ARYA
"You." She should have said something else, but she was so numb with shock that she couldn't think of it. No, it couldn't be. It wasn't Cat or Beth or Lyanna or any of those faces that knew that voice, but Arya, Arya, Arya. He couldn't be here, he couldn't stop her from killing the Sealord, he was one of them, he knew how it was, it wasn't fair!
"Me?" There was mock confusion in his voice. "A man does not understand. Surely we have not met before. Have we, wolf girl?"
"Yes, we have." Arya squirmed, but his grasp on her shoulder remained like iron. She couldn't get around to see his face, if it was the handsome one with the red and white hair, or the one that he had changed to at the end, after the weasel soup – the one with the tight black curls, the scar on his cheek and the golden tooth. "You – in Harrenhal, you – "
"A girl is no one. A girl and a man both died in Harrenhal. A girl would know this, if she had been to the House of Black and White."
Arya squirmed harder. He's right, I don't know him, I don't, I shouldn't. . . but all her training had been blasted away in the disbelief. "You gave me the iron coin," she said weakly. "You were the one who told me how to come here. You helped me, you killed Chiswyck and Weese and helped me set the northmen free – "
"A girl killed those men, with a whisper. Three deaths and more you had, selfish child. The red god was paid and paid. A man died last of all. A man owes nothing."
"But – " Arya hated how small her voice sounded, how plaintive. "You were my friend."
"A man has no friends. Neither does a girl." He clasped hold of her other shoulder, jerking her backwards into a dark alcove. "Did you forget that too?"
"Jaqen. . ." She had nothing to offer him. He knew who she was, he knew why she was there. He told me that if his father was alive, and if I knew his name, he would kill him on my command. She realized all at once that he was truly what she had always claimed to be: faceless. Jaqen H'ghar is not his name. Whatever face he is wearing, it is not his own. Maybe he doesn't even have a real one any more. She wanted to ask him who he truly was, but he would give the same answer she had always offered to the kindly man. And he would mean it. "Are you here to kill someone too?"
"I could be here to kill you," he said silkily. "What would a girl do then?"
Her heart lurched. Again she tried to turn around, but he held her fast, two fingers touching the pulse in her throat. He is a sorcerer as well as an assassin, Weese had that dog since it was a pup and Jaqen made it tear his throat out. She wondered if he was going to bewitch her as well, tried to remember if Old Nan had ever mentioned what to do when captured by a sorcerer. But she couldn't remember what Old Nan had looked like, and all her tales were fading as well.
"A man will tell a girl a truth," Jaqen said. "A man knew that a girl would be coming. Do you understand why, Arya of House Stark?"
"No." They knew, they all knew. "Who is the Summer Maid?" she blurted out. "Is she faceless too? The kindly man said women couldn't be faceless, I mean not usually, but she changed her hair – " She doesn't even have to be a woman at all.
"That was only a drop of woman's magic," said Jaqen. "A courtesan's tricks, a play for pillows, for sweet words and soft sighs, to give men what they dream of. She is not one of us. She does not know anything beyond the truth that she wishes a man to die."
"But why?" Spots were starting to appear in front of Arya's eyes. She writhed and wriggled her head, trying to get away from the pressure on the vein.
"Valar morghulis," said Jaqen. "Why else?"
"Yes, but she. . ." Arya looked around frantically for anyone else in the hall, but it remained empty, save for her and the man behind her. "The Sealord. . . that knight, the one who talked about Jon. . . he wanted swords, and the Sealord didn't want to give them, but the Summer Maid wants him to – "
Jaqen gave her head a sudden hard wrench. She gasped, then tried to kick him, but her foot flailed out harmlessly. "Are words only wind?" he growled. "Do you spend them so cheaply, Arya of House Stark? Do you?"
"No! No, I didn't, I'm not – "
"And still – you – lie." Each word was accompanied by a hard jab of his thumb into the back of her neck. "You practice like a mummer's monkey, without knowledge, without understanding. You copy them as a man who cannot read writes his letters. For months and months now you have done this japery, playacting and pretending, and lying, lying, lying. A girl angers the god when she does this. It has come time that a girl grow up, or die."
"So. . .why. . . why am I here?" She finally got free enough to suck a breath of air. "The kindly man said there was a man to kill, that I had to do this thing. . ."
"The kindly man did not lie. But he did not tell you all of the truth."
"Are you the kindly man?"
Jaqen laughed. "A girl must ask better questions."
"Why does the Summer Maid want the Sealord dead?"
"That is not a better question, but for the sake of a girl who saved a man's life, a man will answer. The maid was also a girl once, a girl who loved the lions before they tore her limb from limb. The girl saw her children bedded down with pigs and dogs, and scorned and mocked by men for what they were. The girl sang to her children, but still she lost them. And so the girl has come here, for where else could she go?"
"And k-killing the Sealord will help the knight? Ser Justin?" It was worse than trying to understand what the two strange men had said, that time so long long ago when she'd hidden in the dragon skulls under King's Landing. "So a new Sealord will give the sellswords to him, and he'll fight the lions for her?"
"So she believes. It is a slender hope, but her only one." She felt Jaqen shrug. "But that is so far as she knows. A girl could have done this job for her, or a man. Any man. It did not have to be you." Another hard jab into her neck.
Arya gagged. She would have tried to bite the hand that still held her shoulder, but some instinct held her back. "So why was it me?"
"A girl asks a better question. You heard what the knight said. You heard the stories from Westeros, of a black brother murdered by his own and a girl with your name taken refuge at a great wall of ice. You heard these things, not a girl. And it has proven beyond all doubt that you will never be one of us."
"That's not true!" she cried, stung. "I've been here so long, I – "
"Being is not doing, you foolish child. If you were capable of doing, the news the knight told would have been no more than a flicker to you, a beat of a moth's wing across the narrow sea. It had come time to put you to the test once and for all, and you have failed. You cannot be faceless, and you know too much of our art to leave. Do you understand what that means, Arya of House Stark?"
No, she thought, horrified. Desperate to escape the subject, she grasped at the first one that came to mind. "What have you been doing?"
A low, mirthful laugh resonated in her ear. "Are we friends, who sit at a tavern together and trade tales of things done and times past? But once more, for a girl's sake, a man will answer. A man has been to the Citadel and opened all doors with a key. A man has met a big fat man in black, a fat man that a cat knew as well, and seen the black glass candles burning and the white ravens of winter. A man has heard stories of dragons and wildfire and fell sorceries from the east, and blue-eyed murder from the north. A man has seen a dead man die again, and a white wolf bleed. A man has seen all these portents, and a man knows." He paused, seemed to shrug once more. "And now a man is here, guarding his Sealord as always."
Qarro, Arya thought. He is known as Qarro Volentin now, I saw him in the room with the Summer Maid and the Sealord, he was the man who asked me if I was called Lyanna Snow, but he already knew the answer. He is the First Sword of Braavos – in this face. She heard everything his words were telling her, but she did not want to believe. "Jaqen – "
"Jaqen H'ghar is dead," the man said. "A girl killed him. A girl was proud."
"I didn't, I never did." She felt the tears bubbling up again, and struggled to force them back down. "I said I wouldn't kill a friend, and you said a friend would help, if a girl unsaid it – "
"Sweet girl," the man who was not Jaqen said, almost tenderly. "A wolf is far from you. A face is foreign to you. And you want as a child does – unformed, greedy, selfish, the skill only for yourself, for your old grudges. But it is true that a summer maiden has prayed for the death of a certain man, and the god must have his due. So you must do this thing. You must go and kill the Sealord."
Arya couldn't believe her ears. "You'll. . . let me?"
He laughed. "I am nothing if not a faithful servant. To the Sealord, yes – but to the god first. And Ferrego Antaryon is an ailing man, old and ill. The Many-Faced God has answered the prayer, so he must not be cheated. Yes. You must kill him."
Arya tried to run forward. He still had her by the neck. "But there is the one small thing," he added casually. "Afterwards, you must die yourself."
Arya froze. "I. . . I don't want to!"
"Sweet girl," not-Jaqen said. "Sweet, sweet girl. All this time, and you have learned nothing. Did I not tell you? You know too much, and you cannot leave. And you will never relinquish yourself to the god as you must, save that you are made to."
"The kindly man said – said that only me could give up my loves and hates – "
"Again, he did not lie. But again, he did not tell the entire truth."
"Then I won't kill the Sealord," Arya said defiantly. "You can't make me."
"So I cannot," not-Jaqen agreed. "And you will have learned less than nothing, and I must only kill you here." A knife touched the back of her neck, oh so gently.
"No!" She wrenched away again. "For – for a girl's sake. You – "
"I answered your questions. Why would I not give you the ultimate answer? It is the gift of the dead, you know. That is the essence of our worship of Him of Many Faces. Our service. Valar morghulis, Arya Stark. Valar dohaeris. They are two halves of the same coin, two faces. Now if you will not die, go and kill the Sealord. His room is to the right of the first hallway, three doors down. It will not be guarded. I will wait here."
All of a sudden his grip was free of her shoulder, and she stumbled forward, putting out her hands to catch herself. Then – not daring to look behind her – she picked herself up and ran. When she reached it, the hallway was slender and cool, with fluted columns of marble and a window casement opening over the Purple Harbor. The third door was made of white wood, cross-barred with bronze. A glyph was carved into the middle. It saw.
"Valar morghulis," Arya breathed to it. It opened.
Inside, the Sealord of Braavos lay on a chaise, covered with heavy silken quilts. His body looked wasted, wracked and thin, deep bruised shadows under his eyes and his hands folded as if he was already in his sepulcher. He made the slow, rasping sounds of someone deep in poppy-induced stupor. A window was open. A breeze filled the room, and slowly, stealthily, Arya crossed it. Quiet as a shadow. She reached him, looked down.
He is just an old man. An old sick man. But killing him would have titanic consequences – for Braavos, for the Summer Maid and Ser Justin and his king and his sellswords, even maybe for Jon and that girl who wasn't Lady Arya on the Wall. And for me. No, Jaqen couldn't do that, he was lying too. Or not telling the entire truth. They are very different things.
Arya drew her knife. This isn't really fair, it's only an old man asleep. But maybe if she did do it, if she did not hesitate, she could make it back to the House of Black and White and – and –
He will be there. The House of Black and White was no sanctuary from this hunter. But she had nowhere else to go in Braavos, unless she wanted to find Captain Terys and his sons, or Brusco and his daughters, and a Faceless Man would see through any guises at once. Maybe I'll do it and they'll see that I can kill anyone they want me to, it doesn't matter if I'm Arya or not. But that was, she knew, a vain and foolish hope. I have to get back and get my own face and escape. Where, she had less than no idea. Jaqen said he'd wait back there. I'll run.
Her hand was shaking. Arya clenched it angrily. She wanted to close her eyes, but would not let herself. This is a girl's work. A girl should see. Then she took one step, two steps three steps, and slashed the Sealord's throat from ear to ear.
Ferrego Antaryon convulsed, scarlet staining his bedclothes in an arterial gush, but he never made a sound. His body continued to thrash, fighting instinctively for air. His eyes moved madly back and forth beneath closed lids, then fell still. His head lolled, blood still spurting, but slowly now, in erratic pulses. It was over in moments.
Arya took a running head start, and threw herself out the window. Sky and palace and stars and ground whirled crazily around her. There are no trees in Braavos, she had just enough time to think, before the black face of the harbor was rushing up toward her. She hit it and went under like a stone.
Everything was chaos. She choked and kicked to the surface, aching as if she'd just been stabbed, her bloody hands parting the choppy cold water. She started to swim, sobbing, as the lights of the Sealord's Palace still shone behind her. She looked wildly over her shoulder, but could not detect any hint of pursuit. Ser Justin will have his sellswords, and the Summer Maid her revenge. And as for Arya Stark, she was only a rat in a gutter, running away. I am a wolf. A wolf, not a rat or a mouse. But she could no longer feel Nymeria. I've gone too far.
After a quarter-hour of crazed swimming, she hauled herself onto a stone quay, rolled over and lay on her back, gasping. I don't dare stop, I have to keep going. Every part of her shrank at the thought of returning to the House of Black and White, but she had to, even if it was only long enough to find her face and run. I'm not a coward. I'm not. I killed the Sealord like I had to. I did.
She pushed herself to hands and knees, then to her feet. I wish I had wings, I could fly like a bird. It would be a fine thing to fly. Once she'd asked the kindly man if Faceless Men could become animals, and he had only laughed at her. "What do you think we are?" he had answered. "Wargs or skinchangers? We are only men, the servants of god. It is Arya Stark who is a skinchanger. If you wish to be her, say so, and leave. Are you Arya Stark, child?"
"No," she had said. "I'm no one."
Liar. The word pulsed in her head as she scrambled down into the first gondola that pulled up in response to her hail. Liar, liar, liar. She leaned over the edge as the boatman paddled, as if she could make it go faster. The first fingers of dawn were starting to sear the eastern horizon, throwing ghostly shadows onto the grey warrens of Braavos. She jumped off the gondola halfway there, paid the man what she had left, and plunged into the underworld. Cat and Blind Beth knows all these paths. Still he wasn't following her. Maybe he had thought she'd come back. She wondered if they'd found the Sealord's body yet. Maybe they'd think that that Ser Justin had done it, out of anger for Ferrego Antaryon so deliberately thwarting him. A girl named Lyanna Snow, with fair hair and freckles and blue eyes. She caught a glimpse of her borrowed face in the canals, and hated it. I have to get this off.
The sun was well up by the time the House of Black and White finally came into view. Arya broke into a sprint. She had a horrible stitch in her side. They always said I could leave, if I wanted. But they never told me what that meant. Not all of the truth.
The hall was cool and dim as always, candles burning in the shrines and the bodies slumped by the fountain, the ones who had come and prayed and drank in the night. She stood in the middle, rocking on her toes. She knew her way around. She would get down to the room with the faces, take off this one somehow. Then she would get Needle out of its hiding place in the stones by the canals. Maybe Ser Justin will take me with him. Back to Westeros. But what if Jaqen disguised himself as one of the sellswords and came along? I'll never be free, never. I'll always be looking over my shoulder.
She took a step.
A door opened at the far end of the hall.
She skidded to a halt, fumbling madly for her knife. But it was only the kindly man, staring at her with an expression between shock and horror. At last he said, "Gods have mercy, child. What have you done?"
"I killed the Sealord." She drew herself up defiantly. "Like you told me."
"As Arya Stark," said the kindly man. "With Arya Stark's thoughts and Arya Stark's beliefs. Surely you understand that you have failed."
"I didn't." She took a better grip on her knife. "That's a lie."
"Perhaps. But neither is it the truth." The kindly man held out a hand. "Come. You must give back that borrowed face, and take your own. And leave."
That's what I want. She inched forward – and stopped.Jaqen said I can't leave. That I know too much and yet not enough, that I have learned nothing.
"No," Arya said. She took a step backwards.
The kindly man sighed. "Child," he said. "You could have left us long before, without doing this to yourself, to us, to the god. Why did you persist, but for your lies? You have told them so often by now that they should be second nature, but they are not. You are a girl. A child. An infant."
A girl who must grow up, Arya thought, or die. She took another step backwards.
"I can make it as painless as falling asleep," said the kindly man. "Come now. Come."
She drew her knife. "I won't."
His eyes flicked to it. He appeared amused. "A girl will have her way," he said, and then, even without what happened next, she knew. His shape began to blur as he stepped forward, and he passed a hand over his face, shook his hair out red and white, the face charming, the mouth smiling and the eyes blue. He isn't the kindly man, he just stole his body. He went straight back here and waited for me.
"Wolf girl," said Jaqen H'ghar. "You are nothing if not stubborn."
She backed up. She began to run. But the instant she reached the door, it slammed shut, and all the candles in the shrines leapt up like devouring dragonfire. She saw herself reflected a hundred times, a thousand, in the shards of mirrors in the black walls. He was advancing on her, only now there were a thousand reflections of him as well and no way to tell which was the real one.
Arya looked around desperately. And then, again, she knew. There is only one way out of this.
"Child," Jaqen H'ghar's voice said, near at hand. "Come."
I won't. I won't. The only thing in the room that was not reflected was the black fountain. To be only a tool of Him of Many Faces, you must have no soul, no heart. You forsake all your yesterdays and any dream of tomorrows. . . No poison can do that for you. No one but you can kill your loves and your hates. You do not have to do this, child. You are twelve, near thirteen. Soon you will flower. Soon you will be a woman. It is life you can bring to this world, not death.
She scrambled up onto the rim of the fountain.
Little sister, Jon's voice said in her head. I have gone away. So far away. And so have you.
I have, she thought. I have now. There was only one way to kill her loves and hates, or birth them again. To give herself as a sacrifice and see if she would be accepted, or if the false face would be flayed from her and the god unmask her as she was. The only way to escape the knife and the man who wielded it. The only way, maybe, to ever see Nymeria and Westeros again. To know that Ser Justin was a liar, not her, and that all of this, all of it, had not been in vain.
Arya seized a cup from the fountain and plunged it into the dark waters. She brought it dripping to her lips, closed her eyes, said a prayer, and drank.