Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (11 page)

Jesely pulled the parchment from his belt. He was sure he knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway.

“Before you go, do you know who drew this?”

Gwysias scowled, wagging his finger in mock rebuke. “You sweet-talk me into treating your pet better and then you go and remind me of one of his recent misdemeanours. It is Sylas’s work, as you might tell from the daubings beside it. And, yes, I did punish him for it. Why do you ask?”

“Because it might give him the future he needs,” said Jesely. He had the oddest impulse to hug Master Gwysias, but imagined the landslide of books and brushes that would result and limited himself to a quick grasp of the forearm instead. Yes, this unlikely talent of Sylas’s might be his salvation.

“I’ve hardly seen you in the last week,” said Miralee, throwing herself into a comfortable chair in her mother’s bedchamber. She pulled a cushion from behind her back, landed two sound punches on its feathered middle and replaced it, leaning back with a sigh. “That’s better.”

“I’ve been busy. And you’ve not been about much yourself, I gather.” Ayriene had slept soundly the previous night, going to bed before sundown and not waking until the Aerie had been about its business for a good two hours.

“I heard. A novice, wasn’t it?” Until a few days before Miralee had been a novice herself, but Mistress Yinaede had ended several years without an apprentice to take her on.

“Sylas. Chesammos lad. You know him?”

“To nod to. Garyth knows him, I think.”

Ayriene lay sprawled on her bed, her hair loose about her shoulders, damp from her bath. Never had hot water felt better. She had fallen into bed dirty and aching, but the bath had worked miracles. She hoped the food that should be on its way from the kitchen would complete the transformation.

“How are your lessons going?”

“Better now.”

Ayriene caught the implication that all had at some point not been well, and raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Probably me overreacting.” Miralee tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a dismissive gesture.

“But?”

“But… well, Casian started coming to Mistress Yinaede’s classes a while ago.”

That was strange. “He’s not a seer, is he?”

Miralee pulled a face. “He’s a talent, but no one knows quite what his talent is. Mistress Yinaede didn’t want him there. She suggested he pay you a visit to see if he was a healer. At least that would keep him away from me for a while. He could sit too close to
you
and see how you reacted.”

She forced herself to sound calm. “Has Casian shown an interest in you?”

An expression of horror crossed her face. “Mother! An interest?”

“You know what I mean. He’s an attractive man, and he’s not averse to using his attraction. He’s involved with Sylas, but he also doesn’t seem to place too much importance on faithfulness, from what I’m hearing.”

“Sylas is welcome to him. He makes my skin crawl. I told Mistress Yinaede I didn’t like him near me and she moved our lessons to the library. He must know what we’ve done, and why, but he’s never asked. Too proud, I expect. You know what the Irenthi are like.”

Casian was the only Irenthi Miralee knew, but Ayriene let it slide. “At least Yinaede took it seriously.”

A knock sounded at the door. Miralee answered it, taking a tray of food from an Irmos servant and setting it on the bed.

Ayriene patted the covers. “There’s plenty for two. Sit here and help me with it.”

Miralee perched next to her and smeared butter thickly on a piece of still-warm bread. “Yes, she was good about it. I don’t think she likes Casian much either. Anyway, there’s a part of the library where the seeings are recorded—seeings and parts of seeings. Yinaede showed me how and where to record mine—the one I told you about, with the man who looked like Casian, and the Chesammos.”

“I remember. That can’t have taken you long, though. Garyth says you’ve been shut in there for hours at a time.”

“There’s more to it than simply recording. It’s part of the seers’ job to try to piece them together—link them up and make sense of them. It’s fascinating.”

“So did you link anything with your seeing?”

Miralee beamed. “Yes! That made me feel so much better. Just knowing that other seers recorded the same event I did makes me more confident that it wasn’t just a weird dream. And that it’s important, you know? All the other seeings about it were old—twenty, thirty years ago, some of them—but they fitted. Same Irenthi with the linandra crown. Same Chesammos man and girl.”

“Girl?” Ayriene hadn’t heard that part.

“Yes. She was there in mine, but I didn’t see her well. She was more of a feeling, if you know what I mean. I thought she might be Chesammos or dark Irmos, and the other seeings describe her as Chesammos. The fragments we found thought the king might be Deygan—they were seen before he became king—but Yinaede says they can’t be since I’ve had the same seeing. People only see things forwards in time, she says, never backwards. Makes sense, I suppose. What use would it be to see things that have already happened?” She hesitated, making a face like someone eating sour fruit. “I still think he looked a lot like Casian, but I don’t like the thought of that roach becoming king.”

“Deygan is healthy, and he has three sons. One of them will follow him. Jaevan, Creator willing. He will make a fine king. Did the other fragments shed no light?”

“A little. One of them said they had heard the Chesammos man say ‘You cannot hold your throne without me’ and ‘Without me you will fall. You need me.’ That’s odd, don’t you think? How could a Chesammos help an Irenthi hold the throne? I wonder if I’ll ever know what it was about. I expect a lot of seers never know why they saw what they did.” She seemed a little morose at the thought. “They said the Chesammos was clean-shaven too, so I think he must be a changer, don’t you?”

If the Irenthi were Casian, Ayriene reasoned, then that could make Sylas the Chesammos. But how would he be in a position to help a king, and how would Casian have come to be king in the first place? She shook her head. Miralee was right. Chances were neither of them would ever know the circumstances of the conversation. She made a mental note to talk to Jesely about it, and settled back as Miralee reminisced about Adwen. For the first time in ages, Ayriene’s thoughts were with a teenage boy who was not her lost son.

“What news?” The man’s voice was gruff, hoarse from being caught in a vent during an eruption in his youth. He had escaped with his life—he had been young and strong then—but his voice had never recovered and it still hurt him to eat or drink. Only sheer determination to bring down the Irenthi made him carry on, made him keep fighting when every day was a struggle to overcome pain.

“Namopaia are with us,” said another, younger man, his skin showing the effects of being one of a dig team. “We sent Neffan to wrestle at a wedding there and he made contact with their rebels.”

“Any fighters among them?”

The second man snorted. “You know Namopaia. It’s a wonder they have committed at all, although I get the impression most of the village are unaware or pretending it’s not happening.”

“So we aren’t likely to get anyone willing to take direct action from there.” Hoarse-voiced man coughed, doubling over at the pain it caused him. “Damn me, but it’s bad again. The Lady grant I live to see our efforts rewarded.”

“Maisaiea-yelai,” the other echoed, bringing his fingertips together in the sign of the mountain.

“What other news?”

“Sennak and Diprit have gone to the city. They heard news of a sympathetic linandra singer who will cut the stones and trade them for us—for a price. If he proves reliable, they will bring back whatever weapons the stones have bought.”

A grunt of satisfaction. “Good. Anything else?”

“We have been talking, Sennak and Diprit and I. What about the feast day of Deygan’s ascension? If we could attack the procession, maybe kill Deygan or one of his sons, then even if we died in the attempt they couldn’t cover it up. The Irenthi would have to take notice. And it’s a few months off yet—gives us time to gather arms, make plans.”

Silence settled while hoarse-voiced man digested this thought. “Would that lose us followers? There is much love for Deygan and his family among the Irmos. He has provided well for them. You need only look at how many of our young people marry outside our race. They believe they are better off having Irmos children.”

“But it would show we mean business,” the younger man said, his eyes shining with zeal. “What does it matter if we have weapons if we don’t intend to use them? A guardsman here, a minor lordling there—it will all come to nothing unless we can show Chandris that we are not to be ignored.”

He had always thought himself an opponent of the Irenthi, this gravel-voiced veteran of the mines, but the thought of killing children sickened him. Yet with their boys up for selection for the pits once they had their earring, and the earring being given earlier and earlier in an attempt to bolster their numbers, what were many of the lads sent to the pits but children themselves? They died the slow death of the linandra digger. At least Deygan’s boys would die quickly, maisaiea-yelai.

He nodded slowly.

“See to it,” he said.

Chapter 11

W
ith the changer council convening, Jesely was concerned to see Master Olendis waiting outside the chamber. A changer could attend part of a meeting in order to contribute, but would then leave so the council could speak freely on the other topics on the agenda. Jesely could only conclude that while he had been concerned with Sylas’s recovery, Olendis had raised the subject of the problem novice with Donmar, who had promised to bring it before the council.

The main item on the agenda was the planned visit to the Aerie by King Deygan and Prince Jaevan. Most kings, and high holders before them, had kept to the business of ruling Irenthi holdings, and left the Aerie to itself. Deygan, by contrast, tried to restrict the Aerie’s power, reducing the changers’ perceived importance in the eyes of the holders. With the tributes reduced, the Aerie relied on what the changers could grow on the mountaintop or catch in the lake, or what they produced on the few farms the Aerie owned outright. With that, and the money brought in by masters tutoring the children of nobility (both from Chandris and overseas), they managed to feed and clothe themselves and send any extra to the desert Chesammos. If Deygan meant to exert more control over the Aerie’s operations, that could mean increased hardship for the desert dwellers. With rumours reaching the Aerie of skirmishes between Chesammos malcontents and Lord Garvan’s men, Deygan was unlikely to look with favour on their continued shipments of food and clothing into the desert.

They spent much of the afternoon considering Deygan’s likely strategies. Despite the seriousness of the debate, Jesely found his attention wandering to the master sitting outside. His presence had to be bad news for Sylas. If he failed to change for a time, the trauma of recent events could be blamed, but Olendis’s patience grew thin. Nausea rose in Jesely’s stomach. He had the feeling Sylas was running short of time.

When he was called in, Master Olendis recounted the events of three days before Sylas’s trip home, when he had once again tried and failed to transform.

“I have given him ample opportunity. The boys who joined around the same time all learned in the usual timespan. Only Sylas has failed to transform even once,” the elderly master concluded, licking his lips nervously and looking around the table.

“Are we certain the boy is even a changer?” That was Fennoc the herbalist, a fair Irmos.

“He had the physical symptoms,” said Jesely, “and from his description of the aiea and the kye, I believe he has the ability.”

“He could have heard the others talk about these things,” Olendis observed sourly. “Maybe the boy has been hoodwinking us all this time.”

“I don’t believe he would have endured the beating he did in order to come back, if he was faking,” observed Ayriene dryly.

“Is there any precedent for a late change among Chesammos? We know girls often change later than boys. Do Chesammos boys change later than other boys? Learn control more slowly?” Fennoc again.

“Girls change later, but then learn at the same sort of speed. Maybe faster. This applies across the races. We would expect girls to have control within a year of their change.” Olendis had taught several female novices; he knew what he was talking about. “As for Chesammos, we have some here. Shall we ask them?”

“I changed at thirteen,” said Donmar. “I had controlled the change and been apprenticed by fourteen. Cowin here was exceptional; in fairness, we can’t compare Sylas with him. He changed first at nine, but I’ve never heard of another child of any race changing that early.”

“Master Jesely?” Olendis turned to him. “When did you change?”

Jesely squirmed in his seat. It felt like a betrayal when he said, “Much like everyone else. Thirteen, fourteen, and it took me three or four months. Sylas was a little late even showing signs of the change. But I was raised here. I grew up hearing talk about changing.” It sounded a poor excuse even to him, and he thought he caught a hint of pity in the faces around him. Many of the council members knew he had been mentoring Sylas.

“So what do you recommend, Olendis?” asked Donmar.

“It is not for me to decide the fate of a novice, but if you were to ask me if he would ever learn to change, I would have to say it looks unlikely. Not only that, but the boy doesn’t even have the wits to come up with a convincing excuse. If he could not hear the kye at all I might believe him, but this story of hearing many kye voices. Utter nonsense.”

Jesely had shifted his gaze to Donmar’s face when Olendis spoke of the kye, and he saw it where others did not: a twitch of the cheek and an involuntary glance, first at Jesely and then at Cowin. Cowin’s hands were clenched into fists. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

“What do we know about the boy? What is his background?” Cowin’s voice was strained.

Master Donmar raised a hand from the table. “This isn’t the place for that line of questioning. Unless you have some particular insight, I fail to see what his background will reveal. What we need to decide now is what to do with him.”

Cowin subsided, but Jesely could tell the answer left him dissatisfied. Cowin definitely had more interest than Jesely could account for.

“Sylas has faced extreme opposition from his father,” said Jesely, “and he lost his brother only a few months ago. Could he have raised some sort of mental barrier to changing?”

“That sounds like your line of work, Ayriene.” Donmar deferred to the only healer at the table.

Jesely gripped the edge of the table. He was not sure it would do Sylas any good to have the council think him mentally unstable in some way, but it might make Donmar defer the suggestion Jesely knew he worked towards.

“Ailments of the mind are difficult,” she said slowly. “There is little we can do with herbs except administer calming draughts. I cannot use my talent on such sicknesses. Without a physical injury to treat I am a mere herbalist, like any common healer. There is nothing my kye can help me repair. Even if it were true that he resisted the change, there would be little I could do.”

Jesely took in a deep breath. He had known that, of course. One changer several years ago had become so disturbed in her mind soon after the birth of her first child that she tried to throw herself off one of the towers. Ayriene had given her sedatives of the sort she mentioned, but had been unable to heal her with the talent. The woman recovered several months later, but was so shaken by it all that she had not dared to have another child, blaming the birth for her sudden instability.

Ayriene continued. “There may be repercussions from the past few days, but he shows little sign of trauma. In fact, he has proved remarkably resilient. He is sitting up when he is able, talking with visitors. Casian spends a lot of time with him.”

“Yet there is another way to make the boy safe if he cannot control the change,” said Donmar, “and it is one to which we must give serious consideration.”

“I know where this is leading, and I would oppose such a move,” said Jesely. “If he cannot change with the pipe then he is in no danger of changing to a call not intended for him. To make doubly certain, he can continue to mark as he has done between flights up to now.”

“If the boy were an exceptional student, then maybe that would have been a possibility, Jesely,” said Donmar. “But he shows no particular aptitudes. In fact Master Gwysias has come to me several times complaining of his lack of application. Personally, I know what I would do, although it is an extreme step to take.”

Several of the council shuffled uneasily. Burning the ability from a changer was indeed an extreme step. The process involved all the aiea-bar a changer could hold being channelled through that part of another changer’s mind that accessed the kye. Even the changers did not understand fully how it worked, and as such it held many risks. It would keep Sylas safe from involuntary changing, or from answering any calls that he might hear from the Aerie or elsewhere, but it would be an admission of failure. Their failure, not his. Failure to teach him to use his skills safely.

Jesely thumped the table with his fist. “We cannot do that! It was always a solution of last resort, even when there were changers who knew how to do it safely. How can we justify doing it to a boy whose only crime is learning more slowly than we would like?”

Donmar leaned forward. “The only other changer who could hear many kye died suddenly, as you yourself pointed out to me. What if burning him would save him from this fate?”

Jesely read Donmar as the leader spoke. Not his thoughts—no empath could do that—but his emotions, his reactions. He was frightened. Of Sylas?

“And what then? Send him home to a father who beat him so badly he could have died on the journey home?” Jesely did not want to be the one to tell the boy that he had to return to Namopaia.

“We could keep him on here. Hire him as a stable hand or a kitchen boy or something. Something that suits his abilities,” suggested Fennoc.

At least he was sympathetic to the boy in his own way, Jesely thought. But while others who could change laboured at the Aerie—Ayriene’s own son Garyth worked in the gardens—turning a potential changer into a kitchen boy struck Jesely as little more than scandalous. Still, rumbles of agreement circled the table, several masters turning to discuss this suggestion with their neighbours.

Ayriene’s voice broke through the discussions. “You said that the boy had no aptitude, Master Donmar. I believe you are wrong. Jesely, do you have the parchment?”

He did. He had it tucked in his belt pouch, entirely forgotten. He pulled it out, waving it toward Ayriene.

“Yes! It was him. It was Sylas did this. You say he has no aptitude for anything, but look at how the boy can draw!”

Donmar protested that drawing was of no use to the Aerie. Maybe they could find someone in need of a draughtsman in Banunis or Adamantara, but first the boy must be burned. Jesely found himself in the grips of a wild optimism. Ayriene had not volunteered to apprentice Sylas, but had prompted Jesely to show the pictures. Would she take him? Use him for this herbal of hers? Jesely prayed so.

Cowin slipped away after the meeting before Jesely could confront him. Something was going on that Jesely didn’t understand: something that affected Sylas. People were keeping secrets, and Jesely didn’t like secrets.

“Are you meant to be up?” Casian rushed to Sylas’s side, grasping his forearm. Sylas was still wobbly after days spent confined to bed, but he shook off Casian’s support.

“I can do it. I just got up too fast and my head started spinning.”

“But what are you doing up at all? Did Mistress Ayriene say it was all right?”

Casian guided him back to the bed and Sylas sat. He just needed to take it a little slower, that was all. He’d be fine. “Of course. You don’t think I’d be disobeying my mistress this soon after she took me on, do you? I’ll wait till I’m outside the gates at least.” He grinned.

My mistress.
Sylas said the words over in his head.
My mistress.
True, when he had thought about it, he had always imagined he would be saying “my master,” but to be apprenticed to Mistress Ayriene was better than he had ever dreamed. The only healer talent in the whole of Chandris had apprenticed him. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“So it’s true then? I heard it in the refectory just now, but I told myself not to listen to idle chatter. That my good friend Sylas wouldn’t have me find out from gossip. That he’d want to tell me himself.”

Casian’s hurt tone was a punch to the stomach. “I was going to tell you myself. That’s why I’m up—to come and find you. They’d taken my old clothes away, and no one had thought to leave any fresh. It took them a while to fetch some from my room and—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Casian waved a dismissive hand. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t jumping to any stupid decisions.”

Sylas wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from Casian. He had hoped that his friend would be pleased for him. Supportive would have been even better. He would be learning a trade, seeing parts of the island he had never visited—maybe going to the mainland, if Mistress Ayriene wanted it. But he would come back. He hoped Mistress Ayriene would continue trying to teach him to fly. Master Olendis might have given up on him, but Sylas was convinced he could learn, if only those voices in his head would quieten. Then maybe he could fly back to see Casian from time to time.

He hadn’t expected Casian to call his decision to accept her offer ‘stupid.’

“But you know it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“To traipse around the island drawing plants? Since when? You never mentioned that as your ambition before.”

Casian was so much smarter than him, so much quicker. If they got into an argument Sylas would likely end up agreeing that black was white before he knew what had hit him.

“To be apprenticed to a master. To be taught to manage the transformation. To be with someone with enough patience to actually help me to transform. The Lady knows Master Olendis won’t, but I think Mistress Ayriene might.”