Ash and Silver (49 page)

It wasn't so long until I heard Kyr's bellowing. Silver streaked the wood
down the hill. I stood beside the pool, close enough no one could squeeze between.

“Step away, meddler,” said Kyr, his body sculpted by the gathered light of his kind, who quickly moved to encircle the pool and me. “So thou'rt the one who has ensured the doom of so many. Signé's people will suffer for thy deeds. They cannot survive until we heal the land.”

“I cannot step away,” I said. “And a healing will come. If not this night, then tomorrow or the next day. Lord Siever works, even now, to undo the Severing.”

“Prideful fool,” cried Kyr, anguished, “thou'lt destroy the Everlasting!”

I explained to him our plan for his people's healing in Sanctuary. But he sneered and hefted the spear in his hand. What madman ever recognizes his illness?

“Break Siever's magic, human, or I'll root thee myself. And when the humans begin to die again, thou'lt feel every whisper of their pain. . . .”

“Hold!” I said, as blue light glimmered in the wood behind him. “There's more to this.”

I stepped up to the rim of the pool and extended my hand. Not to Kyr but to the one who waited at his right hand. “Safia, Safia.”

And then did the world shatter. The ground shook. The stars exploded. Safia rushed forward and touched my brow, just as the blue Danae yipped like hunting kites from every side and Kyr let fly his spear. As I jumped backward into the Sanctuary pool, Safia toppled after me in a spray of blood.

“No!” I cried into blackness.

Entirely depleted, powerless to change my destination, I opened my eyes to the Marshal's dressing chamber, dead silence . . . and Damon.

D
amon sat leisurely thumbing through a large leather folio, his chair set squarely in the doorway of the dressing chamber. It would be hours before I could summon magic. I might be able to throttle him, but at least five people lurked on the other side of the dressing screen behind him. Likely they were Order knights, capable of killing me before I could break Damon's neck or fracture his fingers, both of which appealed to me just now.

Thus I remained sitting on the floor, leaning on the wall, and shivering uncontrollably.

The spider glanced up and produced that smile of paternal satisfaction that I loathed. I'd best wait for better odds before wiping it from his face with a fist. And then I would confront the Marshal, too, for how did Damon know I'd hidden here unless the Marshal had told him?

Damon closed the folio—my damning portraits?—and leaned forward like that pleased parent, watching his child learn to walk.

“My, my, Lucian,” he said and blew a large sigh. “Someday you must teach me this astonishing veil magic. Had I not witnessed your occasional
disappearances
in those days you worked in the Registry Tower, I'd have had Ferenc's hounds scouring all of Cavillor at the first report of your vanishing. Instead I have spent this very long night in a closet, waiting for you to reappear. Would you like to hear how I knew you would?”

“Certainly.”

“The spell produces a slight change in the quality of the air, as if you leave a hole in the world. Indeed it fills with oddments of scents and breezes as it waits for your return. But you don't leave, do you? It would be so much more useful if you could actually creep away while you hide—especially on a night when you believe you're going to die.”

Laughter near choked me to think how close he was to understanding
what I did . . . and yet so far. The laughter held no merriment, not while imagining thousands of people half emerged from trees when my magic failed, not while smelling Safia's warm blood on my jaque, not when I imagined the poisoned vines of Xancheira devouring Navronne or the dread alternative—thousands emerged from the trees starving all over again to the sound of Morgan's feral shrieks.

To die not knowing if any of the plan worked was bitter. To believe I'd left matters worse was insupportable.

“Do you think the Marshal would mind if I b-borrowed his gray cloak for my visit to the executioner? Holding the . . . vanishing spell . . . for so long has drained me dry. I'd not thought to have curators taking up residence in the Marshal's closet to prevent my escape.”

He popped up from the chair and rapped on the dressing screen. “No cloak and no food. You will just have to shiver for a while. Thanks to your small rebellion, the Fifty have had all night to mull my proposals. It
was
unfortunate we could not produce you at your trial. After the grooming of your journey from Evanide, it would have saved a deal of persuasion. You look quite savage, and every one of these judges knows . . . knew . . . Lucian de Remeni as a quiet, well-disciplined young man of good family. Soft. Weak, save in magic.”

The dressing screen was removed. As I feared, guards were ready with shackles and silk cord. Not Order guards, though. These wore Canis-Ferenc's crimson and silver. It cheered me to imagine Damon didn't trust Order knights to shackle one of their own at the word of an outsider. He couldn't know which knights might recognize me despite my savage appearance.

The first man who laid a hand on me crashed backward with a broken nose. The second would be feeling my boot in his balls until the moon fell. The third grabbed my hair and near twisted my head off. But the fourth laid a blow to my middle that near rammed my gut into my throat. I could tell I'd hurt them by the lack of consideration as they yanked off my boots, hobbled my ankles, and silkbound my hands. Damon likely approved the bloody split on my cheekbone.

“This is necessary, Lucian,” he said, once the guards had left us alone. “But it is not the end you imagine. Trust me.”

I bleated a laugh. Appropriate for a stupid sheep. Yet he was not smirking as he said it. Not gloating. Not sad or sorry. He was excited.

“Why in the name of every god should I trust you?”

“Because I have never lied to you. Not ever. Yes, I know the Order considers omissions a lie but today you will understand why I had to omit certain pieces of our plan. Lucian de Remini
will
die today or tomorrow”—though I'd known it, anticipated it, resigned myself to it, my gut hollowed—“but
Greenshank
 . . . that one will have a choice to make.”

“You're mad.” No other explanation presented itself.

“Vainglorious, yes. Not mad.”

He rubbed a thumb on his silver ring and my lips and tongue grew numb. “This is less grotesquely obvious than Pluvius's leather mask. Be sure I will give you voice again when the time of your choice comes. For now, observe and consider all you know and all you've learned—of yourself, of our kind, and of Navronne.”

•   •   •

T
he eyes of the Fifty burnt holes in my skin as I stood chained to the railed dais in front of them. The pleasure of seeing Gramphier, Scrutari, and Pluvius led away similarly restrained and condemned to hang for their corruption did not alleviate my raging frustration at my enforced silence. But I resisted my body's demands to break the oaken rails of the dais or bellow in wordless rage. That would but confirm the verdict I knew was coming. Perhaps dignity and silence could make one of the judges question.

The judge at one end of the horseshoe table stood and read their finding. “It is with sincere regret that we, the Convocation of the Fifty, judge Lucian de Remeni-Masson, sole remaining descendant of two noble bloodlines, guilty of deliberate murder.”

The faceless judge was a small woman who sounded sorry as she had not for the condemned curators. That made the words no easier to hear.

“That the victims were conspirators in his own family's murder . . . that the circumstances of that loss and the venal, repugnant actions of the Pureblood Registry drove a virtuous man to such extremity . . . cannot relieve the combined danger of his moral decay and exceptional power for magic. We see no remedy for his evils but death. At the sun's zenith tomorrow, the time when power for magic is at its nadir, Lucian de Remeni's hands will be severed from his body and burnt, and he will find his merciful end at the headsman's block.”

Merciful . . .
So much work, so much loss, so much pain. Wasted. My sister left alone with a name she dared not use.

Numb and shivering, I watched the crimson-and-silver clad guards unlock my chains. I wished they would take me straight to the block and be
done with it. No matter Damon's foolery, no matter what I'd believed since rediscovering my birth name, Lucian de Remeni and Paratus Greenshank were the same person. I relished the scents he loved and favored the food he liked. The places he'd walked felt familiar to me. When the axe severed Lucian's neck, Greenshank would die, too.

The hooded judges sat silent as the four guards led me out. My stumbling, shaking weakness gave them a good show.

The surprise came when my escorts deposited me in the viewing gallery again, albeit muted and chained to the iron grillwork. Damon must want me to witness his triumphal reshaping of the world. At first I refused to look, huddling in my corner and apologizing to the gods for the insufferable presumption that had got me into this fix. But then the spokesman judge began reading again, and the words drew me to kneel up to watch and listen. . . .

“. . . we judge the Pureblood Registry guilty of deliberate, savage murder throughout two centuries, of conspiracy, persecution, false imprisonment, extortion, wanton cruelty, forgery, and uncountable other crimes listed herein. We therefore recommend to the Sitting of the Three Hundred that the Pureblood Registry be dissolved, that its administrative functions regarding authentication of birth and bloodline, approvals of applications for marriage or childbearing, and regulation of pureblood interaction with the population of ordinaries be controlled directly by the Three Hundred. As Curator Lares-Damon proposes, a single Administrator of Pureblood Affairs should be named to oversee these activities, that person reporting directly to the Three Hundred. The Administrator should be a pureblood sorcerer of strong intellect, independent mind, and familiarity with the tasks required. Curator Lares-Damon is hereby forbidden to serve in the capacity of Administrator.”

Independent mind
. I had to laugh. Damon had persuaded them to appoint Pons after all.

Once the judgment was signed and sealed, Damon rose again. Sincere. Glowing with solemn righteousness. Gods save all . . . anyone would believe him at peace with the gods, convinced that a plan approved by coerced judges would reform centuries of greed and self-interest.

“This is a painful day for all of us,” he said. “But I feel the same relief as you, worthy judges. This age of infamy will soon be behind us. Now we must look to the future. Yestereve, I swore that purification of the Registry could change our position of authority in this dangerous world. What if I
could bring you a leader who bears in his hand—and his blood—the means and the
right
to take us forward? A man who can break Caedmon's stranglehold on pureblood governance, and ensure that we shall never have to bow and scrape to ordinaries again. A man who can bring peace to Navronne with reason, might . . . and magic?”

The judges stirred.

“For many years have I searched for such a man. Not until seven years ago, when I heard rumor of some extraordinary portraits in the Registry Archives, did I find him.” He tapped the leather-bound book in the crook of his arm. “A detail caught my eye in Lucian de Remeni's portrait of a man who lived in the eastern reaches of Morian. It was so small an ornament of his garments that neither Remeni nor anyone else noticed it. The man had grown up disadvantaged, lacking a great family to embrace or teach him of his bloodlines or his capabilities. I sought him out and found him immeasurably gifted. And he had in his possession an artifact of extraordinary rarity. Today, as we stand on the cusp of destiny, I've brought him to testify before you.”

Damon opened his arms wide as the man I'd seen unmasked the previous night entered the hall. A majestic figure, not hooded this morning, not masked. He wore the white and silver armor I had seen in his quarters, though without blazon of any kind. Even the hilt of his sword was unmarked. Had I any notion that Damon could orchestrate the weather, I would have believed he arranged the beams of sunlight that shot through the clerestory at the moment to illuminate the Knight Marshal of Evanide and his red-gold hair. Was it only my imagining or did a gasp of recognition ripple through the Fifty?

“Step up, sir knight.” Damon motioned to the railed dais. “Your name, if you will.”

“Geraint de Serre.”

“You are halfblood.”

“Indeed so. My pureblood sire defied his family and took an ordinary to wife. Though to be sure, my mother's people, though fallen on hard times, never considered themselves
ordinary
, but claimed noble descent. On the day he took me to be registered, my father repented his crime and returned to his family. As required, my mother took me in for portraits, but warned me never to demonstrate the odd skills in my hands.”

Spoken without apology. A quiet dignity testified of a man sure of his place in the world.

Damon again. “When I inquired about your mother's claim—for a noble bloodline was exactly what Lucian de Remeni's portrait revealed—what did you show me?”

The Marshal passed his silver pendant to Damon. . . .

All unfolded as I had imagined. Damon showed each judge the gold celebration medallion embedded in the plain silver. In fine dramatic fashion, he told the story of Caedmon's vanity and the birth medallions, so that when he removed the gold coin from the silver casing and handed it to the Marshal, every observer—myself included—held breath. The Marshal raised it high, and the medallion glowed of its own light. Beams of purple, azure, and green streamed into the aether, Caedmon's colors—the purple of Ardra, the azure of Morian, the loden green of Evanore, the three provinces Caedmon had united to build Navronne.

A tall judge burst from his seat. “How do we know this is not some trick? A halfblood born to an undisciplined servitor? A portrait done by a madman? This curator who has confessed to his own corruption happening upon the chimera—part royal, part sorcerer? Half of us here could create a coin that would shine such light when a hound licked it.”

Even from my distance, I felt Damon's smile. He'd known the question would come.

The curator pulled two sheets from his folio and passed the first to the woman who had read the verdicts. “Here is the tale of our salvation, judges of the Fifty. The first is de Serre's portrait, drawn by Lucian de Remeni in his first year as a Registry portraitist. Its divine truth is clear. Note the lily of Navronne stitched into Geraint's tunic.”

He gave them a while to pass the portrait one to the other. And then he passed along the gold medallion. “Examine this carefully. Commit its every detail to your memory. Those historians or examiners amongst you, use your skills to aid us.”

Several of the judges called “affirmed” after examining it. Once he had retrieved the medallion, Damon gave the woman judge the second sheet. “This is the medallion's formal validation. An examination, description, and explanation written by the most gifted historian our kind has ever known. A man so revered for his intellect, insight, and magic that King Eodward made him his Royal Historian.” My body tightened, knowing. “Vincente de Remeni.”

My grandsire. Familiar only from story. It was but one more sorrow of this day that Vincente de Remeni's next-to-last heir, the one who had
inherited at least a part of his extraordinary gift, was going to die a murdering madman, and that his last descendent, gifted in myriad ways, would never be able to use his name.
Ah, Juli, I am so sorry.