A Flame in Hali (36 page)

Eduin lowered his barriers enough to emphasize his words with mind-touch. “Have we harmed a single person here? Have we not brought good—to the boy, to your mistress. To
you?
”

Her long eyelids fluttered. “Your coming has been like the ending of night. This much I cannot deny. Keep your secrets, as I will, for whatever you have done in the past, you have shown yourself Kirella’s true friend. As for your friend’s dreams, these are untrustworthy omens. If I were you, I would not risk the position I have for the very uncertain possibility of greater influence. Do not seek to put yourself forward beyond your abilities. Be content with what you have.”

It was exactly what Auster, Eduin’s first Keeper at Arilinn, would have said.
Be content. Stay in your place. Do not seek to advance yourself. Wait for someone else to decide the course of your life.

It seemed to Eduin that his entire life had been determined by someone else’s judgment—Auster at Arilinn, Loryn Ardais at Hestral Tower, Lord Brynon and his pet
leronis
. . . his father.

Anger boiled up in him, but he kept it contained behind a smile polished to seamless perfection over the years. His father, who should have guided him, supported him, nourished his talents . . . his father had wedded his soul to his own fanatic quest for vengeance.

“Of course,” Eduin said to Mhari with a gesture at a bow, “I would never do anything to distress His Lordship. I wish only to serve, and spoke in that capacity. Nothing more.”

With an imperious nod, she returned to her own business. Eduin remained in the solarium, shaking with suppressed emotion.

He had found a refuge here at Kirella, but he had found no peace. Everywhere he turned, some new prison waited for him—the subservient position he was forced to play, the ever-present seduction of Saravio’s singing, the schemes and intrigues of the courtiers, Mhari’s veiled warnings, and hovering like a canopy above it all, permeating everything, the image of a woman in black, her eyes like pits of darkness.

For the time being, Eduin saw no way out. Mhari was right. Here he had comfort, and as much safety as could be found in these times. Certainly, no bounty hunters would find him here. He was in Aillard territory, and after Romilla’s astonishing recovery, he did not think Lord Brynon would surrender him, even to Carolin Hastur himself.

Comfort and safety. He told himself no man could expect more. Then why did he feel like a prisoner with the walls of his cell closing in ever more tightly?

A shiver passed through him. To shake off his dark mood, he headed for the kitchen. After fetching the tray the cook had laid out, he might linger in the uncomplicated warmth and companionship. He had never found it odd for a Tower-trained
laranzu
to take comfort in such humble surroundings. Perhaps it felt like the home he could barely remember.

With these thoughts, Eduin pushed open the door. It swung easily at his touch, as if the latch had not been completely engaged. The aroma of herb-laced stew mingled with the fading smell of this morning’s bread. There was a flurry of movement and
Dom
Rodrigo hurried across the room, fumbling with the opening of his fluttering robes. By a trick of the light, Eduin caught a glimpse of the object in the physician’s hand, a round-bellied vial about the length of his hand. It was a distinctive shade of blue-green. The next instant, it vanished into an inner pocket.

Dom
Rodrigo pushed past with the barest nod of recognition, so that Eduin was forced to give way.

If he knew who I really was, he would not dare . . .
No, he must not think that way. For all the years since the siege of Hestral Tower, he had schooled himself to be invisible, unnoticeable. Now something surged up from the forgotten depths of his mind, pride perhaps or hunger too long denied, and he found it terrifying.

The kitchen was empty except for the haze of sunlight through the far windows. A huge pot, the source of the appetizing aromas, hung above the cooking fire. Pottery pans, deep and wide, lined with pastry dough, sat in a row on the central worktable, waiting to be filled.

A moment later, the cook bustled in through the far pantry door, carrying a jar of honey. “It was in the back—”

She paused, seeing the kitchen empty except for Eduin. Her face twisted in exasperation. “Will you look at that? His Medical Mightiness says he must have spiced honey, it cannot be wildflower or rosmarin, and he must have it now—now, in the middle of making meat pies! Of course, it is on the very farthest shelf, for there’s little enough call for it, outside of Midwinter Festival. So to oblige him, I leave my work, drag out the tallest step stool, find a jar—and covered with dust and cobwebs it was, too—and what do you think? He cannot even wait!” She set the jar down in the cupboard in a row of other ingredients and went to wash her hands in the basin. “Well, I’ll not go trotting after him like some servant. If he wants it that badly, he can come back for it himself!”

Having expressed herself, the kindly woman turned back to Eduin with a smile. “I’ve some
jaco
and a spiral bun or two I saved for you.”

Eduin shook his head. Any other time, he would have relished both the treat and the companionship. Something niggled at the back of his thoughts, some unformed restlessness. He went over to the table where Saravio’s tray sat in its accustomed place and straightened the cloth that covered it.

“Well, then,” the cook said after he had made his excuses, “I know you have important work, the two of you.” Her voice held no trace of resentment or even disappointment, only gentle encouragement.

As Eduin carried the tray back to their quarters, his sense of unease increased. He felt as if there were pieces of a puzzle scattered about in his mind and he could not quite make out the pattern.

Dom
Rodrigo had been alone in the kitchen, the cook dispatched on a needless errand. And the cloth, which she had always placed with such meticulous care, as if it were devotional, had been askew.

He was a fool not to have seen it immediately. In a moment of carelessness or perhaps haste, the physician had not properly hidden the container before leaving the kitchen.

Eduin halted before the door, staring down at the tray, and its tantalizing aromas now seemed like poisonous lures. Many medicines could kill or cripple as well as cure, and
Dom
Rodrigo had every reason to wish Saravio out of the way. In her own fashion, Mhari had warned him.

In their chamber, Saravio looked pale, his cheeks pinched. His lips curved and he sighed as he reached for the tray.

“No!” Eduin burst out. What could he say? He could not be sure of Saravio’s reaction, but he could not leave him in ignorance. There might well be another attempt. He drew back, removing the tray from Saravio’s reach, half-closed his eyes, and began swaying.

“Yes ... yes, I understand,” Eduin moaned. “O great Naotalba, I will do as you command!”

When he halted and opened his eyes, Saravio was staring at him with exactly the expression Eduin had hoped for.

“She has spoken to you?” Saravio said breathlessly.

“She has
warned
me,” Eduin replied, “of danger in this place, of a hidden enemy.” Pointedly, he looked down at the tray. “Who seeks to destroy those who serve her. With poison.”

Saravio’s features hardened. “Truly, there are many who have not heard her call . . . or who do not wish to. They might well seek to silence her messenger. They must not prevail.” He looked down at the tray in horror.

“They shall not,” Eduin responded. “Naotalba will protect you. She will reveal the villains. Meanwhile, we must let them believe they have won. You must stay hidden, as if you had been taken ill. I will take away this tainted food and prepare some that is safe.”

Eduin rushed back to the kitchen, staying well away from the corridors that the courtiers, including
Dom
Rodrigo, used. The cook was putting the final decorative touches, vines and leaves of pastry dough, on the filled pies. She looked puzzled as he spun out a story of Saravio receiving a vision commanding him to abstain from meat, but put together a meal of bread, cheese, and stewed vegetables. She balked when Eduin asked her to safeguard the first tray.

“Why, what is wrong with my cooking?”

Eduin gave an ingenuous shrug, as if he, too, was confounded by the whims of the great healer. “Perhaps he will want it later. It is a simple thing to set it aside where it will not be touched by anyone else, is it not?”

“Aye, ’tis no problem at all. Many’s the time our young mistress has sent back some dish, saying she could not abide it, and then changed her mind. I’ve a shelf in the back pantry where it’s nice and cool. Mind you, the stew won’t stay good forever.”

That evening,
Dom
Rodrigo approached Eduin and inquired after Saravio’s health. The physician’s guilt hung about him like a psychic fog.

Eduin assumed an anxious expression. “The Blessed Sandoval is not able to leave his quarters.”

“Is he ill? Shall I attend him?” the physician asked. “We would not want such an important personage to go wanting.”

“No, no, it is a temporary indisposition,” Eduin said, raising the pitch of his voice so that he would sound worried. “He will be better shortly. I am sure of that. If you will excuse me, I must go now to consult with
Domna
Mhari.”

As Eduin turned away, he caught the edge of Rodrigo’s thought,
Yes, go seek the counsel of the little witch. She cannot help you, or even herself, in matters of the court. And as for what ails your friend, it is already too late.

Eduin thought with dark amusement that it was not Saravio for whom it was too late.

“Y
es, I still have my key.” Mhari looked surprised when, after breakfast the next morning, Eduin asked if she could show him the still room. “I have not used it for some time, not since I was last called upon to attend a patient. I thought I might need some of the things stored there for my own use, since there is now no one in the castle at risk for threshold sickness.”

Eduin did not ask for the loan of the key. He wanted Mhari to remain an unimpeachable witness to what he suspected they would find there. She might be only recently back in favor, but as the household
leronis,
her word was above question.

The still room lay some short distance from the root cellars, a little stone-walled chamber perfect for storing various medicines. Bunches of dried flowers and herbs hung from the rafters, and bottles, vials and oiled packets sat in neat rows on the shelves. Eduin paused, inhaling the mixture of scents, some familiar and reassuring, others odd. He recognized the distinctive, but very faint, tang of raw
kireseth.

Only someone properly trained could handle the dried blossoms safely, for the unrefined pollen was a potent hallucinogen. From it, a variety of extracts could be prepared for the treatment of threshold sickness and other ailments related to
laran.

Eduin approached the nearest cabinet, scanning the contents. The doors were unglassed, but tightly-meshed and locked.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Mhari asked.

With a surge of elation, he pointed to a shelf. The vial looked very much as he remembered it in
Dom
Rodrigo’s hand. “What is in that container?”

Frowning, Mhari bent to look. “That’s odd, it’s not in its usual place. Look, the dust has been disturbed.” She straightened up, eyes narrowing. “What is it you aren’t telling me? Why are you so interested?”

“First, tell me what it is.”

“
Shallavan.
” She practically spat the word at him.

Eduin felt sick.
Shallavan
was one of the more treacherous distillations known to the Towers. Auster, Keeper of Arilinn, had banned its use as too dangerous. In diluted quantities, it could quell the upheavals of newly-aroused
laran
. More concentrated, it could cripple a
laranzu’s
mind, leaving him senseless and paralyzed. An even greater dose . . .

Dom
Rodrigo, who was no fool, must have guessed Saravio had
laran,
that Saravio used his mental gifts to cure Romilla.

“Take it out,” Eduin said. “Tell me who last handled it.”

The cabinet unlocked with a little key attached to the main key. Mhari removed the vial and cupped it in both hands. Eduin felt her mind scanning the surface of the glass for the lingering imprint of personality. After several long moments, she drew in a hissing breath. When she spoke, her voice rang like steel.