Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (10 page)

BOOK: Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris)
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Once back, Ayriene had been able to treat him more effectively. The wounds were closed, and after a sleep she would channel more aiea-dera to heal them completely. He would have hardly a scar to show for his trauma. She had fixed his jaw, and would heal the broken nose later. She had hesitated before healing the earlobe, knowing what store the Chesammos set by their earrings, but the lobe had been a torn and bloody mess and the linandra bead nowhere to be seen. She had searched Sylas’s clothing, but had not found it, so had healed the ear, figuring it would be easier to repierce it once healed rather than try to mend the flesh around an ear wire.

“If he wakes, water first, remember. Then if he seems distressed, put this powder into the water and get him to drink as much as you can.”

“For the pain?”

“That, and a sedative to help him sleep. That is what he needs right now. Can I trust you with this?”

“Of course.”

The healers wouldn’t like it, a changer coming into their infirmary and administering remedies, but he had waited there for hours with no sign of leaving, so he might as well make himself useful. She turned the corner. A six-bed room with only four occupants. She lay on the nearest empty bed. Just a nap, she told herself. Just a few minutes. And she slept.

Casian waited until Ayriene left before slipping into the chair by Sylas’s bed. Sylas rested peacefully, propped on his side with pillows supporting him. From what Casian could see, the healers had done a good job. Casian had seen the bloodied remains of his shirt, and the reddened bowls of water carried in and out. He knew it had not been pretty.

He mopped his friend’s forehead with a cool cloth, then stroked damp hair away from Sylas’s face.

“You stupid bloody Chesammos,” he muttered. “I take my eyes off you for a couple of days and look what happens. How did you manage to get into this much trouble in your own village, for the Creator’s sake? Lucky Jesely found you.” And why Jesely had been flying over the desert road at just the right time, Casian couldn’t think. It was as if he had known. As if fate intended him to save Sylas. Casian shivered. Maybe that was true. Sylas had to be there when Casian became king. He couldn’t die yet.

Casian wondered about seeings. Did the act of seeing mean that the event would take place, or could things still change to prevent it? He was beginning to believe that the event was made certain by the seeing; otherwise why would the changers store all the fragments of past predictions? If they had been made long ago, the chances of random events changing the path of history were huge.

Sylas had survived; Jesely had found him; Casian still had the possibility of the throne of Chandris in his future.

“I need you, Sylas.” He found he meant it. Not just for the promise of the crown, but for Sylas’s own sake. Casian had never been in love—swore he didn’t know what love was—but the fear he had felt when he thought Sylas might die had made him wonder if he might not love this man.

He could not risk Sylas again. He would make Sylas go to his mother’s house—keep him there until Casian could work out how the crown was to be his. If the Chesammos unrest grew, he would be out of the way—safer even than in the Aerie with its seeings and intrigues.

He thought Sylas stirred—that a ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

Casian bent to kiss Sylas’s brow. “I will keep you safe, my love.”

Chapter 10

W
hen Jesely arrived, Casian made his excuses and left. Sylas had regained consciousness for a few minutes, the young Irenthi said, his face drawn. He had taken a little water and then the healers had given him more sedative to try to keep him still while Ayriene’s healing took effect. Casian seemed disinclined to wait with Jesely; he excused himself to get some food and rest. Jesely was not unhappy with that arrangement. Relations had been strained between Casian and him recently, and his friendship with Sylas was only a small part. Casian considered himself ready to study for the mastery; Jesely did not. Harsh words had been exchanged on both sides and their once amicable relationship had all but fallen apart.

Ayriene slept next door. Transforming took its toll on a changer, and the healing Ayriene had managed on Sylas’s beaten body sapped still more of her strength. The healers were attentive in her absence. They flitted around, always seeming busy, although Jesely could not have said exactly what they did. He felt a little purposeless, sitting by the bedside, but he felt a responsibility for the boy that he could not explain even to himself.

Maybe an hour had passed when Ayriene came to the door, bleary-eyed. She smiled when she saw him. “Anyone would think he was your apprentice, the interest you take in him.”

He felt it like a punch to his chest. It had been said before that he favoured the boy, but he was drawn to him. Not just because he was Chesammos. Not just because he struggled in his studies and it came naturally to Jesely to help the less fortunate. But something else. Something Jesely could not quite identify.

“He’s sleeping peacefully.”

“Good.” She lowered herself into a chair with a sigh.

“Still tired?”

“Sore.” Ayriene stretched out arm and shoulder muscles. “Healers don’t fly often, since it would mean leaving our packs behind. We’re not easily parted from those.”

Healers built their packs up over many years, accumulating their preferred remedies. A pack became as personal to a healer as a journal to a diarist. Ayriene’s leather satchel had been new when Jesely had first known her. Now it was battered, the leather worn in patches, but she would no sooner replace it than she would set aside her own right arm. She had even been concerned about leaving it with Miralee while she flew for Sylas. Ayriene rummaged in the satchel, drawing out a small pot and removing the stopper.

“Luckily, being a healer means I always have relief to hand.” She scooped out a blob of waxy salve on her first two fingers and smoothed it into shoulders and upper arms, sighing as it took effect. “Ah, that’s better. Numbstem. Wonderful stuff.”

“Have you eaten?”

“They are bringing something for me, I think. They said you were here, so I asked them to bring extra. I doubt you’ve eaten much, either.” She finger-combed her hair, pulling it to her nape and twisting it up, securing it with a single pin in that women’s way that always seemed somewhat magical to Jesely. “I bet I look a sight. I haven’t washed in two days.”

“I’ll watch him while you bathe and change, if you want.”

“I might take you up on that. I’d feel better if I could get clean.” She studied him. “So are you going to tell me why you were flying so near his village? If I didn’t know you better I’d think your personal interest in him was getting a little… unhealthy.”

How to tell her he had been drawn there by memories of a woman long dead?

“I don’t know. Lucky I did, though.” He shifted uncomfortably under her stare. She didn’t believe him. By the Lady, would he be the subject of gossip now? He would have to come up with a better reason for being in the right place at the right time.

Ayriene tucked the pot of salve back in her pack, wiping her greasy fingers on her clothes. Then she pulled a torn piece of parchment from the pack’s front pocket. “I’d almost forgotten about this.”

The side of the parchment facing Jesely had odd fragments of words, one marred by a large ink blot. Ayriene looked at the reverse, though, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“What’s that?”

She handed it to him. The parchment was torn from top to bottom, and there were traces of writing—if one could call it that—near the ripped edge. The hand was childish and clumsy. In contrast, the pictures drawn in the margin were of the highest quality.

“That one on the top—that’s a medelerinn. We use it to help with mild pains. I don’t recognise the other. It doesn’t seem to be in my herbal. It’s likely of no medicinal value. I wish I could show you the pictures of medelerinn in the commonly used herbals. They are so crude compared with this. I could give this picture to anyone—even the newest apprentice healer—and they could find the plant from it. The ones in the herbals are barely recognisable.”

“Who did them?”

Ayriene shook her head. “I don’t know. Miralee found the parchment left on a table in the library and gave it to me when I left my pack with her. It went out of my mind, with Sylas and all. Miralee knows Adwen and I had talked of rewriting the herbals to include the plants that have been brought from the mainland in the last few years, common names, Chesammos names, that sort of thing.” She paused, biting her lip and her mouth twisting as she tried to hold back tears. The loss of her son still showed on her face. When she spoke again, her voice thickened with grief. “Miralee thinks it might take my mind off things. I had given up on the idea—it wouldn’t be the same without Adwen—but with someone who could give me illustrations like these, it might be worth it.”

“If Miralee found it in the library, then Gwysias might know. There’s not much happens in there that he’s not aware of.”

“That’s a good idea, but I won’t get away from here today. If Sylas is going to succumb to fever it will happen soon, and I need to give his back more healing now that I have recovered. It will scar if left too long.”

“I’ll go. I need to talk to Gwysias anyway.”

Jesely had a fair idea who might have drawn the pictures. At least, he had a good idea whose scrawling writing it was—Gwysias had complained about Sylas’s penmanship often enough. But Sylas had never given any indication of any artistic talent. Jesely imagined his lessons gave him little opportunity to show it off, since they centred around more academic pursuits. The boy must be a natural artist, if they were by him, for the Chesammos had little use for drawing. And if the drawings
were
Sylas’s work, and if Ayriene was looking for an illustrator for her book… Jesely’s hopes rose. He had never approached Ayriene about Sylas, although the Lady knew he had asked nearly all the masters if they would take him as apprentice. He had assumed she would be looking for someone with an aptitude for healing, if she ever took on another youngster. Ayriene would be perfect. She was used to dealing with teenage boys and able to teach him a trade he could follow even if he were not allowed to stay in the Aerie. When he left Sylas’s bedside, Jesely felt a lot more optimistic about the boy’s future than he had in a very long time.

Jesely spotted Gwysias on the path alongside the library. An unremarkable man, the small, grey-haired master split his time between the library and the scriptorium, where he oversaw copying of precious books and taught penmanship to novices. No book eluded his notice, and there were few references he couldn’t find. His arms were overloaded with parchment rolls, books, and brushes, and as usual his spindly fingers were ink-smudged.

Jesely fell into step beside him. Gwysias gave him no greeting but Jesely did not take it amiss. The scribe spent much of his time deep in thought.

“A moment of your time, Master Gwysias.”

“If it’s about young Sylas you’re wasting your time, Jesely. Boy’s a lost cause.”

Jesely faltered, stopping in his tracks and staring after the shorter man, before trotting to catch up. “What do you mean?”

“What I said. Might as well stop trying; spend time on someone more deserving. The boy is irredeemably stupid.”

“When did you start to learn to read and write, Gwysias? How many languages do you speak?”

“I? Just Irenthi, of course. What else would I speak? And as for reading and writing—well, I suppose six or seven years of age. Why? What has that to do with Sylas?”

“The boy’s father actively tried to prevent him learning. He had scarcely any education before coming here, and yet see how fast he has picked things up. When he speaks to you in Irenthi, do you notice any errors in his grammar? Is his vocabulary lacking? His native tongue is Chesammos, you know, so he is speaking his second language, to say nothing of reading and writing in it. And yet you think him irredeemably stupid?”

Gwysias grunted, unconvinced. “Still, you spend too long with that one. I know you feel some kinship with the boy, him being Chesammos, but Casian needs some attention. It’s not just me who’s commented on it.”

The barb stuck, lodged in the space between Jesely’s conscience and his better nature.

He had neglected Casian recently; he knew that. The Irenthi had been a pleasant enough boy, but the adult he was becoming made Jesely deeply uneasy. Changers served, seeking no personal advancement. If they took on high office, it was to enable them to serve more completely. But Casian had been raised as heir to the second most powerful house on Chandris; ambition and intrigue were in his blood. Sylas was a wounded bird, desperately fluttering towards a better life for himself and his loved ones. Casian would thrive with or without Jesely. Sylas needed him.

“Do you really need to switch him? He is doing the best he can.”

Gwysias sniffed. “He is lazy. He lacks application.”

“He is raw and untutored and he uses the wrong hand to write with, but I’ll not believe he is lazy. All the other masters say he tries hard at the tasks he is set.”

“If he wants to stay among us he needs a basic level of education; you know that as well as anyone. But I cannot make a swan out of a sparrow, and as it stands you would be better off seeing that he achieves control and sending him home.”

“That appears to be out of the question, after what has happened.”

Gwysias stopped abruptly. “What has happened?”

For a moment Jesely regretted his hasty words, but the Aerie was a close-knit community, and even if the changers could be trusted to hold their tongues, there were servants who could not. Chances were that the story of Sylas’s arrival had already spread, and that only Gwysias’s naturally cloistered existence had stopped him hearing the news.

“He came back from his piercing ceremony beaten half to death. It’s only thanks to Ayriene’s talent that he still lives.”

Gwysias let out a long low whistle, then pursed his lips and nodded. “The lad’s options are closing around him, it seems. What if he cannot be trained, Jesely? The council are running out of options.”

Jesely nodded. “Burning, which I doubt Ayriene would agree to, or blood elder for the rest of his life, which can’t be allowed to happen for all the usual reasons. He has already marked for longer than I’m entirely happy with. He may have several years before the worst of the side-effects begin, but begin they will, and then his life will become increasingly uncomfortable.”

“I still don’t understand why you spend so much time with him and neglect your own apprentice so shamefully. I mean, I know that we need to encourage Chesammos to stay—they are the source of our communication with the Lady, after all.” He honoured Jesely by using the Chesammos term for Mount Eurna. “But is this one lad worth all the work you are putting into him? Everyone notices how much he has your favour. It is not just me asking questions, Jesely. Many others wonder what is so special about Sylas that you spend so much of your time and effort on his behalf.”

Jesely closed his eyes. It was so hard to explain, but the boy had something about him. Something that flitted on the edge of Jesely’s mind like a thought half-forgotten.

“He says he hears many kye,” Jesely said at last, reluctant to break a confidence. “I have not heard of anyone who claimed that since Shamella.”

“Shamella,” said Gwysias. “That explains it, at least a little. But she is dead, Jesely. I know you and she were close, but you must not let what happened to her cloud your judgement.”

“If this lad has the same ability—or handicap—as she, I want to understand it, if I can. Try to save him from the same fate that befell her, if indeed it was the kye that caused her death.”

Jesely had hoped he might marry Shamella someday. His family had stayed purebred through three generations of changers and he had hoped to continue the tradition. Her loss so young had been a tragedy, and for all Donmar’s evasion, Jesely was sure he knew more than he was telling. If this was something that afflicted Chesammos changers, even only once in a generation, the Aerie should understand it.

“Please, Gwysias, if you know anything about Shamella’s death, tell me. I worry for Sylas.”

Gwysias shook his head, but to Jesely’s empath senses it seemed he had softened somewhat. An air of sympathy surrounded him. “I know no more than you. I have never been on the council, so if anything was discussed in meetings about her then I never heard it. But I will help the boy, if I can, for her sake and yours. If he deserves a switching he will get one, mind, or I do an injustice to all the other novices who have received a stripe or two from me over the years.”

BOOK: Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris)
6.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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