Ash and Silver (21 page)

Exactly. So, something had changed. I had been so anxious to tell Morgan my mad notion about the Xancheirans, but now I wondered. Was she bound to tell her father everything I learned? Before revealing all to an
angry Tuari, I needed to understand the consequences of what I'd promised him. I had to speak to the sentinel again.

“It grieves me beyond saying that my magic has put you at odds with your kin—” And even as I spoke the words, a terrible realization struck me about Morgan's danger—and perhaps her unusual melancholy. Gods save me, I'd violated my oath.

“—and I must tell you something astonishing that happened yesterday!”

I told her of following the prince into the cavern of the white hand, of his rapacious interrogation, and of finding a second portal so like the first. “. . . and when I touched the frame, seeking to understand its meaning, images and sounds and emotions, sensations of all kinds, flowed through me like a rampaging river. Somehow in the prince's ravaging, my bent for history had been unmasked, and I used it—”

“Oh, Lucian!”

She lunged forward and pressed her hands to the sides of my face, bringing her rosy lips and fathomless eyes within a finger's breadth—which near made me forget what I'd just said.

“I was so afraid! I felt it, the twisting of the boundaries, and thou didst not tell me. For certain my father felt it, too, and I would have to tell him you withheld . . .”

“. . . which would endanger you.”

“And thou, as well. But Tuari knows of this dread prince and sorely mistrusts him. He will certainly believe this saying and rejoice that you can now take us to the silver one.”

It was as if her own full-faced mask had fallen away to reveal a different person altogether. How lovely, how ripe and alive she was. Her soft cheek brushed mine. Her arms slipped around me, enveloping me in relief, fears, and desire. Her breasts, gleaming with blue fire, pressed against my damp shirt. . . .

No, no, no.
With screaming reluctance I retrieved her wrists, pressed her curled fingers to my forehead in apology, and placed them back in her lap. My actions had already left her life at risk; I dared not even think how Tuari Archon would react if I turned my attentions to her as my younger, foolish self had done. Especially when I refused to take him to Safia.

“Sweet Lucian, let me—”

“I cannot, must not, make your danger worse,” I said, hoarsely.

Tangled desires did not mesh well with indignation. And no matter her
words, her generosity, she was a stranger to me. If I could just
remember
those days I knew her—what we had talked about, how we had felt, what had made us each risk so much to be together. My violation of pureblood discipline regarding the body's urges could have drawn lifelong punishments, as could her dalliance with me, it seemed.

“What kind of villain threatens his own daughter with such a fate?”

Morgan's face blazed scarlet, stricken as if I'd slapped her. “My father is no villain. His concern is the
world's
fate!”

“That's but an excuse for lack of faith,” I snapped. “Not just faith in humankind, but in his own kind, in you and himself. Prisoning you determines nothing of the world's fate, save to diminish its glory.”

She did not respond. She wanted honesty. But honesty could wound, and anything I might add would only make things worse. I munched on the purple berries I had dropped when she embraced me. They were hard, bitter, and gritty with mud, like so much of truth.

I could not but contrast Tuari's rancor with the image of Danae and Xancheirans amid the standing stones and the surety it had raised in me of a profound holiness, shaped of generosity and mutual sacrifice. I wanted to believe
that
image was truth in the same way the portrait of Morgan was truth—the harmony with her surroundings, the brilliance and beauty of her nature.

She drew up her long legs, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her chin on her knees. “Thou didst speak with her again . . . the silvered one.”

“Only for a moment, lest Osriel notice me vanished. She claimed she was the one who allowed me to cross the portal or turned me back.” That scalding fire that only I could feel.

“That is the proper task of a sentinel. Did she say more?”

“She said I mustn't use my magic when I was there—which would be impossible, anyway, as I can't do other magic while using my bent. But she didn't explain why.”

Only that I would be trapped.

Morgan puzzled at it. “Her saying makes no sense. Thy magic is of the Everlasting and thus draws on the land—the true lands and the human lands that are forever bound one to the other. 'Tis why thy ancestors came to Navronne, yes? What would forbid its use in Sanctuary?”

“It makes no sense. But for now, we need to go,” I said. “Your feast has
restored me. My horse should know the way, but I'm not sure he can take me to my boat . . . not from here.”

“Set the beast free. I'll have thee to the estuary before moonrise,” she said, unfolding herself. “And whenever thou hast need of me, dip your hand in the water of the estuary and call my name. I'll come as soon as I can.”

We strolled down the hill side by side, my cramps and bruises easing. I tried to notice when she made the subtle leaps that would shorten the distance like gathering a loop in a rope or carrying a boat across the meander of a river, but it was near impossible in the rainy gloom. Her cool silence grieved me.

“My oath stands,” I said. “And I
will
tell you all, but I am so ignorant about all this. I need to understand what I've experienced before I can describe it. And I'm often hasty, so anxious to do my duty, I get myself and others in trouble. I'm trying to do better. Like not leaving myself a husk.”

“Dost thou regret thy oath to my sire?”

“To respect and honor your kind and do them no harm? No. To do what's needed to keep you safe and free? No. I'm only afraid that I've not the knowledge or power”—or the right?—“to do as he wants. As I told him, the gift I bear is not unrighteous. But I've got to find out why it seems so. Now I have at least a part of it back, maybe I can learn.”

Morgan had said we were bound by what we'd done, that she could sense my needs. Perhaps that's why I felt her emotions so clearly. It was my own were a mystery to me.

The breeze gusted stronger as we descended a rocky hillside, certainly not the one where I'd eaten fish, onto the flats of the upper coast. The air was thicker. A heavy scent of briny deadness twined with old woodsmoke sent Morgan back easterly out of our way.

“It's naught but the salterns,” I said, tugging on her arm. “Someone's worked them in the past month. But I doubt anyone's working so late, unless they've a boil going in the hut.”

The flats and the tides made collecting the salt water and trapping it between the earthen dams to settle easy. But even the constant wind on the flats was too damp to dry the salt completely. Thus Evanide's servitors poured the brine into lead pans in the shed and boiled the water away. But not this afternoon.

“I'll not walk there,” she said, shaking me loose. “I cannot. Find thy own way through. I'm not needed.” She forged on to the east.

“No, wait. Please.” I caught up with her. “I need to hear one more story. You have to tell me about the silver gards.”

“Only if we go another way. I'll not be forced.”

“But why? None will see you.” Understanding escaped me.

“'Tis the salé,” she said, exasperated. “It . . . sickens me. Does that please thee to know?”

“The
salt
? But you walk by the sea, live near the estuary. You eat fish. I didn't know.”

“'Tis just . . . so much at once. The dry crystals. Come, I'll tell thee willing of silver gards. 'Tis long past time.”

Only as she drew me away on a path to avoid the saltern did I recall tales of greedy landlords and villeins who wished to trap Danae in their fields to ensure a rich harvest. They put out feast bread made with nivat—or even the seeds themselves if their purse was heavy enough—to draw the Danae near. But under the loaf or the pile of seeds they'd hide a fistful of salt, because the salt crystals would bind a Dané to the land like an iron chain. If that were true . . .

“I didn't think,” I said. “I'd never trick you, never force you to do anything against your will.”

“Ah, sweet Lucian, I know that. But this matter of the gards . . .”

Anger ebbed, she stretched out one hand, inspecting it, as if she'd never considered the wonder of it. The sapphire and lapis vines glowed brighter, their colors richer in the cloudy light.

“We are sworn not to reveal such things to humans. Yet thy need demands it. Perhaps I can explain it in the manner of our tutors in Montesard—telling while not telling.”

She took my hand and strolled across the barrens. “What if thy king's eyes were the hue of ripe plums and the color of his eyes determined what crops would grow in his land, the course of his rivers, what stories are told, how many younglings are birthed there, and the talents of the subjects who serve him? The sign of this kingdom's right ordering is that all these good subjects have the same color eyes as their king, despite a variance in hue. When they see through their purple eyes, they experience the world in a similar way and go about their work. When the king and his people join together to give an accounting of their lands and grapes and children, their harmony binds the kingdom in safety and health until the next time.

“And then, one day, the king hears rumor of one with green eyes. How does that one see or experience the world? It cannot be the same as he does, yet the very vitality of his people depends on their experience of the world.”

“It's natural your father would be anxious if the silver gards have never been seen before. When my ancestors came to Navronne, the people here had never seen magic. They were afraid of us, and yes there were struggles. . . .”

“Wars,” she said. “Thousands of deaths. Recall, I studied human history alongside thee. But the long-lived have no historical writings as humans do. We've no stories of those with silver gards nor do we recall seeing them. And yet my elders fear them, not as strangers, but as if the warning is writ in their bones or carved in the trees that
do
live in their memories. It is not just my sire. When I saw the abyss through the portal in the human city, the fear that afflicted me was the same in kind as when I hear of the silver gards. What lies beyond that portal is terrible and dangerous, though I cannot explain why.”

“Is it only silver that worries you?”

“My sire insists that any difference would afflict him the same. But others of more generous mind tell me that if they heard tales of green gards or gold, it would concern, but not frighten, them. We know that the Everlasting expresses itself in glorious ways, and when we find a flower, tree, or fish that none have seen before, we rejoice. As you've seen, our gards pale in sunlight, which is natural. But I've thought that silver might be so fearful because when we fade, as Rhiain did, from a life that is not whole, and our gards pale to silver in night as well as day, sometimes we do things that make no sense . . . turn our work to harm. . . .”

Her voice shook so terribly, I stopped and drew her around where I could see her face. Shame and horror were writ on her. “What is it? I don't understand.”

“Madness,” she whispered. “Just like humans, we can go mad. And if this sentinel you've seen is mad . . . if there are more like her . . . who knows what is the truth of Sanctuary?”

“B
lessed return, Greenshank!” Fix the boatmaster snatched the line I tossed up to him and secured the bucking skiff. “Brought a storm, I see, as well as my best boat and mercy to my ears.”

I glanced up. It was difficult to comprehend the old man's banter. Now I was free of oars, rocks, and deadly whirlpools, foreboding choked the stormy afternoon, shrouding the fortress until my spirit could scarce breathe. Mad Danae . . . Goddess Mother!

It was necessary to heed Fix. He was the first judge of anyone returned from a mission. Perhaps the best. Though the lowest of servants, he saved lives—knights and trainees both—by detecting wounds of body or spirit that pride sought to mask.

“Have the squires stoppled your hearing, Fix, hoping to raid the kitchens undetected?”

None had ever figured out how the boatmaster stayed abreast of every person inside Evanide.

“Nay. Seems like every hour of late, some's pestering as to whether
Greenshank's
come back. Knight Commander Inek's worst at it; he feels shorted, no doubt, as ye've yet to complete your nights on the seaward wall. No guide likes his punishments interrupted with missions.”

“Would Inek be in the armory, do you think?”

“More like the archives. He's studious of late.” His ruddy brow crinkled. “But then, he's not there neither. He's likely on his way to the Marshal, as the Marshal's laid first claim on your carcass. And 'tis a mealy carcass at that. You look like summat Malcolm scrapes from the bay at low tide.”

“I've no complaint,” I said. “Not drowned. No holes in me.”

It was tempting to intercept Inek on his way to the Marshal. But we'd not have time enough to cover all I needed to tell. Best get the mission report out of the way first.

“Who besides Inek's been pestering?” A crash of thunder and the rising gale had me shouting.

“More than's usual for a shag-tail paratus. Oughtn't say more. Wouldn't want to put you above yourself.”

“Just want to know who I've got to see before I can sleep.” I stowed oars and bailers, and passed Fix the skiff's small water cask.

Fix twisted his craggy face, speculating. “Well, Paratus-exter Cormorant for one, about his investiture. And a knight, name of Bearn.”

“Cormorant's investiture!” I'd completely lost track of the days. “It's not happened already?”

“Nah, you've come in time.”

“Excellent!” Cormorant, the first of Evanide's senior parati, was a brother I respected and valued. Now he was to take his final step to knighthood, the first of the trainees I knew well to do so. That he cared I should be here for his night of glory pleased me greatly.

As for the knight, I didn't know him. To have a stranger
pestering
about me seemed odd. “Did this Bearn mention what he wanted or where I could find him?”

“He's an odd one. Said he'd find you, as he was in and out on mission. Didn't say what he wanted. But the Marshal's got first claim anyways. The others'll wait.”

“The Marshal knows I'm here already, eh, Fix?” The rapid communication of arrivals was another of Fix's mysteries.

“Mayhap.” The old man grinned, as the wind tangled his gray hair and forced his gleaming eyes into a squint.

The truer question was whether Damon the Spider was waiting as well. I'd lay odds he was.

Fix shuffled up the quay, the water cask on his shoulder. Thanking him for his good service, I hurried past him to the first stair, then up and inward toward the southern flank of the fortress.

Patchy torchlight showed the way through the afternoon's storm-wrought gloom. Trainees, knights, adjutants, and servants strode past about their business. As usual.

Astonishing I'd been away near a half month; mind and body insisted it had been but four or five days. Holy Deunor, so much to sort out. The sentinel, Safia, had been sad and secretive, yes . . . and afraid of some increasing danger. But mad? Surely not.

Knight-retired Horatio barreled past me through the kitchen passage,
clattering down the stair toward the training rooms. That was not so usual. The Marshal's doorward couldn't stand watch every hour of every day, but his absence at mid-afternoon, and his urgency, could not but leave me curious and wary. Indeed, as I crossed the upper courtyard herb garden through a deluge and charcoal light, no guard stood outside the Marshal's chambers. Or was there . . . ?

“Speak your name.” The dark-cloaked man stepped out from the shadowed colonnade, his pale complexion entirely bare. An outsider. Unmasked.

My knife and spellwork were at ready in the space of an eyeblink. “Who commands it?”

“Speak your name. Once assured of your identity, I shall reciprocate. If you're expected inside, I'll allow you to pass.”

His steel-timbred voice scraped my nerves.

“You've no authority here,” I said, cool, but loud enough I hoped someone else might hear.

“Does it ease your concerns if I say my own master is inside with yours,” he said, “and that the two of them commanded me stand watch while Doorward Horatio is away on other business?”

He moved farther into the lamplight, a tight-bodied man something near my own age. His richly black clothing and fair complexion, the black hair, slicked straight back, and the pale hands that held a very fine sword put me in mind of our relicts—so starkly black and white. His capable stance and a scar that creased a granite-hewn brow and cheek belied any impression of softness.

“Curator Damon is your master, then,” I guessed.

He inclined his back in the way of acknowledgement rather than deference. “I was given a list of those permitted to enter. If your name does not appear on that list, you're to return tomorrow.”

So he was an unmasked pureblood or an ordinary with iron balls. Having seen Horatio barreling through the halls gave weight to the man's explanation, but it signaled further Registry intrusion into the Order's business. I didn't like it.

“I'm Paratus Greenshank,” I said. “In-mission and reporting to the Marshal as required.”

“Well met, Paratus Greenshank. Your name is on the list. I am
Fallon
, Curator Damon's military aide.” He put a slight emphasis on his name, as if I might know some other military aide. “As is customary, your weapon
must be sheathed before you can proceed. You are commanded to retain your mask.”

Inek would be livid that we had outsiders on guard in the fortress, outsiders familiar with our customs. And since when did Registry administrators have military aides?

Since the beginnings perhaps, when they dispatched sorcerer-soldiers to fire Xancheira or Harrowers to exterminate entire bloodlines . . .

As Fallon stepped aside to let me enter, I returned my dagger to its sheath. His quick, firm hand atop mine prevented me yanking it out again when his body pressed my back and his breath teased my ear.

“If you would hear a private warning from one deeply in your debt,
Domé
Remeni, pause at yonder font on your way out.” Then he backed away and vanished, as if he'd never been there.

He
knew
me—Lucian.

My hand did not release the knife or the spell invocation hovering at mind's edge until I stood in the Marshal's outer chamber with the thick door between me and Damon's man. The outer chamber's protective enchantments remained in place. Before stepping fully into the inner chamber, I verified that the two men beside the hearth were the only ones present. The white-robed Marshal was seated; Damon stood at his shoulder. No Inek as yet. Hearth fire and torchlight glimmered on the great windows, but it was lightning from the storm beyond that set the panes of citron and red ablaze, curdling my gut.

“Come, come, Greenshank! All is secure.” The Marshal's many-layered voice embodied welcome and reassurance.

“The presence of an unmasked outsider at your door trumped a warning, Knight Marshal,” I said. That I offered an excuse was a measure of my unsettled state. What debt could Damon's military aide owe me?

As ever, ritual provided clarity and focus. I sank to one knee, touched forehead and heart, and lowered my eyes. “Knight Marshal, I report my mission complete.”

“Blessed return, Greenshank.” He gestured me up, his eager posture bearing assurance of his sincerity and interest. “You find us met in haste. We've anxiously awaited the results of this mission, and without a word, you've already astonished us by your quick return.”

I swallowed all reply lest I stumble into places I didn't want to go. Of course they would know when Grey signaled me. With the foreshortened
traveling distance through Morgan's true lands, only four days had expired since I'd left Grey, not the six or seven they might have expected.

“Perhaps the paratus ran away from the nasty halfblood,” said Damon, brisk as the sea wind.

“Speak, Greenshank,” said the Marshal, ignoring the jibe. “As Commander Inek is delayed, you may summarize for now. Where was Prince Osriel going? What was his objective?”

Inek's absence disappointed. For once, Fix's infallible instincts had failed him.

Hands at my back, I told of the mission as clearly and concisely as I could. “Prince Osriel's objective was magical power—searching out sources of it. Some from story or legend. Some from grotesque and unnatural rites. I assumed the mission in a woodland glade east of Lillebras . . .”

Once Morgan had left me at the estuary, I'd given careful thought to this report. The map, the lake, and the cavern were fair game, but the portal must remain my secret—and Inek's whenever I was able to tell him about it. I told how the prince had used a Cartamandua map to find the cavern. I described Voushanti and the warlord, and my decision to risk capture in order to discover Osriel's purpose.

“. . . convinced we needed to know more of anyone who uses such dreadful magic as what I saw in the bodyguard. On reflection, it was likely prideful and foolish to assume
I
had to be the one to discover this, but I know how rare it is for Osriel to leave his strongholds. So I devised a ruse . . .”

This part would be risky. I wasn't supposed to know of my bents.

“Why a historian?” snapped Damon when I paused for a breath.

“Flimsy, I know,” I said, “but it was the first thing that came to mind as a reason to be following princes and exploring caves. It allowed me to keep close to the truth. Indeed, the prince cast some spell to assess my truth—a complex and most intense enchantment. Though he judged my words accurate, he doubted my story as a whole. Yet he was curious enough—or greedy enough—that he sent me to examine the inner chamber that had drawn his interest. There were paintings of beasts and god symbols on the walls, as are often found in Navron caves. But the only magic was of the subtle kind one finds in any holy place. . . .”

All while I spoke, the little curator paced in circles. Every moment he was behind me, my back clenched in anticipation of a knife. Which was
foolish, of course, as he clearly had some use for me. Yet his man had offered me a
private
warning.

I brought the report to a rapid conclusion, speaking of Osriel's unnerving power and of my escape. The Marshal was appalled at what I'd seen in the silver caskets. Damon was not.

“Have I not told you?” Damon burst out. “So much work . . . so much hope when Eodward took Lirene as mistress and produced a son. The spawn should have died at birth.”

Damon locked up his fury and snapped his attention back to me.

“What is your opinion of this prince compared to his eldest brother, paratus?” he said.

“My
opinion
, curator?”

“Which is worthy to sit Eodward's throne? How do you assess their prospects?”

His interest in my opinions of the warring factions still seemed ridiculous, but the horror of Osriel was too vivid to silence.

“What is to choose between a bully without conscience and a demon gatzé? Allied with Sila Diaglou's savages, Bayard's might in warfare is perhaps more formidable. But Osriel is personally more dangerous. He demonstrates subtle, intricate magic and explosive power. Every rumor of his depravity should be given credence. I believe he seeks access to power beyond that available to mortal men.”

That was as near Osriel's determination to cross into Danae lands as I dared go.

“A valuable assessment of a dark situation,” said the Marshal, unruffled by Damon's odd outburst. “Well done, especially for a paratus whose training is incomplete.” Was that a jab at Damon? “You should review your tactical decisions with Commander Inek as always, whenever he makes an appearance. Likely his tyros have been trying to drown themselves this morning.”

No. Not Inek.
Tyros would not keep him away.

“Now, Greenshank, your next assignment.” Damon's icy armor bore spikes. “At sixth hour of the morning watch, you will report to the Archives Seeing Chamber for a review of a relict I've selected. You will speak to no one about the appointment or anything else concerning me. I will not be a topic of speculation among parati and squires.”

As the sun fired the image of burning Xancheira, a Registry curator spoke as my commander. Why did the Marshal allow it?

Discipline shattered. “My service is not pledged to you or your Registry, curator,” I said, pivoting sharply to the man in white. “Knight Marshal, what is
your
command?”

“Paratus Greenshank, you will not question any order given in this chamber.” The Marshal's ferocity near drew blood.

It was astonishing my mask did not blaze from the fire in my flesh. I knew it was not yet time to challenge them. And Inek's own teaching commanded me: Think
before speaking words you can't take back.
Yet submission to Damon rankled.

It was clear what was expected. So I shackled pride and silkbound indignation and bowed to the Marshal. “Accept my apologies, Knight Marshal.”