Bellica Page 19

  She had not felt calm since the siege broke and her home had been destroyed, the people she loved all killed.

  All but two.

  She thanked whatever Goddess was responsible for sparing her life, the life of her son, and her attendant, Desdemona, while she cursed the bad luck that had taken her beloved Saul from her.

  So many dead. All for the spurned affections of the Empress! It was excessive. Heartbreak was suffered by people every day without turning them homicidal. What gave Zanny the right to kill a man simply because he did not wish to share her bed? What had happened to the sacred laws of Desirelle, the rules of consent?

  She felt a wetness on her face and hastily she wiped her tears away. As if called by her lady's sadness, Desdemona entered the room and took Basi from her arms. Lyra looked at her with gratitude.

  Desdemona was an older woman, though her face still held youth. Her dark curls reached her shoulders, and the golden tone of her skin was unlike any Lyra had seen before. She did not know Desdemona's past; the woman had appeared in Nucalif a few years before, a former resident healer of Aeril. She had applied for a job within the Keep, and Lyra had taken an instant liking to her. She hired her as an attendant. It remained the best choice she'd ever made.

  It was Desdemona who had sensed the fall of the Keep and their immediate danger. Somehow the woman's preternatural senses had alerted her before the danger had even occurred, and It was Because of her, Lyra and her son were safe.

  Saul would have been, too, had he not been so foolish. She'd begged her love to escape with them to the beach and the lesser dangers of the North Sea, but he had refused.

  They're here for me. If I stay I can give you a chance to escape.

  Escape is not worth it if I cannot have you by my side.

  He'd smiled sadly, and kissed her one last time.

  She'd known he was dead when she stood on the beach, facing Bellica Yarrow. Saul's blood still dripped off the blade. Spotting a sword in the hands of a fallen soldier, she'd picked up the weapon. It was heavy, and with Basi in her other arm she could only hold it up so high.

  She stood in defiance of the one sent to take her life away.

  Bellica Yarrow had merely smiled, shrugged, and walked away.

  Not daring to believe what had just happened, she quickly ran to the end of the dock, where Desdemona had readied the boat. Quickly they made their escape, taking turns rowing north.

  They'd arrived within the boundaries of Nighttide a few days later. The Sisterhood of Night, ruling priestesshood of the archipelago, had granted them asylum. The Divinitary herself, Syrana, had even invited them to stay within her apartments, a large building on the highest point of the islands, rocky crags jutting out of the ocean like teeth or bones.

  Lyra was given to understand from the other priestesses that such an invitation was never given; there were other places for refugees, on lower islands. Whatever Syrana's reason for offering the Lady Timor such luxury, Lyra was grateful. It was still but a small comfort in face of the destruction of her life.

  Nighttide was not home, however, and every day Lyra missed Nucalif more. She supposed it was likely no longer its own province, no doubt annexed by Athering by now. Her face hardened in anger. Historically, Nucalif was her family's seat of power. She'd been born in the Keep, spent her childhood running underfoot there and in the town proper. Her first skinned knee, first broken bone, first formal peplos, first blood, first love...all had happened in her hometown. Nucalif was as much a part of her as she was a part of it.

  To think of it in the hands of Athering's current ruler...Lyra's blood seethed.

  She wanted revenge. To avenge not only the death of her love, of dear sweet Saul, but to avenge her people. Her town. Her home.

  "As long as I stay here, I remain powerless," she whispered to herself, looking out the window at the storm-tossed sea.

  "My Lady?"

  Lyra had almost forgotten Desdemona was there, so lost was she in her emotions. She turned and looked at her infant son of the Timor line in Desdemona's arms. Half of her soul screamed for return to the continent to take back what was rightfully hers, or die trying. The other half urged her to stay, to keep Basi safe, and wait for a more peaceful time in Athering -- under a new Empress, one willing to repair the havoc wrought by the current one.

  That would happen only if Bellica Yarrow called challenge on her sister. The warrior didn't seem the patriotic type. But perhaps there is some soul lurking beneath her brutal exterior, Lyra thought. She did let us go.

  "What do you think about Bellica Yarrow?" she asked Desdemona abruptly.

  Desdemona hesitated before answering, looking at the baby she rocked in her arms. "I think there is more to her than any of us realise," she said at length.

  Lyra nodded, saying nothing more. She didn't need to. Desdemona had given her the answer she already knew.

  Yarrow was the key. The key to restoring order in Athering -- but she would need help.

  The question was, what in Tyvian could Lyra do about it?

  Anala

  Jourd'Juno, 27th Decima

  Nightfall on the fifth day since departure found Anala at Harbourtown, weary and still mired in ill thoughts. She booked a room at The Worn Blessing, sent her horse to the stables, and found her room to be dry, warm, and small. Not that space mattered to her. She was just glad not to be obliged to stay with her family.

  Truth be told, ken, I should be makin' peace with them. If I'm not ta return...

  She left her thought unfinished. She had to believe that at the end of this mission she'd return to Aro's arms, safe and whole. She had to believe it or she'd lose the courage to go on.

  A ship awaited her, but wouldn't expect her presence for two more days. She could spend tomorrow attending to her own affairs.

  Tonight, however...tonight she planned on getting splendidly drunk.

  Jourd'Althea, 28th Decima

  She didn't, in truth. Not splendidly. She imbibed enough ale not only to feel even more miserable than she thought possible the whole night through, but also to awake with a splitting headache the next morn. There was nothing splendid about it.

  Regardless, she woke early and got out of bed posthaste. It was still dark outside. That was a blessing for her light-sensitive eyes.

  She tiptoed down the stairs to the dining room of the inn, but found such caution unnecessary. The innkeeper was already up, making breakfast for early risers. She refused his offer of a hot meal politely, saying she preferred her meal a bit later in the morning.

  "Some demitasse, then?" he asked.

  Surprised, Anala nodded eagerly. Demitasse was grown in lands far to the south, such a rare import to Athering that commoners inland of Harbourtown knew almost nothing about it, if they knew of its existence at all. The beans of the demitasse plant were roasted and ground, then added to hot water to make a deliciously sweet and caffeinated drink. Most residents of Harbourtown held a small addiction for it -- and small it was kept, for demitasse came in only once every few months, sometimes a whole year passing between shipments, and it was all gone very quickly.

  Anala herself hadn't had demitasse in years. She smiled gratefully when the steaming cup was set down in front of her.

  "I keep a small store of it, ye ken. Save it for more special occasions," the innkeeper explained.

  Anala ducked her head modestly. "Well, then, I'd be thankin' ye for yer kindness in sharing a mite with me."

  He shrugged. "Twere the least I could be doing, for the returning Hero o' Harbourtown, Bellica."

  Anala closed her eyes and sighed inwardly. She hated this.

  He hadn't notice her discomfort, and pressed on. "Why have ye no visited in all these years, Anala? Surely ye'd been given leave once or twice. Why'd ye no come home?"

  She opened her eyes to find his staring back at her. Recognition clicked.

  "Sebastien?"

  "Aye, Anala. None other."

  There was a tense pause. Anala shifted unco
mfortably on her stool; Sebastien moved back slightly and wiped down the bar distractedly.

  "Sebastien," Anala said after a while. "I'd..."

  "There'd be no need for explanations, Anala," he said softly. "Ye'd obviously gone yer own way, and I mine." He smiled bitterly. "Besides. Things'd never have been the same after that summer."

  Anala felt the bile rising in the back of her throat. Painful memories swept up from under the years, threatening to overwhelm her.

  Hastily she excused herself and ran to the privy. Leaning over, she retched until her stomach was empty and her throat was raw. Fare thee well, demitasse. She fell down beside the toilet, tears running down her face from the pain of puking on a near empty stomach.

  Why? Of all the taverns in this Goddess-forsaken town, why did she have to choose Sebastien's?

  I no should've kept it from him, she realised. He'da been heart-broken all these years, I reckon. It had been nothing he'd done, but since that summer she'd wanted nothing to do with men, or women, or love. How could she share something with Sebastien if she couldn't share it with herself? Come to think of it, how could she share it with Aro?

  She doubted they would understand. It was so long ago -- shouldn't she have gotten over it by now? Especially as the culprit was dead?

  She closed her eyes and tried not to think about it. Inevitably, the memories surged up and flooded her senses, all but drowning her in their vividness. Fighting desperately for control, she floundered in the tide of it, clutching for purchase. She knew violent reactions would come, if the past was provoked -- but I no did expect it ta be.

  Her brother's face swam in her field of vision and she almost retched again.

  Control. I need ta get control.

  She steadied her breathing and did a basic meditation, one Yarrow had taught her years ago. "It helps me centre my thoughts amid chaos and confusion," she'd said. Anala had used it once or twice but had not found meditation to be to her liking. It was too relaxing.

  Well, Anala, now would be a good time ta relax!

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The earth was a pulsating ball of ebbing and flowing energy beneath her. She breathed in and felt a tendril of energy enter at the base of her spine and go up, up, up through her body and out the top of her head. She was a tree, rooted in the earth, and on each breath she took in earth energy through her roots and Kore's sunlight through her branches, and they met at the centre, her core, stabilising her.

  She held that visualisation, and the earth transformed. It was Aro. His spirit stretched out beneath her roots; he was soil and nutrients and her steady ground. She turned her attention upwards, and the sun became a hazy apparition -- Athering, but not Athering. The idea of Athering, Athering as she was sure it had once been before these dark times, Athering floating and shining behind the clouds.

  A sharp rap on the door brought her suddenly out of her meditation. She teetered on the edge of control for a moment, then reined herself sharply in and stood up. She was calm, she was fine, she was a tree --

  "Ye'd not be the only one who'd be needin' ta piss, ye know!" came a shrill voice from the other side of the door, after another sharp knock.

  "Just a moment, ken!" she shouted as reply. Hastily she pulled the lever on the basin; the bottom flipped her leavings down to the waste system below and looked good as new. If it didn't smell good, there wasn't much to be done about that.

  She splashed water on her face and hands and rinsed out her mouth and left -- feeling better physically, if not emotionally. The woman outside gave her a nasty look as she swept inside. Anala returned it with one that said, "I could take ye down any day with me eyes closed and one arm behind me back, so dinnae be pushing it," and stalked out of the tavern.

  She had peace to make with certain people, and she'd best be starting now.

  ~

  I reckon that coulda gone a mite bit better, thought Anala as she left her parents' house naught an hour later.

  What she could have done to make it so, she didn't know. But it could have gone a better way than her parents screaming at her while her little sister looked on from the staircase. She'd always loved Mara the most. The girl had been but a toddler when Anala'd left for the army. Mara had tottered after her that day, shouting, "Bye bye, 'Nala!" as the caravan pulled away. Anala had turned to make a hand sign -- their own way of speaking, developed between them before Mara could talk -- that said, We will see each other again.

  Today, as she was backing out the door to the sounds of her parents' screams of hate, she looked up and met Mara's eyes. They asked her, Is this it, then?

  Anala turned and said goodbye to her parents -- maybe forever -- and then made one last sign to Mara.

  Never forget me.

  She had tried, and that was all the Goddesses could ask for. She hoped it was enough to restore her honour, and secure a place at Bellona's side.

  Her thoughts remained so mired in the muck as she made her way through the streets of Harbourtown, she did not even notice she was being followed.

  Jourd'Selene, 29th Decima

  It was her last night. She'd spent the day wandering the streets, stopping in at familiar places from her childhood, seeing old faces again. Some welcomed her presence, others seemed indifferent, even bitter, and some did not even remember her childself and were just happy to have such a hero of the army gracing their city.

  Each encounter left Anala nervous for the next. By the end of the day, she didn't want to go through any more.

  One she'd been avoiding all day. Avoidin' fer longer than that, reckon. Since....

  Her thoughts cut off as she stepped into the bakery.

  It was exactly as she remembered it. Demosthenes Baker, in the back, creating the goods for sale; Sappho behind the counter, taking people's orders; Isidora, waiting on tables -- but her hair was a different colour, and she was taller. Anala narrowed her eyes, about to say "Isidora, what happened ta ye blond hair?" when memory more recent slapped her in the face, and she realised it was Isidora's sister Laurel she looked upon. It has ta be. Isidora'd be dead.

  She wanted to turn around and walk out, run away from the past, but she'd been spotted.

  "Anala!" Sappho's voice carried across the room, and all went still. Anala suppressed the blush that threatened to creep up her neck. A long moment passed as people stared at her, and Anala fought the urge to bolt as Sappho quickly made her way across the room to the bellica.

  "Well, be coming over here, child. Did ye think ye'd no be welcome?" Sappho brushed her hands on her apron and embraced Anala warmly.

  "I'd had a thought or two o' that ken," said Anala, returning the embrace.

  "Don't be being silly now, Bellica. Sit yeself down and have a mite o tea. I'll be with ye in a second."

  Anala cautiously made her way to a corner table and sat down. Business as usual resumed but people continued to steal glances at her. No one was brave enough to come over to her, for which she was grateful.

  Laurel breezed among the tables, taking orders and all but ignoring Anala. Once or twice her eyes flashed the bellica's way. Each time, Anala didn't like what she saw in them.

  By the time Sappho had dealt with the remaining customers, shooed them out, and put up the CLOSED sign, Anala was regretting her visit.

  But it's duty, an like it or no, I must be dealing wi' it.

  Sappho approached the table and frowned. "Did Laurel no bring ye tea?"

  "Ah, no. She'd a been busy with customers, I reckon." Anala didn't feel like asking why the girl had eyed her with such hate.

  Sappho nodded and turned away slightly. "Dem!" she shouted to the back. "Could ye be kind enough ta get me an' the bellica here a mite o' tea?" A muffled affirmative came from the back. Satisfied, Sappho took a seat across from Anala.

  She had aged considerably since Anala had seen her last, though not without grace. There were a few lines of grey in her dark hair, and wrinkles surrounded her mouth and eyes. Age served only to enhance her beauty.
>
  Smiling, she spoke. "Ye no have had call ta visit in a long while, Anala. What be the occasion today?"

  "Ye'd be right ta the point, as always, Sappho." Anala grinned, but it didn't reach her eyes. Demosthenes then arrived with the tea, and Anala used this as an excuse for a moment's silence, concentrating on adding honey.

  Sappho did the same and then spoke again. "I take it it'd no be leave ye were on, guessing Aro'd be with ye, too. But if it 'twere official business, what'd be a bellica doing no with her major?"

  "Aye, the second question I'da asked much meself, ye ken. But classified information no be what I came here to talk about, I reckon," Anala replied.

  Sappho was quick as ever, for she sat up and briskly changed the subject. "Business's been fine, and the kid's been growing up very fast." Her eyes slid over Anala's face and the bellica nodded politely, intent on escaping into the mundane. Sappho talked at length about family life and Harbourtown gossip, occasionally asking if this or that tidbit of information from Atherton was true, to which queries, more often than not, Anala gave a noncommittal reply: "I'd no have any knowledge of that, ye ken." So they continued, in the normal life vein of conversation until it was very dark outside.

  A long pause ensued. Anala still felt no courage to speak but knew she must -- I've no heart ta take it to me grave.

  She launched right into it, unlike her style, but finding no other way. "I came to apologise, ye ken, for Isidora's death."

  Sappho was shaking her head before Anala had finished. "There'd be no need, child. 'Twas not yer fault she'da been captured."

  "Nae, but it remains me fault she'd been killed."

  There were two sharp intakes of breath. Glancing to her right, Anala saw Laurel watching them intently. Something clicked in the bellica's brain, and the truth shone through. She'd been blaming me all these years, I reckon, an' is rejoicin' ta hear me confessin'.