An Accident of Stars Page 10

“Go on,” said Yasha, as though encouraging a bright pupil who was taking an unexpectedly long time to reach an obvious conclusion.

  Gwen stared at her with flat eyes. “You want Amenet to claim the Kenan throne with the help of a Vekshi army?”

  “What else is there to do?” Yasha shrugged. “So long as Kadeja is Vex’Mara, the Council of Queens would be fools to sleep easy. Whatever omen she sought yesterday, I guarantee it doesn’t augur well for them.”

  “Omen?” Matu frowned. “What omen?”

  Of course he had no idea who Saffron was, what had happened to her, or why she was even here. Doubtless, he’d just thought her another Vekshi expatriate newly come to the compound.

  “It’s a long story,” Gwen said, getting in ahead of Pix. “One you can hear about later.”

  “Quite.” Yasha favoured her with a rare, approving nod. “Until then, we should make plans for our departure.”

  “What departure?” Saffron looked at Gwen. “I don’t understand. Did I miss something?”

  Gwen sighed angrily, running a hand over her head. Once Yasha made up her mind, there was no changing it, and yet she mistrusted this turn of events. “We’re going to Veksh, girl. First to the border and Amenet, and then to the Council of Queens.”

  “To raise an army,” said Yasha. “And then to orchestrate a coup.”

  “A coup?” The bitter laugh broke free before Gwen could stop it. “Oh, you’d just love that, wouldn’t you? A chance for Veksh to choose who rules her neighbour.”

  Yasha’s glare was cold and hard. “And that would be less hypocritical, I suppose, than you choosing who rules in a world that isn’t yours?”

  The rebuke stung, but only because there was some truth to it. “I don’t pretend to speak for my world,” said Gwen, with as much dignity as she could muster, “nor for any country in it.”

  “And I do?” Yasha’s yellow eyes gleamed dangerously. “I live in exile, Gwen Vere. My words have no more sway with the Council of Queens than yours would; less, perhaps, since I have enemies there, and you do not. Kena is my punishment. But perhaps you’re right; perhaps I do have aspirations beyond mere penitence. Is that so wrong?” She pushed herself to her feet. “You, at least, may run home when danger threatens. I cannot.”

  It was a low blow, and Yasha knew it, especially as she’d been the one to suggest Gwen’s most recent departure. That did not, however, keep her from talking into Gwen’s stunned silence.

  “Leoden will kill this realm. You know it. I know it. The Vex dreams of a new empire, while his Vex’Mara dreams of hybrid gods and heresy with which to rule it. They are scheming, they are traitorous, and they are in power because neither of you–” and here she whipped her head to glare momentarily at Pix, “–had sense enough to see through them. Well, as you say, it’s a mess that needs fixing. It’s a mess you helped to make. But the fixing will be dirty; it will be underhand and bloody, not like those oh-so-glorious days at court when all you did was talk and smile and maybe, if you could spare a moment, think. “You, worldwalker, you only pretend to live here. With your mouth you say, Karavos is the city of my heart, but in your head, you remain an alien creature; you wish to love our world, but only on your terms. Hah! Ashasa forbid you should feel the blood on your hands, or suffer the weight of knowing it won’t scrub off. And do you know what? I don’t care thorns or godshit for your problems, the big ugly why that drives you. But at my table, in my house, if you wish to join our treason, then you will have the simple godslapped courtesy to call it by its name. If I call for a coup, Gwen Vere–” and here Yasha raised her staff, prodding it into the soft flesh of Gwen’s throat, “–you do not contradict me.” The whole room held its breath – all except Gwen, who let hers out, slow and steady.

  “Kena is your punishment,” she said, meeting Yasha’s tawny stare. She held her ground, throat pointedly bumping the staff before she pushed it away. “Your words, Yasha. Not mine. You say this isn’t my world, that I only pretend to live here – but what are you doing? What is this compound, this piece of Veksh-yet-not that you’ve built, but a refusal to adapt? The difference between us isn’t that I love this place on my terms, where you do not; it’s that I choose to stay.” I married here. I raised a son, and kept him from your sight. “But you, Yasha – we both know you’d fly to Veksh in a heartbeat if your exile lifted. You didn’t choose this, now or then; you’re relegated. You want me to call this a coup, then fine. I’ll call it a fucking coup.” She dropped the English swearword with relish, drawing strength from Yasha’s scowl. “But don’t you point that staff at me like your meddling belongs on a pedestal; as though you share no ownership of this–” she waved an angry hand, unable to find a suitable Kenan invective, and reverted to English again, “–clusterfuck and its consequences. Are we agreed?” A muscle worked in Yasha’s jaw. Her answer, when it came, was bitten off. “Agreed.” Gwen smiled, sharp as flint. “A coup it is, then.”

  “Come on, Safi. Let’s leave them to it.”

  Nodding queasily, Saffron let Zech lead her out of the kitchen. She’d missed some of Gwen and Yasha’s argument, her fledgling comprehension struggling to keep pace with their ire, but what she did understand had rattled her badly. The leashed violence of the exchange had been just as upsetting as the content; with or without the addition of weapons, she wasn’t used to shouting adults getting in each other’s faces. Her missing fingers throbbed, a phantom ache that left her nauseous.

  “Wait.”

  Saffron froze, though Zech did not. The deep, rough voice belonged to Matu, who’d evidently chosen to leave then as well. He looked dead on his feet, but forestalled Zech’s clear desire to help with a weary shake of his head. “No, no. I can manage.”

  He shadowed them through the hall, a looming, long-haired presence. Saffron tried not to look at him; it would’ve felt rude, somehow, though she wasn’t sure why.

  As they turned a corner, Matu overtook them, moving ahead to an unknown door.“Zech,” he said, not looking at her, “would you do me a favour?”

  “Of course.”

  “Find Jeiden and make up, will you? No doubt Yasha will insist that you both come north, and it would be easier all round if you make peace before then.”

  Zech made an exasperated sound. “Is it my fault I’m a better student than he is?”

  “No, but you rile him up on purpose, and that I can and will blame you for.”

  Zech flushed at the rebuke. “Yes, Matu.”

  “Good. Now leave me be. I need rest.”

  And with that, he slipped through the door and left them.

  Zech sighed, tugging again on Saffron’s hand. “Come on, then. You can be my witness.”

  Saffron made it three more steps before stopping dead. She yanked her hand away from Zech’s, her pulse so suddenly thunderous, it was almost audible. Zech stared at her, shocked and worried.

  “Safi? What is it?”

  Saffron didn’t answer. She was shaking, not with fear, but anger. She stared at her mutilated hand and fought an irrational urge to smash it against the wall.

  “Fuck everything,” she said, almost conversationally. She looked at Zech, who was staring at her, and said it again. “Fuck absolutely everything.”

  And then she turned and strode away, ignoring Zech’s calls to come back. Her bare feet thumped against the floor, propelling her through halls and rooms until, with a sudden flash of light, she broke out into the courtyard.

  The sun was warm on her skin, and Saffron was angry. She had so much to be angry about, she couldn’t even articulate it, and now it had taken her over. At home, she spent an inordinate amount of time and energy pretending she was fine, crying quietly if she was upset because she’d get in trouble if she yelled, not exploding at Jared Blake so she didn’t get detention, tamping down her distress and rage until they festered like ulcers, and now it had all broken open, because there was magic and war and other worlds and she’d lost her fucking fingers, and no amount of soothing words was goi
ng to make it better.

  Saffron clenched her fists and screamed, a loud, raw noise that ripped itself out of her throat like a rupture, startling a flock of strange birds from the wall. Except for when her fingers were cut, she hadn’t screamed since she was a kid, and the volume of her newly-healed voice was shocking. She fell silent, feeling the vibrations fade in her throat, trembling all over. She screamed again. It wasn’t as loud the second time, and it hurt more, enough that tears pricked her eyes. Dimly, she was aware of Zech watching worriedly from the doorway, but just at that moment, she didn’t care.

  Jaw set, she headed for the double gates that led out into Karavos. They were massive and metal-banded, made of weathered wood, held shut by a solid crossbar that was almost as tall as Saffron. Opening them would take time and strength, or – more plausibly – the help of another person. Saffron had none of those things, and so she did the best she could, setting her shoulder and palms to the underside of the bar and trying to shove it upwards. It budged only slightly. She swore and tried harder, pain spiking through her neck and sides. The bar raised three full centimetres before her strength gave out; she let go, and it dropped back with a soft, disappointing thud. She hadn’t really expected success – and even if she’d managed it, she didn’t have anywhere else to go – but it was still frustrating enough that she stepped back and whacked her fist on the wall.

  “Let me out!” she yelled. Her voice was hoarse with unshed tears. “I have to go! I have to get home! I have to get back to… to…”

  Back to what? a snide voice whispered. Back to Jared Blake and the dozen other boys who aren’t quite as bad, but who still think it’s OK to snap your bra and text you dick pics and call you a frigid slut if you don’t laugh? Back to Mrs Rutherford’s lesson plans and condescending vice principals and sleeping three hours a night because the strain of trying to act like there’s nothing wrong is giving you insomnia? Back to taking twenty minutes for the class to read aloud something you could’ve read yourself in three, and knowing your grades will ultimately matter more than whatever you had to memorise to get them?

  She dropped her hand and shut her eyes. Back to mum and dad and Ruby. Back to my friends, to the people who love me.

  Back to everyone who hasn’t seen I’m screaming.

  “Safi?”

  She turned. Zech stood a few metres away, her features tight with concern.

  Saffron bowed her head, the anger gone as quickly as it had come. I don’t have a choice. Not there, not here. No good choices, anyway.

  “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I just… needed some air, that’s all.”

  Courteously, Zech pretended this to be true. “That’s understandable. It gets pretty stuffy inside.” She licked her lips, not quite meeting Saffron’s gaze. “Actually, I was just thinking – I know Matu said I should talk to Jeiden, but it’s not like he’s going anywhere, and you haven’t met Trishka yet. And I thought it might be a good idea. But if you want to do it, we should go there now, before she goes to sleep.”

  “Right,” said Saffron. “Right.” Shyly, Zech held out a hand. Saffron took it, exhaling as Zech led her back inside. Trishka, she recalled, was Gwen’s friend, the woman who made the portals – which meant she was indirectly responsible for Saffron being in Kena. She shied away from the thought, not liking the implications. Seeking distraction, she glanced at Zech and blurted out the first question that came to mind.

  “Why isn’t your head shaved?”

  “What? Oh!” Zech gave a relieved laugh, running a hand through her short grey hair. “Only grown women cut their hair to honour Ashasa, and I haven’t had my first bleeding or turned sixteen yet. Whichever one happens first, that’s when you start.”

  “Oh,” said Saffron. “That makes sense, I guess.” She opened her mouth to ask the other obvious question, but paused, uncertain if it was something she ought to mention at all, or how to do so politely if it was. Zech, however, was clearly well-versed in that particular brand of awkwardness, and took pity on her.

  “My skin isn’t common, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She shrugged, indicating her calico markings – here white, here black, there brown, there gold – with an unconcerned flick of her fingers. “My hair went grey when I was about three, I think. It was brown before. Who knows? Maybe it’ll change back one day. But I was born mottled.”

  Saffron digested this. “So neither of your parents look like you?”

  Zech shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose, though not very likely. I don’t know who my father is – which isn’t uncommon, in Veksh – but my mother gave me away as a baby, which is.”

  Saffron blinked in surprise. “She gave you away?”

  For the first time, Zech looked discomfited. “In Veksh, to have my skin, it’s called being shasuyakesani – ‘one on whom the sun smiles and frowns’. It means I could be good luck or bad luck, depending on whether Ashasa has marked me as servant or traitor, but not even the temples can agree on which it is, so instead they say it varies from person to person. Either way, it’s still meant to make me special, but my mother must’ve thought I was bad luck, after all.”

  “Oh,” said Saffron. Her cheeks burned with mortified sympathy. “Zech, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise–”

  “Why would you?” She shrugged. “Don’t feel too sorry for me. I like my life. That doesn’t mean I can’t wonder how it might’ve turned out otherwise.”

  A brief silence fell. They turned a corner, entering a part of the compound Saffron didn’t recognise.

  “Matu isn’t usually like that,” Zech said, suddenly. She came to a halt, though slowly enough to suggest that it wasn’t a conscious decision. Saffron blinked, stopping beside her. “Like what?”

  “Drunk. Sad. Falling off his horse.” She looked at Saffron sidelong. “It’s because Amenet is still alive. He loved her, you see, back before all this happened, but he could never join with her in the mahu’kedet – Pix was a brilliant courtier, but Matu was useless at it, and even though Amenet loved him too, she was practical enough to see it wouldn’t work, even if they belonged to the same rank, which they didn’t. Don’t.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “If she were Vexa, though, she could just make him her Vexa’Halat, and then it wouldn’t matter.”

  As English lacked an equivalent concept, Saffron ventured her own translation, switching languages in the process. “The, um… vitality husband?”

  Zech giggled. “Vitality husband? No! It makes him the pretty one, that’s all. I mean, it’s meant to be strength, you know, liveliness, someone who’s good breeding stock, but really it just means beautiful. Nobody expects a halat partner to do anything but look nice, so they can be as tactless and dull or lowborn and wild as they please, and nobody cares. Or maybe they do care a bit, but they don’t expect better.”

  “Like arm candy?”

  “I have no idea what that means.” Zech looked at her suspiciously. “Is this like those rock stars you were talking about before?”

  Despite herself, Saffron managed a smile. “Sort of.”

  Zech snorted. “Your language is ridiculous.”

  “I could say the same to you.” And then, in Kenan, because she was curious and lacking an answer, “So, how does the royal mahu’kedet actually work? Gwen said it was a hierarchy with different roles, but she didn’t say what they were.”

  “Oh! Well, all right.” Zech looked oddly pleased by the question. “The Vex, or the Vexa, rules absolutely. Their primary consort is the Cuivexa or the Cuivex, and while they’re fairly powerful, they can still be overruled. Usually, it’s a practical match: someone with good connections, but who’ll make a good administrator. Does that make sense?”

  “So far, yes.”

  “Good. So, say we’ve got a Vex and Cuivexa, just like we do now. They’re the main pair of the mahu’kedet, and each of them is expected to pick another three partners, bound to them in particular. But it’s not like a regular Kenan marriage, where everyone has to agree to it
and everyone does what they’re best at – it’s more like special government posts that decide who you get to sleep with. And each partner, on each side, is meant to represent one of three qualities: mara–” blood, “– sehet–” soul, or perhaps wisdom; the zuymet translation was suggestive of both, “– and halat, like we just talked about.” Vitality, or beauty. “And then you put cui or vex in front, to say which partner is whose. And because the Vex is more powerful, his partners are more powerful – or at least, that’s the theory. It’s stupidly complicated in practice, but Kenans are like that.” She grinned, shrugging as if to say, What can you do?

  Saffron thought this through, repressing a shiver at the thought of Kadeja. “So the, uh, the Vex’Mara… that’s meant to be an alliance match?”

  Zech nodded gravely. “It’s meant to be the alliance match, even more important than who you choose as Cuivex or Cuivexa. There’s a sort of unwritten rule, Pix says, that the Cui’Mara is for foreign alliances, Vex’Mara for Kenan. But Leoden broke it, and the only reason more people aren’t still angry about it is that he killed the ones who were.” And then, as if realising for the first time that they’d stopped walking, “Come on. It’s not far now.”

  Sure enough, another two turnings brought them to an unremarkable door. Zech raised a hand to knock, then hesitated. “Trishka’s not very strong,” she said. “I mean, she’s strong enough, in her mind and magic – her body just has a hard time keeping up. The priest said she’d be better today, but if she gets sleepy or starts twitching too much, we have to go. All right?”

  “All right,” said Saffron, though the disclaimer brought on a tingle of apprehension as to how she should behave. Zech knocked, and after a moment, someone called out, “Come in!”

  The room was dominated by a massive bed, occupied by a middle-aged woman whose smile, though genuine, was also tired. Her grey-streaked hair was otherwise black, her eyes a beautiful dark amber. Her brown skin was neither as dark as Gwen’s nor as golden as Matu’s, but somewhere between their shades. Saffron was surprised to find that her face was familiar, until she realised with a jolt that Trishka’s features – her chin, her nose, the shape of her cheeks – were all reminiscent of Yasha. “I’m her daughter,” Trishka said. Saffron jumped. The older woman chuckled, patting the edge of the bed. “It’s all right. Come sit down. Everyone who meets her first gets that look on their face when they see me.”