Page 146 of The Seeker
“So you say.” Rhys turned back to Meera. “How much longer?”
“I cannot say. Every memory is different.”
Ata’s mindwasn’t a sea but a river. Deep, wide, and swift. It flowed from cold mountains to warm shallow pools. It dipped and trickled over stones. It roared and launched itself in violent waterfalls of memory. Meera flowed with it, rolling in the tangled waters of a people born of light and earth.
She cried, a newborn at dawn, staring into the radiant face of heaven. Blood of heaven and earth, she rose from the ground and danced on mountains thrusting toward the sky. Her hair grew long and caught the wind, carried her from snow-capped mountain to swift-moving stream.
She grasped at stars and sang with them before she fell to the earth. Dancing at sunrise, male and female, scribe and singer. The magic was circular. Complete. She pierced her body with thorns and ash from the holy fire. Her legs grew long and swift.
Mother to mother. Magic passed in the blood. Blood of the daughter given to the moon. Moon and sun in eternal concert, circling like the people of the lakes and streams.
We followed the sun,old voices whispered.It led us to the water. We followed the water; it led us to the sea.
Mountains rose in the forest, built with ice and magic. The earth rising and flourishing. Green grass and the taste of honey on her tongue. Milk flowed from her breasts and fed the earth where vines curled and twisted. Seeds dropped in the furrows and bellies grew fat and fertile.
Children’s laughter and women’s tears. The cries of warriors, male and female. A dying gasp of the lover who rested on her breast, followed by a golden dawn that stretched on and on until the day was ruled by the sun and the night was no more.
But fire came with the new day of peace.
And the serpent was slain by fire.
Smoke rising over a flooded forest. Blood stained the water and turned the soil red.
Blood and smoke. Ash and gold.
The circle was broken.
Broken.
The womb that was waiting ran dry.
Meera wokewith a sharp pain in her belly, her womb seizing with loss. She lost her grip on Ata’s hands and rolled to the side, curled in agony.
“Meera?” Rhys was there, his soft hands held her.
“You lost your child when your mate died.” Meera’s voice was a rasp. “It was the beginning of the end.”
“The peace lasted for five hundred years.” Ata was pale and shaking. “Singers’ magic was passed from mother to daughter. My son would have taken my brother’s place as leader, but we could have survived his loss. If I could not have a child, then it could have been a woman of my blood. Someone. Anyone. Uriel’s line always found a way.”
“But you hesitated. Found excuses. You hoped to take another mate someday and have more children in your line.”
Ata nodded. “I was arrogant. Proud.”
“Then after the Rending, the women were gone,” Meera said. “Or scattered. You never shared your magic with anyone after that. The Uwachi Toma began to die.”
“We died the day I withdrew from the world,” Ata said. “There could have been others. I could have found them, gathered them. But I was stubborn and narrow-minded. Angry. I am the one who killed my people. And now you know.” Her shoulders slumped. “I have confessed, and I can die.”
“You’re full of shit.” Meera struggled to sitting. “The Grigori killed your people, but your stubbornness may bury them. There are others who would listen to you. Singers you can teach. You taught me. You taught Sari. You could teach the Koconah Citlal or the Dene Ghal. There are hundreds of others who are searching for wisdom, and you’re still hoarding it.” Rhys held her up, his arms bracing her. Meera felt different than she had after other transfers. Stronger. Healthier. And far more pissed off. She glanced to the left. “Vasu, what are you doing here?”
“Just watching.”
Ata eyed him with disgust. “If I had my knives with me—”
“I would have to hide them so you didn’t hurt yourself,” Vasu said. “You’re weak as a baby.” He smiled. “Why am I smiling?”
Rhys said, “Because you’re petty.”
Vasu’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Yes, that’s probably it.”
