The Cedna (Tales of Blood & Light Book 2) (14 page)

W
hen
she came
, Ikselian did not speak; she only gestured for me to stand. The two men that had come with her tied my arms behind my back in a fashion I remembered from my mother’s final moments. The leather cords dug into my skin, but I did not complain. What point was there in speaking? Ikselian had no care for my words. Though my magic protected her, she offered no thanks for it. My ritual with Nautien had worked, and Ikselian knew it. Even so, she would kill me for my crimes. Hatred spiked like a shard of blackstone embedded in my soul.

I marched behind the three Kaluqs, wondering if they meant to take me back to their own lands before doing the deed. In the winter snow, it seemed unlikely.

We passed a large tent made of many skins stitched together. I recognized the designs painted on the sides in a paste made from charcoal and seal blood, and my heart lost its rhythm.

It was the nursing tent, where milk-mothers nursed the clan’s babies. My Leila might be in there! I lurched off the path and barreled through the tent flap despite my binds. Inside, milk-mothers sat in a circle, each holding a baby. Gantean mothers nursed the babies together, even those who had lost their young during birth or earlier. I was the only new mother denied the pleasure of nursing, and as I watched them, my breasts leaked the tears I refused to allow.

I counted twelve babies. Ikselian came behind me, grasping my tunic, but I would not be restrained. I studied each pair around the circle in turn, milk-mother and babe.

Doubt settled over me like a heavy blanket. I had been certain I would know my girl on sight after dreaming of her so often. Leila’s hair was black silk in my dreams, but all these babies had dark hair. They were all so similar, small, with scrunched up faces, none of them anything like the baby in my dream, who had been older and more defined in her features.

“Where is she?” I cried, ignoring the startled glances of the milk-mothers and shrugging off Ikselian’s grip once more.

“Come,” Ikselian pulled me away from the women and babies towards the tent flap. “This is no place for someone as tainted as you.”

I searched madly around the circle as Ikselian dragged at me. None of the tiny faces looked like the one in my dreams. But she had to be here. My breaths shortened into small, desperate gasps as I spun one last time. I had carried her inside my body for nine moons.
How could I fail to know her?

“No,” I whispered. Every one of these gurgling babies became a symbol of my failures. I fell to my knees. My back bent; my head dropped. They had taken her, fully, completely, finally. I could not trace a way back to her.

When the ulio cuts, it severs forever. “No!” I shrieked, throwing myself onto the ground, kicking and thrashing against Ikselian’s efforts to control me. Many of the milk-mothers hurried from the tent, their tiny charges snuggled warmly into their sealskin cloaks.

I screamed and screamed, remembering nothing until I woke again in a bleak and unfamiliar cavern, alone. I had lost her. My Leila was truly lost to me. My dream ended here.

“I failed,” I whispered as I lay listlessly on my cot. “Onatos, I lost our daughter.”

Onatos would not look gently on my failure. He loved his children above all else. I’d seen it in his eyes when he spoke of Laith and Jaasir.

How could you? How could you lose her?
His imagined voice chided me, again and again, a litany of defeat.

I had no more dreams of a small, happy family. Dirt and dust and a cold stone floor were all that remained for me.

I
kselian
, Nautien, Drasuq, and others came and went from the unfamiliar cavern, whispering concerns and doubts:
She is not well. A bad spirit taints her. Her mind wanders.
Miseliq ended up like this. Many Cednas end up like this; it is time for a new Cedna to be made.

Often they recalled my mother, wasted from her duties as the Cedna. I remembered my mother, too: her hair unkempt, her face grown pale from too little light, her eyes chilled like fish frozen for winter.

I feared I had no fight left to save myself.

I heard the unspoken thoughts:
When she is strong enough, we’ll send her searching for the name of the next Cedna.

Once they had that name, they’d be done with me. I saw my fate reflected in the dead mirrors of their dark eyes.

Only death awaited me in Gante—now that I carried no child, I had lost my only protection. How long before Ikselian came to leech me of so much blood that I became open to any suggestion? How long before I betrayed myself and sentenced some poor girl from the Ikniq clan to this miserable life? How long until I stopped eating or drinking in my despair?

Leila was gone, irretrievable. What did that leave for me? Nothing. Here in Gante the foretaste of death lurked at the edges of every moment. Why had I ever come back? My impulsive thinking at the time now seemed like sheer insanity. I’d come to do my duty to Gante, to silence its dying scream, but now I could not save myself. Gante and the goddess had won.

Why did this nameless woman inside me still resist? Why did she continue to seek a way out?

My sea magic held; I felt it in the deep place of my pelvis where Leila had ripped and torn as she left me; the island stood protected, and my daughter was safe here, though she would never know it was her own blood-mother’s magic, wrought with love and duty, that protected Gante.

I laced my heavy outer cloak over my tunic and tucked my skin breeches into my boots. I second-guessed every choice. Perhaps I ought to have stayed in Orioneport and let the Gantean beast scream. At least there, I would have had my daughter. My certain arms, rather than my precarious magic, would have shielded her. I shook my head. All that was gone, and I could not recapture it. Regret was a burden I could not carry. I hadn’t the strength.

I had nothing but my body, grown soft after childbirth. I had my strong, scarred hands and a cold, hard knot in my center, a dense, glittering diamond of hot bloodlight with edges as sharp as blackstone.

For my whole life that sharp little bloodlight stone had been forming, as if I had collected the grains of my hurt and wedged them inside me under mounting pressure, and all the grains fused under the force, a diamond in the belly of the earth.

I paced the dark cavern. They had not left me with even an ulio, no doubt fearing what I might do with it. I had only my clothing and my hands.

They would have to be enough.

Soft footfalls in the cavern roused memories of my mother’s death. I slipped into the shadows against the stone wall. Ikselian entered the cavern. She came alone, no doubt thinking me weak enough to control on her own. It would not have been so easy if she came accompanied.

My hands had ached to hurt her so many times before. Her neck was slender; my hands were broad and strong from shaping blackstone.

My thumbs knew satisfaction as they pressed the last living air from her body, as the firm barrier of her throat crumpled like rotten stone beneath my pressure.

This nameless woman did not want to die.

I
fled
into a hostile night with a biting wind. My sealskins felt porous. My legs trembled, and they soon tired of slogging through the ankle-deep snow. I tried to stick to the path that someone else had cleared, but eventually I had to step out on my own.

I should have felt guilt or remorse. I should have at least regretted the waste of Ikselian’s death—it could have been used to strengthen the Hinge. But my blood thrummed only with excitement, and the ocean throbbed behind the black door in my mind. I felt more awake than I ever had.

I stumbled to the water’s edge. The Gantean sea stretched before me, and the spruce needle moon cut a sliver of light across the blank expanse. The Shringars kept a straggling fleet of boats moored in this inlet, mostly single-person vessels with oars.

Since the night when I had followed my mother’s terror down to the Kaluq strand, I had avoided coming too close to the water. But I had extinguished the binds of the past along with Ikselian’s breath. I waded into the surf and freed a skin boat from its moorings.

I was unfettered.

A
thin
, dark line of smoothed stones marked where the sea’s mouth had melted the snow. I slipped into the boat, pulling the skin apron over my lap. A hunt-father would have a jacket that laced into the apron to protect him from water if he rolled the vessel, but I had none, so I would have to stay upright.

If it had been anyone but me, making this journey in late winter would have been suicide. But I reached down through the Layers, into my power, to touch the waters and speed my passage.

I barely recalled the journey, though it should have been celebrated as an epic, like those the first Ganteans made from the east, those brave people who had rowed into the unknown and made their homes upon their boats, trusting the sea would take them to a welcoming place. I, too, trusted that I headed for a life better than what I left behind. It could hardly be worse.

The wind howled and the water lashed at my vessel, but I kept moving, drawn across the sea as though by some unseen force. My chest ached, and a magical friction rubbed there. Once again, I wondered if my slicing of the ung-aneraq that had bound me to Onatos had failed. I could not see Yaqi, but I almost believed a rope of his pale bloodlight drew me south, pulling me as the fisher-father reels in his catch.

I made land in three days. My head ached with deprivation, but a Gantean body does not falter under harsh conditions. I waded to the Lethemian shore and dragged my boat onto a wide bar of sand punctuating a wall of jagged cliffs. No snow had fallen here. I walked along the beach, but soon the sand bar shrank into nothing. The only way off the beach was to climb.

I found the route, a set of small steps cut into the cliffs. Finally I rested upon a barren cliff top, where I sifted dry soil through my hands. The meager grass that anchored the dirt appeared parched and lifeless. The only thriving thing in sight was an exotic plant that sprawled over the cliff’s edge. When I broke off one of the plant’s firm spikes, liquid spilled out. I couldn’t resist bringing it to my mouth.

Oh, the pleasure of that moisture! Even the succulent snap as I broke off more spears thrilled me; the wet sound soothed.

I turned south and walked, sucking a spear, my footsteps making dry pats on the earth.

The sun rose twice, and still I had found neither civilization nor further sustenance. Anger bubbled hot in my stomach. I had never asked for any of this. The only life I had ever wanted was the one from my dream: my child’s sweet embrace, my lover’s smile. What had I gotten instead?
Blood, duty, guilt, heartbreak.

I broke off another spear from the plant. Though it no longer satisfied, it provided enough moisture and sugar to keep me moving.

When my legs would go no farther, I settled beside a patch of the plant and slept. I dreamed my mother’s dreams, as though somehow her love for me mirrored the ache of my love for lost Leila. As though a bloodcord still bound the three of us, she flowed into me.

What I loved about Onatos—the taste of his skin, the silken texture of his hair, the sayantaq gentleness of his touch—those were the same qualities that had drawn my mother to Ronin Entila. That first day, when she had walked down the ice to him, she had loved the soft touch of his hand, loved his tall, slender form, so different from all the other men she knew. She had laughed at him as he slipped along the ice in boots with no traction like a drunkard.

I see them, holding hands, sliding across the ice towards Mother’s tapiat house in Nitaaraq.

Esteriaq pulls my mother aside, hissing, “What do you mean to do with the sayantaq?”

Ronin Entila stands, glittering in his southern finery, gazing around the Gantean settlement, taking note of every small thing—the carved birch totem in the shape of flames, the tents, the trails, the many quiet faces peeking from tapiat doors. He has directed his men to stay back beyond the boundary of the camp.

“I will let him stay in my house,” my mother tells a frowning Esteriaq.

“He is sayantaq,” Esteriaq cries. “The Elders—”

“Will never know about it unless you tell them,” my mother snaps. “I am the Cedna. I can offer him our hospitality if I wish. I will speak with him and discover why he has come. I will allow him to rest in the comfort of my home, and then he will be grateful.”

“Be careful,” Esteriaq warns. “You cannot trust a southerner.”

My mother opens the door to her tapiat and gestures Ronin Entila inside. He follows her, moving with the typical grace of a southern man.

My mother pauses, searching in her Cedna’s knowledge for southern words.

“I—I am Cedna. I am Cedna of my people,” she says haltingly.

Ronin beams. “You speak Lethemian! Excellent! I am Lord Ronin of House Entila.”

My mother takes down a flask of elderberry wine from her shelf. She hands it to him with a smile, and then bends to light the seal oil lamp in the center of the tapiat, gesturing to a pile of sealskins.

“Sit here.” Her accent almost obscures the words. “Why—come you Nitaaraq?” She does not have the easy facility I have in accessing the southern tongue in the Cedna’s memory.

Ronin settles into the furs, gazing around the underground room. It must seem terribly rustic to someone from Lethemia. “Nitaaraq?” His green eyes glow.

“Nitaaraq.” Mother waves to encompass the tapiat and everything beyond it. “Our place.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure I understand you.” He sips from the flask and nearly gags.

Mother laughs, her auburn braids gleaming in the firelight. “Strong wine.”

Ronin gazes at the flask, his mouth curling in distaste. “Amatos.”

Mother continues to laugh. “I feed you,” she says, turning to her shelf and bringing down a precious store of fermented shark meat. “Try.”

Ronin stares at the hunk of pungent-smelling flesh. He chuckles. “I came seeking adventure,” he says, more to himself than to Mother. “I cannot be squeamish now.” He selects a cube and chews, his face paling with obvious dismay.

“No?” Mother says. She finds seal jerky instead. “Try.”

And so it goes, Mother offering every flavor available in the Gantean lexicon, Ronin able to stomach only one bite.

Finally he holds up his hands. “I’m sorry, miss. I can bear no more. You have run me through your gauntlet. Cease, I beg you. No more.”

“Not hungry?” Mother says, shrugging. “You drink then.” She points at the flask, and Ronin drinks deeply, washing away the bizarre flavors inflicted upon his refined tongue.

Mother leans forward, watching through narrowed taaqsiraq eyes as Ronin drains the flask and sways. “You like wine. You like strong drink.” She offers her own bone flask from her belt—it contains tunuksaki, a mushroom tea that inebriates faster than alcohol.

He drains that one, too, murmuring something about adventure in a slurry tone. He drops the flask to the dirt floor. “By the gods, this place is freezing.”

The sun has gone down outside. Mother battens down the crack around the door of her tapiat house. Though it is early spring, the cold still penetrates. She tucks another set of skins around Ronin. “Better?” she asks. She lies down beside him to help keep him warm.

He does not understand her gesture of comfort. Lascivious thoughts change his face. His eyes grow more alert. He grabs my mother’s shoulder and pulls her fully against his body.

She does not mind. She likes to feel his long body pressed against her.

I writhed where I slept, years distant, on an uncomfortable Lethemian cliff, tortured by the memory of a different body tangled with mine.

Ronin slips his cold hands beneath Mother’s tunic. She lets him. He fondles her breasts. She giggles.

“Warmer now, no?” She knows he goes too far. But within my mother, there lives a rebel—it must be so for every Cedna. We Cednas know so few pleasures. She wants something all her own, a private love, unchecked by duty. Ronin Entila offers her respite from the great burden of belonging to others. And his soft skin pleases her.

“Warmer,” he grunts, his voice thickened by the strong drinks.

He smells of the spices of the south. The fabric my mother pushes from his chest slips beneath her hands, as soft as spring sunlight. She’s never felt a substance so sleek.

“What is? What is?” she wonders aloud, pinching the silk.

Ronin does not answer. He pulls down her tunic and exposes her upper body. He hauls the sealskin over both their heads and sets his mouth to her breasts.

She gasps. She has not been mated yet, and even if she had been, Ganteans do not play games of pleasure. She barely understands what he does to her in her innocence of sayantaq ways.

Ronin, nearly obliterated by drink and desire, does not hesitate. He shoves all the thick skins away to bring the natural silk of her body against his skin. No longer fretting about the chill, he pushes inside her.

Rapid breaths, grunts, whimpers. My dream twists. No longer do I feel my mother’s sensations. Now I am with Onatos, immersed in pleasure. He touches me expertly; he brings me to the brink of ecstasy.

I thrashed. I woke for a delirious moment, the spears of the cliff plant stabbing my back. Only half conscious, I shifted and fell back to troubled sleep.

Ronin, sober and angry, sits up and throws Mother’s arms from his body. “What have you done to me, you witch?” he says, peering down at his bare body, his face flushed, his male part obviously put to recent use. He grimaces. “Gods.”

Mother shakes her head and covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with fear. “You my mate now,” she whispers. “They see. They see breath-blood-string. They see ... ung-aneraq.” She has no single southern word for the bloodlight bind that forms between mates, but she points from her chest to his. “You stay. You must meet the Elders. They will not like.”

“What are you talking about, woman!” Ronin leaps to his feet and searches through the skins, pulling out his clothing.

When dressed again in all the trappings of a sayantaq lord, he glares down at my mother. “This never happened,” he says. “This never happened. Now, take me back to my men.”

Reluctantly, Mother dresses and leads Ronin back to the edge of the Ikniq camp. She puts a hand on his arm. “Do not go. Please, they will not like. You must come to Kaluq with me. You my mate now. They will not like.”

He shakes off her arm with a look of distaste. “I’m married. I have children. I’m the Lord of House Entila. Do not touch me so boldly. You drugged me, you witch.”

My mother snaps to her full height, scowling. “I am Cedna,” she cries. “You my mate now. Only one, only one mate, whole life.” She holds up one finger in emphasis.

Ronin grabs her tunic and shakes her. “Where are my men?”

“I not know. They went back ship?”

“Godsdammit.” Ronin releases her and scowls, searching the clearing. “I suppose I can only hope they did, else they would have frozen.”

He peers into the surrounding birch trees, squinting. “What in the name of Amatos—” He plunges into the trees, pushing aside branches that crackle and break. My mother follows with silent steps.

“What have you done?” Ronin roars. He races forward to kneel over a body in southern garb. “Witch! What have you done to my men?”

Mother catches her breath. Again, she covers her mouth. She stares at the bodies amidst the trees. Seven of them, arranged in a cross shape. A circle of stones surrounds them. Dark blood stains the stones and snow.

“What is the meaning of this?” shouts Ronin. He rises and unsheathes a sword from the scabbard at his waist. He points the blade at my mother, who stands quivering in shock.

They killed his men. They killed his men.
Mother’s thoughts cannot move past this fact. The bodies have been arranged in a specific emblem of ritual—the leaders of the Ikniq clan made an offering of the southern men to feed the Hinge. They cut their throats with ulios and drained their blood over the stones and earth to satisfy the Hinge. No doubt they thought the ritual most fitting, as southerners never paid the price for their magic.

“Was your plan to kill me, too, bitch?” Ronin angles his sword at my mother. “Was it?”

She retreats. “I not know! I not know!”

Ronin snorts.

Mother stands shaking before him. She fumbles at her belt for her ulio. She knows she must cut the bloodlight bind that connects them before anyone from the clan sees it. They will not forgive her indiscretion. Her blackstone blade flickers in the morning sunlight.

Ronin’s eyes widen as he sees it. He swipes his sword.

Mother drops to the snow. Her hands fly to the gash across her left cheek. Her blood spatters the snowy ground.

A thick, deep throb of power surges through the Gantean landscape in answer to the Cedna’s blood. Ronin draws back his blade to strike her again. The ground heaves, knocking Ronin to his knees as Mother regains her feet. Ronin rolls to his back and thrusts at her. She steps beyond his reach.

Ronin rolls upright and advances.

Mother screams. His blade cuts through her skins and slashes her upper arm. The ground pitches again.

“Fucking hells!” cries Ronin as he stumbles backwards.

Mother cowers against a slender birch trunk. The ground rumbles and ripples.

Ronin does not give up. He finds his footing and lunges again.

“Stop!” she cries. She holds her ulio before her in defense. “You stop!”

“Like hell I will,” Ronin says as the ground shudders into stillness.

“Please, we—”

“They told me you savages were crazed,” says Ronin. “But I didn’t believe them until now.” He slashes again. She ducks behind the tree, and his blade lodges in the trunk.

He yanks it out, sending birch splinters spraying. He lifts the blade again, and time slows.