The leader halted, gave his mount a firm pat, and shook the cowl back from his face. Tight-curled dark hair fell loose down his back, tamed from his brow by the filet. “How fares my daughter?” he called. “Waiting for her father on the stair, barefoot and uncombed as any savage child?”
Sivan tried to smile at the old tease but found it difficult. Instead she smoothed at her long tunic as Cavodu, Commander of the Temple and therefore of the Western Islands, flipped his cloak to one side and swung down from his mount. Lamellar steel and leather rattled, sunlight and shadow both picking out the intricate stitches, and one hand rested upon an equally fine sword, slung at his hip.
Primitive weaponry, but they’d found out long ago and the hard way that other sorts were often rendered useless. But even more significant: how her people needed to arm themselves for a mere trip to the southeast estuaries.
“My sister would rather ride hunt for the table with her lover than heed any sedate pace!” Jorda, at Cavodu’s left stirrup, dismounted with a quick grin.
Sivan returned it as the other riders dispersed through a gap in the ancient vines and columns. One took the reins to not only Cavodu’s but his son’s mount, following the others. As they passed into the green, behind them it twisted, shimmered briefly, then morphed into razored leaves and briars with finger-length thorns.
The three were left alone on the great, living stair.
A perfect time to speak. “My hunt fared even less sedate than you should believe, Father. I found a trail. One that you, Jorda, left cold but a few turns ago.”
Her brother’s pleasant expression faded into puzzlement. Her father, on the other hand, seemed to fathom what had been left unsaid. Lips tightening, he climbed the steps towards the vine-shrouded entry and raised one arm.
The vines shook, twined tighter for a breath then submitted, roiling and twisting in retreat. Beneath them a crystalline barrier revealed itself, shifting and refracting, small discolorations beginning to pulse more akin to blood than any creak of wood or stone. An opening limned itself, solidified and shuddered, then irised wide.
Cavodu gestured, sharp, as he disappeared through the gate.
Jorda and Sivan exchanged glances and followed.
“ARE WE to just let this stand?”
They spoke the tongue of the South Island’s ephemerals. Maloh’s first tongue. Not many of their own bothered to learn such things, and this conversation was one they’d rather not disclose. It was the same reason they kept to vocal speech; it was altogether too easy for thoughts, if Sent and Shared with more than one mind, to stray.
“It isn’t yours to decide what shall stand and what shall not.” Cavodu had exchanged travelling mail for gauzy loose robes, and road-dusted boots for sandals. The latter gleamed no less than the burnished stone tiles. “Your sister acted heedlessly.”
Jorda had not bothered to shed his riding clothes, though he was replaiting his dark hair. “Was she just to let the little creature die of poison?”
“If such was its fate, yes!”
“And you’re sure that was, indeed, its fate.” Sivan leaned against one of the wooden pillars in her father’s solar, fingers idling upon the smooth surface, eyes tracing the fingerlings of light through the roof of green leaves and crystalline tiles. She and Jorda had shared the same womb, but it took no twin- or psi-bond to know what he was feeling.
“Sivan. Daughter. If you and Maloh felt the need to interfere, it should have been with more caution. Considering.”
“Perhaps, Father, I was considering that most of all.”
“You both know a decision made with care and craft cannot be set aside simply because it is inconvenient!”
“Inconvenient?” Jorda repeated, dubious.
“We have interfered enough with those little ones—you, Jorda, in particular have done! The decision was made long ago, by ones with more command-right than I: the native creatures are to be left alone. Protected, even.”
“Like insects beneath a glass.”
“Poisonous ones,” Cavodu said, sharp. “They fought us, once. It was decided to leave them to their strange myths and dreams. The latter in particular seem to have some hold over this place, and there is not a one of us who has forgotten the consequences.”
“Consequences, indeed!” Sivan interrupted. “It was not a myth or dream I met in the Deeps. This boy’s very existence is Jorda’s responsibility. Whether we wish it or not.”
“But does such a kindling truly run through him?” Jorda asked. “Could it possibly have caught light?”
Cavodu crossed his arms, eyebrows drawing together.
“More than you could imagine, my brother. I witnessed it myself, as did my companions.” Sivan turned once more to her sire. “Maloh has, of course, encountered the little ones before, but Rann and Vox had never seen one. Rann was open with her curiosity, and—”
“Which is why we should not interfere.”
“That is exactly my point, Father! Rann couldn’t interfere. She tried to set herself within the little one’s mind, but he made parry with her! He responded, repelled her easily. As if her Sounding was an invasion he would not permit!”
Cavodu’s eyes, shimmering-pale with anger, stilled and darkened, narrowing.
“They will, one and all, corroborate what happened if you doubt me. I’m sure Vox would be happy to; he did not approve.”
“Vox did well to disapprove.” Cavodu’s words were slow. “And I do not doubt you, daughter.”
“What native youth could deny an empath of Rann’s calibre,” Jorda mused, “if he were not somehow privy to the Matrices?”
Cavodu kept silence. Sivan slid a glance towards Jorda; he returned it and spoke guardedly—not to her.
“You
