready to be shut of the Fair. He had shown himself a King capable of placing his land above his feelings, and Soren thought he had done right, and wished it didn't feel wrong. Then came a final note from Desteret's bells.
"Who has knowledge of the forest known as the Tongue?"
This was patently unexpected, and Soren had a strong impression that among the groups one stood silently appalled. She searched and found, well before anyone stepped forward, three men and a woman who had turned to each other in wordless question. Then, his face setting to stone, one of the men walked to the centre, stopping just short of the silver wristlet left by Seldareth.
"Calondae would speak," he said, any sign of reluctance wiped from his voice. This, then, was East. He was a blond man, golden and beautiful in tunic, hose and cloak shading through azure to aquamarine. A simple circlet of silver rested on his head.
"Calondae not infrequently uses the loram trees as conductors when encouraging the growth of our orchards," the man said, voice and stance suggesting perfect ease. "Calondae has not been unaware that the effect might carry over the border into lost Telsandar."
Breath hissed through Soren's teeth, and she clenched her fists, finding in this sudden turn a hoped-for villain. 'Not unaware' indeed! When she thought of all the damage the Tongue had done–! And his tone! This man deserved the title 'The Indifference' far more than the Tzel Aviar.
The Queen's response was not even sufficient t
o set the ropes of bells swaying. The tiniest alteration in the contour of her lips, a fractional drop of smoky lashes. Nothing more, while Calondae remained standing with fitting formality before her. But with every moment a ponderous balance seemed to tilt, a looming potentiality which crushed upon the proud blond head. Soren could see the effort it took him to hold his position, and wondered if the only thing preventing him from dropping his gaze was the presence of that silver wristlet at his feet. Then:
"Calondae acknowledges calculated malice." His tone was exactly the same, the admission emerging as forthright statement. "Recompense is offered."
Desteret's relentless gaze shifted to the throne opposite. To Soren's shock, Strake simply nodded, his mouth twisted with sour disgust.
"Go then, Calondae," the Queen said. "Know that your voice has diminished in this Council."
Calondae bowed, and returned to his small group, which then left the pavilion into a grove of Autumn trees. He never once so much as glanced at Strake.
Soren found herself aching to throw things, to jump up and down and shriek and completely shatter this measured progression of question and decision. Why was this man, who had been far more actively working against Darest, let off so lightly? Asterall of Seldareth's crime had been one of silence, while Calondae had been deliberately destroying the lives of Dariens, had broken their spirits and driven them from their homes. Calculated malice. How could payment and some slight loss of status possibly balance that? She wanted at the very least to see him crawl.
It was all too inadequate, revelation becoming an anti-climax where the Fair dictated the terms and retribution was lost in a morass of formality. But her Rathen showed no sign of firing up at the vagaries of Fae justice, and the cool voice of reason was already throwing water on Soren's temper. They had what they had wanted – admissions and solutions, two centuries of failure explained. The compensation would surely be of immeasurable value to Darest, and there was no point going to war over a lingering sense of injury, even if it were possible to win. Shouting about the perceived shortcomings of the Fae Council would achieve nothing at all.
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