Ash and Silver (55 page)

“If I breathe the word, this void in thy demesne becomes permanent,” said Siever, coolly sober. “Though if I'm mad, that's not likely, is it? Wilt thou see this city fall to ruin or wilt thou treat with my lord as a civilized man who happens to be graced with magic, as art thou?”

Inek nudged me. “Only you can settle this. I'll release your veil when you say.”

Of all things, I wanted to be sitting in the Aerie at Evanide, feeling the sea wind on my face. Or asleep in my quiet cell as the storm tides raged outside those sturdy walls. But the moment must not be lost if we were to hold on to whatever good Damon had accomplished. Purebloods must take care of our own guilts. Then, perhaps, we could find a righteous course to heal the rest of the world.

I removed hood and mantle, shirt and tunic, so that my hairless head, fearsome mask, and threaded silver arms would distract from any familiarity. I nodded to Inek.

“Hold thy wrath, Xancheiran!” I called as the veil fell away. “My lords, in the name of those who have fallen to bring us to this day, I command you hear me!”

My bellowing drew every eye to the ramparts. Siever's enchantment vanished, but the veiled Inek provided light for all to see me. The bands on my arms reported the swelling whispers:
Caedmon's true heir . . . the Pretender . . . the Sorcerer King . . .

Fending off guilt, I took advantage. “Summon the Three Hundred.”

It took very little time for those in the rotunda to join the crowd in the bailey. Which was good, as the wind was freezing my bare flesh . . . and the non-flesh parts of me were colder yet.

“
Domé
Canis-Ferenc, I commend your forbearance. And I ask forgiveness for the damage I've wrought to your noble house. I was bound by an enslavement of will that is the exemplar of the corruption we have now abjured. Be assured that the one who perpetrated that most heinous of all crimes against the divine gift will never do so again.

“My lord of Xancheiros, Lady Signé, Lord Siever, the one you seek has himself been set free from a great evil. His deeds—and those of his friends and brothers—have released me from prisoning, as they did you. I cannot doubt that, wherever the gods have taken him, he rejoices to know of your deliverance and blesses you for your care, and that he would beg you treat with this worthy Canis-Ferenc and these ancient families who are assembled in the name of purification. Those who were once your enemies have heard the horror of your city's fall—and have vowed to ensure such things never happen again. But they don't yet understand the full truth of what happened to you. Nor were they ever told of the great discovery that lay at the root of the divergence between Xancheira and the Southern Registry. In the face of the world's upheaval, the time for that truth to be told must be chosen with wisdom and care. But it
must
be told. Make peace between you first, heal, and then it will come clear how to move forward.

“And lastly, to all of you, the time for a Sorcerer King is not yet. Unlike the man who preened as Caedmon's heir—our salvation from corruption—even as he paraded me in front of you as a living mockery of our most sacred law, I do
not
intend to claim the throne that time, history, and tradition have granted to good King Eodward and his heirs. Rather I will serve the divine
gift in ways that forward the cause of justice. I ask all of you to do the same. But in the same way this mask proclaims that I serve Navronne and not my own interest, so will I take a new name to replace all other names. From this day I shall be known as the One-Who-Waits. I shall wait to see if we can purge ourselves of corruption. I shall wait to see if Serena Fortuna reveals King Eodward's intended heir or the gods impart some measure of redemption to his sons. But be sure, my gift will see these things done.”

Raising my hands, I released the magic I'd fought to hold at bay—magic born of history and art, pain and outrage, of loss, betrayal, and grief, of joy at freedom and hope of healing, and of unbridled wonder at the glory that flowed through every part of me. For that moment, the ground trembled and boundaries faded. Dressed stone reverted to cliffs, paving to grassy hillsides. Lamps and torches vanished, leaving the world lit only by starlight. The sweet airs of the Everlasting mingled with Navronne's oncoming winter, and faint music twined with the scents of meadowsweet and sea wrack on the breeze, speaking of beauty and mystery just beyond what we could see.

When my hands began to shake, I released the thread of power and whispered, “Enough.”

The crowd, as one, drew in a great breath when Inek's veil made me vanish. As they exhaled in a rising murmur of awe, I dropped to one knee, lowered my head, and laid a fist on my breast. “Knight Commander, I report my mission complete.”

“Blessed return, Aros, the One-Who-Waits, Knight of the Ashes.”

THREE MONTHS AFTER THE SITTING OF THE THREE HUNDRED

L
ate autumn brought deep snow and bitter cold to central Ardra. The wood was quiet, every bare branch, every twig, every dormant bud coated with snow. My footsteps were muffled. Now and then a bird startled at my passing, fluttering wings causing small showers of fine snow. But the war had moved south to Evanore, and in such quiet, knowing the season's change was so close upon us, it seemed as if the world held its breath.

I was on a dual mission coming south. I needed to lay some ghosts. And I had a few people to speak to about the future, now it seemed I would have one. That had been doubtful for a while.

•   •   •

T
he first few days after the incidents at Cavillor, I spent encamped with Fix and Inek. Fix helped me deal with the practical problems of the threaded silver bracelets, everything from bathing to investing the bands with my own spellwork without singeing my skin or setting off rebounding enchantments. The two of them together helped me work on the discipline required to manage the bracelets' magic and the steadily increasing awareness of the world around me.

But the work was difficult and I couldn't concentrate. I fretted about Juli, about strife between the Xancheirans and the purebloods and the certain resistance to dissolving the Registry now there would be no Sorcerer King to ease the pain of it. I felt like a tattered blanket, all holes and loose threads, no pattern, no weaving.

The result was I couldn't sleep. Every attempt ended in nightmares of prisons or cages, of chains, of body parts removed and replaced with swords or brooms or animal feet. At least half my nightmares involved cutting away the mask to find some horror . . . or worse, nothing at all. I couldn't breathe.

“Come to Evanide,” said Fix, at the end of the third day, when I could not set a twig alight without setting the whole tree afire. “We must do
something about that mask. As long as you wear it, you're a walking dead man.”

I huddled by our tame fire and stared stupidly at a rapidly cooling tisane meant to put me to sleep. “Can't go back,” I said. “Greenshank is a deserter. And I've things to do.”

“We'll keep you anonymous,” said Inek. “Knights come and go.”

“I don't— I'm not sure I can ever go back,” I said. Though I still believed in the Order, and I very much craved the peace and purpose it represented, how could I ever offer the submission it required? I trusted Fix and Inek and many of my brothers, but I had trusted the Marshal, too. I was not ready to yield so much again.

The warm tisane sloshed over my hands. The tremors got worse whenever I thought of Geraint de Serre commanding me to slaughter everyone in Castle Cavillor. If not for these men and Fallon and Pons and the half-mad Archivist, I would have done it.

Fix added a few drops more of his soporific to my cup and forced me to drink. “On the ramparts of Cavillor, Inek named you a knight to honor your choice and to acknowledge your clear qualification. That was no idle gesture. The Order needs you—your magic, your discipline, your devotion to our cause. As ever, it is your own choice to accept that naming. But not on this day. The Knight Defender will never allow a knight, squire, paratus, or tyro to leave the Order while he is wounded.”

And so we returned to Evanide. I near wept when I got inside fortress walls, sneaked in via private ways, given a cell in the commanders' barracks. But even the sea could not soothe me. No sooner had I dropped off to sleep that first night than I woke up screaming. Fits of the shakes attacked me with the regularity of the tides. I dubbed myself a weakling ninny.

Fix and Inek assured me that time and peace and work would mend what was only to be expected from such wounding as the Marshal's leash. The only serious matter they discussed with me was the royal mask. No matter what I chose to do, no matter where I went, it marked me as the man on the ramparts. I was of no use to myself, my friends, the Order, or the kingdom if I flaunted a symbol that could see me dead in an eyeblink. Despite the risks of undoing intricate magic never meant to be undone, I agreed to their recommendation to be rid of it.

Fix brought the old Archivist out of his forced retirement, and over the course of three days I would give much to forget, the old man and the new Archivist, once known as Second, unthreaded the mask, carefully undoing the magic that had bonded it to my skin, to my nerves, to my mind and magic. Somewhere in the blur of those days, the old Archivist leaned close and whispered in my ear so no one else could hear. “You said the day of the Sorcerer King is
not yet
, and you promised to wait and watch. Was that empty posturing? If I remove the threading splinters around your face, this mask can never be put back.”

I had no intention of donning the mask again and no desire to do so. But neither would I retract the promise made at Cavillor. Perhaps it was delirium caused by unending pain, but I whispered hoarsely, “Leave them.”

Two months it took me to recover from that ordeal and regain some semblance of my former skills, sleeping during the days, and working all night in the training rooms, alone or with Inek. Daylight hours when I was not sleeping, I spent in the bowels of the Archive Tower. The new Archivist taught me more of the memory magic I should have learned before my investiture. Intricate, glorious magic. Which made my growing certainties all the more difficult.

During that time of healing, Fix and Inek purposely kept me ignorant of the world outside, saying it was useless until I had the skills to deal with what I heard. They confirmed Geraint de Serre was dead, but didn't tell me how. I grieved for the Marshal I'd believed in, but not for the man whose seductive voice lurked in my dreams like leeches in a pond.

On the night Inek laid a hand on my shoulder and said I was to meet Fix at the boathouse an hour before sunrise, with my weapons and what kit I had assembled during my stay, I knew the time of my choice had come. “As you say, Knight Commander. I want to tell you how much—”

“You told me enough when I lay in the infirmary, unable to reply,” he said. “
Dalle cineré,
Knight Aros, my friend and brother.”

“
Dalle cineré
, Knight Commander.”
From the ashes
. Never had the words meant so much.

“Y
ou sleep well; you can run the flats in the dark at a pace near your best,” said the Defender, as we strolled down the quay toward the boathouse that morning. The wind frosted the scruff on my chin that was the only beard I could grow around the scars left by the unthreading. “Inek reports your swordwork has actually surpassed your last testing. . . .”

I laughed. “Every tyro would be at this level if he trained with Inek every night.”

It was hard to know Fix was going to force me to a decision. I hated to disappoint those who put such faith in me.

“It's good to hear you laugh,” said Fix. “Don't ever allow that skill to wane. I'm pleased your time has been profitable, but the Order will benefit now our new Knight Marshal can be invested instead of playing nursemaid every night. The mysterious Knight Defender is most inadequate to handle both offices and his boats, as well.”

I glanced up sharply. “Inek is to be the Knight Marshal?”

“He was named two years ago—before the Archivist falsified the count. He will implement the reforms we've decided on and lead us into this new world you've made possible. As for you—”

“Knight Defender, I cannot stay.” Only the need to get the painful words spoken could make me interrupt Fix. “I've matters to see to, some personal, which sounds strange for one who so recently relinquished all identity save the One-Who-Waits. But I meant what I said at Cavillor. And these days of work and solitude convinced me I cannot judge the world if I don't live there. I cannot allow others to filter my view. My heart is with the Order, especially now it is in such fine care, but Aros belongs elsewhere.”

We stood at the end of the quay, gazing out on the restless sea.

He tilted his head my way and looked at me the way the boatmaster looked on a tyro who could not remember how to tie a knot. “This is not exactly a shock to me. Indeed, I've a proposition for you,” he said. “But first I'll have to tell you a bit about what's come of your deeds. . . .”

•   •   •

T
he dawn light tinted the sprawling town on the horizon a vibrant pink, as I emerged from the snowy wood and joined the eastern road. I'd walked for a month since that dawn on the quay at Evanide, and winter had set in with a vengeance though we were yet a few days from the solstice.

I'd spent my journey listening—to travelers, hostlers, and laborers at the side of the road, at sop-houses and taverns, in alleyways and gatehouses, and at the windows of pureblood enclaves and official chambers, most of the time veiled in Order magic. Ordinaries were accustomed to the uncertainty the tides of war left behind. Purebloods weren't. They were struggling to move forward from the Sitting.

A few powerful families like the Albins had declared their intent to re-create an administrative council with stricter rules—a new, purified, but harsher Registry. Duc Benedik had returned north to secure his people against winter and war. Canis-Ferenc had sent wagonloads of provisions, tools, and seed with him, and they had committed to further negotiation in the spring. Ferenc's partisans sewed white stripes on their wine-hued cloaks—many of them fashioned in the shape of Xancheira's tree. Rumors already spoke of intimidation by the traditionalists. I would have to see to that.

But first something even more important. Morning bells rang at a Karish monastery school that nestled in the valley upriver from the town. Half a quellé past the school, a side road led into gentle hills. I pulled my hood low to shadow my face. The two women were already waiting.

The larger, older of the two, wide-shouldered and severe in her claret-hued robe and mask, raised a hand. I raised mine and then laid it on the opposite shoulder in the signal Fix's message had arranged. The smaller rider in black mantle and mask—the variant garb permitted for purebloods in mourning—dipped her head gracefully and pulled her mount around to take the side road into the hills. Without a word, I followed, leaving the other woman behind to guard the way.

As I passed, Pons—the temporary Administrator of Sorcerer Registration—nodded. She knew only that I was a messenger from the Order. Neither she nor Juli knew that I lived.

Unkempt myrtle and bay had almost overgrown the road. Only rabbit tracks marred the pristine snow. We saw no sign of the horror that had happened here until we reached the top of a hill overlooking a broad valley. The black and broken stubble of a huge house and myriad outbuildings laid a blight upon the frosty morning.

“Here,” I said, calling her to halt. “This is far enough.”

I dismounted and offered her my hand, but she refused. “I don't understand why we're here,” she said, as she dropped smoothly to her feet and stroked her mare's neck. “Administrator Pons says you are investigating matters of corruption brought before the Sitting of the Three Hundred last summer. I thought this particular matter was well understood.”

“We've come for several reasons. I've the skill to learn a bit more about the night this happened.” I gestured toward the ruin. “And I made you a promise.”

Her hand stopped in mid-stroke, and she spun around, her eyes wide.

I lowered my hood and held out my hand. “I live.”

One hand flew to her mouth, as the other reached for mine. Even through her glove it was cold as the ice glaze on the ponds below us.

“I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you sooner,” I said. “By the time I knew what they'd told you . . . shown you . . . I'd no opportunity. And once I was free, I had to go away for a while. . . .”

“That was you in the mask,” she said, tracing the dreadful scars its removal had caused. “On the ramparts. And all I could think was how like you he sounded—and how glorious was his magic, more so than even my dearest brother's—the one I'd just buried. Oh, Mother's heart, Luka, where have you been?”

I guided her to a bench I'd noted in that relict-seeing so long ago and held her until the racking sobs had eased. “I saw you working at Cavillor—after—shoring up the wreckage I'd caused. So your bent leads you to that . . . to—”

“Building,” she said, blotting her eyes before fixing them on my own. “So you still don't remember.”

“No. And I won't. Not ever. I can't regret it, as it was how I got free of a man who wanted to use my magic to murder his enemies. As long as I clung to the part of me that believed I was Lucian de Remeni—which was not so much, as you'd already seen—I was de Serre's slave. To break his magic I had to destroy every part of me that would enable me to reclaim the person I was—the experiences that shaped me, the kinship and love I held for my family, even the desire to know more. I am forever changed, Juli. The affection and admiration I feel for you, the responsibility I feel for you,
is because of who you are now, not blood nor anything we shared before that night at the Sanctuary pool.”