Ash and Silver (47 page)

Indeed, every one of the red-robed judges, whose stillness to that point might have been attention or boredom, shifted uneasily.

“Corruption,” said Damon. “Aberrance deep, foul, poisonous . . .”

And then Damon told the story of my great commission to paint the portraits of the six curators. Of the sudden and horrible savagery that destroyed my family not two days after the portraits' completion, of the growing anger among the curators at certain truths those paintings exposed. He told of the rumors of my madness that circulated through the city, and a second fire that had “killed Lucian de Remeni's young sister and six of their servants.”

Juli. They'd set a fire to murder my sister and our servants—so they could blame it on me.

Revulsion and outrage pulsed in my veins. Cut me and I would bleed murder.

As he told of my imprisonment and how they forced me to alter the paintings, he displayed illusions that reflected the original and the altered works. They were true to every detail that I had witnessed in the relict-seeing.

“With the authority given me by the Fifty, I have summoned the architects of this current corruption. Let them speak to these crimes. Bring in First Curator Gramphier. . . .”

No matter my apprehension at my situation—locked in this cage, convinced of his duplicity—Damon's skill awed me. While no match for the Marshal and his ability to inspire, the little curator had laid out his case against the Registry with impeccable precision.

The First Curator of the Pureblood Registry was escorted into the hall and led to the railed dais by two men robed and hooded in gray. Gramphier's posture spoke arrogance and disdain.

“Three questions only, Curator. First, why did you wish the bloody dagger excised from your portrait?”

“This is nonsense, Damon,” said Gramphier. “You know the answer very well. To protect the divine gift is a sacred duty that cannot be accomplished without bloodshed. But few wish to be confronted with ugly truth as they go about their lives. To display the harsh necessities of our calling in so public a way was not appropriate. Remeni was a madman, bound to—”

“Answer only what you're asked, First Curator, and heed your words.
Perjury before the Fifty will see you dead before sunrise. And be sure, I can prove the truth or falsity of your answers. If the Fifty determine you innocent, no one beyond these walls will ever know what you've said. So, again. Why did you wish the bloody dagger removed?”

“I approved executions necessary to maintain our proper role in the world.”

Damon nodded. “Second question: Did you approve the plan to exterminate the Remeni and Masson bloodlines by whatever means came to hand?”

Even so far above them as I was, I felt the heat of Gramphier's hatred. “Yes, but—”

“We are not interested in excuses or explanations. The last question: Was that decision precipitated by the revelations in Lucian de Remeni's portraits of the six curators?”

“What are you—?”

Silver flashed from a ring on Damon's hand. Gramphier choked on his words as if a knife had been planted in his throat.

“Answer the question.
Yes
or
no
.”

Another glint from Damon's ring and Gramphier snarled. “Yes.”

The livid Gramphier was dismissed, and a small, dapper man escorted to the dais, his gaze jerking between Damon and the judges. A twist in his spine left his head cocked to one side. This was Curator Scrutari-Consil, the man who had forged a will naming Prince Perryn as King Eodward's chosen heir.

Damon put a similar three questions to Scrutari. As with Gramphier, Scrutari affirmed his crimes.

Never did Damon mention dual bents, nor did he link the Registry's history of murder to the secret that halfbloods could pass on the gift of true sorcery by intermarriage with those so gifted. Every reference to the image of the white tree in the portraits was to the crime of burning Xancheira; none suggested that Xancheira had flourished, in part, through the richness of dual bents.

To my astonishment the next witness was Pluvius. Disheveled but clean, subdued and possessed of a mind, he shuffled onto the witness's dais, ducking his head before the formidable wall of faceless judges. When Damon stepped out from behind the table, Pluvius hissed.

The escorts stepped up smartly, but Pluvius raised his hands, fingers spread to stay them.

Three questions for Pluvius.

“Did you devise the plan for Lucian de Remeni-Masson to be tormented into modifying the portraits?”
Yes
.

“Did you devise private schemes to entice Lucian de Remeni into enslavement in your own house, intending to advance your fortune through blackmail?”
Yes.

“When and where did you last see Lucian de Remeni?” This one surprised me.

“If this is the same year as when I traveled from Palinur, then I saw him not a month ago. He lives among a cadre of formidable warriors. I judged him damaged and violent.”

“I did not ask for opinions.” But neither did Damon interrupt those opinions as he had with Gramphier.

Spider feet prickled my spine. Where was this leading? Everything Damon had presented was truth that fired my own blood, but he had arrested me in front of witnesses. . . .

Pluvius, too, was escorted out. Damon faced the judges, hands pressed to his breast. “I am one of these infamous curators, as well,” he said. “I did not coerce Lucian de Remeni into altering my unflattering portrait, but that yields me no virtue. I aided my colleagues in their despicable cruelty. Only one of our six refused to take part.”

The doors opened and a woman strode across the marble floor without escort. She put me in mind of the standing stones that surrounded the Sanctuary pool in Xancheira: squared shoulders, hair more gray than black, gray eyes, gray complexion, worn down by the years. Yet, like those slabs of granite, she bore a fierce, unbending stature. Pons.

She stepped onto the dais, making it clear that it was no accident of light or the draping of her robes that gave her an asymmetrical appearance. She had only one arm.

“Three questions, Curator Pons-Laterus.” Damon spoke over his shoulder as he strolled toward the table, cool and confident.

“No.”

Damon spun in his tracks. “You were told—”

“Our single shared purpose is to root out corruption, Damon. You think to exalt me as virtuous, but I will not allow it. Because, of course, I had my portrait altered as well, just not by way of Lucian's torture. My portrait exposed evidence of my dalliance with an ordinary and the child we made
together, a violation of Registry law. My son and his father are well hidden these twenty years, far from the reach of any consequence that may befall me. My second fault? I knew what went on in the Tower cellars, but did nothing to stop it. I left an innocent man in the netherworld at the mercy of monsters. And third”—her dagger gaze did not leave the furious Damon—“on the night Remeni exposed our perfidy to the world, I forced his fingers onto Gilles de Albin's chest and poured my own magic through those divinely gifted hands into a spell that burnt out the smirking villain's heart. I did the same to my own shoulder to its ruin, so that the blame for that wounding and Gilles's death would fall on Remeni's head. My reasons were my own, but I will not allow you to charge Lucian with those crimes. And perhaps the judges should know that Gilles's father, Guilian, did not—”

Damon raised a finger. Magic glinted from his silver ring, and Pons fell silent. She grasped the rail with her one hand.

“Quite clear, Curator Pons. Your sins are nobly confessed. Guilian de Albin, the sixth curator, was arrested that night and condemned for the slaughter of two bloodlines by Harrowers. His son Gilles had admitted to all of us—proudly—that he was complicit in his father's sins. Executing him was no crime, save in the method and the lack of official sanction. But it was through
your
diligence over the next months that it was discovered that Curator Albin escaped the execution that all assumed. Our colleagues on the Curators' Council refused to see Albin executed for a crime in which we had all conspired. Guilian de Albin has lived these two years in the bosom of his family. . . .”

Albin
alive
? The man who had locked more than two hundred people in a house and burnt them alive? Bestial rage rose from my belly, stung my throat, and threatened to breach the seal of silence I had sworn. At some time I had risen to my feet, hands splayed on the slender columns as if I could tear them down and leap to the floor below to right such an outrage with blood.

Four of the robed escorts strode through the hall below me, carrying a long table draped in blood-red silk. The escorts set down the table and whipped away the draperies. A muscular man with a bountiful beard and thick raven hair pulled straight back from his forehead was laid out on that table. A wealthy man, dressed in dark velvet and a black-and-silver half mask. Neither beard nor years had changed him so much that I could not identify the man who had tried to cut off my hand when I refused to hide
evidence of his infamy. Guilian de Albin, an arrow stuck straight into one eye.

Gods, gods, gods . . .
My bellowing protest died unreleased. As a clamor of voices rose from the hall, I slid to the floor, feeling sick and unendingly stupid. For I knew who Damon planned to put on trial next. A murderer. A violent, vengeful man, honed to raw edges by long, nervous days on the road in winter. The prosecutor would regret the lack of my bow, but the arrows missing from my pack were ones I had made myself. Like a stupid sheep, I'd let Damon lead me to the killing ground.

Visions of grandeur, Greenshank? You thought you were important.

As I flung my arms over my head and ground my teeth in self-loathing, a fiery sting stabbed my upper arm. Hotter and hotter. Unrelenting.

I tore at my sleeve, as the fire burnt through my flesh like a speck of
cereus iniga
, sending spikes of heat through my marrow. Damon must have left some magical spider in the alcove to ensure my compliance.

But I found only a fiery pinprick of silver gleaming on my arm.

Great Deunor's mercy! Fix's splinter. Siever was ready.

D
espairing laughter burst from my chest. It was time to free the Xancheirans, while I was, myself, imprisoned. Was Damon planning to parade me onto the railed dais and ask me three questions?

No, he'd never dare let me speak. Though indeed, what could I tell them about my guide? He freely admitted his own sins. And any argument that he had made me into something other than I was would be proof of his contention: Registry corruption perverted our gifts.

“Silence, good judges,” cried Damon, arms spread wide. “We've enough business to carry us long into the night. I've brought you not only this dread tale of our guilt in the violent disintegration of a gifted young sorcerer, but also a way we might cleanse our past sins and ensure our future. What say you? Do we return to willful blindness or will you hear what I propose?”

“Hear, hear!” the Fifty yelled, caught up in the spider's web. Perhaps there were naysayers, but not enough to make themselves heard. My madness would be proved by my murder of Guilian de Albin. Damon would convince them to purify the Registry and, in exchange, he would give them a king.

Meanwhile, Xancheira waited.

I had to get out of here. Three walls were bound in iron—a terrible risk when using magic. And surely someone—Damon down in the hall or his aides of the Order—would sense my magic and come to stop me, for I had no door to step through this time. No hospice entry to the void. I'd no notion how long it might take for Safia to allow me through the boundaries. And I could not allow Damon to silkbind my hands. Only one recourse. Risky.

I pulled the Marshal's token from my boot, fed magic into its splinter, along with the words
locked viewing gallery
and
now
. Surely he was in the castle already.

While the judges below took refreshment, I paced, imagining Siever and
Fix doing the same. Every passing moment could weaken Siever's working, or make him doubt, which was the truer danger when working complex spells.

“I'm sent to bring refreshment.” The man outside the cell spoke softly. “Is the gate locked?”

“Let me see what you've got there.” Shuffling. Clinks. Thumps.

“Who is it inside?”

“A favored guest. You're not to speak to him.”

“I was told to peel the oranges and pour the wine fresh.”

“Then do so quickly.”

The gate spells released with a sucking draft. Seven guards formed an arc before the open gate, blades blazing with enchantment. Order enchantments.

I turned my back to the door as the gate swung shut and the servitor set a tray on the second stool.

“Stay still, Lucian. Quick movements will be visible from below.” The shuffling of dishes and the rip of orange peel masked the Marshal's quiet voice.

“He's set me up for murder,” I said. “I am his trump, the culminating example of Registry corruption. They're going to execute me.”

“Murder?”
The sound of pouring liquid released the aroma of good wine.

“Please believe me. If I remain here, I'll be dead by morning.”

“Sky Lord's balls . . . Here, cover your head.” He thrust a cloth into my hand. “Guards!”

As the cell door opened, I draped the cloth over my head. A thread of magic scored the air, and the Marshal snapped, “
Cineré resurgé
.”

Together, the words and the magic created a command imperative that only the Knight Marshal of Evanide could issue. Every knight was bound to obey.

“Relock the gate, and do not report my interference until Curator Damon himself comes here.”

“As you say . . . Knight Marshal?” said a clearly bewildered guard.

“As you were,
equites
.”

The Marshal led me briskly along the gallery. Two turnings, a series of doorways, and we entered a small, enclosed chamber. He released me and snatched away the cloth.

We occupied a plain anteroom, furnished with cushioned benches, pegs for garments, a night jar, a washing bowl, and a bootscraper. A voluminous
gray cloak hung from one peg, a white tunic and shirt from another, and white robes . . .

“None's followed.” He drew a painted screen across the open arch with a grunt of satisfaction, then turned to me. “Now what is this about murder and execution? Damon has spent years grooming you.”

The answer died on my tongue. The Marshal stood before me unmasked, a man in his prime, forty or thereabouts. And there was no doubt at all as to his lineage, not with the wiry red-gold curls of his Ardran heritage and the well-proportioned features so like those that graced every common coin in Navronne. King Eodward's features. My guess was right.

Only the eyes were unexpected. Dark Aurellian eyes, not the gold-flecked brown of Navronne's royal family. It wasn't simply that, however. No longer did those eyes reflect the serene, almost spiritual focus of the leader who counseled and inspired troubled parati. They displayed suspicions, impatience, anxiety, and hard, worldly,
personal
experience. Only one thing could alter an Order knight so dramatically in so short a time.

“You've been given your memories!”

“Most insightful. And you've no idea . . .” A rakish smile, far younger than his flesh, lit the dim chamber like magefire. The same smile he'd flashed in his chamber at Evanide. “But I believe we're in a hurry?”

I shook off amazement. “Damon intends for the Fifty to condemn me for the murder of Guilian de Albin. The devil, the man who slaughtered my family, was murdered with an arrow in the eye only yesterday. Damon charged me by name before twenty witnesses. It's why he had me bring the bow. Three of my arrows were stolen, and I'll wager my soul the shaft in Albin's eye is one of them. But on my honor as a brother of the Order we both value, I am innocent of it.”

“Sky Lord everlasting . . .” Those unexpected eyes darkened, his wide brow creased, and he fingered his unshaven chin thoughtfully. “That makes no sense at all. The man's a devious prick, no doubt, but he's told me you were groomed to be”—he glanced at me sharply—“
my
right hand as we move forward. Counselor and bodyguard for tumultuous times.”

A
king's
bodyguard. A counselor who could delve into history or depict hidden truths or dissolve nature's boundaries. I could not possibly unravel the myriad ways that made sense . . . or all the ways Damon could twist a man in such a position to his purposes. Then why kill me?

“Something's changed, then,” I said to the Marshal's back as he circled the short dimensions of the chamber. “If I can hide until nightfall, I can get
out of the castle and out of the city. I swear my aims are nothing contrary to the Order's interests. To serve the Knight Marshal of Evanide would be my privilege.”

I would not pledge myself to
his
service. Not until I understood how his elevation was to be accomplished or more of his own intents. Inek had named the Marshal along with Damon and the Archivist as an
architect
of this plot.

“You should watch
your
back, sir,” I said.

“Be sure of that.” No, not serene at all. Anger simmered beneath his goodly exterior. “Yes, you should stay hidden until we sort this out. This is my dressing chamber. No one's going to disturb my clothes or my piss jar as I dine with Canis-Ferenc. I've already banished the servants.”

“Whatever comes, Knight Marshal—for me or for you—I pray it will be for the honor of the Order and the glory of Navronne.”

“As do I,” he said. The simple words, spoken with such resonant conviction, demanded belief. Yet I would have given much for pen and paper, and freedom to use my bent to sketch him. He was changed.

He shucked his servant's livery, then buckled his knife belt and donned white robe, mantle, and mask. Before pulling up his hood, he drew a small gray silk bag from inside his mantle.

“I've kept this for a goodly while,” he said, rolling the bag between his fingers. “A sort of luck charm. I know it seems odd; the Order is not at all about luck. Don't tell anyone that the Knight Marshal of Evanide tosses salt over his shoulder from time to time or buries his fingernail parings at the dark of the moon. Evidently I relied on such a great deal in my youth.”

He poured the contents of the bag into his cupped palm. Before I could see what it was, he tossed it into the air.

I flinched. But it was merely dust that drifted over us. Magic made it sparkle in the lamplight. He laid his hand on my shoulder and laughed, his eyes glittering like black flame. “We both must find our forward path, and if we provide a little help for Serena Fortuna, all the better.
Dalle cineré
, Lucian de Remeni.”

He pulled up his hood and departed, as brisk and rare as the east wind that bears hints of unfamiliar lands. The room was diminished without his presence. What a king he would make . . . if he was true.

Perhaps his dust was merely a luck charm. I felt nothing strange and no magic but that which sparked its fall. But I scraped up a little of the dust and
dropped it into a pocket to investigate later. I didn't like anyone involving me in spellwork I didn't understand.

So I'd bought time to work and a hiding place. Though it was difficult to shift my focus to the duty that called, I rolled onto my knees and summoned magic. With will, not fingers, I infused power directly into the fading gleam of silver threaded into my arm. And indeed, with a ripping fire that astonished me with its immediacy, Fix's spell sent out the signal.

Pressing my hands to the floor, I summoned my bents and prayed that Safia would be waiting. As I let the magic flow, the boundaries of the world dissolved. I had three hours.

•   •   •

“R
emeni-son!” The silver-marked sentinel sat on a rock overlooking the five-fingered land. As in Cavillor, it was mid-afternoon, a smeared disk of the sun just visible through the overcast. “Long have I awaited thy coming.”

“
Envisia seru
, Safia,” I said, shaking off the abrupt change from the Castle Cavillor dressing chamber to a bitterly cold and windy hilltop. “A great deal has happened since I saw you last.”

“Indeed.” She prowled around me like a cat making sure of its master. “Art thou abused? Suffering some sickness?”

“Just need a bath and new clothes and about fifty hours of sleep. But first I must go to Signé.”

“We go to Benedik's tree. No need for the sour sister.” Her fingers touched my hair and bristling chin and stroked my lips. “I shall sorely miss the body's pleasures. Humans do certain things very well.”

“I intend to set all Xancheirans free,” I said, gently removing her hand, “your kind as well. None of you should die for a deed of generous friendship.”

“Signé told me of thy plan. A noble dream, but too risky.”

“It's too late to change it, so please, take me to Signé and tell me how to convince your people to enter the Sanctuary pool.”

“Kyr will root thee before following thy direction,” she said spitefully, as she started down the hill toward the mainland. “Perhaps I should do it first and give thee a gentle dissolution.” Pique sped her steps to a steady jog.

Every moment that flitted past was an agony. Three hours. Why the devil had I thought that would be enough?

“When the time is right, you can send me back as you've done before, yes?”

“Yes, else I'd never have been able to bring thee here. The sentinel and the boundary are one. Thy power creates a path to me, and it remains intact despite the Dark Divide.”

“So I'll return to exactly the same place.”

“Only thine own working can alter the path.” She trotted even faster, so I couldn't query further.

Once we entered the coastal forest, I felt the subtle shifting that Morgan used. Soon the trees were no longer hardy birches and pines but the unnatural variety of the Xancheiran wood. Were the splinters in place? I should have kept one of my own before giving Signé the rest.
Should have . . .
So many things I should have done.

The first glimpses of the citadel dome above the trees had my blood racing faster than our pace. My thoughts churned with how to trigger the silver linkage in so many trees at once, when Safia halted abruptly, frowning at the dead leaves and bulging roots of the forest floor. She dropped to her knees, scrabbled through leaves and twigs, and laid her hands on the bare earth. After a moment, she glared up at me, green gaze filled with fury. “Liar! Violator! Death-bringer!”

“I don't underst—”

She lunged forward, elbow aimed at my knees. I twisted away, only to trip on a massive root and crash to earth. Safia leapt on top of me, scrabbling for advantage. She seemed to have four hands, six elbows, and eight feet, every one of them lethal. Her strength matched that of any Order sparring partner; her rage doubled it. Grunting, twisting, writhing, it took all I had to pin her without killing her—or her killing me. I straddled her back, her silver gards near blinding me in the dimness under the trees.

“What,” I said, heaving and swallowing hard as I held her face down, “have I done now?”

“Brought our ruin!” Her bitter anguish was muffled by the ground.

It was other cries explained her distress. The shrill yip of a white-tailed eagle, followed by another and another echoing through the quiet from every direction at once—the hunting cries of Morgan and her kin.

“How is it possible they're here?” I said, horrified, shaking Safia's shoulders. “They couldn't have followed me. They weren't with me. I was within walls. The void is not yet repaired.”

“In the true lands, there are no human walls,” she said, sobbing. “And Signé says the blue one is thy lover, bound to thee across all lands. The blue
one was likely watching thee, and when I allowed thy crossing, followed in thy wake. Now all will die. Benedik . . . beloved . . .”