Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (38 page)

“Drink all of it. It will keep you warm for what remains.”

Imani made certain that Adria had her apple seedling, and she took her to the edge of the camp, and pointed her to the east — this much Adria could tell, for the opening of Shísha’s tent faced that way.

With a smile and farewell, Imani urged her into the thick of the forest. Adria took a deep breath, and rubbed her bare arms against the cold, for she still wore only the barest necessity at her waist. She closed one hand over the other to protect the airy seedling inside, and she started off among the trees.

As Adria wandered, she followed the sounds of animals, some she knew and some she did not. She followed constellations of the Aeman and the Aesidhe. She followed voices, some she knew to be members of the tribe, some voices from childhood, and some voices she had never heard. They urged her on in one direction or another, and they called her by all her names, and more, in several tongues. Some she knew, and some she did not.

They called her “Adria,” “Idonea,” “Princess,” and “Scion.” They called her “Likshochuhalene,” and “Lozheskisiyama,” and “Pukshonisla,” and “Sabatosi,” and even more she did not understand.

She saw human figures sometimes, or their silhouettes, and animals, and some which seemed to be both. She could not be certain of all this, but never grew frightened, for she never felt alone or threatened, and wore her blade at her hip.

“You have never been alone,” her uncle reminds her.

“It has been decided,” her father nods.

She grew tired, and thought that something in the food must have affected her strangely, or the drink. She knew she was very cold, but somehow she didn’t feel it.

She cannot remember if she has slept.

She grew thirsty often, but always found a place to drink, and to rest a little, and to relieve herself. Little camps somehow left in her path, beside one brook or a pond, with a good place to sit, and upon it a garment of her clothing, cleaned and left for her to find.

At these moments, she was left alone for a time, without voices, but still, the shadows seemed alive. 

Everything is alive
, Shísha said, or something like it.

And now, Adria believes it.

“Even the stones seem to move, or seem as if they meant to,” she whispered. “You have will,” Adria explained to herself, and to them, and she laughs aloud.

After three such camps, which seemed miles and days apart, though she was certain the sun had never risen, she was led into the open, by the Wabekshocheya-moyi River, right where she likes to bathe, and where she begins this whole strange journey with Imani.

The… morning before?

A final voice had led her here, calling her Lilene, and now comes from the willow tree. She ignored it, for a moment, and leaned down beside the water, and splashes her face with cold water. But it did not clear her eyes or calm her thoughts.

In the dark ripples of the water, strange shapes began to form, and Adria finds she cannot look away. In fact, she felt somehow as if she is falling.

I am holding my breath.

“One… two… three…”

And she falls into deep, but without fear.

She sees pale children seated at desks of marble, writing with black quills. Figures in gray masks appear behind them, wrap their cloaks around them, vanishing into stone.

Against a wall, nine women robed in black, heads downcast. And one raises her head and arm, and her eyes fill with longing.

The figures fade to black, to a cloud of smoke rushing across marble chessboard tiles. And the smoke dissolves and parts into sudden flame, flashes of red silk and of silver.

And the children are writing her name. Blind.

Idonea. Idonea. Idonea. And always.

Green apples and paper leaves.

And always, and always,

“Once more for the crows.”

Adria was standing now, and had found her breath. Her eyes were opened. She looked down. Her garments were gone and her body was covered in slender wounds, and then scars. Beneath them, voices lingered and scratched against the inside of her skin.

The rattling and the crowing. Serpents and wings.

She found herself on her knees, and she wandered down into the water where every star and ancestor swam, and she lay back and closed her eyes and floated among the constellations.

Adria had realized for some time that she was cold, or perhaps had just realized how long she had shivered. It didn’t matter, she now had the will to make her way out of the water, and wrung some of the water from her garments as she looked about, her awareness gradually returning to normal.

There was a slight sound, and she turned, and saw that a young man had dropped from the willow tree, not far beside her. Behind him, through the trees, the sun was rising, and the sky pinked slowly.

“Mateko,” she whispered. “You frightened me the last time you fell.”

He could understand no more than his name, but he nodded anyway, and he held something out to her, just as the others had the afternoon before, what seemed like weeks or months before. Or a dream.

Adria took a step forward, well pleased she was at least dressed now, though realizing that he might well have watched her — led her, even — through the whole night. Now, though, it seemed a small thing.

I am a woman,
Adria thought.
I am not ashamed.

He carried an arrow, and offered it to her with open hands, so she would not mistake his intent.

Like the Hunter and the Wolf Woman
, she thought. 
Does this mean we are betrothed? She wished Sh
í
sha were there to translate for them.

Mateko was probably about her age, maybe a little older, and she was almost envious of him, suddenly. He was leaving soon, with Shísha, to join her uncle. But then he smiled, trying to overcome her hesitation, and he tried to communicate. He used both Aesidhe words and hand signs, and then added, hesitantly and clumsily, an Aeman word or two. Like Imani, he must have been coached by Shísha.

Adria soon enough felt that she understood. “This is the arrow of the Hunter, which wounded the Wolf Woman. It is not meant for hunting, but is given from a new man to a new woman, in recognition of her womanhood. When she marries, it is meant to be given to her husband.”

“Ka, Lilene…” he nodded, pleased, as she took the arrow from him.

“Lozheskisiyama,” she corrected him.

“Ka, Lózha,” he shrugged, raising his hand above her head, then lowering it to the size of a child. “Lilene,” and then he pointed to himself, his hand still lowered. “Chúgoyétokoe… Chúgoye.”

Falls from Trees
, Adria would learn afterward, to some amusement.

He stood a little awkwardly then, uncertain of how to act next. Adria smiled, then embraced him briefly, knowing the sharing of a childhood name was a sign of friendship between adults.

Together, they wandered to a spot nearby the water, where they opened the ground and planted her seedling.

As she arose, Adria thought she could hear children playing, imagined them picking apples from heavy black branches, and dancing among the paper leaves and ashes.

Part Five

Oathbound

Left in the Tower

A
dria floated, lingered, her body and her memory half in water, half in air. She held her breath as long as she could, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Know that the arrow will follow the path of your eye. As soon as the shaft is loosed, look to your next target, for the last is already dead.

She released her breath, and an arrow took flight.

One, and then far too many.

Flames danced from rooftop to rooftop. Smoke followed fog upon the water, through a great wheel turning and burning into ash, and again she held her breath.

Ashes fell from paper leaves, spread along the forest edge, encircled camps, and mingled with ground stone to paint the faces of Ghost Dancers.

“Do the Aesidhe have Houses?” Adria asked the Sister. “Like Idonea?”

“Of course not,” the Sister answered.

“And why not?”

“They don’t care about lineage. They are Wilding, savage… they have no wish to be tamed or civilized.”

“I never meant to be a savage,” Adria said. “I intended to be knighted, like my father and my uncle, alongside my brother.”

But... It has been decided. There are better days and better ways to die.

Drowning? 
Adria thought. 
Is
this
a better way to die? I have been falling and I have been drowning all my life...

“My sweet, sweet child,” a voice came. “I am afraid that it was never your life...”

Adria started at a noise, and her head turned to fix on the motion as she rose half out of the water. The maid also startled, nearly dropping Adria’s leathers back onto the dressing table. Adria regained her sense quickly, realizing she had fallen asleep.

“Nu be Chahi...” Adria called, a little sharply, her Aesidhe more ready than her Aeman. The tone communicated the meaning well enough, and the girl dropped Adria’s clothing, even as Adria softened her voice and corrected herself, “Leave them... please.”

Not drowning…
Adria’s mind cleared quickly.
My chambers… Windberth.

She offered the girl a smile in thanks, and the maid curtsied, low.

“Your pardon, Royal Highness,” the girl said. “I was only intending to have them cleaned while you enjoyed your bath… and perhaps a nap.”

The words were formal, but the tone held a hint of amusement, almost mockery. Adria took better notice of the girl, then, and consented. “Fine, then, and I thank you…. I am sorry, but I have not asked your name.”

Even as she asked it, Adria knew.

The girl introduced herself all the more lavishly, smiling and curtsying even lower this time. “My name is Twyla, Ma’am. I am duly pleased that you should ask, and am overjoyed to make your acquaintance.” She remained low, head bowed, until Adria splashed her with water from the bath.

“Twyla...” Adria laughed. “I am so sorry, I did not recognize you, but you were... well, are...” She shook her head in wonder at Twyla’s appearance.

“It has been three years, Ma’am,” Twyla smiled. “And certainly significant ones in the life of a young woman. You have changed not a little yourself, if I may say.”

Adria realized she had exposed more of her body than she might have intended. She lowered herself back in the tub, but without the haste of embarrassment, which had faded during her time with the Aesidhe. 
Which customs shall I forget, and which shall I remember?

Twyla nodded, turning to the wardrobe to retrieve Adria’s bathing gown, placing it in arm’s reach.

“I am so weary, I did not think of it,” Adria half-apologized. “Oh, Twyla…. How wonderful you are here. Hurry and take my things to the laundress while I finish my bath, and then we can talk beside the fire, for the first time as adults.”

Twyla smiled. “Yes, of course, Royal…”

“And one more ‘Highness’ out of your mouth and I shall dismiss you at once and have you flogged for excessive formality.”

Though they had always maintained the ritual graces in public, such pretenses had mostly been forgotten when they were alone. Twyla had always served Adria, but they had been as much like sisters as could be managed. They had both been scolded, more than once, when Adria had let the girl into her bed on the coldest nights, when no amount of mantles could fight the chill of the maid’s floor pallet.

Twyla feigned fright at Adria’s threat. “Oh… yes, Royal Highness. At once, Royal Highness. Think no more of it, Ma’am.” And she disappeared around the bathing screen before Adria could splash her again.

For her first few years at the castle, Adria had been attended by Kaye, who had served as nursemaid, lady-in-waiting, and governess. Even when the first was no longer needed and the last had been taken up by the Sisterhood, Kaye had remained a good servant, counselor, and friend, and she had taught her daughter, from a very young age, to be the same.

Twyla had often come along with her mother to the citadel to spend the day with Adria. It had been unofficially frowned upon for some time, but Kaye seemed to have a unique ability at fending off the displeasure of Taber and other courtiers and functionaries.

For her part, Adria had also made her mind known, for she and Twyla had fast become friends. Twyla’s father had died shortly after her birth, and her only sibling had also not survived infancy, so the young girls had proved a good match.

One summer morning, Adria and Twyla played at Princess, one and then the other wearing the gowns and raiment of refinement. First Twyla dressed Adria, as was usual for her mother to do. Then Adria insisted that they switch, and she lowered a beautiful silk gown over the arms and head of her friend, bedecked her wrists and neck with silver circlets, jeweled necklaces, and rare Somanan perfumes.

Kaye entered from the forechamber, all frowns and head-shaking and “tsk-tsk.”

“We are only playing Princess, Lady Kaye,” Adria protested.

But then Twyla also frowned, her eyes downcast, and mumbled to Adria, “I am only playing, but... you cannot. You don’t have to.”

After their clothes and roles were righted, Adria asked, “Tell us a story, Lady Kaye.”

“I am not a lady, Highness,” Kaye smiled. “But what should you like to hear?”

Twyla and Adria exchanged a glance. “Let us hear
your
story,” Adria suggested. “Tell us of you and of Twyla’s father...”

Kaye only frowned and shook her head. “I’m afraid that is nae a story for a young princess.”

Adria sighed and turned to Twyla, who grew red with embarrassment, but said nothing.

Adria hastily finished washing herself, making certain she could pass her fingers through her hair — the bath oils, it seemed, had done their job. She rose, and wrung as much water from it as she could manage, then stepped out of the tub onto the thick rug which had always served to drink up the excess water.

Her skin steamed as she stood for a moment to let her body dry. She enjoyed the sensation of the plush carpet under her toes, almost the color and the feel of a lichen which grew on parts of the forest floor in the Southern Wild.

Adria was almost fully dry before the cold bothered her enough for her to take up her bathing gown, and the dressing robe Twyla had laid beside it. She had become so accustomed to variations of heat and cold that she was no longer bothered by what would have once left her singed or shivering.

The robe practically swallowed her, though not as much as it always had, and the softness of the fur — both inside and out — evoked memories of warmth and comfort on nights when the wind had howled and clawed at her tower shutters.

As she had hundreds of times before, Adria wandered into her antechamber and sat cross-legged and fur-wrapped upon the rug before the hearth. As she closed her eyes against the heat, she freed her arms to begin braiding her hair, an act that her hands had long-since learned to manage without her attention.

Like a spider,
 Imani had once said. 
This is why women like to braid, and to weave. It is to remember our First Mother.
 

Adria smiled, wondering for a moment what Imani and Twyla might think of one another. The Aesidhe people had no servants, of course. Still, the two women would have seen much of value in each other. Twyla, in fact, would likely have fared far better than Adria had in her first seasons among the Aesidhe. 
And to think I wore her clothing in those first days...

I wonder if she has stayed in my rooms these past years?
 Adria thought as she finished her fourth and final braid. She opened her eyes and rose, pulling the robe back over her shoulders, then looked around the room to reacquaint herself, and for something to bind her braids, for Twyla had taken even her twine hair ties to be cleaned.

Though she had always called it an antechamber, the room had performed more functions than the title suggested. Adria had always taken her lessons, eaten, played, and hosted the rare visitor here — Hafgrim had been the only person to visit more than once or twice, apart from Sisters and servants.

A sturdy wooden table and chairs of dark oak served as the centerpiece, all carved with a vine and leaf motif which had been popular in the north years before. Adria believed this to have been a gift from a local count, whose son had been a hopeful suitor, despite their years of nine or ten at the time.

There were only four chairs, but Adria could not remember ever having required so many for a meal, or for any other purpose. Though it had at first been overlarge, Adria had sat at this table when the Sisters had tutored her.

In the outer wall beyond the table, carved oriels with cushioned benches were set about two windows, similar to the one in her solar. To one side of these lay a set of shelves which still contained the dozen or so books which she had personally owned, along with several curios — some gifts, some items of interest she had been able to collect on her few sojourns beyond the citadel. Her chessboard lay upon the uppermost shelf, beside a small box which contained its pieces.

Another small box of etched silver contained oddments Adria had collected as a child, little lost things whose meanings were now less relevant to her, or even forgotten. But one of these was a white ribbon she had once used to bind her hair. It’s silk felt strange in her hand, like the First Skin she had worn for her Aesidhe coming-of-age Ceremonial. Still, it would serve its purpose until her more sturdier cord was returned.

All the contents of these shelves appeared to have been cared for, for there was none of the expected covering of dust. 

If Twyla has not stayed here, she has certainly given it frequent attention nonetheless... or someone has,
 Adria thought as she knotted her hair ribbon into a bow.

On the mantle above the hearth rested a picture of her father, painted by one of the more talented artists of the Sisterhood, whose skills had gone far beyond the usual illumination of texts and into the realm of human vanity which Taber only seldom permitted. It was a striking likeness, from a time when Ebenhardt had remained a warlord, perhaps a decade before.

The image showed him in the saddle, with a hand upon the reins and his body turned. It was an unrealistic position for riding a horse, but he had not actually posed in the saddle, as Adria recalled. This had merely been a stylistic choice of the artist.