Sigquaya, Page 4

  Remè turned again to Rhiana, stiffening his back and raising his chin. She turned to face him full on, her eyes narrowed and her lips tight, as if daring him to speak the words they both knew were coming.

  “Rhiana,” he spat through gritted teeth, “your absence was noted by all today, especially the Temple Rectors and, I fear, by Brynewielm himself.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but Remè held up a hand to silence her. Surprisingly, she held.

  “We are a laughingstock!” he continued. “Your son was a pitiful display today, and your absence was a disgrace! Our family name is now a stain on this community!”

  The young Marcus began to whimper as he and his sister shuffled up to their mother, circling behind her and clinging tightly to the hems of her bedclothes. Each of them peeked around the fabric, looking at their father, terror-stricken, as if to a stranger. Rhiana patted their backs soothingly and cooed words of soft encouragement, all the while throwing daggers of blame toward her husband with those suddenly piercing violet eyes, lifeless no more.

  She urged the children by him and into their bedroom, pulling closed the thick, woolen curtain that served as a door. Then she turned back, answering his accusation with a raised brow and thin lips. “If this Brynewielm is such the all-knowing god,” she seethed, “then surely he will understand the reasoning for my absence.”

  She moved to where she first stood. Her voice was still low, her teeth still clenched. “We have a family, Remè. My duty is with them.”

  “Your duty—”

  “What’s left of them,” she finished.

  His anger boiled and his eyes widened at the obvious dig. “Your duty is to the city, and to the gods.”

  “No!” she said, her anger matching his. “Your duty is to the city. The Rectors’ duty is to the gods! But me? I am your wife, Remè. A mere woman in the eyes of both city and gods.” She thrust a finger toward the front door. “My obligation in those matters ends at that doorway.”

  Remè’s jaw worked, but nothing came out. Whether for loss of words or that there were simply too many pushing to tumble out all at once, he wasn’t sure. He was dumbstruck. Where had all this newfound resolve come from? What in all the Cyneþrymm was he thinking to marry such a headstrong woman? And where had she gotten the idea that she could speak to him with such boldness?

  “You are correct,” he said finally, evenly, though his jaw remained set. “My duty is to the city, and to the gods.” He lowered his face to within inches of hers. “And your duty is to me.”

  His hand came out of nowhere, backhanding her. Sending her reeling to the floor with a cry of surprise and pain. He leaped forward so that he was straddling her between his legs, grabbing a handful of bedclothes.

  “You should have remembered that sooner,” he spat, shaking her violently and raising his free hand, threatening her with a second strike, daring her to speak.

  Suddenly Arteura was there, bursting from behind the drawn curtain.

  “Stop!” she wailed, dropping to her knees, wrapping her arms around her mother and turning to her father, cheeks aflame, eyes afire. She screamed, “I hate y—”

  Remè slapped her with his open hand, tumbling her away from her mother. She rolled into the corner, caught herself at the wall and turned to him, her cheek red and scraped raw, eyes burning with hatred. She coiled herself to spring.

  “ARTEURA,” Rhiana screamed. “No!”

  The girl held still, her eyes darting between her mother and father, confusion boiling behind them.

  “Back to your room, girl,” Remè roared. “Before I give you another. Do not come out until I say so!”

  Rhiana grabbed Remè’s arm, the one holding her clothes, and scrambled to her feet. She stood, placing herself between Remè and their daughter. “Go, Arteura,” she said, pleading. Reluctantly the girl yielded, raising a soft hand to her mother’s arm as she passed. Rhiana nodded, both in understanding and gratitude, meeting her daughter’s hand with hers as she passed. She turned back to her husband, all love and understanding fleeing from her face. Blood trickled from her lip, and she let it drip to the earthen floor. What in the gods was she thinking, marrying such a small and fearful man? Back then, when they had first met and began courting, she still believed all the lies about duty to the city and Temple. She felt their relationship was the right thing to do. Both for their future, and the future of the community. Her father, Lord Grayson, had encouraged it, blessed it even. Her mother remained stoic but silent.

  Her mind ached at the thought that, somewhere along the way, she had lost that hope, that “duty,” whatever it was, and she’d slowly realized she no longer loved Remè, often wondering if she ever had. Truth be told, she didn’t really hate him either. Not until this very moment.

  Over the years he had grown more dominant and physical as he had been passed over time and time again for Councilship positions and career advancements. It seemed the less control he had in worldly matters, the more he needed to exert it within his family. As he tightened his familial grip, though, the tethers of her husband’s reason and sanity had slowly seemed to loosen and was held, at times, by only the thinnest of threads.

  Rhiana bore the brunt of his abuse. He couldn’t take his frustration out on its rightful cause, so he took it out on her, sometimes Tristan, but never, not until now, had he laid a hand on Arteura. Something had changed. And, as she thought about it, so much had changed. She was ashamed that, until this very moment, she had done nothing to stop it.

  She and Remè had been staring at each other in a long moment of silence. Arteura had slinked back into her room. Rhiana was on her feet now. Face to face. Eye to eye. Remè was still clutching a wad of her bedclothes with white-knuckled intensity. She looked down at his hand then back to his eyes. When she spoke, it was the only thing she could think to say. “If you ever hit one of our children again, I will kill you while you sleep.”

  She shook herself loose and he yielded, seeming to realize at that moment what he had done. He glanced to the children’s doorway. The curtain fluttered closed to the sound of small feet scurrying away from the door.

  Just as quickly as it had come, his anger ebbed away from him, leaving in its place an emptiness and an unbound sadness, along with a tumbling cascade of “could haves” and “should haves.” What was he doing? What had he done? Where had his life gone so wrong? And why were the gods continuing to punish him for it all?

  He stepped away from his wife and sat heavily in one of the dining table chairs. Slowly shaking his head, he looked back to the curtained doorway. “How much do they know?” he asked. There was a deep weight to that question. There were so many things their children “knew.” Things they didn’t need to know for children so young. Things they should never have needed to know at all.

  “Enough,” she answered. When she answered further, she chose to address the most pressing of issues. “They know that Tristan will not be returning.”

  A cloud passed across her husband’s features as he spoke. “They are so young.”

  She winced again, not from pain this time, but from her husband’s infinite naivety. He was blind to everything but his own self-serving needs. He always had been. Could she change it now? Did she even care enough to at this point? Even before she could form an answer, her mother’s words echoed through her mind.

  You cannot change that which refuses to see you. Or hear you.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “They are young. Too young. And so was Tristan,” she added.

  For that, he had no answer, and Rhiana was actually surprised. He seemed to no longer be listening, lost instead to an inner turmoil. He rose, pacing the narrow room as he tried to return the conversation to the honor bestowed on them. Tainted as it was. Even if that meant lying to her.

  “You would have been so proud of him.” He smiled weakly. “He was so—”

  “Of course he was,” she interrupted, unfazed. “He worshipped you. More so even than he worshipped the gods he hopeful
ly appeased today. He would have done anything for you. In fact, he has done everything.”

  Remè stopped his pacing. He turned on her. His face once again hardened against her continued, damnable stubbornness.

  “You are edging on blasphemy, Rhiana.”

  “This is my family, Remè,” she answered as she fixed him with her narrowing slit of a black-and-blue eye. “My duty, as you insist. Just as it was the time before. Surely, if Brynewielm is truly the all-seeing god, he will understand my pain. Surely he will be satisfied even through my boundless grief.” The last words were spat in contempt. For Remè? For Brynewielm? At this point, neither Rhiana nor her husband could truly be sure.

  “That may be,” he answered, letting her words pass. “And yet, understanding and forgiveness do not always align.”

  She nodded slowly, accepting, at least for now, that the battle between them was over. But also that something more, something deeper and longer in coming, had just begun.

  “Then I will accept my due, husband,” she said calmly. “Until that day, though, my sorrow shall weigh heavily, and my obligation remains”—she pointed to the curtained door—“here, with my, with our, family.”

  Without another word, she grabbed a wet dishcloth from the basin full of pots and pans, turned, swept aside the curtain, and disappeared into the children’s room. Remè allowed her to leave without further rebuke. He heard her within, doing her best to calm another outburst from their youngest.

  Her role. Her duty.

  5

  To Believe . . . in Something

  You cannot change that which refuses to see you. Or hear you.

  Rhiana’s mother also taught her that you cannot bring about change from a position of inferiority, whether real or perceived. Those in power will never hear of it, she would say. Ever. They are too comfortable, and they simply do not care. The patriarchal culture of the Brynslæd Empire set the guidelines, and had for millennia: Women, not unlike slaves, prisoners of war, or foreigners, were often considered inferior, and nothing more than the rightful property of their father or husband. Her mother would know. She had been twice cursed, both as a woman and as a refugee from a fallen kingdom.

  Lord Derrick Grayson was Rhiana’s stepfather. Her mother, Amelia, and her true father had come from Talenwood at the farthest reaches of the Empire on the eastern sea. It was a borderland city, only recently brought under the authority of the Brynslæd Empire as a profitable, bustling harbor. As such, Talenwood was constantly awash in differing cultures, languages, and beliefs. Sailors and travelers came from across the sea, from every region, bringing with them anything one could need or want to buy, to sell, and to trade: silks, hardwoods, foodstuff, liquors, slaves, and harlots.

  Barely married a fortnight, the two arrived in Brynslæd, drawn in by the lure of opportunity within the vast city, and by the gleaming Temple at its center. They soon immersed themselves in a life of worship and service, and Rhiana’s father joined the Þrymm guard. Soon, they had Rhiana, and life was all they could hope for.

  But, as life does, the cresting wave of good fortune soon gave way to the wide trough of adversity. The Empire was struck with famine and, as stockpiles dwindled, the desperate eyes of the Council sought the surplus in lands beyond their own borders. Peace treaties are often only as good as the times in which they are signed, and the Empire chose their own survival over the preservation of any peace or treaty.

  They set sights against Tunlan, a modest realm to the south, known for its rich farmland and peaceful people. The entire first armored legion, including Rhiana’s father, was sent to the front lines at Hellsgate, a long, narrow strip of canyon that lay between Tunlan and Brynslæd. When it was over, less than 700 men returned; they were triumphant, yes, but bent, bloodied, and scarred well beyond their physical wounds. Rhiana’s father was not among them.

  Amelia steeled her heart, shielding it from such useless feelings as despair and sorrow. There could be no time for mourning. She had an infant daughter to raise. No one in the Empire had been immune to loss and suffering. But most had some small circle of family and community to draw strength from, someone in whom they could find comfort and provision. Amelia had no family, no community. Only Rhiana. And in every single respect, the two of them, mother and daughter, were totally, utterly alone.

  Amelia never spoke of a life beyond Talenwood, but it was clear she was not made from the same rough-hewn stock as those who called the port city their home, including her late husband. Graceful as a deer and deadly with a longbow, she seemed more a lithe huntress than any kind of sailor or swindler. Certainly not one to trifle with. She was as tall as many of the men of Brynslæd, with long black hair, olive skin, and wide violet eyes; by all accounts she was a beautiful woman and had a striking presence. She was an expert in herbs, medicines, balms, and poultices, and a gifted healer. Yet it was these same characteristics—her exotic looks, her natural abilities, her confidence—that sent rumors whirling. She was mystical. Otherworldly. She possessed knowledge and ability far beyond what a mere woman should possess. There had to be more.

  The scriptures had a word for it: Ma’wan.

  It was sorcery, witchcraft. That had to be it.

  That would explain her skills. That would explain why she never spoke of home or family beyond Talenwood. That would explain why the gods had taken her husband in battle. That would explain the Temple’s harsh yet justified treatment. Amelia relied heavily on the benevolence of the Temple, and she became deeply indebted. She lived in servitude, cooking and serving in the dining halls, maintaining the idols, the halls, and the living quarters, and submitting to the often-humiliating personal whims of the Rectors themselves.

  Lord Derrick Grayson was also no stranger to adversity. He was one of the 700 guardsmen who returned from Hellsgate. He had seen the worst of humanity, committing some of those atrocities himself. The road to recovery was long and brutal. He suffered terribly from survivor’s guilt. Even so, he emerged on the far side with a renewed sense of grit and purpose.

  Instead of being a millstone around his neck, Grayson took advantage of his status as a “war hero.” With the overwhelming support of the populace, he won a seat on the Grand Council and the title of Lord at a surprisingly young age. He was unafraid to speak his mind at Council meetings, unconcerned with ruffling feathers of the Temple Rectors and accustomed to upsetting the status quo. He knew the games to play, where the boundaries were, and which ones were the easiest to bend or break.

  The Temple Rectors held a grudging tolerance toward this vocal upstart. His sheer popularity within the community made him all but impossible to touch, ignore, or remove, even when he whisked Amelia away from Temple service. He’d been returned eight years when he finally opened his heart to the possibility of love. Eight years to crest the mountain of guilt he had hidden behind for so long to even consider he could love himself, let alone another. There were debts to redeem, and bribes to pay for his love’s freedom, but Lord Grayson had amassed a certain amount of wealth to go with his status and reputation, and the hand of his bride-to-be was worth any price.

  The two were married within months of having met, and Grayson watched as the color began to return to his wife’s features; her posture straightened, and her eyes sparkled in brilliant purple once again. Not long after, the two of them had a child of their own. A sister for Rhiana. A daughter they named Skye. Some in the community thought it scandalous that a baby was born so soon for the newlyweds. Some began counting back, insisting on an illicit affair while Amelia was still in the Temple’s employ. Even when it came out that the baby was born prematurely, small and sickly, it did little to quell the rumor mills in some quarters, particularly those jealous of Grayson’s rise and seeming good fortune. All the same, the couple had weathered worse before and, over the ensuing months, they weathered this as well.

  According to Temple law, the baby girl was Lord Derrick Grayson’s firstborn child, and as such, her name would be placed into the city’s re
gistry. Lord Grayson never saw the play unfolding until it was too late. Skye Grayson’s name was chosen in the spring of the girl’s second harvest. Called into privilege as an offering of fertility for the season of sowing.

  There is celebration in sacrifice. There is honor in death.

  Grayson could never prove it, but inwardly he raged at the indifference, even arrogance, with which the Rectors, especially the Temple Elder, carried through with the ceremony and sacrifice. It was as if they had found the one crack in Grayson’s bold veneer, and used it to stunning and climactic effect.

  Lord Grayson sunk back into the grips of his survivor’s guilt, remaining on the Grand Council but now a deflated, cowed, and distant man, a shell of his once proud and defiant self.

  Amelia was heartbroken. The gods and the Empire had stolen away two of the greatest loves of her life, and not even those who remained, her husband and daughter, could reignite the flame that slowly ebbed away from her once-brilliant violet eyes.

  Rhiana was devastated. She too was a firstborn. But she and her family had celebrated her thirteenth harvest just the season before, without being chosen. In her mind, this had proven every bit the privilege that her younger sister had never been afforded.

  Now it seemed the whims of the gods and the indifference and arrogance of the Rectors had struck her family once again with Tristan.

  Damn the gods, she thought. Damn the city. And damn Remè for burdening me with talk of “duty” and “obligation.”

  Rhiana sat on the edge of the bed, her mind reeling from all that had happened, and all that might happen now. Marcus’s head was in her lap, and he breathed deeply, finally asleep. She gently brushed away the damp hair from his scalp as he hiccupped a few final sobs within his dreams.