An Accident of Stars (29 page)

The water was ice cold, the pool so devoid of swallowing's that they couldn't walk in, but had to sit down and slip in like seals, with nothing to hold them up. Zech shivered and clung to the edge, unable to kick her legs to support herself. Saffron trod water, gasping with cold – and then, at the implacable command of the Vekshi women to
go under, go under, deep as you can
, she sucked in air, shut her eyes, and dove. The water closed over her; pressure pounded her head and lungs, while icy ghost-fingers stabbed at the flesh of her wounded hand, and still she forced herself downwards, denying her fear, compelled by a stubbornness she hadn't known was in her. At the furthest limits of air and strength, she opened her eyes to absolute blackness. She saw nothing, felt nothing, knew nothing but cold that froze her flesh and burned her lungs, and in that instant she knew that if she spun around, she wouldn't be able to orient herself; that she could die swimming down instead of up, and be lost to two worlds forever.

And then she exhaled, and the bubbles of her breath shone silver in her vision, trailing upwards like a string of guiding stars; and Saffron kicked and followed them, swimming up and up and up, compelled by the sudden, desperate fear that she'd swum too deep, that she couldn't see the surface – and then she burst free of it, gasping for air and splashing in the silence of the cavern.

“I'm alive,” she whispered – in English, in Kenan, in Vekshi, the triple incantation hissing from her lips like a prayer, while beside her, Zech's mottled skin shone like quicksilver as the priestesses pulled her from the pool.
Alive, alive, alive.
There were four of them now – the last had arrived while Saffron was underwater – and two piles of clothes lay folded on the stone.

They dressed in silence; or were dressed, rather, the priestesses reclothing them as deftly as they'd stripped them. Though her skin prickled with goosebumps, Saffron no longer felt the cold. It was as if she'd passed into some altered state, and as a triple-braided cord of yellow, red and white was bound around the waist of her undyed cotton shift, her shoulders inexplicably straightened. Whatever came next, she could handle it.

Soon they were being led down again, through endless paths that honeycombed the mesa's core. Saffron and Zech exchanged occasional glances, but didn't speak. The paths themselves differed wildly in type and texture, some little more than tunnels in the raw, rough stone, while others were paved and squared away, their walls adorned with tiled mosaics or stuccoed paint. Only their descent remained constant; where the floors were sloped, they sloped downwards, and the stairs they took went down as well. The last such flight consisted of broad, steep steps that took two paces each to cross, descending without deviation. The roof overhead was curved and smooth, the way lit by globes of light set in the walls.

Without any warning, the world opened up again, revealing a cavernous, oblong hall lined with massive columns. Way at the end was a pair of giant doors, each one flanked by a pedestal topped with blue-white flames. Three strange queens stood there, distinguished as such by their crowns and robes. At the foot of the stairs, their escorting priestesses halted, and without being told Saffron knew they were meant to walk the rest of the way themselves.

The queens greeted them each in turn, cupping their hands to Zech's cheeks, kissing her forehead, then doing the same to Saffron. The first queen was so old that her stubbled hair was as milky as her eyes, but though she was blind, her movements were sure and quick as a bird's. The second queen was middle-aged, round-faced and curvy, but when she gripped Saffron's cheeks, the strength of her hands was undeniable. The third queen, the youngest, looked to be in her late twenties; the right side of her face was smooth-skinned, but the left was shiny with burn scars that extended well past her ear.

“Who sits the Trial of Queens?” the eldest asked.

“Zechalia a Kadeja,” Zech answered.

“And who serves as proxy?”

“Safi a Ellen,” said Saffron, swallowing nervously.

“Come, then,” said the middle-aged queen, “and be tested.”

“In Ashasa's name,” said the youngest.

“In Ashasa's name,” Zech echoed, and a heartbeat later, sensing it was requisite, Saffron copied her.
In Ashasa's name.

Beyond the doors was another cavern, but one that completely dwarfed the room with the pool. The space was so big that it might have gone on forever, the rocky walls studded with glowing crystals, red and gold and white. It took Saffron a moment longer to realise that the phenomenon was a natural one: unlike the globes illuminating the higher levels, these crystals were a native part of the stone. Some few were as large as the stalactites had been, while others were small as fingernails, but all of them emitted light, and all of them were beautiful, the pale rock shining like gold.

“Kneel,” said the eldest queen, and Saffron knelt.

Beside her, also kneeling, Zech shone with a mixture of determination and courage, unflinching as the second queen tied a blindfold over her eyes. It was made of plain linen, totally unremarkable except for its length, unspooling like a ribbon as she moved to Saffron's side and bound her eyes in turn with the opposite end. Saffron's pulse ticked up at that, though she didn't move. How could either of them perform the trial while blind and tied to another person? Wasn't the whole point of her presence that Zech didn't have to do anything?

“Here is the tale of the Trial of Queens,” said the youngest queen, her soft voice echoing through the cavern. “Long ago, before Veksh was Veksh, the clan-chiefs of the twenty great motherlines were estranged from one another, riven by feuds and disagreements. War loomed, inevitable; and yet it would have destroyed us, for our heathen neighbours, sensing the disunity of Veksh, planned conquest while our eyes were turned inwards. In this time of blood and blindness, a conclave was called – one last attempt to sue for peace. But even then, so great was the enmity between the motherlines that not even the wisest clan-chiefs could enforce order. When the time came for discussion, none could be heard, for none would be silent – every voice rang out at once, and the whole conclave was in uproar.

“Until a girl-child, little more than eight years old, stepped up to the floor. None there knew who her mother was, and yet she came with Ashasa's blessing, her body aglow with holy fire. Her appearance forced silence on all those present, and when the child spoke, her words were Ashasa's words.

“This is what she said:

“
Deep in the heart of the southern mesa, the Mother Sun's scions wait. Whosoever would claim the right to speak for Veksh in Ashasa's name must venture there by dusk and test their mettle. Those who return alive at dawn and bearing the scion's mark will be counted Queens in Ashasa's sight, and given leave to speak, not only for their motherline, but for all the clans of Veksh.

“And the clan-chiefs listened; all save one, who refused to acknowledge the child as Ashasa's voice, and whose motherline thereafter fell into decay, and was lost to the world forever. But all others heeded her words, recognising only then the dangers of the precipice on which they stood; and so it was that the conclave travelled to the mesa, which is now called Yevekshasa, and down into the stone went not only the clan-chiefs, but all who thought themselves worthy of the honour – easily a hundred souls or more. From dusk until dawn, the would-be queens sought Ashasa's blessing, but when the sun rose again, less than half remained alive, and of their number, only half again were held to have attained both mark and sign.

“These were the first queens of Veksh, in whose footsteps you now tread. Remember them, and remember in whose sight you walk. Ashasa bless you both, and fire light your way.”

“Fire light your way,” the other queens echoed, and in the pause that followed, a shadow loomed in Saffron's blindfolded vision; one of the three stood over her, and daubed what must have been blood on her forehead, just as Yasha had done on the Envas road. She shivered, her body recalling the cold of the underground pool, and then the shadow stepped back, and a new voice – Saffron didn't know where the owner had come from, but guessed they were either a queen or a priestess – began to speak.

“Ashasa, witness these your supplicants: Zechalia a Kadeja and her proxy, Safi a Ellen, whose worthiness to sit your trial has been won by right of law. Hand-of-dreams bind them both in spirit; blood-bond bind them body to body; sun-tongue bind their wills together. Blessed daughters, hear me now. The risen sun is sharp as steel. Can you endure her touch?”

A strange feeling overtook Saffron then, as though she were suddenly tipsy. Warmth spread through her, pins and needles pricking her hands and feet. Colours wheeled in her blindfolded vision; her head felt muzzy and numb. Abruptly, she lost all sense of balance; she tried to steady herself, but her arms were deadweight, and with a faint, embarrassed croak she keeled over sideways, thumping down hard on the cavern floor. Though vaguely aware that Zech, too, had fallen, she found she couldn't call out to her. Instead, she lay parched and panting like a sunstruck dog, unable to move and struggling to keep her eyes open.

How sharp the risen sun,
she thought, and then there was only darkness.

W
hen Gwen opened
her eyes in the dreamscape, her son was waiting for her.

“Hello, Mother,” said Louis.

He smiled at her, and even though they weren't really together – or at least, not bodily so; she'd long since learned that the dreamscape, whatever else could be said of it, was still a real place – she felt her heart swell with pride and amazement, that she had borne and successfully raised this man as a child of two worlds.

“Dear Louis,” she said, embracing him. “Dear boy, my dearest Shavaktiin – you are, as always, a charmed nomad. What in the Many have you been doing? No, don't answer that,” she continued, forestalling his half-open mouth. “Or at least, don't answer it yet; there isn't time. I suppose you've some idea of what's going on?”

His lips twisted. “You could say that, yes. Your younglings are sitting the Trial of Queens.”

Gwen stared at him, not liking the trace of guilt she caught in his expression. A chill wind whipped through the dreamscape, reflecting her suspicions. “Tell me you didn't encourage them.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “In my defence, it was Zechalia's idea–”

Gwen groaned. “Louis!”

“She was very persuasive! “Gwen fixed him with a look so icy that the nearby dreamscape started snowing. Abashed (if not strictly repentant), Louis said, “I take it you want to contact them?”

“I don't. Yasha does.”

Louis grimaced. “You want me to try to link you all? That's… difficult. I'm not some magical phone exchange, and besides, the trial doesn't easily lend itself to outside influence. That's sort of the whole point.”

Gwen raised an eloquent eyebrow.

He sighed. “I'll try. Wait here,” he said, and stomped off into the snowfall, presumably in search of both Zech and Yasha.

She watched him go, and wondered for neither the first nor last time what sort of mother she was, and whether she'd have been a worse or better parent had she never come to Karavos; if she would always have wanted both a Jhesa and a Naku, or a relationship like the one they had, or if she'd only thought to entertain the notion once she knew it was possible. They were unanswerable questions, of course, but knowing so didn't stop her from wondering anyway.

“Snow? Tcha! You know I despise the cold.”

Gwen swore, startled almost back into wakefulness by Yasha's abrupt appearance. The matriarch had quite literally materialised out of nowhere. She stood imperiously with both hands resting atop her staff, her dream-self clad in the distinctive garb of queens.

“That boy of yours is skilled, I'll give him that,” she said begrudgingly. “He's truly committed to the Shavaktiin, then?”

“He is,” said Gwen warily.

Yasha snorted. “Of course. And what else would the son of a worldwalker be?” And then, on the brink of a full harangue, she unexpectedly pulled back. “Why did you try to hide him, Gwen? Did you think I'd try to steal him?”

“I thought,” said Gwen, with as much quiet dignity as she could muster, “that I wanted at least some part of my life to be mine alone, without reference to your judgement.”“Had you admitted your motherhood, I'd have offered you more respect.”

“Oh? And how much more would that have been, exactly?”

Gravely, Yasha said, “We may never know.”

Gwen couldn't help herself; she laughed, and the snow stopped falling – just in time for Louis to reappear, a worried look on his face.

“I've found Zechalia,” he said, “but I don't think you're going to be able to talk to her.”

“Why not? What did you do wrong?” snapped Yasha.
Fighter jets would envy your temper its turning circle
, Gwen thought, but wisely did not say.

“What I did
wrong
,” Louis retorted, “was try to use the ilumet to contact a mind that was already disembodied. If I'd known what to look for–”

Yasha let loose a string of Vekshi expletives, culminating in a furious, “Arsegullet! Show me!”

Jaw clenched, Louis led them on through the dreamscape, which currently resembled a vast, snowy plain beneath an indigo sky. Breaking the monotony, a shape emerged on the horizon, and though they were still too far away to see what it was, a terrible sense of premonition set Gwen's pulse racing. The closer they came, the more her anxiety increased. The shape resembled a figure – a small figure – lying on the earth; she wanted to be wrong, but when they finally drew to a halt, her worst suspicions were realised.

It was Zech; or at least, the dreaming representation of her. She was naked and curled in the foetal position, her mottled skin almost garish against the snow. Spiny, batlike wings protruded from her shoulder blades, the translucent webbing pulsing pink in time with her heartbeat. It was an eerie sight, but Gwen was much less concerned by the wings than with the fact that Zech's eyes were closed, her exhaled breath steaming slightly as it hit the air.