thisbluespirit (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thisbluespirit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2024-03-18 09:07 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2024-03-18 09:07 pm
Light Black #8; Azul #11 [Starfall]
Name: Blood in the Water
Story: Starfall
Colors: Light Black #8 (Fight); Azul #11 (Duty)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas + Novelty Beads (Birthday prompt 2021, fromshadowsong26 close your eyes, take a breath, count to three)
Word Count: 3818
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Poison, death, some violence & blood; mentions of drowning.
Notes: 1335, Old Ralston; Marran Delver, Mya Willo, Pen Stolley, Cerra Violmar, Lyus Olorne. (Sort of follow-on, or other side of the fence from Devil's Bargain.)
Summary: It was the perfect moment to murder a Governor.
It was the perfect moment to murder a Governor.
Even Marran didn't expect an attack on his life in the Sharan gardens. When he followed Guard Violmar through to one of the groves by the narrow river, he was absorbed by thoughts of the annual ceremony he'd just passed through. His hair was still damp and darkened from the water, and the long ceremonial robes hampered his movements. In any case, to commit such a crime in Old Ralston on this day and in this place was unthinkable.
He recognised the man when he emerged from behind one of the shrubs, although, out of context, he couldn't put a name to the face. There was no time to fish out the memory. The guard, Violmar, at his side, gave a short, sharp movement; the first indication that something was wrong. He turned to glance at her, and barely had a moment to register that the intruder was holding an unfamiliar weapon before Violmar darted in front of him.
Violmar staggered back and fell against him. Marran dropped to the ground with her; old training and instinct taking over. He glanced up, assessing the scene and his assailant, and then threw himself forward at the man as he shot another metal pellet at him. It struck the trunk of a tree behind Marran.
He grabbed the man by the legs, bringing him down and hanging on grimly, as he kicked and struggled, scraping against the gravel of the path. Marran, breathing hard, pinned the attacker to the ground, heedless of the state of his robes. He reached for the only weapon he had: the ceremonial knife attached to the sash. It was a thin, decorative thing, but someone on his staff had taken duty far enough to not only polish it but sharpen it. Marran pressed it to the man's throat and with his other hand held his wrist against the ground. The man grunted, but he wouldn't stay still despite the blade against his skin. He tried to snatch at his fallen weapon, lying just out of his reach on the grass to the side of him.
"Don't," Marran said, pressing the knife in as hard as he dared. Fuller awareness of the situation was catching up with him, and the Governor, if not the soldier, recognised that he wanted this man alive for questioning if he could manage it. "I will kill you."
Did he think it was a bluff? Did he want to die rather than be arrested and questioned? He ignored Marran's ultimatum, stretching far enough to close his fingers around the weapon. He raised it. Marran felt the hard edge of it against his side while the man even leant up towards the knife, glaring.
Hadn't he known that they'd made a soldier out of Marran a long time ago? Marran didn't ask. He didn't give him chance to use the thing again: he put his weight behind the knife and cut his throat.
That was the easy part.
He was left on all fours in the grounds of North Eastern's most sacred place, dark blood spattered down the front of his ceremonial robes and running down the blade of that pretty toy of a knife. He dropped it. The patterned silver handle caught a strand of pale sunlight filtering through the clouds and gleamed misleadingly bright amongst the long dark grass. Marran would have liked to leave it there, but he couldn't. It would hardly be safe. He grimaced, and picked it up, wiping the metal on the grass before he sheathed it. He hitched it back onto the sash. One drop of blood ran slowly down the Rosfallen blue silk to betray its work.
Marran shuffled a few steps over to retrieve the attacker's weapon. It was made of metal and shaped like a small firearm, but it had been too quiet for that. He turned it over in his hands, then opened it up, tipping three more of the pellets out onto the gravel path. He crouched down, frowning, but didn't touch them. They were coated in something resin-like and dusted with a chalky grey dust. And Violmar had never got back up again, though the wound had looked comparatively minor.
She was lying on the grass barely an arm's length away from Marran. She had her hand to the wound on her shoulder, gritting her teeth; the pain written on her pale and strained face.
Marran shouted for help, and then took a swift stride across to where she lay. He stood over her, a frown deepening on his face. She'd saved his life, but she'd led him here in the first place. She'd chosen this grove. She'd known before the attacker moved what he was going to do. People trying to kill him was one thing. Betrayal that came this near and struck so hard at everything it meant to be a North Easterner was another. A sudden fire burned in him. He knelt beside her, grasping her good shoulder roughly and barked out, "What did they pay you? Come on, what was it? Was it worth it?"
Violmar didn't answer. She had gone beyond comprehending his anger. She was breathing loud and raggedly, and she clutched at him, digging her nails into his arm in her clumsy, desperate efforts to hang onto life. She rasped out a name and then: "Find my sister." The fire within him banked down. She was going to die for her crime anyway if a physician didn't get here in time—maybe even if they did.
Marran released her and settled himself down more easily beside her. He put a light hand to her shoulder, just above the entry point. The pellet was lodged inside. She was bleeding steadily, and a yellowish substance oozed out from the wound.
"Hold on," Marran said, turning her face so she could see him. "Help is on its way."
He let go and leapt up, nearly tripping over the cursed robes. He walked away from her, past the assassin's body, and down the gentle slope to the small river at the bottom of the grove. He dipped his handkerchief in the water, and crossed back to her. He realised as he reached he knelt down that he'd dirtied the soaked fabric with the blood on his hands. He cursed under his breath, and threw it away.
He'd have to do something drastic. He took out the fine dagger again, wiping it further with an unstained corner of his robes, before cutting carefully through the dark blue fabric of her uniform by the wound. He rested his other hand on her shoulder as lightly as he could to hold her down, and then paused. His hands were shaking—he had to be as steady as he could.
Violmar tried to speak. He had to lean right down to catch it. She choked out the same name as before—Daulin, or Dawlin. Her sister. Tell her sister something.
"I promise," Marran said, resting his hand on her arm. Violmar seemed to have gone past hearing him. She convulsing under his hold; stiffening and fighting a losing battle for air.
She was dying. He had none of the proper tools or surroundings to attempt even the roughest surgery, but Violmar was fast going past the point where he could make anything worse. Marran gritted his teeth and breathed in and out. Then he dug the lethal little object out of her shoulder with the blade. He let the pellet roll away onto the gravel, and pressed the loose fabric of his robes against the wound to stem the rapid increase of bleeding. Her skin around the wound was raised and blistered and the blood veins under it were visibly darkened.
He glanced at her face in sharp concern. She had her eyes shut. Her breath was thin and rasping. She was losing this battle, and there was nothing more he could do but stay there, pressing the fabric against the wound, adding another blood stain to the rest.
They found them like that, not long after. The Captain of the Governor's guards, the Warden of the Sharan Gardens, a soldier, and a Sharan attendant—a whole crowd of them finally trundling in.
Marran didn't lift his head, his attention fixed on Violmar. "Fetch a physician! Now!"
The attendant looked to the Warden and then at a nod from him, raced away through the trees.
"Governor," said the Warden, moving forward. "What is this? What have you done? On this day—in this place!"
Marran didn't turn his gaze away from Cerra Violmar. He held up a hand to silence the official's questioning, watching as she convulsed again; frothing at the mouth, her face an ugly purple, and didn't raise his eyes until he'd seen the moment her last breath escaped her. He moved back then, lowering his head.
Marran could have stayed there, kneeling in the grass and wept. The Governor, of course, must rise and deal with the consequences.
"Well?" he said, as he got to his feet.
The Warden's face creased. Marran had never seen him anything over than stately and calm before; his voice seemingly always slow and even and musical, built for intoning out the words of the ceremonies. Now, his eyebrows were twisted into dismay, and he threw up his hands. "Governor! Your robes!" He swung around to the attendant. "We must replace them. And this!" He turned back to Marran. "What has happened? What have you done?"
Marran beckoned the Captain of the Guards to come nearer, and nodded to the fallen assassin. "That fellow attacked us. Violmar died saving my life. I managed to disarm him, but he wasn't prepared to surrender." He took the sheathed dagger from his sash and handed it over, hilt first. He raised his gaze to include the Warden. "So, yes, I killed him. Slit his throat. With that."
"Governor," began the Captain, frowning, as he crouched over the body. He picked up the odd weapon, examining it carefully, much as Marran had done.
Marran caught his gaze. "Violmar saved my life. That is all, Captain. You understand?"
"Yes, Governor."
Marran joined the Captain at the attacker's side. "I've seen him before," he said, looking down at his handiwork. "I'm sure I have. Name of Olorne. Up from Portcallan. The Treasury department—needed District permission to make enquiries into an Old Ralston company. So he said."
"Then why would he be here—why would he do this?"
Marran poked Olorne's weapon with the toe of his boot. "See that? Odd sort of weapon, isn't it? Useful for someone who's not much of a shot, of course, if they can guarantee relatively close quarters, but unusual. Experimental, even. The pellets seem to be coated in poison."
"Shara's tears!" said the Captain. "Governor -"
Marran shook his head before he could say more. The Captain had got the point—better not to voice it. The weapon and the High Council background suggested the attack might be down to the High Governor's intelligence people. Maybe that made Marran a traitor to have survived the attempt to kill him.
"I know," he said quietly. "Let's not jump to conclusions. We had better tread carefully. If he came from High Council in any way shape or form, you had better make sure he was acting alone first. If people are trying to cause trouble, this has already delayed the ceremony. We must continue as soon as we can, otherwise that leaves a restless crowd outside here, all ready and waiting, if that's what someone wants."
"Governor," cut in the Warden. "I must protest. You have spilled blood in this place."
Marran rounded on him. "What was I supposed to do? Let him kill me as well as this unfortunate guard?" The flare of temper faded almost immediately. "My apologies, Warden, but it's been a very trying morning."
"The Governor is pointing out that someone may not only have been trying to kill him, but to derail the ceremony. They might still try to unseat him, if he had agents in the crowd. I'll get my people onto it," the Captain added, turning back to Marran. He then looked at the Warden again. "However, we must move on as soon as we can."
The Warden shifted his stance, as if rooting himself in the grass of his gardens. "Captain. Governor. I do understand the seriousness of the attack, but you both fail to comprehend the ramifications of the Governor's actions, no matter how justified. Governor, you have spilt blood in Shara's place. You cannot continue without reparation—without cleansing." A brief ripple of humour lightened his solemn face. "Also literally." He gestured towards the Governor's blood spattered robes. "You would hardly calm the crowds to walk out as you are."
Marran started to laugh, and then pressed a hand to his mouth. "I see," he said. He waved the Captain away to be about his business, and then knelt before the Warden. "What must I do?"
"This is unprecedented to my knowledge," said the Warden. "I would like several hours to consult the books before I give you my verdict, but I can see that won't be possible. Now, first of all: do not worry. I shall have our musicians repeat the circuit of the streets and think of a suitable announcement to make to smooth matters over. Some error in the wording, or the order of things, perhaps? But you must repeat the ritual. There is no question of you continuing if you do not." The Warden resumed his usual measured, mellifluous tones. "Furthermore, to remedy the dishonour you have done to Shara, you will drink only water until we grant you permission to do otherwise."
The Governor lowered his head in assent.
"Good," said the Warden. "In that case, follow me. You have another hour of contemplation ahead of you."
Marran let the man help him up. "Warden, really -!"
"You must go through the whole ritual." The Warden softened his tone. "It is every bit as much needed now as earlier. We cannot let them rob of us of our most vital traditions."
"Of course." Marran bit back his impatience. He must trust to the Captain of his guard to do his work and he must trust the Warden for spiritual instruction. They were also servants of North Eastern District—of what remained of Rosfallen as was—perhaps more so than any Governor, being in more permanent positions.
Marran listened intently as they walked back along the path for any sound of the people's dissatisfaction or fighting outside the walls, but heard nothing. If there was trouble in the streets, none of it had yet penetrated the peace of the water gardens, but he itched to get out there and make sure things remained calm. He didn't want to hand Veldiner the poetic irony of removing him from office in the same way that the first Governor of North Eastern had long ago ousted the last Lady of Rosfallen.
The Warden shut the door of the windowless stone chamber behind him. Marran turned in the bare room, palms sweating despite the chill. Shades of the Chamber at the Academy. He'd been in other cells before, in another time: then as now, after he'd killed someone.
He paced about the limited space, determined to do what was expected of North Eastern's Governor, and not give into old fears. Time to focus his mind on this place, on the words of the ceremony, and on Shara, the Power who had made the rivers dance to her tune.
He leant against the wall, failing to keep out the memories—of Violmar, falling against him—the blood he'd only just washed from his hands. What choice had he had? What choice had he had twenty years before?
"I'm not sorry for it," he said aloud. His voice sounded reassuringly normal and the pressure of the silence in here eased. He straightened himself. "Anyone would have done the same, if they could." Whoever he was, whoever had sent him, Olorne had persuaded or forced one of his guards into betraying him and tried to murder him. He didn't need to apologise for stopping him in the only way that he could.
That wasn't the end of it, though, was it? Marran closed his eyes. No matter who else he blamed, or how rightly, he was the one who had been reckless enough to cause Tana Veldiner to believe he was a danger to Emoyra. He should never have tried to act on his concern about the Ice Prince alone, not in his current position. He acted and spoke for North Eastern now, not for Marran Delver. Perhaps Veldiner could have even been an ally, if he'd taken this to her. It was much too late for that now.
There was a tap on the door that made him jump, and then Mya, his partner, slipped inside.
"What are you doing here?"
Mya shrugged. "Someone came asking for clean clothes for you, so I knew you'd got yourself into trouble again. I insisted on bringing them—and there are new robes here, too." She held the bundle of fabric in her arms out to him. "Should I ask what you've done this time, or would I regret it?"
Marran gave a short, guilty laugh, and kissed her on the cheek as he took the bundle of new robes from her. "Later, when this is over. Unfortunately, I've got to go through the whole cursed rigmarole—that is to say," he amended with a sidelong glance at the carvings in the walls, "I, er, need to repeat the full ceremony. I should be in silent contemplation now."
"Well, you've got through it every year so far," Mya said levelly. "You can get through it twice in a row if you really must."
He smiled more easily. "I'm sure you're right. But you had better go."
"The Warden sent me in here," she said. "Don't worry. I'm breaking no rules, but he did tell me not to be long." She took hold of his arms and stretched up to kiss him, as he bent down. "Best of luck, darling. I shall be waiting outside with the rest of the crowds, so do get it right this time. I do have other things to be doing with my time."
The annual ceremony was a holdover from the days when Emoyra's North Eastern District had been its own nation; a symbolic exercise that had replaced a very real spiritual ritual that had, so they said, killed at least one lord-nominate and one lord-reigning over the centuries. It was a nerve-wracking fact to bear in mind as Marran went through the echo of their actions in the same ancient site.
He descended the worn stone steps into the water. He had a rope tied loosely around his waist, ready for when he stepped into the deepest part of the Sharan pool. Each time he'd done this, he wondered what would happen if he untied the rope and did what his oldest predecessors had during their nomination ceremony and in times of great need. They called it kissing the water. Letting go, starting to drown, waiting for Shara to speak to you in the place between life and death. People had once believed you really could communicate with the Powers by such means—throwing yourself on their mercy, held between life and death in the aspect of nature they had command over. Some people claimed they could do it in dreams, but you had to have considerable affinity for that, even were it true.
It also crossed his mind again, as it had an hour or two earlier, that perhaps they simply wouldn't pull him up. Perhaps that was what they did with troublesome Governors who earned the displeasure of the High Council in Portcallan, and then knifed people in Shara's Gardens.
The bottom fell away from under him, and he sank, weighted down by the robes and stifling the instinct to struggle upwards; waiting for a moment longer than he liked before he was drawn up by the ropes and broke the surface. He gasped in air and coughed, splashing back through the shallows as they helped him out, sopping wet all over again; clothes and hair plastered against his skin, almost too heavy to move.
Every Governor had done this, every year, for nearly six hundred years. Perhaps they didn't truly descend to the place between life and death any more, but they waded down into an uncomfortable and eternal compromise between Rosfallen and North Eastern, between the last Lady and first Governor.
"Governor," said the Warden, taking Marran's hand, pale and damp under his warm coloured, dry one. The title, pronounced in his rich, resonant voice, was an affirmation. It was done—and had better stay done this time.
But in this mere form of the thing, Shara never spoke to him, not even now to shake him for the spilling of blood in this sacred space. He always, regardless, believed that one day she might.
The moment the procession and the re-swearing of oaths in the Regional Chamber was over, Marran returned to the Governor's Hall, and found North Eastern's chief secretary still busy at her desk.
"Stolley," he said. "You've heard what happened?"
"Who hasn't?"
"Yes. Now, Violmar -"
"Very sad, Governor."
Marran shook his head. "Yes, but that isn't what I meant. Did she have any relatives? A sister, I think?"
"I don't know, but I pulled out her file earlier," said Stolley. She rose and rifled around on the desk, and retrieved a single sheet of paper.
"She spoke of her before she died. Daulin, she said her name was, I believe. I'd like to speak to her—let her know personally. In the circumstances."
Stolley frowned. "In the circumstances, Governor," she said, an acerbic edge to her words, "do you think that would be wise?"
Marran reflected on the question. "I'm not at all sure—but I think it would be right."
Stolley's position, like the Warden's, and unlike his, was permanent. She served North Eastern's Governor, whoever that was. He wondered what she made of today's delay. If she thought him a liability, how efficiently and speedily would she dispatch him out of office?
"Then it had better be done," said Stolley. "I don't know if this is a current address, but I can have someone in Records look into it for you."
He smiled at her more warmly than usual. If Stolley wanted him removed as Governor, she'd have done it already, without any need for messy and badly handled assassination attempts. "Thank you."
She smiled in return, which probably broke several important precedents, but if so, neither of them registered any complaint.
Story: Starfall
Colors: Light Black #8 (Fight); Azul #11 (Duty)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas + Novelty Beads (Birthday prompt 2021, from
shadowsong26 close your eyes, take a breath, count to three)Word Count: 3818
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Poison, death, some violence & blood; mentions of drowning.
Notes: 1335, Old Ralston; Marran Delver, Mya Willo, Pen Stolley, Cerra Violmar, Lyus Olorne. (Sort of follow-on, or other side of the fence from Devil's Bargain.)
Summary: It was the perfect moment to murder a Governor.
It was the perfect moment to murder a Governor.
Even Marran didn't expect an attack on his life in the Sharan gardens. When he followed Guard Violmar through to one of the groves by the narrow river, he was absorbed by thoughts of the annual ceremony he'd just passed through. His hair was still damp and darkened from the water, and the long ceremonial robes hampered his movements. In any case, to commit such a crime in Old Ralston on this day and in this place was unthinkable.
He recognised the man when he emerged from behind one of the shrubs, although, out of context, he couldn't put a name to the face. There was no time to fish out the memory. The guard, Violmar, at his side, gave a short, sharp movement; the first indication that something was wrong. He turned to glance at her, and barely had a moment to register that the intruder was holding an unfamiliar weapon before Violmar darted in front of him.
Violmar staggered back and fell against him. Marran dropped to the ground with her; old training and instinct taking over. He glanced up, assessing the scene and his assailant, and then threw himself forward at the man as he shot another metal pellet at him. It struck the trunk of a tree behind Marran.
He grabbed the man by the legs, bringing him down and hanging on grimly, as he kicked and struggled, scraping against the gravel of the path. Marran, breathing hard, pinned the attacker to the ground, heedless of the state of his robes. He reached for the only weapon he had: the ceremonial knife attached to the sash. It was a thin, decorative thing, but someone on his staff had taken duty far enough to not only polish it but sharpen it. Marran pressed it to the man's throat and with his other hand held his wrist against the ground. The man grunted, but he wouldn't stay still despite the blade against his skin. He tried to snatch at his fallen weapon, lying just out of his reach on the grass to the side of him.
"Don't," Marran said, pressing the knife in as hard as he dared. Fuller awareness of the situation was catching up with him, and the Governor, if not the soldier, recognised that he wanted this man alive for questioning if he could manage it. "I will kill you."
Did he think it was a bluff? Did he want to die rather than be arrested and questioned? He ignored Marran's ultimatum, stretching far enough to close his fingers around the weapon. He raised it. Marran felt the hard edge of it against his side while the man even leant up towards the knife, glaring.
Hadn't he known that they'd made a soldier out of Marran a long time ago? Marran didn't ask. He didn't give him chance to use the thing again: he put his weight behind the knife and cut his throat.
That was the easy part.
He was left on all fours in the grounds of North Eastern's most sacred place, dark blood spattered down the front of his ceremonial robes and running down the blade of that pretty toy of a knife. He dropped it. The patterned silver handle caught a strand of pale sunlight filtering through the clouds and gleamed misleadingly bright amongst the long dark grass. Marran would have liked to leave it there, but he couldn't. It would hardly be safe. He grimaced, and picked it up, wiping the metal on the grass before he sheathed it. He hitched it back onto the sash. One drop of blood ran slowly down the Rosfallen blue silk to betray its work.
Marran shuffled a few steps over to retrieve the attacker's weapon. It was made of metal and shaped like a small firearm, but it had been too quiet for that. He turned it over in his hands, then opened it up, tipping three more of the pellets out onto the gravel path. He crouched down, frowning, but didn't touch them. They were coated in something resin-like and dusted with a chalky grey dust. And Violmar had never got back up again, though the wound had looked comparatively minor.
She was lying on the grass barely an arm's length away from Marran. She had her hand to the wound on her shoulder, gritting her teeth; the pain written on her pale and strained face.
Marran shouted for help, and then took a swift stride across to where she lay. He stood over her, a frown deepening on his face. She'd saved his life, but she'd led him here in the first place. She'd chosen this grove. She'd known before the attacker moved what he was going to do. People trying to kill him was one thing. Betrayal that came this near and struck so hard at everything it meant to be a North Easterner was another. A sudden fire burned in him. He knelt beside her, grasping her good shoulder roughly and barked out, "What did they pay you? Come on, what was it? Was it worth it?"
Violmar didn't answer. She had gone beyond comprehending his anger. She was breathing loud and raggedly, and she clutched at him, digging her nails into his arm in her clumsy, desperate efforts to hang onto life. She rasped out a name and then: "Find my sister." The fire within him banked down. She was going to die for her crime anyway if a physician didn't get here in time—maybe even if they did.
Marran released her and settled himself down more easily beside her. He put a light hand to her shoulder, just above the entry point. The pellet was lodged inside. She was bleeding steadily, and a yellowish substance oozed out from the wound.
"Hold on," Marran said, turning her face so she could see him. "Help is on its way."
He let go and leapt up, nearly tripping over the cursed robes. He walked away from her, past the assassin's body, and down the gentle slope to the small river at the bottom of the grove. He dipped his handkerchief in the water, and crossed back to her. He realised as he reached he knelt down that he'd dirtied the soaked fabric with the blood on his hands. He cursed under his breath, and threw it away.
He'd have to do something drastic. He took out the fine dagger again, wiping it further with an unstained corner of his robes, before cutting carefully through the dark blue fabric of her uniform by the wound. He rested his other hand on her shoulder as lightly as he could to hold her down, and then paused. His hands were shaking—he had to be as steady as he could.
Violmar tried to speak. He had to lean right down to catch it. She choked out the same name as before—Daulin, or Dawlin. Her sister. Tell her sister something.
"I promise," Marran said, resting his hand on her arm. Violmar seemed to have gone past hearing him. She convulsing under his hold; stiffening and fighting a losing battle for air.
She was dying. He had none of the proper tools or surroundings to attempt even the roughest surgery, but Violmar was fast going past the point where he could make anything worse. Marran gritted his teeth and breathed in and out. Then he dug the lethal little object out of her shoulder with the blade. He let the pellet roll away onto the gravel, and pressed the loose fabric of his robes against the wound to stem the rapid increase of bleeding. Her skin around the wound was raised and blistered and the blood veins under it were visibly darkened.
He glanced at her face in sharp concern. She had her eyes shut. Her breath was thin and rasping. She was losing this battle, and there was nothing more he could do but stay there, pressing the fabric against the wound, adding another blood stain to the rest.
They found them like that, not long after. The Captain of the Governor's guards, the Warden of the Sharan Gardens, a soldier, and a Sharan attendant—a whole crowd of them finally trundling in.
Marran didn't lift his head, his attention fixed on Violmar. "Fetch a physician! Now!"
The attendant looked to the Warden and then at a nod from him, raced away through the trees.
"Governor," said the Warden, moving forward. "What is this? What have you done? On this day—in this place!"
Marran didn't turn his gaze away from Cerra Violmar. He held up a hand to silence the official's questioning, watching as she convulsed again; frothing at the mouth, her face an ugly purple, and didn't raise his eyes until he'd seen the moment her last breath escaped her. He moved back then, lowering his head.
Marran could have stayed there, kneeling in the grass and wept. The Governor, of course, must rise and deal with the consequences.
"Well?" he said, as he got to his feet.
The Warden's face creased. Marran had never seen him anything over than stately and calm before; his voice seemingly always slow and even and musical, built for intoning out the words of the ceremonies. Now, his eyebrows were twisted into dismay, and he threw up his hands. "Governor! Your robes!" He swung around to the attendant. "We must replace them. And this!" He turned back to Marran. "What has happened? What have you done?"
Marran beckoned the Captain of the Guards to come nearer, and nodded to the fallen assassin. "That fellow attacked us. Violmar died saving my life. I managed to disarm him, but he wasn't prepared to surrender." He took the sheathed dagger from his sash and handed it over, hilt first. He raised his gaze to include the Warden. "So, yes, I killed him. Slit his throat. With that."
"Governor," began the Captain, frowning, as he crouched over the body. He picked up the odd weapon, examining it carefully, much as Marran had done.
Marran caught his gaze. "Violmar saved my life. That is all, Captain. You understand?"
"Yes, Governor."
Marran joined the Captain at the attacker's side. "I've seen him before," he said, looking down at his handiwork. "I'm sure I have. Name of Olorne. Up from Portcallan. The Treasury department—needed District permission to make enquiries into an Old Ralston company. So he said."
"Then why would he be here—why would he do this?"
Marran poked Olorne's weapon with the toe of his boot. "See that? Odd sort of weapon, isn't it? Useful for someone who's not much of a shot, of course, if they can guarantee relatively close quarters, but unusual. Experimental, even. The pellets seem to be coated in poison."
"Shara's tears!" said the Captain. "Governor -"
Marran shook his head before he could say more. The Captain had got the point—better not to voice it. The weapon and the High Council background suggested the attack might be down to the High Governor's intelligence people. Maybe that made Marran a traitor to have survived the attempt to kill him.
"I know," he said quietly. "Let's not jump to conclusions. We had better tread carefully. If he came from High Council in any way shape or form, you had better make sure he was acting alone first. If people are trying to cause trouble, this has already delayed the ceremony. We must continue as soon as we can, otherwise that leaves a restless crowd outside here, all ready and waiting, if that's what someone wants."
"Governor," cut in the Warden. "I must protest. You have spilled blood in this place."
Marran rounded on him. "What was I supposed to do? Let him kill me as well as this unfortunate guard?" The flare of temper faded almost immediately. "My apologies, Warden, but it's been a very trying morning."
"The Governor is pointing out that someone may not only have been trying to kill him, but to derail the ceremony. They might still try to unseat him, if he had agents in the crowd. I'll get my people onto it," the Captain added, turning back to Marran. He then looked at the Warden again. "However, we must move on as soon as we can."
The Warden shifted his stance, as if rooting himself in the grass of his gardens. "Captain. Governor. I do understand the seriousness of the attack, but you both fail to comprehend the ramifications of the Governor's actions, no matter how justified. Governor, you have spilt blood in Shara's place. You cannot continue without reparation—without cleansing." A brief ripple of humour lightened his solemn face. "Also literally." He gestured towards the Governor's blood spattered robes. "You would hardly calm the crowds to walk out as you are."
Marran started to laugh, and then pressed a hand to his mouth. "I see," he said. He waved the Captain away to be about his business, and then knelt before the Warden. "What must I do?"
"This is unprecedented to my knowledge," said the Warden. "I would like several hours to consult the books before I give you my verdict, but I can see that won't be possible. Now, first of all: do not worry. I shall have our musicians repeat the circuit of the streets and think of a suitable announcement to make to smooth matters over. Some error in the wording, or the order of things, perhaps? But you must repeat the ritual. There is no question of you continuing if you do not." The Warden resumed his usual measured, mellifluous tones. "Furthermore, to remedy the dishonour you have done to Shara, you will drink only water until we grant you permission to do otherwise."
The Governor lowered his head in assent.
"Good," said the Warden. "In that case, follow me. You have another hour of contemplation ahead of you."
Marran let the man help him up. "Warden, really -!"
"You must go through the whole ritual." The Warden softened his tone. "It is every bit as much needed now as earlier. We cannot let them rob of us of our most vital traditions."
"Of course." Marran bit back his impatience. He must trust to the Captain of his guard to do his work and he must trust the Warden for spiritual instruction. They were also servants of North Eastern District—of what remained of Rosfallen as was—perhaps more so than any Governor, being in more permanent positions.
Marran listened intently as they walked back along the path for any sound of the people's dissatisfaction or fighting outside the walls, but heard nothing. If there was trouble in the streets, none of it had yet penetrated the peace of the water gardens, but he itched to get out there and make sure things remained calm. He didn't want to hand Veldiner the poetic irony of removing him from office in the same way that the first Governor of North Eastern had long ago ousted the last Lady of Rosfallen.
The Warden shut the door of the windowless stone chamber behind him. Marran turned in the bare room, palms sweating despite the chill. Shades of the Chamber at the Academy. He'd been in other cells before, in another time: then as now, after he'd killed someone.
He paced about the limited space, determined to do what was expected of North Eastern's Governor, and not give into old fears. Time to focus his mind on this place, on the words of the ceremony, and on Shara, the Power who had made the rivers dance to her tune.
He leant against the wall, failing to keep out the memories—of Violmar, falling against him—the blood he'd only just washed from his hands. What choice had he had? What choice had he had twenty years before?
"I'm not sorry for it," he said aloud. His voice sounded reassuringly normal and the pressure of the silence in here eased. He straightened himself. "Anyone would have done the same, if they could." Whoever he was, whoever had sent him, Olorne had persuaded or forced one of his guards into betraying him and tried to murder him. He didn't need to apologise for stopping him in the only way that he could.
That wasn't the end of it, though, was it? Marran closed his eyes. No matter who else he blamed, or how rightly, he was the one who had been reckless enough to cause Tana Veldiner to believe he was a danger to Emoyra. He should never have tried to act on his concern about the Ice Prince alone, not in his current position. He acted and spoke for North Eastern now, not for Marran Delver. Perhaps Veldiner could have even been an ally, if he'd taken this to her. It was much too late for that now.
There was a tap on the door that made him jump, and then Mya, his partner, slipped inside.
"What are you doing here?"
Mya shrugged. "Someone came asking for clean clothes for you, so I knew you'd got yourself into trouble again. I insisted on bringing them—and there are new robes here, too." She held the bundle of fabric in her arms out to him. "Should I ask what you've done this time, or would I regret it?"
Marran gave a short, guilty laugh, and kissed her on the cheek as he took the bundle of new robes from her. "Later, when this is over. Unfortunately, I've got to go through the whole cursed rigmarole—that is to say," he amended with a sidelong glance at the carvings in the walls, "I, er, need to repeat the full ceremony. I should be in silent contemplation now."
"Well, you've got through it every year so far," Mya said levelly. "You can get through it twice in a row if you really must."
He smiled more easily. "I'm sure you're right. But you had better go."
"The Warden sent me in here," she said. "Don't worry. I'm breaking no rules, but he did tell me not to be long." She took hold of his arms and stretched up to kiss him, as he bent down. "Best of luck, darling. I shall be waiting outside with the rest of the crowds, so do get it right this time. I do have other things to be doing with my time."
The annual ceremony was a holdover from the days when Emoyra's North Eastern District had been its own nation; a symbolic exercise that had replaced a very real spiritual ritual that had, so they said, killed at least one lord-nominate and one lord-reigning over the centuries. It was a nerve-wracking fact to bear in mind as Marran went through the echo of their actions in the same ancient site.
He descended the worn stone steps into the water. He had a rope tied loosely around his waist, ready for when he stepped into the deepest part of the Sharan pool. Each time he'd done this, he wondered what would happen if he untied the rope and did what his oldest predecessors had during their nomination ceremony and in times of great need. They called it kissing the water. Letting go, starting to drown, waiting for Shara to speak to you in the place between life and death. People had once believed you really could communicate with the Powers by such means—throwing yourself on their mercy, held between life and death in the aspect of nature they had command over. Some people claimed they could do it in dreams, but you had to have considerable affinity for that, even were it true.
It also crossed his mind again, as it had an hour or two earlier, that perhaps they simply wouldn't pull him up. Perhaps that was what they did with troublesome Governors who earned the displeasure of the High Council in Portcallan, and then knifed people in Shara's Gardens.
The bottom fell away from under him, and he sank, weighted down by the robes and stifling the instinct to struggle upwards; waiting for a moment longer than he liked before he was drawn up by the ropes and broke the surface. He gasped in air and coughed, splashing back through the shallows as they helped him out, sopping wet all over again; clothes and hair plastered against his skin, almost too heavy to move.
Every Governor had done this, every year, for nearly six hundred years. Perhaps they didn't truly descend to the place between life and death any more, but they waded down into an uncomfortable and eternal compromise between Rosfallen and North Eastern, between the last Lady and first Governor.
"Governor," said the Warden, taking Marran's hand, pale and damp under his warm coloured, dry one. The title, pronounced in his rich, resonant voice, was an affirmation. It was done—and had better stay done this time.
But in this mere form of the thing, Shara never spoke to him, not even now to shake him for the spilling of blood in this sacred space. He always, regardless, believed that one day she might.
The moment the procession and the re-swearing of oaths in the Regional Chamber was over, Marran returned to the Governor's Hall, and found North Eastern's chief secretary still busy at her desk.
"Stolley," he said. "You've heard what happened?"
"Who hasn't?"
"Yes. Now, Violmar -"
"Very sad, Governor."
Marran shook his head. "Yes, but that isn't what I meant. Did she have any relatives? A sister, I think?"
"I don't know, but I pulled out her file earlier," said Stolley. She rose and rifled around on the desk, and retrieved a single sheet of paper.
"She spoke of her before she died. Daulin, she said her name was, I believe. I'd like to speak to her—let her know personally. In the circumstances."
Stolley frowned. "In the circumstances, Governor," she said, an acerbic edge to her words, "do you think that would be wise?"
Marran reflected on the question. "I'm not at all sure—but I think it would be right."
Stolley's position, like the Warden's, and unlike his, was permanent. She served North Eastern's Governor, whoever that was. He wondered what she made of today's delay. If she thought him a liability, how efficiently and speedily would she dispatch him out of office?
"Then it had better be done," said Stolley. "I don't know if this is a current address, but I can have someone in Records look into it for you."
He smiled at her more warmly than usual. If Stolley wanted him removed as Governor, she'd have done it already, without any need for messy and badly handled assassination attempts. "Thank you."
She smiled in return, which probably broke several important precedents, but if so, neither of them registered any complaint.
no subject
Okay, I'll take "brought a ceremonial knife to an experimental gunfight."
Perhaps they didn't truly descend to the place between life and death any more, but they waded down into an uncomfortable and eternal compromise between Rosfallen and North Eastern, between the last Lady and first Governor.
That's very good.
no subject
no subject
I really like this!
no subject
no subject
I love the phrasing of this.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject