An Accident of Stars (27 page)

“To say nothing of being one on whom the sun smiles and frowns,” the nameless queen muttered.

The Vekshi word echoed in Saffron's head: shasuyakesani. A lifetime ago in the compound in Kena, Zech had told her what it meant: that Ashasa had either marked her as agent or traitor – that in Veksh, she could represent either good luck, or bad. A sacred confusion. A thing to tip the balance. But there was another word, too, that stood out here –
alikrevaya
, gift of the soul-skin. The zuymet had taught her the literal translation, but not what it truly
meant
– why did it matter that Yena had been given it? What was Kara's mark? She filed the questions away for later, watching instead as Zech sucked in breath and answered.

“By Ashasa's will, a priestess's child of any age may freely petition for the right to undergo either the Trial of Knives or the Trial of Queens: in body if deemed of age, or by spirit and proxy if not.” She paused. “I would sit the Trial of Queens.”

A shocked murmur rippled through the guards. All three queens looked taken aback, but it was Yasha's reaction that caused Saffron's heart to speed up: a mixture of fear and confusion so palpable it almost coloured the air – and yet her eyes betrayed a chilling, greedy glimmer of hope.

“The Trial of Queens.” Ruyun stared at her, utterly off-balance. “You wish to join the Council?”

“I do,” said Zech.

Matu went dead pale at that. “Sweet gods save me,” he whispered. “
No
.”

Ruyun's lip curled with malicious ease. “A priestess's daughter, are you? Certainly, you're bold enough for it. To whose blood shall the temple compare your own then? What name shall we call you?”

Zech's answer was clear and calm. “Zechalia a Kadeja.”

Everyone froze. Everyone stared. For three full seconds, absolute silence reigned.

Kadeja's daughter.

“She is… she was cast out,” Ruyun finally croaked. “A priestess no longer.”

“But her exile cannot be retroactive,” Mesthani said faintly. “Recall, she was with child – the girl is the right age–”

“It was stillborn, a boy. She said it died–”

“She lied,” said Zech quietly. “She sent me away. Presenting the temple with a child on whom the sun smiles and frowns would have lowered her standing forever, and that she couldn't bear. Kadeja may be gone, but Ashasa's Knives will remember her blood. Test mine against it.” Her voice shook. “I'm her daughter.”

“A proxy!” Ruyun almost shouted the word, only barely containing herself. “Even if all is as you say, you still need a willing proxy – and who in all of Veksh would stand proxy for such as you?”

“Remember, child,” Mesthani said gently, “not Yasha nor Trishka nor Yena may stand your stead. They lack the right.”

Zech squared her narrow frame. “Yet one here still can. Not Vekshi-born, but four times marked by Ashasa's law, and therefore subject to it.”

“How so marked?”

“By penance, magic, battle and blood. In Ashasa's name, I witness it.”

“If that be so,” said the nameless queen, “then let her step forth. Who stands for Zechalia a Kadeja?”

And somehow, Saffron managed to say, “I do.”

Before she could change her mind, she forced herself away from Matu, coming to stand beside Zech. Her stomach quivered, but she forced herself to keep calm.
If Zech can do this, so can I.

“How has our Mother Sun marked you?” Ruyun demanded.

Penance. Magic. Battle. Blood.
Saffron knew nothing of Vekshi law, yet when she spoke, the question answered itself – as though, impossibly, she already knew the answer, the answer born of those half-forgotten dreams whose lingering itch she'd never quite dismissed. Heart thumping, she held up her three-fingered hand.

“Kadeja cut me. The sun-tongue bound me.” Sun-tongue,
shariktai
, was Vekshi for zuymet: a word she'd learned by that selfsame magic, and whose Vekshi implications Matu had mentioned offhand as they rode. Though Saffron didn't possess it herself, the fact that Zech had taught her that had special significance in Veksh: it made them sisters of sorts, and that in turn gave her kinship-rights.

As did the battle of the Envas road. Almost, she faltered, but it was like the words came from somewhere else. “I took a life in Ashasa's sight.” The thumbprint Yasha had daubed on her brow was a mark of Vekshi womanhood. “And my blood is Zechalia's blood.” The transfusion performed by the Shavaktiin.

Mesthani nodded. “And what do we call you?”

“Safi a Ellen.” Her voice broke on her mother's name. For a moment, she stood on the brink of tears, but then Zech reached out and gripped her good hand, squeezing in thanks and strength. It saved her. “I stand as proxy.”

“She could be lying,” Ruyun said, but even she didn't sound convinced.

The nameless queen snorted. “They're children,” she said. “What child would lie for this? If Kadeja's blood proves true, I have no objections.”

“Agreed,” said Mesthani.

Ruyun scowled. “Agreed,” she said at last. “They sit the Trial of Queens.”

T
he house belonged to Rixevet
, but Viya couldn't remember it, and nor did she have the strength to try. The news of Hawy's death had drained her, sapping the resistance without which she would never have left the palace, let alone endured nearly twelve days on the road. Once Pix and Kadu led her inside, the Shavaktiin following at a respectful distance, Viya was hit by a powerful wave of exhaustion. At Kadu's instruction, servants appeared to take her upstairs to the room she'd used as a child, but even that slim promise of familiarity wasn't enough to restore her. Instead, she took one look at the clean, soft bed and headed straight for it, pausing to shuck off her boots but otherwise uncaring of her road-filthy clothes. No sooner had her head hit the pillow than she was asleep, falling blissfully into some dark, dreamless void for time enough that, when she finally woke again, it was well into the evening. The world outside her window was dark, the room lit only by a single, guttering candle.

“Hawy,” Viya whispered, but though her throat tightened, no tears would come.

Eventually, she forced herself up in search of the others, bewildered by the strangeness of a house she should have known. The upstairs level was vast enough that she couldn't even find the stairs; instead, she ended up in a corner library, and with nothing else to do, she let herself slide down the wall and sit.

She'd been there no more than ten minutes when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hall. Her prideful half insisted she stand in case it was a servant, but despite her fears, she couldn't will her stubborn legs into movement.

The footsteps halted behind her. Someone sighed.

“There you are. When your room was empty, I wasn't sure where to look.”

It was Pix, of course. Being seen by the courtier in such a state was arguably worse than if it'd been a servant, but even then, Viya still couldn't bring herself to turn around, let alone stand.

“I've spoken to Kadu,” Pix went on, as though nothing was wrong. “Your bloodfather and secondmother aren't in residence, and nor are your siblings – they've gone to gather allies, and aren't expected back for a couple of days. Amenet, though, has agreed to see us tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” The word slipped out of its own accord. “Why not tonight?”

“Oyako suggested, and I agreed, that it would be better to wait until she's spoken tonight with her opposite number in Yasha's party; the resident priest of Hime has agreed to lift his ilumet wards to let them speak through the dreamscape. At this point, the more information we can provide about the situation in Veksh, the better. And besides–” Pix placed a hand on her shoulder, “–all of us are filthy and exhausted. It would be a discourtesy to go in looking like ruffians.”

“I'd murder the gods for a hot bath,” Viya blasphemed.

Pix chuckled. “No need for that; I've already had one drawn for you. Come. You'll feel better once you're clean.”

As though she'd never hesitated, Viya stood and followed Pix back through the twisting corridors, downstairs, through another hall and into the first room she did recognise from childhood – a sumptuous bathing parlour tiled in the blue and green of Nihun and Lomo, gods of water and earth. The bath itself was sunken into the floor: an oval depression long enough for an adult to stretch out comfortably at full length and deep enough for the water to lap at their collarbone, were it fully filled. Most extravagantly of all, it was served by water heated in a boiler and piped through taps, rather than having to be constantly filled and emptied by hand. Dimly, Viya remembered being fascinated by the taps as a child, unable to understand the repeated explanations of various parents and siblings as to how the water got there. In truth, she still didn't know why it worked, but just at that moment, she didn't care; inviting steam rose off the surface, scented with muskrake and jinsi, and it was all she could do not to fling herself into it, clothes and all.

“Here,” said Pix. “Let me help you.”

Shutting the door, the courtier approached and began to undress her, deft as any servant. The clothes she'd chosen so proudly back at the palace were tattered and bloodstained, utterly unrecognisable. Her scarves were now more brown than green, the knotted silk vest frayed and filthy. The skirt had fared somewhat better, having been darkly coloured and made for use, but the blouse – the once-creamy blouse that Hawy had sewn – was a ruin of smears and tears and blood, so wretched-looking that Viya could scarcely understand how it had stayed on, let alone in one piece. That left her underthings and the bag of jewels she'd kept tucked between her breasts, which Viya removed herself. If Pix thought there was anything odd in this latter item, she said nothing, instead extending a hand to help Viya into the bath.

She was similarly silent when it came to the scars Kadeja's star-nettle whipping had left on Viya's back. The only sign that she'd noticed was a slightly indrawn breath, but though Viya braced for further comment, Pix's lips remained blessedly sealed.

The heat was scalding at first, but Viya grit her teeth and persevered, sliding down until the water lapped at her chest. Soon enough, the sting eased; the warmth was delicious, and with a sigh of relief, she submerged completely, weathering the hurt to her scar with equanimity. When she broke surface, it was to find Pix kneeling beside the bath, ready to wash her hair. Any other time, she might have questioned this uncharacteristic subservience, but it was like the usual rules no longer applied. Instead, she tipped her head forward and closed her eyes while Pix massaged scented oils into her long, unbraided hair. When prompted, she rinsed, then accepted a block of scouring soap. While Pix demurely looked away, Viya stood up and scrubbed so vigorously that when she sat back down again, it felt as though she'd removed at least two layers of skin. By then, the water was filthy, but Viya didn't care; she luxuriated in cleanliness, sitting back as the warmth soaked into her bones.

“Thank you,” she said.

By way of answer, Pix dipped her hands in the water and dried them on the edge of her skirt – a clean skirt, Viya noticed belatedly, not the one she'd been wearing since the compound. “My pleasure.”

Silence wreathed pleasantly between them, broken only by a steady drip of water falling from one of the taps. Viya watched as Pix shifted from kneeling to resting her weight on hip and palm, legs curled comfortably sideways.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “For your mother.”

“So am I,” said Viya. Something in her twisted. “What can the gods mean by any of this? What purpose did it serve to let Leoden rule for even this long, when all it brings is pain?”

“The gods' mysteries are their own,” said Pix. “I don't pretend to understand it; I just have faith when I can, and the rest of the time, I do what's right. Or at least,” she added softly, “I try to. More than anyone else, it's Gwen and I who should bear the blame for Leoden. He tricked us both.”

“He tricked more than you,” said Viya, thinking of Hawy. She paused, a sudden question surfacing in her thoughts. “How did Gwen get involved? With you, I mean, not Yasha.” She'd already heard the latter story on the long ride to Avekou.

Pix smiled. “It was Matu,” she said. “Or Zech, rather. When her gift with the zuymet manifested, Yasha had Gwen looking for a tutor – kemeta for preference, as she didn't want to lose Zech to the oh-so-heretical temple of Sahu. Gwen was known in noble circles, though not everyone knew where she came from. Most just assumed she was Uyun; calling her a worldwalker felt needlessly exotic, even though she never hid the truth. Anyway, she heard about Matu, arranged a meeting, and convinced him to take on Zech as a student. The transgressive thrill of keeping a Vekshi girl out of the temples appealed to him, I believe.” But she smiled as she said it. “Naturally, I was horrified at how badly he'd been led astray, and tracked Gwen down myself to let her know the extent of my disapproval.”

“And what happened?” Viya asked.

Pix rolled her eyes. “To this day, I'm still not sure. Something in the perversity of it intrigued me enough to stay. A worldwalker living with Vekshi expatriates, yet moving in noble circles? It was like something out of a moon-tale. And here we all are.”

“Here we are,” echoed Viya. A strange sort of courage filled her. She'd come this far in defiance of law and custom; how could she falter now?

“When we meet with Amenet,” she said slowly, “I'll need to be the Cuivexa again. Would you bind my braids for the meeting?”

Pix frowned. “Are you sure?”

“If I'm still married – and by rights, I am – then I haven't left the royal mahu'kedet; and if I never left, then I can speak on its behalf. Leoden kept me locked away, but there's no law against a Cuivexa riding freely through Kena. The only treason I've committed is against his will. Amenet needs to remember my legitimacy.”
As do I.