Sword and Verse (22 page)

With Sotia gone, the other gods only occasionally read the scrolls of the world in their great library, for the doings of mortals interested them little. However, they assured one another that sometime—when they got around to it—they would read out the scrolls and call each being to account for its deeds and misdeeds.

THE REST OF
the day was miserable. Once the promised meal and bath were done—the servants were all polite to me, but none would quite meet my eyes—I was alone. Mati had left with Laiyonea to arrange a search party for Soraya.

I hadn't known what to say to Mati. What
can
you say when you've destroyed someone's life, but that someone won't hold you accountable for it?

Laiyonea had turned away as if she couldn't bear the sight of me. Less than a Shining ago, her quiet nod of approval would have been enough to lighten my heart. Now I would never see it again.

I had plenty of time alone with my guilt. I spent the afternoon looking out the window to where the white-capped waves faded into a green roiling line. I traced the symbol on the stone hanging around my neck and wondered bleakly what my father would think of what I'd done. I believed that my parents would have
loved Mati, even if he was Qilarite. They would have seen beyond olive skin and black hair to the good man he was. So why couldn't people like Jonis see that?

Ah, but that question was far too easy to answer: because Qilarites rarely saw past pale skin and curly hair. Even if Mati's proposed changes had gotten through the council, would Jonis and the others trust that Mati was trying to do good?

I left the window and cast around for something to do. If only I had some quills to sharpen—but then, Laiyonea probably would think me unfit for that task now. I wasn't a Tutor anymore, after all. Even the white and green gown the servant had handed me after my bath, previously one of my favorites, seemed to fit all wrong, as if it knew I was no longer the same girl who'd worn it before.

Restlessly I wandered into an alcove off the main room and found a desk stocked with writing materials. Carefully, to keep my dress from pulling at my still-tender back, I sat and selected a sheet of paper. I dipped a quill into the ink and held it suspended over the page.

My heart-verse was gone, but surely the symbols were still there in my mind, after years spent staring at them. Weren't they?

The first symbol, at least, I knew. I drew my stone necklace out and copied its symbol onto the paper, my hand shaking. The result would have made Laiyonea order me to write it again fifty times, but I ignored the pang that thought gave me and moved on. The second symbol had a vertical line on the left, didn't it? And then a large curve? But did the curve touch the line, or was there a gap?
Keep going,
I told myself. The next symbol I was fairly
sure of: a series of arches stacked atop one another. Then another vertical line, with a curve facing away from it . . . and there had been curving lines over some of the symbols, hadn't there? Experimentally I drew a few, but none of it looked right.

A hollow feeling in my chest, I wiped the quill on the blotter, then closed the bottle and crumpled the paper in my fist. I looked down at my hand, reminded of . . . but the memory fled as quickly as it came.

I noticed a small pile of scrolls at the edge of the desk. The paper was not the thick writing stock of the king, but a thinner, yellowish kind.

I hesitated, but curiosity overwhelmed me. Slowly I unrolled one scroll and laid it flat, dropping weightstones at the corners. The writing was small and even, with a measured swoop that gave the sense of a proud, meticulous writer. I leaned forward and read.

            
It is not a question of the gain to this or any other empire, but of the acceptable cost of such gain. It is time to examine frankly the relationship of master to slave, slave to master, and to recognize that the subjugation of one does damage to both. The very conception that another is one's property destroys the inherent humanity in the master, as well as the slave. Surely each of us can think of a man (or woman, for the damaging effects are not limited) who, though otherwise compassionate, generous, and honest with his own kind, acts as a merciless tyrant to his slaves. This happens because his heart
recognizes that the slave breathes, bleeds, eats, loves, lives—just as he does. He resorts to cruelty to reassure himself that the slave is the other.

“Raisa?” Mati's voice around the corner was sharp, worried.

I started. I'd been so absorbed in the scroll that I hadn't heard the door. Sweeping the weightstones away, I let the scroll reroll itself as I leaped up from the chair, gasping at the lance of pain in my back. “I'm here,” I said breathlessly.

Mati came around the corner. I realized, too late, that the scroll was a foot to the left of where it ought to have been, and my crumpled paper still lay in plain sight. I flushed.

The disappointment on Mati's face was an all-too-familiar sight of late. “You don't have to snoop around. If you'd asked I would've let you read anything there.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered, feeling ashamed—and stupid—at both prying and trying to hide it. I cleared my throat. “I was . . . trying to rewrite my heart-verse, but . . .” I scooped up my crumpled page and turned to take it to the firepit.

Mati tugged the paper out of my grip, then smoothed it out on the desk and looked over my badly written symbols. “Is it so different from our writing?”

Our
writing. He was including me in that. I wasn't sure how that made me feel. “The Arnath symbols stand for sounds, not words. Like this first one—that means
sa
, like in my name.” I held out my necklace. “Remember this?”

He looked from the page to the stone. “But it's just a coincidence,” he said.

“I suppose,” I answered, looking down at the stone.

“Why didn't you tell—” Mati broke off, then shook his head and handed me the paper, like he didn't want to know any more about my petty deceptions.

“Mati . . . I didn't—”

But he only scooped up the scroll and said lightly, “So what were you reading?” He unrolled it, and made a noncommittal sound as he skimmed it.

“What is it?” I asked.

Mati rerolled the scroll and set it on the stack. “That,” he said, “was written by a Scholar named Taro Elis fifty years ago, an open letter to the king—my grandfather—and the Scholars Council. He was executed not long after.” He paused. “All copies of that letter were supposed to have been burned. I found it in my father's papers after he died. It gave me a bit of hope that he wasn't as bad as I thought.”

“Oh.” I took a tentative step toward him. “Any . . . news of Soraya?”

He sighed. “Nothing. We've got guards searching the city, and Gamo's got his own men crawling all over the Valley of Qora, but no sign of her or her attackers.”

“Gamo has enough men to search the valley?”

Mati smiled humorlessly. “Caught that, did you? Seems Gamo has been amassing quite an army at Pira. That he didn't hesitate to deploy it for the search says that either he'd do anything to find his daughter, or he's so certain that Rale's coup will succeed that it doesn't matter if he reveals it now. Maybe both. All sorts of accusations have been thrown about in council,
veiled in polite barbs, of course. It's exhausting.”

“But most of them are still loyal, yes?”

Mati laughed softly, then sat down and removed his boots before answering. “That is the question, I'm afraid. I'm only sure of a few. Obal Tishe, Priasi Jin—”

“I always liked him,” I said.

Mati nodded. “He's a good man. And influential.” He paused, giving me that assessing look again, and then went on. “Some of the others who're wavering would support me, I think, if he comes out and does so. He's hedging in public, to keep Rale off him, but he's privately offered his support. He understands what Rale is, but most of the others don't. They see Emtiria's victory at Asuniaka and the depleted treasury as signs that Qilara is weak, and the success of the Resistance supports that. Rale blaming the Arnathim for everything makes sense to them.” He looked down, focusing on removing his stockings. He didn't say—didn't have to—that the crown's inability to control a certain wayward former Tutor fueled the councilors' doubts.

I sat on the bed beside him. What could I say? That I was sorry? It wouldn't make any difference. I had to
do
something to help Mati, only I had no idea what.

“If they found out how I helped the Resistance and how you protected me, it would make things even worse,” I said, my voice trembling.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “But they won't find out. Rale says he's investigating, but he can't do anything without proof. Besides, it might backfire on him. The bolder he gets, the more disgusted some of them become.”

I buried my face in my hands. “I can't stay here, Mati. Every minute I'm here puts you in more danger.”

“You won't be safe anywhere else.”

“After what I've done, you should be angry enough to . . .” I took a deep breath. “Why are you still protecting me?”

Mati was silent for so long that I was sure he was asking himself the same question. “I keep thinking about what you said, that night after the banquet,” he said at last. “About how maybe the Resistance was doing what they thought they had to. And I think—maybe you weren't only talking about them.” He looked up at me, and I saw in his eyes all the pain he'd been hiding behind his detached manner for the last few days. “But you never had to lie to me.”

I reached out and took his hand. “I know that now,” I whispered. “Let's . . . let's make a promise, that from now on, we'll always tell each other the truth, no matter what. I can't bear . . .”

Mati didn't answer for a long moment—he was thinking, no doubt, of all the ways my untruths outweighed his. But then his other hand covered mine. “Agreed,” he said hoarsely.

Then, as if making a decision, he pulled me down on the bed next to him, carefully avoiding touching my sore back. He kissed my cheeks, my forehead, my nose, and then sighed and leaned back on the pillow, his eyes drifting shut.

“I will love you,” I told him, my throat catching, “until the gods read out the scrolls.”

Mati smiled without opening his eyes. “They do their reading at third bell while we're at luncheon, remember?”

It was the joke he'd made when we'd first gone into the Library
of the Gods, and I'd worried about being found out. Those fears seemed naive now, after all that had happened.

And I noted that he'd made a joke instead of saying that he loved me too. So even if he was softening, I wasn't completely forgiven.

“Forever, then,” I whispered. I stroked his hair, and his breathing grew deep and even. I let my thoughts drift until I fell asleep beside him.

Mati jumped up, waking me before the pounding on the door even registered. In the time it took me to lurch to my feet, gasping at the stiffness in my back, disoriented by the evening shadows in the room, Mati had already gone to the door, cracked it, spoken to someone in a low, urgent voice, and returned. He pulled me over to the mirrored wardrobe door.

“Wait in the Library,” he whispered. “Stay out of the passage.”

My heart thundered in my ears. “What's happening?”

Mati pushed me into the wardrobe. “Just go!” He shut the door. I groped for the secret passage in the darkness. I felt my way down the dim staircase to the panel and stepped into the Library.

Poking my head back into the passage, I strained to make out the voices upstairs. One was louder, speaking often, and I could hear Mati answering in a softer tone. Then thumping, and booted feet walking around—lots of those.

A door opened—the wardrobe?—and the voices grew louder. Fearfully I swung the panel shut and pressed my ear against it, but heard nothing. I waited for what seemed hours, the only sound
the insistent thrumming of my heart.

At last, the panel opened, nearly knocking me over, and Mati entered the Library. He crossed to the firepit and struck the surface, igniting a flame that did little to chase away the evening gloom.

“Rale's making his move,” he said, turning to face me. “He brought guards for you—to complete the sentence, he said.”

“But really to use me to make you cooperate.”

He seemed surprised that I had figured this out. “Yes,” he said wearily. “He's claiming that the High Priest of Aqil holds authority over the Tutors.”

I grimaced, imagining Laiyonea's face when she heard that. Then it hit me that Laiyonea would probably approve of whatever punishment Rale had in mind for me, and I had to blink back tears.

“I thought his antics were disgusting the council,” Mati went on, “but if he's pulling this now, it means he thinks he's got enough power to succeed. I wonder how much Gamo gold has gone to buy the council's support. I can't fight that, and he knows it.” He sank down onto a bench. “The next time Rale comes with guards, it'll be for me.”

“Mati, no! What about your supporters? Some of the guards are loyal, aren't they? And Tishe, and Jin . . .”

Mati laughed. “Not enough. Don't you see? Rale's been planning this for a long time. I've played right into his plans, because I was stupid and blind. I don't have allies. He does.”

My mind whirled. “But can't you get allies? You're the king, Mati!”

Mati shook his head. “I can't hire mercenaries—no money. I'm sure Emtiria would be happy to come in and take over the whole country, but that wouldn't be any better than Rale. And Galasi's treasury is even worse off than ours.” He rubbed at his temples. “I don't have anything to offer potential allies except royal ancestry and . . . gratitude.”