OUTSIDE, THE WIND SHOOK Varencienne’s body as if she were a child in the grip of a murderous adult. It stole her breath, so that she had to walk with her head turned to the side. She had never been out in such fierce elements before, and the experience made her realize how puny humans were in comparison. An emperor might command an entire world, but one inadvertent stroll across a windy cliff and he might be no more. Pharinet seemed invigorated by the foul weather. She marched along a clifftop path, the sodden dune grass soaking her trousers. Varencienne’s own woollen gown was soon heavy, cold and wet about her knees. Her hair hung in dripping tendrils out of her hood, whipping her face with painful stings whenever the wind caught them in its playful fingers. Conversation was impossible. Pharinet walked slightly ahead, glancing back every few minutes as if to make sure she still had a companion. To the right, the ocean thrashed in a frenzy of hellish joy, waves breaking against the rocks in a chaos of foam that must have been nearly forty feet high. The tide was well in now, and they were walking down towards it. Varencienne experienced a gut-deep fear of the maddened water, but also a great excitement. She could imagine how easily those waves could smash helpless flesh to bloody fragments, and could not help visualising what it would be like to have them fall down upon her with their inexorable weight. She could sense the way they would grab hold of her and send her into a mad spin, throwing her against the rocks again and again, until she was nothing but bleached meat. Pharinet led her to a place where, upon finer days, it would be pleasant to sit and watch the ocean. The path widened into a small platform that had been cobbled with stones and wide shells from the beach. A wall of blue rocks provided a waist-high barrier against a drop down to the sand: some sixty feet below. I do not want to be here, Varencienne thought. We must go back. It is terrible. Here, the sea roared at her, and seemed too close. Pharinet took her arm and pulled her to the wall, so that her thighs were pressed against it. “Feel the power of it!” Pharinet yelled. Varencienne saw a wave forming out in the dark turbulent waters. It rose and rose. That one is big, she thought, so big. Then she was looking up and the water was hanging over her head. She screamed and threw her arms around Pharinet, who laughed aloud as the water broke onto them. Varencienne had felt the power, sensed its weight and casual authority. She felt more wet than if she’d immersed herself in a bath. Salt stung her cheeks and eyes. She had been claimed by the sea, yet not devoured. It had marked her. Pharinet did not push her away, and curled an arm around Varencienne’s shoulders. “Listen to this,” she said. “It is a traditional rhyme of these parts. ‘Come rise, come unto me, deepest dream, come from the foam, from the lost and lone. Come rise, come unto me, leaping heart, here to my sight, to my soul.’” “What does it mean? Who does it call?” Varencienne was thinking of drowned lovers, perhaps of mermaids. Pharinet let her go and raised her arms. She began to murmur words that Varencienne could not quite catch. They seemed almost to make sense to her, but then were only gibberish. “Is that part of the rhyme?” Pharinet glanced down at her. “Yes. It is very old. It is a song to the sea. Does it hear me, do you suppose?” Varencienne gripped her cloak firmly at her throat and narrowed her eyes against the spray to stare out at the ocean. Beside her, Pharinet’s voice was a suggestive whisper, guttural and intense. Varencienne wanted to share the words, to say them. She felt their history in her bones. Surely they summoned something? The ocean seemed to have grown quieter, as if listening to Pharinet’s voice. The waves continued to break against the rocks, but now it seemed with less intensity. There is something moving there, far out, beyond the farthest rocks, Varencienne thought. There is a dark core pushing upwards, rising towards the air. For a moment, her sight blurred and it really seemed as if she could see something. Her heart was beating fast now. She heard a sound, a deep echoing howl that was like water booming through subaquatic caves. How could she have felt afraid of the sea? It demonstrated its power because it was the primal form of all female power; she had always been kin to it. Now, it called to her. Without thinking, Varencienne began to walk away from Pharinet, down the path towards the threshing water. The only sound in the world was the voice of the ocean; its roar and moan, a melancholy song. Waves came over the low wall that flanked the path. Several times, she was thrown to her knees, but every time, she used the wall on her left to lift herself up, pressing herself against it as she crawled slowly downwards. I will come into you. Show me your treasures. She could barely walk now. Wild water, threaded with foam, whirled around her ankles, her knees, dragging at her skirts. Soon, she must let herself go. Then Pharinet’s hands were on her arms, pulling her back. She did not speak, but hauled Varencienne back up the path, until they were again on the clifftop. Varencienne felt numb and drowsy, not cold at all. She was shivering, but her soaked clothes seemed sensual against her body. Her hair and face were stiff with salt. “Little Ren,” said Pharinet in an arch voice. “What were you thinking of?” “It called to me,” Varencienne answered sluggishly, pushing her hair, unsuccessfully, from her mouth. It was like weed all over her face, already drying in the ferocious wind. “Some calls it is unwise to heed,” Pharinet said. “Let’s go home.” In the imperial palace, she would have hurried off to bed with possets and hot-bottles, but Pharinet did not seem particularly concerned for Varencienne’s health. She took her to a parlor on the first floor, which seemed to be the family’s living quarters. It was a strange room: high and narrow and wooden, with tall narrow furniture and a high narrow hearth. It should have seemed uncomfortable, yet was not. This was the personal space of the Palindrake women. Here, they whispered together, and they had marked it as their own. The air smelled strongly of woody resin, and the light fluctuating against the walls seemed full of the sea, as if the sun was shining on water outside, although Varencienne could see through the window that it was still raining heavily. Pharinet made her sit down on a chaise longue, covered in plush the colour of seaweed. Presently, she thrust a large goblet of liquor into Varencienne’s hands. “That is liquid warmth,” she said. “Distilled and blended at the castle’s feet. Drink it down quickly and I’ll pour you another.” Varencienne did so and, swallowing repeatedly to assuage the spicy burn in her throat, lay back in her chair. A fire raged in the hearth, sending out a wall of heat to her face. She knew she should change out of her wet clothes, go to bed, take a bath, let Oltefney fuss over her full of censure. What had happened out there? She remembered the urge to walk into the sea, the surety that something other than death waited there for her. She closed her eyes, and dozed in the chair, lulled by the cracking of the logs in the fire. She could hear Pharinet moving around, sometimes humming softly beneath her breath. Doors opened and closed somewhere else. There were footsteps. She felt as if people were leaning over her, but lacked the strength to open her eyes. “You fool, she’s drunk!” Everna’s voice. Pharinet, when she answered sounded excited. “But it was more than I could have believed, Evvie. The charm. She more than saw something, she went to join it!? “Hush!” Everna snapped. “She might be tipsy, but not asleep.” “She is the one,” said Pharinet. “She could be,” Everna answered, “but then you always think that.”
THAT NIGHT, VALRAVEN CAME to her. The storms had passed, and beyond the windows in Varencienne’s bedroom, only vigilant moonlight held sway. He did not knock upon her door, or speak, merely manifested soundlessly at her side, standing there, looking down. She still felt languorously tranquil, an effect of her morning’s adventure that had stayed with her throughout the day. As on their wedding night, he lifted aside her bed covers and set about the business of copulating with his wife; a soul-less function. And yet, despite her decision to remain unmoved and patiently await the act’s conclusion, it seemed that the air beyond her windows was full of moving shadows, and echoing howls, as if lamenting from a far distance, filled her head. She became aware of the hissing of the waves on the shingle far below. It made her thirsty for water, to be immersed in it. Her whole body was fluid, her sex a molten sea creature. Valraven’s hard flesh sta
bbing into it awoke it, made it want to seize and contract. She did not yearn to hold him close, nor for any whisperings of love. She wanted only what he was capable of giving; that simple connection, groin to groin. Curling her legs around his hips, she pulled him deeper, refusing to allow him leave until her body had finished its convulsions of delight. There was an intense silence between them, then came his voice, low and cold. “They have got to you already, with their meddling.” He expelled a kind of hissing noise and pulled away from her. She watched him, filled with an utter calm and repletion. The air was cool against her flesh now. Before he’d even left the room, she turned onto her side and slept.
4
OTHER WOMEN
IN THE WEEK BEFORE Valraven Palindrake was due to return to his command in the east of the empire, the Leckerys came to visit. They arrived in the balmy spring evening, alighting from a low, open carriage, drawn by four blond horses. Varencienne, self-conscious of being on display, had dressed herself in dark green, and wore her hair in a single plait down her back, much to Oltefney’s disgust, although they had decorated it with tiny white flowers. She sat demurely in the great hall, her hands folded in her lap, while the Leckerys made noisy greetings to the Palindrakes. Servants flitted unobtrusively about the room, bearing aperitifs on trays. Varencienne sipped hers too hungrily. She craved light-headedness. She felt nervous. Saska Leckery, the matriarch, swept towards her and peered down her long nose at Varencienne, emitting silent judgments and opinions. Varencienne felt scorched, laid bare. “How do you find life beyond Magrast, my dear? Is country life to your taste?” She spoke with the authority of someone who had once lived in the Magravandian city herself, who could tell the difference. “I like it very much,” Varencienne answered, conscious she might be thought a liar. The party moved into the dining room to eat. Saska brought two daughters with her, a maiden sister, and a young son of around ten years. The rest of her men, she explained to Varencienne, had been sent to the capital, and the one who’d survived was an administrator for the empire in Mewt. As Caradore’s servants glided silently through the candlelight, dispensing fragrant soup, Saska said, “I have already lost one son and a husband to Madragore, and pray that my other boy, Merlan, returns.” She glanced with cold eyes at Valraven. “Have you spoken to the emperor on my behalf?” “Saska,” Valraven responded in a soft, even tone, “you know as well as I do that the decision is more in the hands of your son than any other. He believes in his country, and his emperor. He enjoys his work in Mewt. Now, please, enjoy your soup. We have had our people scouring the rock pools for miggions for it since dawn.” Varencienne noticed that Saska Leckery continued to look at Valraven for several seconds after he had dismissed her from his attention. He had an enemy of sorts in her. As for Saska’s sister, Dimara, Varencienne found her hard to fathom. At one moment, she seemed relaxed and amiable, at others dark-eyed and watchful. She was striking in appearance for an older woman who clearly did little to augment nature’s gifts. Varencienne discerned a coolness between Pharinet and Dimara, simply because they were incredibly polite to one another. It was the kind of politeness Varencienne had often seen at court; insincere and concealing snarls. Sometimes, she found Dimara looking at her. It was unnerving, although once Varencienne caught her eye, Dimara always softened her examination with a smile. The daughters were equally intriguing. Ligrana seemed like a younger version of Pharinet, vivacious and flashing, with dark skin and hair. She spent most of the meal laughing too loudly at Pharinet’s quiet, sharp remarks. Varencienne, crumbling bread on her plate, wondered if Ligrana was Pharinet’s protégé, and whether they had discussed her. Ligrana’s attempts to ignore her bordered on rudeness. In an arch and affected voice, she reminded the whole company continually of Pharinet’s accomplishments and escapades. Niska was different. She seemed fragile and fey, quite dark of skin but with strange water-colored hair, that had little hue at all. Water weed. She was a mermaid come to land, mute and desiccating. She did not speak at all, but ate with the focussed concentration of a cat, neat and with small movements. Her brow was clear, yet it seemed that deep inside she was frowning in bewilderment. Her veil of pale hair obscured her face for most of the time. If she was not a mercreature, then she would have been brought up by wild animals and had only recently learned the manners of being human. The boy child, Foylen, was a soldier in the making; respectful and courteous, speaking only when addressed. His mother, Saska herself, gave the impression of being large, although she was not, and had the neat waist of a woman much younger than she was. She should have been striking to look at, but smothered tears had made pouches around her eyes, which destroyed her beauty. Her mouth also had soured. We wear our troubles on our faces, Varencienne thought, then imagined herself with frozen agony etched into the set of her mouth. It wouldn?t happen. She was too young to believe that life would ever treat her that cruelly. These people were the Palindrakes’ closest friends. No men, of course, for the emperor’s campaigns had taken them all. Varencienne had already learned this was the case with all the noble families of Caradore. Men had been a small part of the lives of women in Magrast, but here it was different and their absence left a hole. Saska turned her vivisecting gaze upon Varencienne. “How much have you seen of the countryside, my dear? Have you been taken to the Chair and the rock village?” Varencienne shook her head. “I have spent much time at the beach; there is so much to see.” “Pharinet, Everna, you are neglecting your duties. A newcomer should be shown the sights of Caradore.” “There is plenty of time,” drawled Pharinet. For two weeks, Varencienne had been exploring the coves below the castle. Pharinet had not offered to accompany her again, and Valraven seemed to have forgotten his concern about the danger of cliff paths. Perhaps the family hoped she would again feel compelled to walk into the waves, and thus they would be rid of her. That had not happened, however. Sometimes, she thought of the fragments of conversation she had heard between Everna and Pharinet after their visit to the sea wall. Afterwards, she had wondered whether she’d dreamed it. She had returned to the sea wall alone, but it seemed different now that the weather had changed, and the mild spring currents slipped up the coast. There was no repetition of that strange compulsion to enter the waves. However, the experience had been important. After it, her love for the sea had been instant and overwhelming. She woke each morning desperate to get back to it, to commune with it in silence, let it watch her. She knew she had been altered in some way; the sea had touched her at a vulnerable time, but it had not called to her so strongly again. She wondered too whether the experience had altered her in other ways. Sometimes, she caught sight of strange smoky black shadows on the edge of her vision. When she turned to look, there was never anything there. Often, she smelled burning in odd places around the castle, as if clothes were on fire, or curtains, but when she investigated, she could never find any evidence of it. “You must, of course, visit us at Norgance,” Saska said. “You will find the castles in Caradore all so different, representing the characteristics of their respective families. ‘Our homes are our faces’—that is an old saying.” “I would love to come,” Varencienne said. It was the truth. The women of Caradore had not become close to her in any way, and her husband was an impenetrable void, yet Varencienne felt very much at home in the area. Even Ligrana’s obvious maneuvers to discomfort her could not distress her. It no longer mattered what people thought. After the meal, the company walked slowly into one of the drawing rooms. Outside, shingle hissed beneath the raking caress of the waves and the sky was clear, full of stars. Varencienne had to fight a compulsion to go and stand by the window, stare out. She was always looking for shadows across the stars, although she had experienced no strange phenomena since her first night in the castle, and if the perigorts had screamed, she had slept through it. Valraven stood before the hearth, removed from his companions while still their focus. He was a prize to them, to be admired, as if looking at him was a blessing. Varencienne experienced no sense of ownership. She had never stroked his hair,
or even pressed her hand against his warm flesh. He had come to her bed three times, and since the night when she had offered him her hunger, his body had not affected her. He did what had to be done; she endured it. They did not speak like friends. Perhaps her closeness with Bayard had misled her as to how men and women might interact. As a younger girl, she had read the old stories of love and chivalry, and had believed a man would come to his wife in love and adoration. Perhaps this was the truth of it: cold commerce. It did not matter. Soon, he would be gone and Varencienne would surrender herself to her dreams: walk along the empty beaches, making pictures in her mind of circumstances she could barely imagine. Men are made for war, she thought, for without it, we might have them round us all the time. It is the comfort of women. Briefly, she imagined a world without men, and it seemed a place of light and freedom. “Varencienne.” Her name had been spoken, and she found she’d wandered to the window without realizing it. There was a presence hovering nearby that felt barely human. Varencienne looked into Niska’s grey-green eyes, but Niska hadn’t called her. That was Saska, sitting with Everna, Dimara and Oltefney. “Come here, my dear.” They had been plotting, Varencienne thought. She smiled at them mildly. “We have decided you must come to Norgance very soon,” Saska said. “Thank you, I shall look forward to it.” “Next week,” Saska continued. “Can you ride?” “A little.” Since she’d been able to walk, she had been led round the palace gardens on her pony twice a week, by an old groom, but she’d never taken command of the reins herself. She had been strapped into a bucket seat, with her legs hanging over to one side. They had taught her to make her spine long, her body erect. All ladies of breeding should know how to sit on a horse correctly, and their horses were without spirit, buffed to a gloss and bedecked with gilded leather. “It is only a two-hour ride,” said Saska. She glanced at her sister. “Perhaps Pharinet could bring you. You do not visit us regularly enough, Pharry.” Varencienne noticed the almost-imperceptible grimace that shivered across Dimara’s face. Pharinet, sitting listening to Ligrana, who was curled at her feet, looked up. “You know why it’s difficult for me to come,” she said. “I hoped you understood.” The atmosphere in the room immediately condensed. A strange expression crossed Saska’s face: pain and collusion. Dimara stared at Pharinet as if she’d uttered an obscenity. “Your memories will always be there,” Saska said softly. Pharinet smiled a little, ducked her head. “Of course I’ll bring Ren over,” she said. “You are almost family, and I’m sure she’ll love Norgance.” Everna then changed the subject and began to talk about people of whom Varencienne had never heard. What had happened in Norgance? Varencienne wondered. She thought of Pharinet, younger, but no more wild than she was now, and there was a shadowy space in the picture where something, or someone, else must fit.