Fire & Water
Ashe: Book Two
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TBCChapter Twenty
She found herself in the water. She was blinded by the waves that were too big to be friendly, and went under more than once before she could shake the water from her eyes and see in which direction she needed to swim. The bank felt indescribably good to her and for some minutes she sat still, doing nothing, hardly even thinking, absorbing the fresh security of the ground through the palms of her hands. It struck her that – unkempt, confused and probably on the run from some kind of monster – she might not be an ideal role model for the baby. Still, she reasoned, getting to her feet, shaking herself like an otter, things might work out that the child would take after Betany. The thought made Ashe smile: she was soaked and mud-marked beyond all hope of redemption, but the water had been crisp and cold and cleansing, and she had emerged from it changed. Calliope wasn’t her first thought, in that element. Her first thought had been the simple and unequivocal swim: don’t drown, but back on land she did think about the water spirit. She didn’t think they’d ever meet again: Calliope’s time on land was up, had been up and even then she’d pushed the barriers as far as they would go. But being in Calliope’s world, even in a puddle of it, brought the memory close and fresh, and it was one of the very few memories that Ashe could embrace as being wholly good.
That there had been a change she could not deny: admittedly this immersion was nothing like the first death, from which she had emerged so very different. This had not been a dramatic change, more a serious ducking with a subtle touch of enlightenment tacked on as an afterthought. It felt good to be walking over the soft Downland turf, and moving toward home even as she checked herself over for weapons, bruises, food and clues to what the hell had just overtaken her. Berrach, Ashe mused, having guessed correctly at the instigator of her latest excursion into the ether, would not be made happy by this escape. The only irritation Ashe felt was that it had taken her so long to break free. Soon she’d be a parent. She’d need to polish up her act.
As she strode on, still wringing the water from her coat, her wet hair needing to be pushed out of her eyes on a regular basis, she glanced toward the north and saw a speck of movement in the sky. She paused, and waited, and was rewarded for both: when the raven flew over Ashe’s head, she stood still enough to hear the whisper and thump of its flight. She smiled: a good omen, by all accounts. She had no doubts about that.
*****
I may tear out my hair just a little. No: can’t even do that much. I am beginning to feed on the food of irritation, and cut my cloth from the inanities that surround me all the time. I lose patience too quickly and too completely; I know that. It’s something I must work on. The meeting with the Elders went on too long and used up too much of my very limited supply of patience. And by the Dark Goddess, I actually felt the moment that Ashe slipped from my grasp. A strange sensation, and unnervingly like the moment my cycle commences. This bothered me very badly, for reasons I’m not sure about. I guess that in recent days she has come between me and my wits. Hauling her out of her meeting with Teinne and Cairo was, I now see, a mistake. I was angry and, I admit it, a little concerned. I overreacted and now I have no idea at all of where she is. My distraction went not wholly unnoticed, which is another cause for mild concern. I have a vague recollection of one of the Elders (another simple, brainless remnant of another life) pouring wine for themselves and for me as our meeting ended. I don’t remember actually… drinking the wine. What I do recall is being momentarily puzzled by the overly-intense regard with which one or two of the Elders observed me. I had smiled curiously at them and then looked down. I had clenched my fingers around the sun-dried pottery that made up my cup, and crushed it all to pieces. The shards had been forced against the skin and it struck me as sadly ironic that the Dark Goddess had demanded no further payment from me. After all it was nothing but a waste of good blood.
One of the servants to the Elders (what exactly allows them that luxury? I don’t have any pretty young thing bringing in my meals or helping me to disrobe… or robe, let alone anything else) brought a dish of cool water with some lightly-stinging antiseptic oil applied. She really was a pretty child, and I am quite sure that the dexterous fashion in which she tended upon my injuries came with an extra ounce of attention. She washed my hands with care, patting dry the cuts where the blood was already clotting (one of the few strengths remaining to my line, and pertinent to a fault; if nothing else, we clot easily…). During the washing and drying she never looked me in the face, which allowed me to assess the curve of her jaw and the sweet valley of her cleavage. At that point it struck me: why was I going so far afield to address my own desperate libido (I really had had ideas about Ashe) when I could do so well here at home? Why ride so completely for a fall? The thought of those honeyed hands (she had been out in the sun) on my arms, or anywhere else stuck with me and kept me sane when the throbbing of the cuts themselves threatened to became more than I could bear. Those Elders who had seen the little fall from control would of course spread the word. Soon I would have to make up my mind, one way or another, on the future of those venerable idiots. My plans for them were varied: should I continue to woo them into my way of thinking, or just cut their throats (every last one of them), and have their bodies dragged out in to the desert to be fed upon by vultures?
No prizes for guessing which option I preferred.
It bothered me not at all that I should move back from the issue of throat-slitting to the continued appreciation of the serving girl. As she finished her work I put out my hand and rested it for a moment on her shoulder. I was daring: I even let the tip of my thumb caress the skin of that soft throat as I took my hand away. I saw her swallow and touch her lips with her tongue. Did anyone see that movement? I hardly cared. For an instant I thought I was just going to throw caution to the wind and fuck her there and then. I have to get control of myself. But then again, would it have mattered to anyone if I tilted the girl’s chin up to me in order to assess her beauty? I dismissed her again with a smile and some neat word of thanks that the listening Elders approved, seeing nothing in it but my good humour and every-day appreciation for physical charm. I’m mad or they’re blind, but which is which? But she was an attractive girl and I felt a glow of predatory expectation warm me again – I had chilled down considerably when I felt Ashe break free of my touch – before deciding that I was not going to be sleeping alone or peacefully, that night. I smiled again at the girl and she made the smallest nod in my direction. She knew what I wanted – or she thought I did – and she would come.
*****
Betany stood with her hands on the marble table top and stared at the servant who had brought the news of Ardan’s death. Painful enough to start the day after a night of bad dreams and a continuation of the morning sickness once she was awake again, but sickness passed and bad dreams could be forcibly dismissed. What was not to be put out of mind for even the slightest moment was the fact that Ardan – a guest in Betany’s own home – had killed herself. Rhea – looking awkward – and in the unhappy position of being the only person capable of identifying the draught that, clearly enough, Ardan had drunk, provided material facts without an attempt at an explanation. Perhaps that was because she had seen too clearly Betany’s shocked and horrified face. The draught identified, Rhea had quietly backed out of the room, leaving Betany give orders that this… child should be lifted from her bed and taken to the death room, in which sombre and muffled place her remains would wait the three days that were law in Caer Arianrhod before being transported to their final resting place.
Had Ashe been there, Betany would have not needed to spin round and head for the cells. It was too much to have entered the room so nicely fitted and prepared for Ardan and to see the girl lying dead, an oddly-peaceful expression on her face.
Betany would have dismissed Rhea, had the wise-woman remained in the room, but Rhea had moved with exaggerated haste. It is possible that she read something of Betany’s thoughts, in which rose up most brightly the theme that she and the wise-woman both had somehow failed the little apprentice. She nodded to the minder of the palace cells and climbed down the stone steps to end up sitting on one of the stone slabs opposite to Gowdie’s cell.
Gowdie was still sleeping, and dreaming about water and Downland and a hunting expedition, but something must have alerted her to Betany’s presence and the grimness of her sister’s mood, because she jerked suddenly awake, and still in human form, reached out her rather grubby hands toward Betany, who took them and squeezed them. “Beth? Sister? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Ardan…” Betany could not frame the words. She maintained her hold on Gowdie’s strong fingers. “Ardan, the little apprentice whom I had Rhea send for…” She could not even remember if that was what had happened. “She’s dead.” For the shortest of moment Betany avoided looking at her sister. “She… Oh, Gods, she brewed up some kind of fatal substance and drank it all down.” She maintained her hold on Gowdie but elsewhere her control was slipping: the stresses had been building up too fiercely and for too long. She cried out, “I don’t understand it! She was here to be useful and I thought that she was happy. She clearly wasn’t.”
Gowdie said, quietly, “Not everything that takes place with the court is your responsibility, Beth. I’d never believe that you’d do something to haste Ardan on her way.”
“It is my responsibility,” said Betany, tears in her eyes. There was no side-stepping the simple facts: “Ardan was my guest.”
“Ardan was sent for because Rhea needed her.” Gowdie didn’t often get to provide the voice of reason and the experience felt novel and unwanted in tandem. “There must have been something very wrong for her to hurt herself. Does Rhea know anything about it?”
For a second they regarded one another with the weird tenderness of shared blood. They were both seeing Ardan, not as she had been when she wandered the floors and corridors of the palace and the city, but as she would be in the simple finality of death.
For another second neither spoke, then Gowdie entered the field. “Rhea.” A beat. “The wise-woman.” If there was any irony in her voice she did not know it.
“No. She says not.” Then she corrected herself. “I haven’t actually… asked her about anything other than what the poor kid drank.” And the guessed-at codicil to the words told Gowdie all she needed to know and more. I have come to believe that Rhea is not as smart or as useful as I believed her to be. She looked at Gowdie, gritted her teeth and then released the doubt inside, the doubt that had been there before that morning but which had begun to gel into certainty. “I… I begin to wonder just how much good her magic can do you, Sister.”
Gowdie felt the words like a blow, but she managed to hide something of her feelings. On the inside she froze: for so long she had been so completely confident that the wise-woman could save her that she had never considered that Rhea might fail. With the news of Ardan’s death the surface area of Gowdie’s confidence cracked and split. Inside she felt the karg turn and snarl and snap at its own tail in frustration and irritation. Soon she must choose her final form. Ashe and Gowdie were never going to be close, but if Ashe could have seen Gowdie metamorphose into someone Betany could talk to, could confide in, and trust, she might have liked her better. At last Gowdie said, “I know you’re not going to believe me, but I say it again: it’s not your fault, love. Come on, you know how to maintain detachment: you’ve told me in the past how vital that is to ruling Caer Arianrhod, and I know of no-one on earth better suited to that role.”
Betany didn’t care if Gowdie was lying or not: her words comforted Betany, and made her sit up, wiping her eyes dry. Gowdie added, “It might be time you sent out search parties for Ashe, Sister. You need her here. Please think about finding her. Maybe Alexis hasn’t had any luck in tracking her down.”
Betany returned to her quarters and poured out of the window the rest of the potion that Rhea had brewed for her. Fantasies were no use any more, she had a country that needed ruling. As the liquid dropped into the air it struck Betany that she seemed to be trying to exorcise something.
*****
Teinne had been pacing for hours. Cairo knew this because she had spent much of that time watching her, and wondering if it was possible to become so overwhelmed with irritation that one might actually explode. She hadn’t only watched Teinne in all that time, but she had gone away and come back, over and over again, wanting to be there at the right time, whenever that might be.
Teinne had as good as melted down when Ashe was stolen from them. In the ranting and raving that followed, it struck Cairo that although she’d so far been of considerable use to the Guardian, she was being viewed as second best. She was not a Guardian, but Ashe was, and of course Teinne was. Ashe hadn’t ever mentioned the whole Guardian bit, except for a single clipped mention, and she seemed, if anything, almost embarrassed about her status. This fitted in better with Cairo’s memories of Ashe, which were, she considered, every bit as valid as Teinne’s shorter time of contact had been. But she knew better than to break the silence with that opinion.
Cairo wasn’t feeling entirely easy, either. While Teinne muttered imprecations about magic, Cairo was still hooked up on the fact that she had screwed up big time. (At least Teinne hadn’t mentioned that so far.) What Cairo had so badly wanted was to have Ashe back on her side, as a friend, and as someone she could trust. So what had she done? She’d fucked that up as badly as she could ever have done: even if they got Ashe back, she’d probably not want to speak to Cairo again. She was distracted and did not at first hear what Teinne was muttering. She pricked up her ears and heard, “…of course now we’ll have to be prepared to address the fact that Ashe’s disappearance could have been her own doing.” She fixed Cairo with a heavy glance that unnerved her. “I realise that it’s a very unlikely possibility, but as Guardians we must be prepared for the fact that Ashe might not wish to join with us.”
Cairo said, quickly, “I didn’t get any impression, not the least impression, that Ashe vanished from choice.” Teinne looked past her. She was clearly unimpressed by the intellectual stance behind that opinion. From the first Cairo had felt vastly inferior to the tall, rather imperious woman. Teinne’s eyes burned with a pale, cold light, and now Cairo was beginning to dislike her intensely. After a moment Teinne said, “You really should think that you know longer know Ashe at all well. After all, you knew nothing about her true roots.”
That stung Cairo into snapping back, “I think I know her pretty damn well, Teinne. Remember this: I was a friend to her from the start. If it comes to knowing Ashe I - ”
But Teinne didn’t give her the chance of finishing her claim. She was clearly worried, as well as irritated. She said, “Not to mention that you did an excellent job of alienating her. I doubt you could have done better if you’d tried.” Cairo wanted to hit her. Teinne stared at her, moodily, then added, glancing away, “I’ve sent off to the other Guardians. They should here soon enough.” Her very palpable grimness made Cairo nervous.
“Will they know what’s happened to Ashe?”
“They might.” Teinne bit off the words and went back to brooding and pacing. Cairo gave up and walked away.
She ended up at the other side of the tower and sat down to watch the progress of the sun. Autumn had swept in on summer, dismissing it before time, plunging the world into a state of soft green wetness. Cairo had assumed – when she’d thought about – that life after death would be somehow… different. And yet, it was not. There were still days and nights. Flowers came, had their season and died; sleep and food and all those things continued to matter. Admittedly no-one got sick, and it was of course accepted that no-one died (now that would be a challenge…). Cairo no longer suffered indigestion if she drank too much perle, but that seemed like a fairly minor miracle. Not for the first time since her death, Cairo considered that her experience of the afterlife – if this was what it was – was not all it was cracked up to be. No indigestion. But then again, some things were different: she’d never known anyone fall through a map in that old world. And to weigh opposite that, she’d spent twelve years in the friendship of a pretty ordinary soul who’d turned out to be a fucking Guardian, with the ability to rise from the dead not once but continually. Oh, Cairo was very pissed off. What was the point of another life if you ran up against the same problems? Of course now she’d pissed off Ashe in not one world but two – when she considered that Ashe existed in both – and wasn’t that the achievement of the year?
Cairo did not feel good about the world. Sometimes she allowed herself to dream, in short and inconsequential bursts, about the old days. Her dreams were simple and she tended to repeat them: sex in the deep embrace of the bathing house, and drinking perle with Ashe up on the roof. She put her head in her hands. Was that all there had been to her life, when she wasn’t actively looking after the horses in the famous Lammor stables? Yes. Here she was in the next world – probably – thinking that drinking and fucking and being mortal had been more fun. At least in those days there had been no Teinne around to belittle her, and make her wish she walked about armed. Then the most irritating person in her world had been Ruth (followed closely by Laure herself). It shocked Cairo to realise that she would trade one Ruth for half a dozen Teinnes.
She’d never been one to philosophise: there had never been room for that, except (again, Gods!) when she was talking with Ashe. Back in the innocent time, before Laure got Calypso and Ashe got screwed, they’d talked a lot. Or had they? She could remember Ashe talked, remembered the oddly dreamlike quality there had been to Ashe’s speeches, mad as they had sometimes seemed. And on occasion – what had been their motivation? – they had let off anger, or frustration, or just simple irritability, by engaging in loud verbal rows in the changing room for the baths. She knew why Ashe liked those false rows: they gave her the chance to engage with someone who couldn’t then ban her from their room (or keep her imprisoned in it). And for her? For her there had been a touch of eroticism. She had always wondered if one day Ashe would turn away from the Princess, and look at her instead.
Death had been good. Death had been complete in itself and she didn’t regret it (apart from her enforced companionship with Teinne), and sometimes she wished that everything had ended there. That would have been a good note to go out on: fight like hell and then drop in your traces, your ending satisfactory and final.
Could she die again? Ashe seemed capable of that, but she was after all a Guardian, and couldn’t you be told that one more than enough, day after day, Teinne after Teinne. The fighting odds would be interesting, if there were twelve Guardians in all and five were rebelling. Of course, if Ashe decided to rebel alongside them, the odds would look even more interesting. But if Ashe did that, Cairo would have to fight against her, and Cairo wasn’t prepared to do that. She might have fought against some she’d known, when Calypso and Alexis came marching in on them, but fighting Ashe was just impossible. Don’t even go there. She shook her head at that thought, and wondered where Ashe might be. Five Guardians against seven, or six against six, unless Ashe went for some other angle. When she thought about it, Cairo had to admit that that would be Ashe to the letter. She’d learned to fight, too: she’d been amazing in battle. And Betany was going to have their child… But Cairo had muddied the water there and her mind shifted quickly away from the topic.
*****
Ashe was thinking about fighting. She was making good time, her paces long and unhurried but constant. The ground felt comforting to her feet and although she was hungry she was not thirsty, and her clothes had dried out quite well. She would probably sleep warm enough, she thought, and when she did settle down for the night beneath the trees, she felt easier in her heart than she had done in ages. This time she refused to be at the whim of every passing lunatic. Berrach? Berrach would have to be dealt with, but now she’d slid free of that hold Ashe felt more confident. As to Teinne and Cairo… Again her mind wanted to avoid the issue. Well, she didn’t have to side with Teinne and the others if she didn’t want to. Wouldn’t it be better to find out the reason for the uprising before she started fighting again? And thinking of fighting, the next time she saw Alexis – as she was sure she would – she intended on knocking her out. Alexis was on Ashe’s list. Also there she had: reach Caer Arianrhod, sort out Alexis, sort out Gowdie, tear down the Word of the Red Temple by any means possible and kill the beast. Oh, and Murah. It was odd that even after she had run over the list a second time, she could still settle down to soft and blameless sleep..
*****
It wasn’t happening. It could not have happened. I looked stupidly from my hands, which were all over blood, to the bed, where the girl lay. Then I knew where the blood had come from. There was the sound of knocking at the door. A voice asked if all was well within… Fuck it, what can you say? There was blood on the floor, too, and when I looked again at the bed. Oh, Gods.
Then a voice said, “That’s what you want? For it not to have happened? For the Elders not to be gathering to have you judged mad and summarily executed, or sent back to that prison of theirs that you spent most of your life in?”
I said something, I don’t remember what it was. The voice had an owner, and she stepped into the room proper from behind one of the curtains. She was slim and half-smiling and her skin looked like cream caught by ice. There was something oddly asymmetrical about her that made me start. She only had one hand.