7: Avulsion

Chapter 7: Avulsion

The Time: Five years ago, 715 A.E.

The Place: Central Saimr

“I can’t.”

The world outside the Archmage’s tent is a frigid black torrent, overwhelmed by sheets of rain and screaming gales, but not a single fold of sumptuous violet silk so much as flutters against the onslaught. Here, it is blessedly warm and dry, and when the air caresses Ari’s cheek it smells of sacred smoke and sweet jasmine and the robust, woody aroma of the freshly-brewed pot of tea in the center of the table. There are two steaming cups on either side. Neither has been touched.

The journey here was not so long and not so fraught, but the conditions were miserable and the constant sapping anxiety under her skin has exhausted her. She is not supposed to be here. She has not been expressly forbidden, but even she’s not so cotton-headed and ignorant that she would assume she needs to be told to avoid the Archmage now.

And yet she came. If Sahan calls, she will always follow.

(Things have not yet progressed past the point of no return, but they will. Very soon, actually, in no small part thanks to this meeting.)

“Sahan, I can’t,” she says again, and she hates how helpless she sounds, how thin the veneer hiding her panic is. Her pulse gallops in her throat; she has to breathe deeply just to remind herself that she can. “Ask me anything else. Please. I’ll do it, I swear to you. But I can’t—” Her voice shrivels in her throat. “I can’t turn against my own people. I won’t.”

It’s dim in here, with most of the illumination coming from the faint glow of the mage-lanterns hovering motionless in thin air. The darkness suits Sahan, of course. She’s hard to read on her most inviting days; tonight, she is impenetrable.

There is a long silence following Ari’s words. Against her hip, Varul hisses, so quiet as to be nearly inaudible.

Ari keeps her hands folded in her lap to hide how her fingers tremble, and despite herself, she stares at Sahan like a starving woman before a spit of roasting meat. It’s been months since her master last summoned her—months worth of her letters ignored, months worth of shy little gifts returned unopened. She has hardly laid eyes on her master since her wedding, since Sahan loaned her Varul until the war’s end as a matrimonial present. Even before that, really: since she informed Sahan of Seda’s proposal and made a fool of herself. It’s been well over a year since the two of them have been in such close quarters for longer than a moment, and Ari cannot help the weakness of her heart. There is no sight more precious to her than her master’s face.

Sahan looks how she has always looked. To call her beautiful would be to call the moon distant or the oceans deep: true, but inadequate. “Beautiful” does not capture the searing intensity of her gaze or the indefatigable lines of her shoulders; it does no justice to the imperiousness of her raised chin or the effortless elegance of her long-fingered hands.

Even at this late hour, she is poised and statuesque and untouchable; her heavy robes are crisp, her boots shine, her raven’s wing hair is sleek and straight as falling water, not a strand out of place. Only her jewelry and cosmetics have been removed—otherwise, there would be no indication at all that she has made herself more comfortable for the evening. In the gloom, her molten silver eyes shine like a night-hunter’s; her serpentine pupils have expanded only slightly in deference to the shadows.

Sahan lifts the exquisite wooden pipe in her hand with the same unhurried grace that suffuses all of her movements.

Ari follows its path to her mouth with unveiled voracity. Her throat is dry. It clicks when she swallows. She glances briefly at her cup of tea, but the idea of letting Sahan see how her hands shake dissuades her from reaching for it.

Sahan takes a deep breath, holds it, parts her lips after. Smoke curls languorously between them. The barest flash of a pale fang disappears as the wooden pipe returns to its resting position.

She looks at Ari. There’s nothing in her eyes. No exasperation, no outrage, no disappointment. Certainly nothing like patience, or sympathy, or fondness.

Ari’s heart feels like it’s been stuffed with sewing needles. Sahan hasn’t looked at her like that in… ten years? More?

“If I wanted anything else,” Sahan says finally, and Ari jolts to hear her voice, steady and deep and smooth, “would I not have sought it out already? Would I have bothered calling you here otherwise?”

One long, dagger-point nail taps against the bowl of her pipe.

Ari is answering before her conscious mind has even fully absorbed the question.

“Apparently not,” she snaps, and there’s no keeping the hurt out of her tone. She doesn’t even try. “You haven’t so much as spat my way since the wedding. Of course—” She laughs humorlessly. “Of course you only wanted this. Of course. What was I thinking?”

Sahan’s expression remains unchanged. Ari digs her blunt nails into the fabric of her trousers. She is—very close to doing something unwise just to wipe that fucking bored, barren look off her master’s face.

“So,” Sahan begins, “you’re aware I want only one thing from you and you’re unable to provide even that?” She cocks her head idly. “What’s the point of you, then?”

The breath in Ari’s lungs freezes. Her head spins, the world around her frighteningly off-kilter. “What…”

Varul flares hot even through her sheath.

Sahan continues, heedless of Ari’s—heedless of Ari. She doesn’t sound angry. She doesn’t sound like anything at all. “What use is your soft, comfortable devotion? You’ll grant me whatever I wish as long as it doesn’t trouble you, is that it?” She snorts. “When have you ever provided me with anything I could not acquire myself, čiyvir?”

Ari opens her mouth and says… absolutely nothing. What could she possibly say? Breathing is difficult. Her eyes are stinging.

Sahan leans forward to rest her arm on the table, perfectly casual, perfectly unbothered. Her disciple falling apart in front of her may as well be part of the scenery. “The only thing of value you’ve ever given me is your loyalty, and now even that has withered.” Her gaze drifts away, softened by a curtain of thick dark lashes. “What a waste of twelve years.”

“Sahan—” Ari’s voice is so ruined it’s hardly audible, yet she forges ahead regardless. “That’s not true. You know it’s not.”

Sahan hums. “Do I?”

Warmth runs down Ari’s face, sweat or tears or both, she doesn’t know. “I’d do anything for you,” she says desperately, even though it’s a lie. She doesn’t want it to be a lie. She wants—she wants to be what Sahan wants her to be. But she can’t… do that and remain herself. Even if it’s for Sahan, she can’t just—throw away the people who trust her to protect them, to guide them, to ensure their sacrifices are not in vain.

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Is it worth it? Being a version of herself without Sahan?

Is it worth giving herself to Sahan if doing so will shred her into someone else entirely?

“Anything except this,” Sahan concludes. Her eyes flick back to Ari’s, and there’s a cold finality there, a record of costs weighed and benefits calculated. The closing sum is not in Ari’s favor.

Ari closes her eyes. She can’t bear it. “You told me…” She shudders. “You swore! You swore to me that the Dawn would be the start of your legacy! That no matter what happens after, you wouldn’t abandon us!”

Sahan raises one sculpted eyebrow. “And I spoke truly. I intend to preserve what remains of your sect when this is finished. It is a strong foundation; once the rot has been cleared, I will build something beautiful upon it.”

“Rot!” Ari cries. She bolts out of her chair, sending it tumbling to the fur rugs below, and begins to pace; there’s no safer way to drive this frantic energy out of her body. “Sahan! These are people! Our people! We’ve broken bread with them, we’ve fought shoulder-to-shoulder with them, we’ve asked them to follow us and they’ve given their entire lives up to do it! Yes, many of them are still loyal to Seda, but—but can’t that change? How can you say something like that?!”

Sahan watches her, lip curled in a faint sneer. “How? Precisely the same way your prophet can stand upon her pulpit and claim that she will rule this kingdom mercifully when she has already begun to prey upon the meek and powerless. Precisely the way she could one day declare all those who fight under my banner traitors to her cause, disloyal to the True Sun, worshippers of a false idol. Do you think that she does not resent me, child? That she does not envy every coin I spend for her cause, every ally I sway to her side? Perhaps some of Seda’s faithful might be turned to my side, in time, but time is short. We will march upon the capital in mere weeks. I can assure you that Seda will act before then, and she will not consider how many of my followers she might save.”

“You—” Ari stops, shaking all over. “You want her to hate you! You’ve spent years driving her to this! Did you ever, ever plan to stand aside and let her rule?!”

Sahan eyes her coolly. “Of course not. Why would I? She would always view me as a threat, as an impediment. If I had been nothing but solicitous, if I had let her walk upon me without a word of complaint, she would not trust me even so.”

Ari throws up her hands. “Decided that on day one, did you? No need to give her a chance, might as well say she’s doomed from the start! Then you can justify whatever you do to her!”

(She does not know, yet, how far Seda will go. She has recognized the beast backed into the corner, but she has not appreciated how hard it will bite to escape.)

(Ah, but even if she had known, her fate was sealed. To turn against Seda is to doom those who remain loyal to her. They are doomed regardless, and still she will not abandon them. Hers is not a mind suited for the calculus of this kind of war, where no matter how she stacks the scales she sacrifices something she cannot bear to lose.)

“She will not thank you for your intercession,” Sahan replies quietly. “She will ask of you exactly what I have asked of you, and when you refuse, she will kill you.”

“Are you going to kill me first?” Ari asks.

Sahan just looks at her.

All at once, Ari’s body seems to decide it’s had enough of all this, of pretending it’s strong enough to withstand having its lifeblood ripped out. She drops to her knees on soft furs, the ringing in her ears loud enough to drown out the grumbling thunder and pouring rain.

“Do it, then,” she says. She sounds dull to her own ears, already halfway to a corpse. “I won’t swear myself to Seda. I would swear myself to you, but you don’t want me unless I’m willing to be your mindless little puppet, right? Unless I’m willing to damn everyone for you? So do it. Save us both some time.”

Time stretches out like melted sugar. Ari can’t help but wish it would be over already, if only so she has less time to convince herself that it would be worth it to become her master’s puppet just to stay by her side.

She does not hear Sahan move, but she does not startle when a cool hand strokes the back of her head, trailing down the twists and bends of her plait. Her hair is nearly as long as Sahan’s, now; unbound, it reaches the dip of her waist. Her other hand comes to rest on Ari’s shoulder—not squeezing, not kneading, just pressing. Reassuring.

“Come now.” Sahan’s voice is soft, familiar: not quite gentle, but certainly less hostile. The light scrape of her nails against Ari’s scalp is a balm to the numbness in her core—she fights it, but she can’t help leaning into that touch, sagging back until nearly all of her weight is resting in Sahan’s hands. “Such dramatics. Do you assume I know nothing of your heart, after all this time?”

Then why do you keep breaking it? Ari wants to wail. She wants to throw a tantrum like a child; she wants to whirl around and sink her teeth into Sahan’s fine-boned wrist until she draws blood; she wants to scoop out her own beating heart and present it like a trophy; she wants to pull Sahan into her arms and impress upon her through that touch alone how she feels. She wants to scream and cry and beg.

She does none of those things.

Sahan tugs lightly on the end of her plait, like she’s ringing a bell. “How many times have I braided this hair of yours, hmm?”

Her voice has quieted even further, warmed until it sinks into the very pores of Ari’s bones. She hasn’t spoken like this in a very long time. Unbidden, more trails of wetness leak down Ari’s cheeks; she is pitiful with longing. Varul is rattling against her hip, incensed.

Sahan sighs. Her hand comes up to cradle the base of Ari’s skull beneath her braid, the tips of her claws brushing the nape of her neck. “Čiyvir, you think me heartless, and I am. I have to be. But I would spare you the worst of this war, truly—if one of us must be cruel, let it be me. If you cannot bear to strike down those who once took their meals at your table, I understand. I will not ask it of you.”

The hand on the back of her head moves to her jaw; she finds her face turned to meet Sahan’s. Her master’s spare hand lifts to dab the moisture from her cheeks. Those ethereal eyes are unbearably tender.

“Our separation has been difficult for you,” Sahan murmurs. “This master apologizes. Seda already mistrusts your loyalties; I dared not feed her paranoia.” Fingers stroke the line of her jaw before coming to rest on her pulse points. “I read your letters.”

Stupidly, this is what finally breaks Ari’s last flagging thread of composure. Her next breath hitches on a sob. Sahan doesn’t stop her when she flings herself forward, burying her head in the crook of her master’s neck. Ari doesn’t embrace her; she just burrows her face into the delicate join of neck and shoulder, breathing in the tantalizing aroma of jasmine and amber, and cries.

The tears won’t stop for a long time. After a while, Sahan makes a soft sound and presses her hands against the blades of Ari’s shoulders. She doesn’t make soothing circles or comforting pats, but the fine points of her nails dig into her skin just so, and that near-imperceptible vulnerability is what finally pushes the words out of Ari’s throat.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispers.

Her voice is very soft and quite snotty. Another person might not have heard her. But Sahan goes still as stone, and Ari knows this is it.

It’s another moment longer before Sahan slowly pulls back, moving her hands to brace against Ari’s shoulders. Despite herself, Ari reaches up to grab her wrists, desperate beyond measure for this last point of contact.

Gone again is the mask of the doting master, the cold-blooded Archmage with a secret fragile heart. And Ari is aware, now, that it is a mask. Was always a mask.

Sahan’s expression is distant again, void of anything except a quiet disdain. Truer, for all that it’s so alien to her.

They stare at each other. Ari doesn’t even want to think about how she looks. She can’t spare the room in her heart to care.

Finally, Sahan speaks. “Get out, then.” She sounds disinterested.

Ari’s grip on her wrists tightens. “Sahan—”

Sahan’s expression twists. Contempt.

“You will call me no such thing. You are no disciple of mine.”

Ari hadn’t thought her heart could be pulverized any more thoroughly, but apparently she was wrong.

A puff of steam emerges from Varul’s sheath.

Sahan (Ari calls her this in her heart, silently belligerent) pulls away, unstoppable even though Ari tries to hold onto her. She moves back to her table, sparing Ari no further attention. When she speaks, she does not look back to ensure she’s been heard. She knows she will be.

“You are permitted to leave, in respect to our long association. Should you survive long enough to encounter me again, I will ensure that meeting is our last.” She sets her cup down. “Keep Varul, if you like. Perhaps when your lady wife cuts you down, you might leave her something to remember you by. I will retrieve it from your corpse either way.”

***

Sahan is right. Of course. She usually is.

When Ari returns to the little town outside the stretch of forest called Gazra, nothing more than a shattered shell of herself, it isn’t long at all before Seda condemns her for treachery.

But Sahan is wrong about one thing: she never does manage to retrieve Varul. Her mistake. It’s very difficult—considered impossible, even—for one person’s spiritual weapon to become another person’s spiritual weapon, but like her creator, Varul is exceptional.

It must be a real kick in the nads, to have let such a treasure slip through her fingers out of arrogance alone. Of the original Eight Heavenly Blades, Sahan now controls only seven.

And as Ari flits from dream to bizarre dream under the influence of the Harbinger demon’s poison, the disparate pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was solving suddenly click together.