Sigquaya, Page 5

  Her other arm was wrapped tightly around Arteura. The girl’s cheek was red and sensitive. A strawberry bruise was beginning to form under her eye. She could feel the girl’s hot breath against her shoulder, but Arteura wasn’t crying. In fact, last night was the first time Rhiana had seen her daughter cry in, she had to think—it had to have been months, maybe years. There was a wariness there now, as if her trust had been stolen and everyone the girl encountered with those steel-gray eyes was a suspect. Even her father.

  Arteura had always been her little brother’s fiercest guardian, often ganging up two-on-one against Tristan in their mock swordfights and wrestling matches. And now it seemed she was willing to assume the role of Rhiana’s guardian as well. Placing herself between her mother and father. A role she was never meant to assume. A role no child should ever have to take on.

  Rhiana reached for the wet dishcloth she’d sat beside her and placed it on her daughter’s cheek. Even through the dampness she could feel the heat of the bruise, the roughness of her daughter’s broken skin. Rhiana closed her eyes. Arteura rested against her shoulder. Relaxing. Sensing what was to come.

  Through the cloth, Rhiana felt the pulse of her fingers blend in sync with the rhythm of her daughter’s heart. She felt the warmth of her hand rising to that of Arteura’s cheek, and then beyond. Felt the familiar tingling sensation at her fingertips, like a thousand tiny needle pricks. Felt the tingling sensation join with the water of the cloth as it warmed as well. Felt both the tingling and the water move along the cloth and slowly seep into Arteura’s bruised skin. Then, felt the healing begin.

  This was something not allowed. Not even Remè knew. This is what the Temple called Ma’wan. It was banned by sacred decree as profane, sacrilege. Punishable by banishment at the least, and death at its worst. It was something she had learned from her mother, as Amelia was taught by her mother, and on and on.

  Arteura, the next generation, wasn’t surprised with her mother’s power, not now, and seemingly not ever. She simply knew of it, as if she’d always known. Still, from the comfort of Rhiana’s shoulder, she asked, “How do you do that, Mother?”

  Rhiana smiled knowingly, unsurprised at her daughter’s inquisitiveness, as if she had long expected the question and was humored by how long it had taken the girl to ask.

  “Actually, my love, I’m not sure.”

  Arteura was ten now, but age was only a number. She had always been a mature girl, holding her own in “adult” conversations and showing as much interest and skill in her mother’s healing herbs as she did in grappling with her two brothers. The girl raised her head and waited, expecting more, so Rhiana continued.

  “We call it Sigquaya. It’s a way to manipulate water to do our bidding. Our will. Like how I wanted to heal you and make you feel better, just now. But here in Brynslæd? Here, they call it Ma’wan. And it is forbidden.”

  “Why?”

  Rhiana answered her as she would any other adult. “Fear, I suppose. People fear that which they cannot understand.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  Rhiana gave another smile and a soft chuckle. “Not really, no. But then, I don’t fear it either.” She idly looked at her hand and wriggled her fingers. “It’s not something to be afraid of, as you can see. I think I must have been born with it. Like I said, I’m not entirely sure how it works. I just know it does.”

  The girl reached up and gently touched the dried blood on her mother’s lip. Rhiana had forgotten it was there, and she flinched. Arteura only smiled softly and caressed it once again. This time Rhiana did not move.

  “Why don’t you heal yourself?” Arteura asked.

  “Because, my love.” Rhiana paused, searching for the right words. “The risk and worry of the questions it would raise far outweigh any relief of healing I might feel. Especially in this house. Plus, I believe it would only enrage or embolden your father even more than he already seems to be. Fear can do that to a person.”

  “Then why heal me?”

  Because he won’t notice, Rhiana thought cynically. It was the truthful yet wrong answer to give. Instead, she said, “Because children heal more quickly.” She smiled, trying her best to cover the lie.

  “So,” Arteura asked, “he doesn’t know at all, does he?”

  Rhiana shook her head and frowned. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Rhiana thought long and hard before answering. Maturity only went so far. The girl was still just a girl, and her emotions were still that of a child. This was territory beyond mere maturity. What lay behind Rhiana’s answer involved emotions, prejudices, and realities that Arteura would never understand at her age. Rhiana barely understood any of it herself. Even now. Even through everything her own mother had taught her and showed her.

  Rhiana remembered asking her mother the same question, at about this same age. And, no, Lord Grayson didn’t know any more about Amelia’s gifts than Remè knew about Rhiana’s. Rhiana had also asked about her real father who’d supposedly come from the same land as her mother. But Amelia shook her head with sadness in her eyes. No, he had no power. Amelia was born across the sea from her first husband. He never knew about Amelia’s gifts either.

  “Can you imagine,” Amelia had answered as the sadness in her eyes turned to fire, “the tyranny that could result, would result, if a man, any man, could wield such power?”

  “But the power is to heal, no?” Rhiana had asked.

  “It is my will to heal, so that is what the water does. But the will is free, in all people. And it can be bent toward good or evil.”

  “And men are evil?”

  Amelia chuckled at that. “Not all, no, certainly not. But men are driven by desires of success, of triumph, of conquest. Much more so than women. That is why the gods have blessed this gift to us, not to them.”

  Rhiana pulled herself back to the present and blew out a long breath before answering Arteura. When she did, her words were slow and measured. “Your father was raised here in Brynslæd, Arteura. Raised with an unquestioning certainty in the Temple and in the gods, yet raised with the same misunderstandings and fear that everyone else has—fear of that which is different. Of that which they consider Ma’wan. No, he doesn’t know, and he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t accept it even if he did, no matter what I told him”—she brushed her daughter’s softening cheek, now pink and healing—“or showed him.”

  Arteura looked thoughtful for a moment, her brow knitted. Then she pursed her lips and shrugged, accepting the answer as if it were just as simple as that.

  Oh, the beauty and innocence of youth, thought Rhiana.

  Arteura looked back at her mother, brow still knitted, as she asked, “Do I have that . . . gift?”

  Rhiana’s soft smile returned. “I don’t know, my love. I’ve been showing you some of the herbal arts that I learned from my mother. I suppose, in time, I will show you that, too.”

  Arteura’s eyes flew wide in anticipation, and Rhiana put a consoling hand on her shoulder, shaking her head. “But not now, my love. Not yet.”

  Arteura sat back, opening her mouth to protest, but Rhiana silenced her with a look. Her eyes flashed to the curtained door where Remè sat just beyond, then back to her daughter. Arteura followed her mother’s gaze; she exhaled hard as her eyes became slits, and she set her jaw in frustrated understanding.

  “Fine,” she said, making it clear with that one word it was anything but fine.

  She leaned her head back on her mother’s shoulders and relaxed anyway. And with that, Rhiana felt it was about as much of that topic as she wished to broach with her daughter, at least for now. She let out a long sigh and changed the subject.

  “How are you feeling, Arteura?”

  The girl didn’t raise her head, but Rhiana could feel her jaw working against her arm. Whether from what they had just been talking about or what Rhiana had just asked, she wasn’t sure and wasn’t going to prod. She waited her out as Arteura absently reached up and caressed
the receding welt on her cheek.

  “Why, Mother?” she finally asked.

  Rhiana’s heart skipped. She blinked and gently raised the girl’s head to look at her. “What do you mean?” she asked weakly.

  “Why did it have to be Tristan?” Arteura asked. “Why now?”

  Oh gods! How was it that her daughter could ask such seemingly innocent questions, yet they called for such deep and intimate answers that Rhiana didn’t even know where to begin?

  She thought a moment, both searching for an answer and hoping to buy a little time. Then, she mustered as much sincerity as she could and said, “It is the way of the gods, my love.”

  It was a weak, thin excuse, and she could tell it didn’t stand a chance as Arteura eyed her skeptically.

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” the girl asked.

  Rhiana eased her back into her shoulder, heaving yet another sigh as she thought how much truth she should continue to spool out. It was naïve of Rhiana to think that her daughter—any of her children, really—had been immune to the toxic atmosphere her relationship to Remè had built up over the years. How it would manifest in their lives going forward would be anyone’s guess. And now there was the added weight of Tristan’s death. It was a lot for anyone to take on, let alone a too-wise-for-her-own-good ten-year-old. Not to mention there were a lot of things Rhiana didn’t believe in anymore; faith in any gods was only one on the ever-growing list.

  “No,” she answered, deciding to answer once more as an adult. Deciding on the truth. All of it. “No, I don’t.”

  Yet again Arteura was unfazed by her mother’s blunt honesty. “Then why go through with it?”

  “Because, Arteura, your father does believe in it. Even still. And we live in a city, in an Empire, that believes in it. Who are we to act or believe any differently?”

  The girl reached up and caressed her mother’s healing hand. “And yet, you do.”

  Rhiana slowly nodded and laughed quietly. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I do.”

  She could feel the forceful exhale against her chest as Arteura clenched her teeth. The girl raised her head and eyed the curtained doorway.

  “I’m glad he doesn’t know,” she spat, suddenly sounding every bit the ten-year-old she was. “I hate him.”

  “No, you don’t,” Rhiana answered softly. “That is something I don’t believe either.”

  “Well, I do,” Arteura said through gritted teeth as she pushed away from her mother. She had that look in her eyes, the fire of defiance that Rhiana had grown to know so well. “I hate him.”

  “I do too,” said a small voice from Rhiana’s lap. Her breath caught and her heart skipped. Marcus. What should she say? What could she say after all they had witnessed throughout the years?

  “I hate him, too,” the boy repeated. His wide, round eyes were open, and he too was looking toward the curtain between them and their father.

  She touched his arm. “Sit up, Marcus.”

  As he did, Rhiana placed a hand on each of their shoulders and looked squarely at both of her children in turn. “Your father is not the enemy here. He is not a bad man. He is a frustrated man—a man who has just lost his oldest child, and your brother.”

  Even as she said it, she was having trouble believing it herself, and Rhiana could see Arteura’s face hardening, too.

  “I’m not making excuses for him, love,” she said, “or for myself for putting you through all of this as long as I have. But you two need to be strong. And smart.” She looked to her daughter, stroking her now-healing cheek with the back of her hand and caressing her chin, remembering how the girl had bravely stepped between Remè and her. “Arteura? What you did out there just now was very touching, and very brave. But don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me?”

  “Why not?” the girl huffed.

  “Yeah, why not?” her brother echoed.

  “Because your battle is not with him.” She repeated, “He is not the enemy.”

  She could see the confused look clouding Arteura’s face as Marcus’s eyes darted from sister to mother and back. It took all of her will to maintain the conviction of her words.

  “You need to be strong and smart,” Rhiana said again. “Both of you.”

  She turned to her young son. “Marcus, I want you to go out to the other room and pick up your toys in the corner. Put them back where they’re supposed to be, okay? Can you do that for me, please?”

  “But, Mom,” he pleaded, “Arteura got them ou—”

  “Please, Marcus? I need to talk to your sister a moment.”

  He glanced at the curtain as an uncertain fear wrinkled his brow. “Is Father . . . ?”

  “You’ll be fine, babe. Your father’s thoughts are elsewhere now. Go. Please? Do as you’re told.”

  He stood, slowly pushing the curtain back and timidly peeking out to the room beyond. When he was satisfied that his father was far enough away from his chosen path, he quietly scurried out.

  Rhiana turned, facing her daughter and gripping each of her shoulders firmly as she spoke. “You need to take care of your brother,” she said. “I know you always have, and you do. But it is even more important now. Especially to me. He is your family.”

  “So are y—”

  “Please,” Rhiana cut her off. “If you want to help me, to help our family, you need to help me here, with this.”

  Arteura shut her mouth and ground her teeth together for a few long seconds, her fiery eyes never blinking, never leaving her mother. Then, finally, slowly, she nodded her agreement.

  “Thank you,” Rhiana said. She looked to ensure the curtain was closed before she continued. “The way to change is not done through violence, Arteura, or through confrontation. It may seem like the right thing at the moment—brave, even—but it’s not. It’s stupid.”

  Arteura’s eyes flashed anger, and Rhiana held up a hand to calm her.

  Again, the battle of friction raged in Rhiana’s mind. Did she really believe what she was telling her daughter? Should Arteura?

  You cannot bring about change from a position of inferiority. Those in power will never hear of it. Ever.

  Hog’s dung!

  They are too comfortable, and they simply don’t care.

  Then we shall make them uncomfortable.

  “I’m not saying there’s not a time to defend yourself,” she said. “Or to defend others. Or to stand strong.” She held up her hand, the one that had healed her daughter. “I will teach you these gifts, Arteura. In time. But for now, know this: There are two kinds of magic. Maybe more. But I know of two. There is Sigquaya, the use of water. And, like water, Sigquaya longs to heal, to fill, to nurture and soothe. It can also be brought to a boil, for destruction and pain. But for that, you also need the other kind of magic. And that is Tamatulc, the use of fire.” She shook her head in warning. “Like fire, Tamatulc consumes those who try to wield it. It parches. It destroys. That is not the way of Sigquaya. That is not what I will show you or teach you. That is not the way of true and lasting change. And if you wish to change your circumstances, to change the world, it is done by the way of Sigquaya, the way of water. To fill with life. To nurture and heal. Not through fists or swords. Not through Tamatulc, the way of fire.

  “It is done by what fills your heart, and what fills your mind. A destructive fire that always needs to be fed? Or, the life-giving power of water, that longs to be poured out? It is what you ultimately choose to feel, here.” She pressed a palm to her daughter’s chest. “And if there are gods, Arteura, this I also believe: Here is where you will hear them. Here is where you will feel them, and here is where they will fill you.”

  Arteura cocked an eyebrow. “So you do believe in gods.” It was more a statement than a question.

  Oh, the frustrating intuitiveness of youth, Rhiana thought.

  “I believe,” she answered, her half-smile turned into a reassuring grin, “in something.”

  “Something?” her daughter quipped. />
  “Yes, something,” she answered, playfully ruffling the girl’s hair. “Something beyond ourselves. Something . . . more. What I choose to believe is that, if there are gods—if, mind you—I don’t think any of us have been properly introduced.” She stood, brushing Arteura’s hair back with her fingers and noticing that her daughter’s cheek had completely healed. “Not yet, anyway.”

  6

  Duty and Honor

  Remè was sitting at his desk, idly doodling on a parchment and rerunning the last few minutes, and the last few years, of his life. He was in his early thirties. An age when career trajectories are launched, life plans are set in motion, and goals are strived for. Hopes and dreams are still fresh and full of wonder. Remè felt none of it. Too much of his career, and too many of his plans, relied on chance, on timing, and on the whims of too many other people. People with plans and goals of their own. Or, people whose life’s goal seemed to consist of crushing other people’s plans and goals. People like—

  There was a forceful pounding, and then a stern voice.

  “Remè Denaeus!”

  Remè shot from his desk, squared his shoulders, and glanced toward the corner, surprised to see Marcus scuttling back into the children’s bedroom. How long had he been out here? Had he overheard anything that Remè had been saying, supposedly to himself? He shook away the questions, stepped forward, adjusted his cloak and tunic and, with a heavy, forced breath, opened the front door.

  The doorway was filled with the imposing presence of two Þrymm guards. still in their dress uniforms, with gleaming longswords at their waist tucked into golden scabbards. As they parted, the Elder of the Temple Rectors stepped forward along with his young assistant. The Elder was leaning heavily on his staff from the long trek up and down the mountain path earlier. His face was gaunt, his balding head bare. He was no longer wearing the tallit of his Eldership, and somehow this made his tall, lanky frame seem slight and frail as his long, cream-colored robe clung to him in the soft morning breeze.