Ash and Silver (15 page)

“And lead me to this aberrant sentinel?”

“If it is possible, certainly.”

“Then on my daughter's future, thou art sworn,” he snapped, glaring at Morgan and then me. “And wilt thou swear the same, daughter? What if I say that if he fails in this oath, thou shalt live as a beast until the end of thy days?”

“No, wait . . .”

“Yes.” Morgan garbed herself in pride and fury. “Lucian swears he will answer to you when his memory and magic are restored. I believe him. I know him. I pledge my life on his word.”

“A
human's
word?” The Dané shook with rage.

“Yes.”

My horror cried out, “Morgan, you mustn't!” Who knew how Tuari would interpret
help
or
answers
,
truth
or
possibility
?

Tuari shook off the shocked Nysse's touch as if she were a gnat. “So be it sworn.” With a jerk of his head, the four of them vanished into the night.

Morgan stared after them, as if she could see them leaving long after human eyes failed. As the city bells tolled the hour, she folded her arms across her breast and begin to shake.

“Lady, what have you done?” I said. “I meant what I swore, but what if my memory is never restored completely or if I can't make the connection happen again? Bastien says it didn't always.”

“I told thee, Tuari has no use for humans. Nor for daughters who care for humans, it seems. Even daughters who share his rash temper. I hope— Gentle Lucian, thou must find thy memory.”

Her wan smile sent arrows up my spine. Could Tuari truly change Morgan into a beast? A fox or a hind . . . prey to hunters, to larger beasts. Surely not. But her fear enveloped me, more real even than my own.

“I'd best find my human clothes. We must go.” She stalked back toward the gatehouse.

Steel sliding on leather spun me around. Bastien had sheathed his weapon. Shaking his shaggy head, he squatted and fingered the Danae's braided rope. “I'm not thinking that went as planned.”

“No. I'm grateful for your clear witness. I've a thousand questions, as you can imagine. But I have to go. I've duties . . . and I must see this breakage remedied.”

His head popped up. “You've a way to do that?”

“It's not simple . . .” Deunor's holy fire, what if the Marshal—or Damon—refused to sanction me leaving the Order with memory restored?
“I may be back, begging for answers and your posset to soothe the discomfort of hearing them.”

“Aye, I can see it's rough. But lest you can't fix things, there's more you ought to know.”

“I'm sure of that, but too much at once will have me gibbering.” And Inek's position and mine at Evanide depended on my being back to receive the Order spy's signal.

Bastien jerked his head at Morgan, who was lost in thought as she pulled on skirts and cloak, masking her glory for our trek around the city. “There's more has to do with this matter.”

“
What?
You
withheld
?” Did he want me to strangle him? “But you swore!”

“Now just hold on to your boots. Everything I spoke was the truth. I just left out a bit. The sentinel told you her blue-marked kin were
excitable
and that their
view of human usefulness
differed from that of her own people. She also said that you were the answer to a long waiting by some of her kind—and some of
our
kind, as well. So I'd say she was more friendly to human folk, yes? Lest you didn't notice, this Tuari is itching to hurt somebody—you for certain, but not necessarily just humans. He near burst his heart when you said the silver one was waiting for someone with the strength to
use
talents like yours. And I'm thinking, as the world is a dreadful mess right now, one wouldn't want to go starting another war—between folks like these.”

“Yes. Truly.”

“So I thought you'd likely want to learn a bit more for yourself before spilling it to them. The sentinel told you what you had to do to prove your
quality
was to follow something called the Path of the
White Hand
. She said they would welcome you at the end of it.”

“White hand . . . the path . . .” I whipped out my dagger. “This blazon made you think I'd already gone to her.” Easy to see the confusion. From a distance the Order's emblem would be very like.

He dipped his head toward Morgan. “Do you trust her fully in this matter?”

“I must,” I said. “As you said, if not for her, I might be dead right now—or broken. And my resources to explore what all this means are quite limited at present. Besides, she's honestly terrified at what he threatens.”

Morgan joined us, looking almost ordinary in her maiden's skirts. Quick and sharp, Bastien's gaze swept her, seeking evidence of the marvels—and
perhaps the loyalties—behind the drab fabrics. I knew so, because my own gaze did the same. I yet felt the luminous wonder our eyes could not see, as when the sun's warmth heats a wall at one's back. But I didn't know her.

The coroner averted his eyes. “I've someplace to show the two of you. 'Tisn't far.”

Morgan touched his chin, deep buried in his beard. “Know this, worthy Bastien, before we go farther: I am my father's loyal daughter, but I do not share his despair. I have lived amid humankind, and learned of the great variety of human souls—those of cruelty and careless greed that he despises, yes, but also those of generosity, of wisdom, and even some who match my own people in grace and art.” Her alter hand brushed mine, shooting lightning bolts through my spine. “And lest the two of you plan to speak more secrets, know that my hearing is exceptional.”

Bastien opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Instead, he bowed. Grinning. “
Envisia seru,
gracious lady. Even in human garb.”

Her laughter rang sweeter than chiming silver, though it faded quickly. Beneath her generous sentiments lay profound hurt and a fear seated too deep to let it pass.

“What is all this about?” I said. “Your father has just condemned you to this dreadful fate, and if the risk was merely my trespassing on something sacred to your kind, a knife to my throat would end it. Why do silver gards and sanctuary concern him so? Please, tell me.”

She withdrew her hand from mine, and turned away. “The song of sanctuary is long and must wait for another time. But the silver gards . . . Indeed, my father has laid my future in thy hands, Lucian. And reason says I must trust thee with things we do not share outside our own. But the questions silver gards raise touch on privacies no human can ever know and I've promised my father to honor our tradition. Trust me; his fears are justified. Be wary if you speak to the sentinel again. Listen and observe her carefully.”

“Morgan, how can I—?”

“Our time is short.” The air crackled. “If there is more to see, do it quickly.”

I shrugged helplessly at Bastien. “Show me what you would.”

“Come this way.” Bastien struck out across the field toward the city wall, for the same gate where Morgan and I had met Naari. “I'm going to
show you where my knowledge of this mystery ended. I believe the place to be important, but my damnably stubborn pureblood never deigned to tell me what he learned there. And as we go, I'd best tell you a few more unhappy truths.”

“F
irst off, Lucian, if you show so much as a hair in Palinur, the Registry will bury you so deep Magrog himself couldn't find you. This Curator Pluvius, who visits as regular as the gatzi's itch, claims he can help you, but you could never decide whether to trust him or not. I'd not trust a Registry curator with a crumb of dirt.”

“Pluvius.” I rubbed my aching brow and packed the name away with the rest.

We kept a brisk pace as we crossed the muddy field toward the wall, Bastien on one side of me, Morgan on the other.

“They've put about that not only are you a madman and a renegade, but that you killed one pureblood and mutilated another with your magic. I gather you yet understand what that means.”

“Yes.” I swallowed hard. Perhaps if I judged his words as the story of someone other than me, my eyes wouldn't dissolve as they were currently threatening. “Did I?”

“Don't know. You might have had good reason. Certain nobles of Prince Perryn's court will also have your head off your shoulders if they catch a glimpse of you. And don't imagine you can shelter in a temple. There's been recent upheaval in Arrosa's temples—some of our better work, I think. But I doubt you need to hear more about these things right now.”

“Probably so,” I said, wholly confused. How could a portrait artist make so many enemies?

“It's all to do with your two bents”—he might have read my thoughts—“the artwork that you practiced and the gift for history that you thought had been burnt out, but was not or grew back or whatever. The work you did here made you reach deeper for your magic, so you told me, and you believed the two talents somehow meshed with each other. You were convinced that this joined talent enabled you to shift to this other
place. And the silver one said they were looking for someone with your
particular talents
.”

He peered around me. “Lady Dané, does it make sense that the magic that transported Lucian to this other place would be the same that stings your sire so fiercely?”

“Indeed,” she said. The power of her worry slowed our steps and drew us close enough that my shoulder brushed hers and Bastien's mine. “I'll tell thee a portion of the great mystery of the world. But 'tis a violation. . . .”

Her posture, usually so fluidly graceful, was rigid as an oaken beam until we each swore to protect her secret.

“My people walk lands that take the same shape as these that humans walk. But they are also set apart. Consider the reflection in a pond which is very like what it shows, but of a different quality, defining a different realm. The long-lived pass between the true lands and the human realm without a ripple. Lucian witnessed this on our journey here.”

“A different realm. That's why I saw no evidence of human habitation.”

“Aye.” Morgan's eyes closed as if to avoid witnessing her own sin. “Few humans have ever been able to cross into the true lands, and always by pathways we know. Sentinels guard those ways, for humans bring danger and disorder wherever they travel. Thy magic, Lucian, thins the boundaries between our lands and thine, and my father, who is responsible for the ways our kind heed the call of the Everlasting, fears thy workings forge new paths we do
not
know.”

“How could I possibly have known that?” I said. “And why would I damage these barriers apurpose?”

“We don't know. But it does not escape notice that we first felt the wrenching of thy magic in the very seasons this diseased and unyielding winter took hold of the world.”

“The
winter
?”

“The health of thy fields and rivers, forests and sea derives from the health of the true lands. When the disease took hold, we searched for damage afflicting the boundaries. We found thee. Thus, against all custom, was I sent to learn of thee.”

“You think
I
am responsible for the
weather
?” For dying sheep, frozen vineyards, famine, plagues . . . not just a single death, but thousands. Certainly true magics altered the natural world, but . . . “Bastien, did you see me do any such thing? Did I speak of it, hint at it? Holy Deunor, was I such a monster?”

“Pssh. Never a whisper.” His skeptical spewing reassured me. “The worst you learned was that your drawings exposed sins people didn't want known. Besides, the magics you did for me drained you dry, and it never changed the season a whit!”

“Surely I believe thy saying, Lucian,” said Morgan. “But is not my sire's fear understandable? What are the consequences if thy magic destroys the barriers that keep our two realms separate? Such a shift in the Everlasting must carry terrible risks. Humans moved across the boundary on that very day Naari last spoke to thee in warning, yet we've never found them.”

Muddle-headed as I was, I knew this was wrong. Even such magic as I worked at Evanide filled me with wonder and purpose, a beauty, a rightness that soothed the wounds of lost years. It could not be so unnatural as to create this plague of winter.

“I'll not believe this until I see evidence,” I said. “You told me you kept your true nature hidden from me when we met. Yet your portrait showed truth, a truth I could not possibly guess.”

“Indeed, it showed truth and more.” She touched her smooth, unmarked cheek.

“If
truth
is the work of my magic, it cannot be this unholy thing your father fears. Tell me, lady, has the winter eased these two years past? Have flocks and vineyards grown healthier? For it's been at least that long since I used my bent.”

She shook her head. “The world has grown more ill since thy move to the sea fortress. But it could be that thy hand in the sickness is hidden, as are the seasons of thine own history.” The pearly light from my hand revealed tears glistening in her green eyes. “The Law of the Everlasting requires us to eliminate such a threat as you are. But if we knew more of the sentinel with silver gards, it might help soften that harsh judgment.”

Only stubborn faith could refute her logic. I had pledged my loyalty to the Order, they who
could
mask my bent—magic that was a part of me as much as my spine or my rattling heart—they who could erase all recognition of the two extraordinary people at my side. But despite my faltering trust in the Marshal, the Order was not just one man. It was Inek and Cormorant, and the knights and trainees who sacrificed lives and glory for just purpose. And truly, I could account for every moment of my stay at Evanide and every scrap of magic I had expended there.

As one, the three of us resumed our hike to the wall. I felt like a ghost
risen from the boneyard of Caton, floating in a world I had no senses to comprehend.

“Hmmph.” Bastien's grunt broke the silence. “If Lucian's magic is so fearsome, why does this sentinel say her kind would welcome him? She even mentioned the boundary twisting, but she wasn't anywise afraid or angry.”

Morgan shook her head. “The sentinel with silver gards is a great puzzle.”

When we reached the wall, Bastien didn't slow, but led us through the slot gate and down the steep track into the deeper dark. The city's outer wall and an inner, older one, built atop rocky ramparts, formed a deep ravine. It was a dismal place, swampy, musty, overgrown with willows.

“Best keep voices down and light spare,” said Bastien. “The Guard Royale patrols Caedmon's Wall, though fewer and fewer are left to do it. Prince Perryn's snatched up all but dotards and weanlings for the summer's campaign.”

The ravine widened a little. The night was pitch in the bottomland, and despite Bastien's warning, I widened my magelight, lest we founder in mud or break our heads. Swathes of ground were treeless and sterile, littered with blackened stones and broken carts. Wagon ruts cut deep through the mud.

“Two years ago this was Hirudo Palinur,” said Bastien, his voice muted in the heavy quiet. “Some two hundred people lived here, mostly Cicerons, and a few who didn't mind living amongst them. The barber-surgeon that did jobs for me at Caton had a hole down here. No other place would have him, as most of his fees went for nivat paste or corpses he could cut apart to school himself. Never knew a twistmind could keep his mind sharp before I knew Bek.”

Every city spawned such a district, rife with disease and perversion, where one could hire a thief, a whore, or an assassin, or lay wagers of coin or blood.

Bastien kicked a charred timber out of our way. “All this burnt on the morning Bayard laid the siege.”

We crossed a muddy flat, pitted with old fire rings, rusted wheels, and rotting barrels. But my interest snapped to the city-side wall, the older of the two confining boundaries of the ravine where a strong
obscuré
tried to divert my attention. Concentration revealed a squat stone hut butted up against the rubble underpinnings of the ancient wall.

“I've come down here on and off over the years, so the magic doesn't
make me look away anymore,” said Bastien, nodding at the hut's dull red door—a door unscratched and uncharred.

“The Cicerons called this their commons house, as if they were a righteous village here at the city's bung hole. Their headman was named Demetreo, an honorable sort for a knife-wielding thief. You and he had dealings, Lucian, some of which you told me, some of which you didn't.”

“Dealings with a
Ciceron
? Why?” He might have told me I'd had dealings with badgers.

“Not long before the siege came down, you and a friend of mine had been out doing some work for me—”

“What work?” I said, the need to know overwhelming good sense.

“We solved murders,” he said, his teeth gleaming white. “You ran your fingers over a dead face as you drew, reached deep into your magic, so you told me, and your portraits showed things you couldn't possibly know . . . useful things. Folk pay well to know how their kinsmen die, who did the deed, and where they're laid. Folk pay to know their enemies are dead, or their neighbors' farm has no man to work it anymore. Nobles pay decent. Merchants pay better. It was good work. Decent work, even for a pureblood.”

“The work of justice.”

“Aye. Exactly that. You liked it better than sitting in the Registry Tower drawing identity portraits for purebloods. Though you came to believe that some of
those
portraits told the secrets that left you in chains.”

I ignored the warning throb in my head while enjoying the sweet irony, then let it go. “Go on.”

“My friend and you were wounded, and Demetreo brought you here. That was the first time you'd been inside. Touch the door.”

Just before my finger encountered the painted wood, the door swung open.

“You see? Those invited in get to come back. Door won't open to anyone other.”

Magelight revealed a single chamber, centered by a circular stone firepit. Plastered walls were hung with lamps. An armchair with a high back, the old wood splattered and stained, sat near the back wall. Far more interesting was the variety of small enchantments that filled the room, around the door for certain, but also about the hearth, the lamps, and even the dice abandoned on a three-legged table. Common spells, precisely executed by a variety of hands. Not at all what one might expect in such a place. A
Ciceron
place. Yes, Cicerons claimed to have magic, but their spells were always proven to be fools' fakery.

“This house is not what it seems.” Morgan remained in the doorway, her brow wrinkled in puzzlement that reflected my own.

Bastien's eyes, intent and curious, fixed on me. He pointed to the back wall. “Shine your light up near the rafters.”

“Deunor's fire!”

Just beneath the timber rafters, at the time the plaster was wet, an artist had painted a black lozenge. On the field of black he had depicted a white hand, thumb and fingers spread.

“The Path of the White Hand,” I said. “What could a Ciceron commons house have to do with Danae or a way for a sorcerer to prove his quality to them?”

“Such was your question that night, too,” said Bastien. “Demetreo said he'd tell of the symbol, but only to you. He'd done us a service, summoning Bek to stitch up my Garen and keeping you both safe here. So we worked a bargain. In exchange for telling you about that bit of paint, he wanted an hour of your assistance. He didn't allow me to stay.”

Bastien's meaty arms wrapped his broad chest, and he strolled over to the armchair. “These stains are blood, you know.”

He swiveled around, his sharp glance puncturing me. Judging . . . what? Guilt? Confusion? But he continued the story. “When you got back to Caton, you refused to say what you'd learned. You said you'd done a portrait, but wouldn't say whose.”

But Bastien had been angry. He had spewed resentments when he recognized me. His grimy leather jaque was straining to hold them in even now.

“Three days after Bayard laid his siege and you failed to show up at Caton, I came down here in search of Bek. We had wounded who needed his skills. I found a few of Demetreo's fighters lying dead out there, left in a heap for rats and vultures. But every other Ciceron was gone, as was my surgeon. Soldiers told me they'd never seen any but those few. But then”—he pointed a thick finger at the floor—“I came inside here. And right where you stand was Demetreo with his skull caved in, laid out as if he were a hero prince, wrapped in a cloak I'd last seen on you, exactly the kind of nicety you'd do. And beside him lay his granny Oldmeg—a crone who could have been the Goddess Mother's own granny—with her wrists sliced open, a stab
wound through her heart, and a bloody knife laid careful on her breast. Guess you don't recall what that could be about, neither?”

I shook my head. Why Cicerons?

“I had plenty of reason to fear the Registry had taken you. Killed you. Buried you. Whatever. But that morning I came to suspect you'd run off with the Cicerons.”