Read Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows for Free Online

have had this discussion, or a variant of it, before, Jewel."
    "I take it that's a no."
    "It is, as surmised, a refusal."
    "Well, then, I want you to send a message."
    He laughed. "I am not a bard, and there is not a bard born—nor has there been one—who could speak across so great a distance. What would you say?"
    "I don't know."
    "You said your goodbyes. Would you add to them?"
    "I don't know. But I know that—I know that it's possible to use magic to deliver something
to
someplace. A letter. Anything."
    "You know too little, or too much, for your own comfort. Yes, it is possible, but there are reasons that such acts are carried out in specific places at specific times. I will not explain them; you are not mageborn, and you haven't the patience to sit through the entire lesson."
    "Could you not just go and say—"
    "Could I squander power in order to say nothing at all that will be of value?"
    She turned, angry, and stared toward the North.
    And after a moment, she felt his hands—both of his hands—upon the ridges of her collarbone. She froze. He froze.
    Awkward. She hated that.
    Because for just a minute…
    "My apologies, Matriarch. You have done so much, saved so many lives. But I cannot grant your request at this time."
    "It's
not a request
."
    The young woman—the beautiful, almost flawless young woman who by appearance alone made Margret feel old, wind-worn, sunburned, and distinctly unattractive—bowed her head. Her hair was tied back in an almost careless knot, but its perfect, raven's wing black caught the firelight and held it as if it were a dark, dark diamond. Her skin was white and unblemished; Margret knew it was childish, but she looked forward to the effect of wind and sun on that pampered, oiled, powdered skin.
    Because there wasn't any way that the Serra was going to return to the life she'd just left. How could she?
    And what did it matter?
    The clansmen could politic to death; all Margret wanted—all she had ever wanted—from them was now hanging on a slender chain around this woman's throat.
    The Heart of Arkosa.
    "Did you hear me?"
    "Margret, don't!" Elena's voice. Elena's words. They were just a little too far away. Margret crossed the circle, circumventing the fire that protected them all, and grabbed the Serra by the shoulders, shaking her.
    "Yes," the Serra replied evenly, the steel hidden in velvet. "I heard you, Matriarch."
    "It would be impossible not to," Yollana snapped.
    "Heartfire's protection or no,
Matriarch
, it's nothing short of a miracle that the whole family isn't listening."
    "And making bets, if I know the Arkosans," Elsarre added. But her criticism was muted. Of the four Matriarchs, she had taken the sharpest dislike to the Serra Diora, and while she was willing to snipe in general, she was careful not to do it in a way that would aid the Serra. To Margret's embarrassment, it was Elsarre's dislike that made her treat the Serra with anything approaching courtesy; it was the safest way to slap Elsarre in the figurative face for free.
    Slapping her in the face in any other way would just rekindle the wars that—with the luck of the Lady—had been put to rest by the Night's work and the presence of their ancient enemy. The Corronans and the Arkosans were not friendly. Of course, with a Matriarch like Elsarre—all pretense of beauty and importance, all sharp-edged arrogance and casual cruelty—it would be hard for the Corronans to
make
friends. Unfortunately, killing one's own Matriarch was a precedent that a woman with a tenuous hold over her own title couldn't quite support. And sadly, if Margret wanted to do her in, the Corronans were likely to express their gratitude for being rid of such a blight in only one way: war.
    But at least it would be a fight that Margret understood. Unlike this one, with this Serra, this so-called Flower of the damn Dominion.
    It was hard to have an argument with stone.
    Slapping stone also had its consequences, and they were obvious enough