Ash and Silver (43 page)

It was the story of the Marshal shook him most. “You think the Knight Marshal could be a Pretender of Caedmon's own blood. . . . A man of honor who can make even a tyro believe he could be worth something in this world. Stone and sea, what a king he would make.”

“But, Fix,
is
he a man of honor? Tell me why the Marshal everyone believes in—a knight of the Order we claim to value—destroyed my relict and set Magrog's own trap spell for anyone to trigger. He overlooked the fact that Damon allowed the slaughter of my family and allowed the corruption of my magic to go unchallenged. This is not just personal grievance . . . honestly. Thanks to the Marshal, I feel no personal grieving for my dead, only this monstrous outrage. I've no choice but to come to terms with that, but I need to know why the Marshal believes that Damon's purposes—cleansing the Registry? putting a sorcerer on Caedmon's throne? putting
him
on the throne?—are worth such abandonment of right. And are those
purposes worth violating the Order's mission? The Order was founded to remedy injustice, not impose our will upon anyone.”

Fix blew a long exhale. “They've certainly not confided in me.”

“It's all conjecture, of course,” I said. “I didn't see him invoke the medallion's magic or learn what evidence they might possess that would authenticate it.”

“Could
you
affirm it?”

That gave me pause. I wasn't in the habit of considering myself a historian. “In theory, yes. But who would believe me? Registry records say my bent for history was excised by my own Head of Family. The Three Hundred believe me a murderer. And Damon has never admitted that I have any bent beyond portraiture. Makes me doubt he plans for me to use it. Publicly, at least.”

Recalling the curators' coercion in the Registry cellars gnawed my gut.

“If I'm to play this out, I need to be on my way to Cavillor,” I said. “It's two hundred quellae more or less. I'm to go afoot, and I certainly can't count on Morgan to speed my steps.”

Every time I recalled Morgan's stony face and the contempt in her accusations, I tried to be angry with her. But, in truth, it was my own foolishness had led to our break. She had warned me that she answered to her archon as I answered to my commanders. I just hadn't wanted to consider what that meant.

“Before I go, I need to fetch the silver splinters from the armory, get them to Signé, and come up with a plan to contain the silver-marked Danae before Siever works his magic.”

“Twenty thousand freed prisoners. I doubt you have to worry about a few Danae.” No sooner had Fix said this than he rolled his eyes very much as my sister and Bastien did. “But that's too simple, isn't it?”

“Slaughtering Danae is out of the question. According to the coroner, Safia told me that my magic was the answer to a long waiting by my own kind
and
hers. At that time, at the least, she believed they could be saved . . . healed . . . whatever it takes. Perhaps she's fallen into despair the way Kyr has . . . and Signé has.”

“That's so.”

I whipped my head around. I'd almost forgotten Siever was there.

“When their gards began to fade, the long-lived visited the Sanctuary pool repeatedly. To our grief and theirs, it didn't help them. Many have vanished over the years. We assume they died, or were buried by their own.
We rarely see them all together, but estimate there are but thirty or forty of them left.”

“Sanctuary,”
I said, feeling an idiot not to have thought of it. “Could they be healed there?”

“They'd drown as a human would,” said Siever. “They cannot release their physical form and exist in the pool as is their true nature.”

“But if you could reverse the Severing . . . Safia said her people could not be
walking the land
when the Severing was undone, else their sickness would pass to the greater world. But if they were
in
the pool when it became linked to the greater world—when it becomes Sanctuary again—then maybe they
could
do as they were made to do.”

“Mayhap. 'Twould be a delicate dance. And whoever is convincing them to try would likely find himself a sapling after all. Thankfully, I can stay this side the void. This magic can be worked from either.”

Fix shook his head. “Madmen. All of us. I've long concluded those who come to the Order are already lunatics. And Lord Siever, you most assuredly belong amongst us. As for you, Greenshank”—he jumped up and opened a clothes chest so weathered it might have been constructed when the Order was founded—“you've no need to visit the armory. Charge the entire length at once and then shatter it yourself.”

He tossed me a silver disk that gleamed in the firelight—a thick, weighty coil of fine silver wire, the whole about the diameter of my hand. To infuse the wire with a receptor—a simple spell to accept a flow of magic—and shatter it into at least twenty-five thousand magically linked splinters was easy after my day's sleep. Brushing them into a fist-sized cloth bag took longer.

“I'll take them to Signé tonight. You know, lord”—I turned to Siever—“we have to make this work. Bringing two hundred souls across near drained me past recovering. It would take years to bring the rest. I can free them from the trees, but they must be able to walk into the greater world on their own.”

Siever studied his pen. “If I fail, everyone I know—my children, my wife, the friend of my youth who is my good lord—will remain locked away forever or starve. I am sufficiently motivated. 'Tis the time—”

“If I could conjure us more time, I would,” I said. “But whatever is to happen in Cavillor between now and the first day of autumn, I have to be there.” And instead of the hospice door, my bent must take me across the
void, as it had done from the Tower prison and from Bastien's necropolis. I'd best speak with Safia to ensure she would allow me past her boundary.

“Lord Siever will get what help he needs,” said Fix.

“So, how am to I know when your spellwork's ready?” I said.

“Give me my bracelet,” said Fix. “I'll signal you.”

“Across
two hundred
quellae
?” I could be all the way to Cavillor by that time. The links of the memory-wipe tokens would not work a spell beyond fifty or sixty
paces
. The declaration spell on the Marshal's location token required us to be closer than a quellé. Even the simplest beacon signals we used on the rocks in Evanide's bay could span a few quellae at most.

Fix glared at me in his most condescending manner. Of course he could do what he said. The rubies on his silver bracelet glittered as I pulled the band from my arm and passed it over.

“Understand that this will work for one exchange only,” he said, squinting as he manipulated the band of silver in some way I couldn't see. “You don't want to know what it takes to generate a spell over such a distance. Wait for our signal. When you, in turn, are ready to make the passage to Xancheira, infuse the same point on the bracelet, so Lord Siever can judge when to begin his invocation. You can send only one signal. So be sure.”

He returned the bracelet. A tiny embossed star pulsed green, then faded, waiting for magic. I raised my sleeve and crimped the band about my upper arm.

Fix glanced at me sidewise, then touched the star. Some sharp edge of the silver pricked my skin. Before I could interpret the spark in Fix's eye and the quirk of his mouth, the cottage disintegrated. . . .

Shards of color, fragments of light, stone, flesh, thought whirled into a great smear like spilled paint . . . spinning, condensing, the entirety of the world winding tighter and narrower until it pierced the flesh of my arm like a red-hot nail pounded into the very bone.

Abruptly, the structure of the world reasserted itself, and all was as it had been. The cottage. The fire in the brazier. Siever at the table. Fix's hand that gripped my other arm prevented dizziness toppling me. “Come, come, it's not
that
horrible,” he said.

Siever stared at the two of us. “By the Mother, what was that?”

A good thing he asked. The words would have dribbled from my tongue with no more substance than foam.

“When one is dealing with a critical sequence of events to restore the world's health,” said Fix, “one does not assume things such as ‘Fix's bracelet
will be with me when the time comes.' It was a simple threading. Only a tiny splinter of the bracelet, not the whole thing, which is a much more . . . mmm . . . violent experience. But if the bracelet itself is lost, the spell will remain.”

Threading. A tentative finger shifted the bracelet. It moved. But where it had been a pinpoint of green pulsed. The color faded, but not the sensation of the sliver of metal embedded in my flesh or its threaded enchantment that extended from the skin of my arm all the way to the pit of my stomach. When I examined the spot in the firelight, I saw . . . imagined? . . . the glint of silver in my flesh.

Fix continued as if such things happened every day. “Signal us
before
you cross. Certainly this link won't reach across a crack in the world. So how long does Lord Siever wait after that signal to begin the undoing?”

Blinking, breathing as hard as if I'd just run the mudflats, I wrestled my thoughts into order. To estimate how much time I'd need to prepare for Siever's attempt to rejoin Xancheira to the greater world was akin to estimating how many invisible apples it would take to fill the maw of the wind. The crossing would depend on Safia. Once in Xancheira, I'd have to feed power to the linked splinters in the trees. Deal with the aftermath of freeing twenty thousand people. Persuade or force thirty or forty or sixty silver Danae into the Sanctuary pool. And then there was the skewed spending of time. “A day, more or less, by Evanide's reckoning?”

So I'd have three hours to make it work.

“Then I'd best get back to it,” said Siever. “Go with the Goddess, Lucian.”

But as he bent his head to the spindle and the
stola
, it was my turn to remind a man of his limits. “You need to sleep and eat as well, lord.”

“Yes.” He didn't look up.

Fix walked me to his door. “The Marshal does not give me orders,” he said, “but I was advised that even though the entirety of the Order, including tyros, squires, parati, and combat-trained adjutants, is to muster elsewhere, the Knight Defender will not be needed. What does that say to you?”

“That despite the harsh tenor of our exercises at Val Cleve, they are not expecting much of a fight. They're to be a show of force. . . .”

“That is my estimate, as well. Skirmishes, perhaps. Demonstrations of our capabilities, perhaps. Controlled strength. If fortress rumors bear truth,
which is usually the case unless I start them myself, the road to Palinur is supplied for a march.”

“I heard that one as well,” I said. “Perhaps an escort for a new king. The Order could put down any small resistance, but there is no plan for siege, no need for your kind of power. Or your judgment?”

“Be ever watchful, Greenshank. Find out what they're up to and get out again. We can decide how to respond once we know. Will you leave tonight?”

“Be sure of it. This visit to Xancheira should be quick. Then I'll need to fetch my bow, a few supplies, a map.”

“The boatmaster cannot supply you a boat, since he has no idea of your orders,” said Fix.

I ducked my head in acknowledgement. “I'd thought of caching my blades outside of Cavillor. I hate being without.”

“Leave them here. If Damon commands you travel in this very anonymous and specific way, then he has something up his sleeve. He could join you at any time. He knows you can defend yourself, feed yourself.”

“And using magic to stay alive will leave a trail for him to follow.” Gods, what was the man planning? “I hope to arrive at Cavillor early enough to spy out the place, make sure Bastien is there and—”

“And your sister.” Fix crossed his arms and breathed exasperation. “Do you see how that diverts your attention? We leave families, friends, and lovers behind for very specific reasons.”

“I understand. But I can't pretend she's not a part of my life.” I sank to one knee and pressed my fist to my breast. “
Dalle cineré
, Knight Defender.”

“
Dalle cineré
, Paratus Greenshank.” He laid his hand on my head and my every hair stood on end, as if he were no man, but rather embodied lightning. “Hold tight to your rage. Let it give you strength, but not control that strength. May Kemen Sky Lord, the Goddess Mother, and Deunor Lightbringer stand with you, as I do, in this hour of our need. May it be an hour of justice and right.”

•   •   •

A
ll was blackness beyond the Severing void. Yet my feet touched solid ground. I rocked the heel and toe of my boot to assure it and crouched to feel the dusty paving stones of the citadel atrium. The air bore the scents of soil, dry leaves, and herbs, but not a sound creased the silence. No trickling water. No breath. No glimmer of light revealed the layered gardens. Even when my initial panic subsided, dread replaced it.

Goddess Mother, was I too late? Were they all gone to trees?

The impossibilities of altering the rescue plan wreaked havoc in my gut, as I felt my way toward the outer doors.

“Remeni!” Even without the soft glow of a lantern, I would have recognized Signé's richly layered voice coming from behind me. A very angry Signé. “What are you doing here?”

“Told you I'd come back. But gods' breath, lady, are you the only one left? And your gardens . . .”

“Kyr stopped at ten new prisoners yesternight; he just wanted to make his point. After the burst of magic when you left, he took five more and said he'd take the rest did we not quench every remnant of magic in the citadel.”