Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (12 page)

“Ayriene.” Casian’s lip curled. “You know she lost a son about your age not so long ago? You’ll find yourself with a mother, not a teacher, if you go along with her.”

“That’s rubbish. There’s not one person in the Aerie who would believe she was trying to use me to replace her son.” The look on Ayriene’s face when she had spoken of Adwen had resembled the one his mother had worn after Lynto. He thought Ayriene brave to take him on, and was determined to do his best to deserve her trust in him.

“Do you really think this is the right thing to do?”

“Yes!” Sylas took Casian’s hand and stared intently into his face. “I think it’s
exactly
the right thing to do. I will learn a trade. I won’t have to go back to Namopaia, and I can learn to be a changer without Aerie tutors on my back. Maybe I’m just slow. Maybe it will all come if I can give it time. It’s perfect for me, can’t you see that?”

“But what about me?”

“I’ll miss you, but I won’t be gone forever. We’ll come back to the Aerie every now and then—I asked Mistress Ayriene about that—and I’ll be safe, don’t you see? I worried they would send me away. Now my future is secured.” The threat of dismissal had always hung over Sylas. But Casian looked so lost at the prospect of him leaving that Sylas wondered for the first time if he
had
done the right thing in accepting.

“I made those arrangements for you, and you ignored them. You would be safe at my mother’s house and we could see each other whenever we wanted.” Sylas hesitated at the slight note of petulance in Casian’s voice. He was used to getting his own way, Sylas reminded himself. He answered more softly, tried to sound as persuasive as he could.

“And I’d be a servant all my life. I’d never learn to change or make anything of myself. Just learn how to carry a tray and serve wine. If it doesn’t work out then I can go to your mother’s, but this way I have the chance to be someone on my own account, without always relying on you and your family’s favour.”

Casian stood. “Fine. But when you come back the offer might not still be open.”

“What?”

“If you can go off with Ayriene so bloody easily then maybe I don’t mean as much to you as I thought I did.”

“Don’t say that.” Sylas stood also. He tried to embrace Casian, kiss him to show him how much he cared, but Casian pushed him away.

“You won’t get around me that way.”

“You’re being unfair—thinking only of yourself.”

“
I’m
thinking only of myself. When it’s you saying you want to ‘be someone’ and ‘make something of yourself.’” Casian sneered his words back at him. “You’re a Chesammos. There’s only so much can be made of a Chesammos.” And he turned on his heels and stalked out.

The words hit Sylas like a face full of cold water. He knew Casian used words to wound, make people change their minds and agree to what he wanted. There had been something else, too. When Casian stared him down, it had been like fingers squeezing his skull and a voice whispering inside him that he should do as Casian said. That he wanted to. That it would be best for him.

Was he being selfish? He hadn’t thought of it that way, but maybe he was. Deep inside he held the conviction that he would not be content as Casian’s mother’s servant unless he had no other options. His only route to self-respect was to have some measure of status on his own account. He would never have Casian’s titles, but he wanted to be more than just a whore, kept in the household for Casian’s benefit. What would happen to him when Casian married to breed heirs for his house? How would a wife react to Sylas’s place in her husband’s affections? No, he had to follow this course, whatever the result.

Even if it meant losing him?

That thought came close to breaking his heart.

Chapter 12

S
ylas ate his evening meal in the refectory, sitting at one of the long trestle tables with some of the other novices. He hoped he looked more at ease than he felt; he was never entirely comfortable around the other youngsters. Set apart by race or ability, he always had something to be awkward about, slights to be taken whether intended or not. But soon he would be on his way. Mistress Ayriene had been happy with his progress, and they were to leave in two days. His few belongings were packed and ready. He just hoped he could reconcile with Casian before he went.

The Irenthi had left the Aerie shortly after his conversation with Sylas, and Master Jesely was livid. Rumour had it he had gone home to Lucranne to see his father this time, not the mother in whose service he planned to place Sylas. Once their changing was controlled, apprentices and journeymen were allowed occasional trips home, but leaving without permission was a breach of protocol which Jesely would not readily overlook.

“Good evening, Sylas. May I join you?”

A dark-skinned man stood opposite him, across the table. He swung his legs over the long bench, reached for a bread roll, and tore off a chunk. Lifting it to his nose, he sniffed appreciatively.

“I missed fresh bread on my travels. I lived for so long on waybread and what passes for bread on the mainland that even the overcooked stuff they serve you youngsters seems good. You’ll find the same on your own travels, I daresay. Nothing like fresh-made Aerie bread.”

Sylas knew who he was; how could he not? There were not so many Chesammos masters that he would not know Master Cowin, if only by name and reputation. He had been in the Aerie briefly when Sylas first joined, then had gone off on one of the journeys so many masters seemed to take to further their knowledge of the world or changer lore. He had returned to marry Mistress Elyta, and the match had set the Aerie buzzing.

Sylas bowed as best he could sitting at the refectory table. All he could do was incline his head and make the sign of the Lady, forefingers and thumbs pressed together, and hope that Cowin understood what he intended by it. The other novices nudged each other, gathered up the remains of their meals, and left.

“Forgive me for interrupting your meal,” said Cowin. “I have been hearing a lot about you.”

Hearing a lot about him? Not much complimentary, he would guess. Around them, people cast covert glances in their direction. Masters ate on the dais or in their rooms, not in the lower refectory. Sylas fidgeted. He didn’t like being the subject of scrutiny.

“You caused quite a stir, you know, coming back in the state you did.” Cowin popped a piece of bread into his mouth and spoke around it. “And I expect you’re still the talk of your village. Where are you from, boy?”

He would never have called him ‘boy’ with the bead in his ear, but Mistress Ayriene’s healing had worked so well there was no sign it had never been pierced. Sylas fought down a feeling of mistrust. There was no good reason Sylas could think of for Master Cowin’s interest. He didn’t know what made him lie to the master, but lie he did.

“Cellondora, Master.” The village Pietrig had mentioned as at the heart of the rebellion.

“Cellondora, eh?” Cowin’s dark eyes were penetrating and Sylas had the uneasy feeling that Cowin knew he was not telling the truth. “What was your birth name?”

Few at the Aerie realised that the names used by Chesammos were not their full names. Full Chesammos names were rarely used except on ceremonial occasions. A male child’s name was chosen by his mother, female by her father. All were shortened, the first part of the name typically taken for everyday use.

Should he give Master Cowin his real name? Casian would urge caution, but the Irenthi smelled deceit on everyone. Surely Master Cowin would mean him no harm.

“Erden-sylassan, Master.”

“Erden?” Cowin looked thoughtful. “Interesting that you go by Sylas, then.”

Sylas hesitated. “My name was picked by my mother, but my father… My father would not have me use it.”

“And he didn’t like Erden because…?”

Sylas was not sure, exactly. He had grown up being called Sylas—was used to it. No one queried why he used his secondary name rather than his first. The first was usually in deference to some male relative, or person to whom his parents owed a debt. He had wondered who this Erden might be, but both his mother and his father became tight-lipped when he asked, and soon he learned not to ask.

“I believe there was someone of that name whom he did not much like, Master.” That was as close as he had ever come to the truth.

“I can believe that.” Sylas was not sure Cowin was aware he had spoken aloud. Then, more urgently, he asked, “And you are not a talent?”

“No, Master.” He was scarcely a changer, far less a talent. Cowin’s face showed his disappointment, and Sylas felt his shortcomings keenly. He had let the master down in some way he could not guess. “I am sorry.”

“You have brothers and sisters?” With the current Chesammos emphasis on producing many offspring, that was a reasonable assumption.

“A sister.”

“Just one?” That disappointment again.

He nodded slightly. “I had a brother. He died several months ago. There was to have been one between my brother and me, but the baby came too early.” And so didn’t count, by the Chesammos reckoning. Another thing for Craie to hold against Zynoa.

“Your sister. She is older? Younger?”

“Older, Master. By two years.”

Cowin gnawed his lip. “Probably too old to show signs then. She is not a changer? Did not come to the Aerie while I was away?”

“No, Master.”

“So there are none in this generation,” Cowin muttered. “But She is quiet, for now. That may not be of consequence. There may be grandchildren yet. They may come in time to save us.” He roused himself, aware of Sylas’s curious gaze on him. “Your mother, is she well?”

Sylas’s mother was always a mystery to him. Clearly not from Namopaia originally, she had no family nearby. While his friends had cousins by the armful, Sylas had only those on his father’s side. He knew nothing of his grandparents on her side: nothing at all. Now, looking at Cowin, he wondered.

A forbidden love?

Sylas felt sick. Could she have been sent away for loving someone her family deemed unsuitable? He had often thought there must be something secretive about her marriage. Why would she accept Craie, much less travel far from her home to take him? Could Cowin have been the reason?

“She is well, Master. Thank you.”

No, it couldn’t be. He studied the master more closely than he had had opportunity to do before. His mother was approaching her fortieth year, and had been married at nineteen or twenty. Cowin did not look more than twenty-eight, thirty at the outside. That would have made him a child when Zynoa married. Even if Sylas had underestimated by a year or two, Cowin still would have been too young for his mother to look at in that way.

Master Cowin rose to go. Sylas got to his feet too, grateful that the master was leaving, aware of the curious faces wondering what they had been speaking about.

“If you see your mother…” Cowin caught himself, bit back the words he had been about to say. “Work hard, young Erden-sylassan. Work hard and achieve your potential.”

As Master Cowin left the dining hall, Sylas stared after him, once more running through the numbers in his head. Could Cowin be so much older than he appeared? He had waited longer than most men to marry. Maybe he had held onto the last crumbs of hope that long. The son of his lost love appearing in the halls of the Aerie as a novice might well have been enough to make him accept that what was past was gone. Had he married Elyta, finally accepting that Zynoa was beyond his grasp? The idea made Sylas feel ill.

Conversation resumed once the master was gone. Casian would hear of this; he would want to know what Master Cowin had asked Sylas. Ambition and pride drove Casian. Whatever information he could glean would be stored away for future use—assuming Sylas even saw him again. The thought of leaving without saying goodbye to Casian filled him with sadness, but right now that took second place to his anxiety about Master Cowin and his strange questions. Sylas’s departure could not come a moment too soon.

Casian did not fly to Lucranne often, but when he did it was usually at night, as his owl kye preferred. He could fly by day—the majority of his training at the Aerie had been in daylight, since owl changers were rare—but it drained him more than a night flight. His father’s staff hardly batted an eyelid when he emerged from his rooms in the morning, not having been there the night before. He asked a servant to enquire of his father if it would be convenient to speak with him, then broke his fast with his younger brother.

Yoran, at nearly seventeen, had been raised with the hope, if not the expectation, that Lucranne would come to him, and that became clearer to Casian with each visit. Even before Casian’s changing, and the possibility that he might choose life at the Aerie over a political future as a lord holder, Garvan had preferred Yoran. It was by no means strange that Garvan gave Yoran the same training as Casian; a lord holder needed more than one heir. The Creator might strike any man at any time, and even Deygan, with his three sons, would be hoping for more from his current wife. But it was more than that. Casian had realised since he had gone to the Aerie that Garvan subtly encouraged Yoran’s belief that he would be the next lord holder of Lucranne.

The brothers had never been close, and Garvan’s actions had removed any chance of them becoming so. Casian treated Yoran with caution, not knowing what promises their father had made to him, and Yoran treated Casian with a coolness bordering on contempt. Being a changer among the Irenthi was a stain on a house’s honour, and Yoran clearly thought that Casian’s hated ability rendered him unfit for the title. He must have had a few uncomfortable years, Casian thought with bleak humour, wondering if one day he would wake up with the pains in his limbs and the cramping in his stomach that signalled the onset of the change. Yet Yoran had come through those years unscathed. Most boys changed in their fourteenth or fifteenth years, although there were a few exceptions. Now nearing his eighteenth, Yoran was safe.

Over a light breakfast, Yoran probed gently for hints of the purpose for Casian’s visit. He must hope that I’ve come to tell Father I intend to stand aside as Lucranne’s heir, Casian thought ruefully. According to the laws of Chandris, an heir, once acknowledged, could not be set aside. He could abdicate his position of his own volition, but family squabbles or preference for a younger child would not be allowed to cause an heir to be supplanted. Fortunate for Casian, in the circumstances.

Garvan did not appear surprised to see Casian, but then not much surprised the lord holder. He was a man of even temper, his anger slow to rise although fierce once provoked. Not even Garvan could entirely hide his surprise, though, when Casian announced he had left the Aerie.

“Did none of the masters try to persuade you otherwise? I would have thought they would be keen to keep their only Irenthi.”

“None of them pay me much attention, least of all the one who should nurture me most. But I left without seeing anyone. Why should I be accountable to them?”

The only person he would have wanted to see before leaving he was too proud to apologise to. For most of the flight home he had struggled to understand Sylas’s decision. Why destine himself to months, if not years, of trekking around Chandris at Ayriene’s beck and call, rather than the luxury of Casian’s mother’s house? But he would come, eventually. Once he realised that his life would be more comfortable as a valued servant than spending his time knee-deep in blood and vomit as a healer. Casian shuddered. Even the smell of the infirmary when he had visited Sylas had made his stomach roll over. The miasma of sickness and decay and death had hung in the air. And Miralee had seen them together, a few years from now, Casian wearing the crown of Chandris. Sylas’s future was set, however much he squirmed on the hook in the meantime.

Garvan’s face hardened. “Common courtesy, for one thing. Respect. Realising that there may come a time when as lord holder of Lucranne I may need the goodwill of those at the Aerie.”

No mention of Casian as lord holder. Strange. His father was normally all too keen to tell him how a lord holder should behave when Casian’s own deeds did not live up to his exacting standards. Would his father make him go back?

“I tell you, Father, Jesely wants to keep me down because I am an Irenthi. It does his Chesammos heart good, I think, to lord it over one of our race.”

“I think you do Master Jesely a disservice.” Garvan put a slight emphasis on the title, as if to show his son that he was prepared to give the master his correct respect, if Casian was not. “He has never been anything but courteous and attentive when I have spoken to him.”

“So why is he not letting me study for the mastery?” Casian felt as he had as a small boy, being reprimanded by his father over some misdemeanour.

“Have you met all the requirements?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Garvan studied his son carefully, and Casian felt himself wither under his stare. He had an aura about him that made people take him seriously. Casian had done his best to watch and emulate, but despite his efforts had not cultivated a fraction of the lord holder’s presence.

“It is not something he would do from spite, and if he did, there are other masters at the Aerie who would ensure that your best interests were met. There must be a good reason. And now you run away, like a sulky boy who is not allowed to win at every game. Will you discredit our house by giving up when you fail?”

Casian certainly felt sulky, with his hands balled into fists and his mouth fixed into a petulant pout. He forced himself to relax, performing the first stages of calling the kye, letting himself float. His kye stirred, ready to evoke his owl form.

We fly, changer?

In irritation, he pushed the kye to the back of his mind. Not now, he thought. Damn me, why did I ever think being a changer could give me an advantage? But it did. He could travel alone and without fuss; could observe events from the sky with no one giving him a second glance; could access that strange and wonderful talent that made people do his will.