Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (8 page)

He had been to the study many times in the past. Casian was a talent—they had established that much early on, when Master Jesely observed disturbances of the aiea-dera around him. ‘Talent knows talent’ as the changers said. He stopped attending Yinaede’s lessons after two or three months, after all his attempts at seeing had failed. His talent remained a mystery to the masters, although Casian had worked it out for himself. He had a compulsion talent, the ability rare enough to have been virtually forgotten, and worth keeping hidden. Returning to Yinaede’s classes might even confuse the trail a little longer.

Casian rapped on the door and heard Yinaede’s voice calling him in. He had not been in Yinaede’s study for many months, but little had changed. The study had much the same layout as Jesely’s. A few more feminine touches, perhaps: a sprig of blossom in a container; a painting of a landscape on the wall; a stack of books beside a comfortable chair covered with a thick blanket; a child’s picture in charcoal and chalk pinned to a board. Essentially, it was the same small office in which all masters received their students.

Miralee was there when he arrived, deep in conversation with Yinaede. The girl flushed when he entered, and he suppressed a smile. She was stunning, a golden-haired Irmos, and the colour in her cheeks suggested she had noticed him too. He wondered if he could conceal an involvement with her from Sylas, or how upset the Chesammos might be if Casian shared his affections. Very, probably. The Chesammos was strangely emotional.

“Come in, Casian,” said Yinaede. “It’s good to see you back, if a little surprising.”

He took one of the wooden chairs near the wall by its back and swung it closer to Miralee. “I am sorry, Mistress. I have still not discovered the nature of my talent, so I thought—” he flashed the smile he knew few women could resist—“maybe I could resume studying with you. This time we might make a breakthrough.”

She grunted. “So you are here because you have not found your place anywhere else. Or maybe because a recognised talent would help your bid for mastery. Mistress Ayriene is back at the Aerie. Has it occurred to you to have her check you for the healing talent?”

Not a good start. Mistress Yinaede had never favoured him.

“I have shown no aptitude for healing, and the talent is rare. But maybe Miralee could introduce me to her mother, just in case?”

Her blush deepened. “I’d be pleased to, Lord Casian.”

“Not lord in the Aerie. Just plain Casian.”

“Miralee seems to have had her first true seeing. Miralee, do you have any objection to telling me with Casian present?”

“I…” Miralee licked her lips, clearly uncomfortable. It
had
been about him, then. If about anyone else, surely she would not be as awkward. “I suppose not. I just saw an image—not even anything that made sense. But it was clear, and not at all like a dream.”

“That’s more than I’ve had.” Casian tried to appear encouraging. He leaned closer to her, “Do tell us. Give me something to emulate.”

Miralee managed a nervous laugh and Casian could swear the girl trembled. Trembled! Whether from his closeness or simple nerves, he could not tell. If because of his proximity, maybe it would be worth risking Sylas’s upset. Soft and peachlike, her imagined taste tempted his senses. As if she could read his mind—just his luck if the girl had a touch of empath talent, too—she tucked her skirts tighter round her legs, so that the fabric did not touch him, and clasped her arms to her sides, shutting him out. He could take things slowly—tease her open like a spring bud.

She squirmed on her seat, putting another finger-width or two of space between them.

“I saw a man—an Irenthi. He was in a high room. The ceiling was high, I mean, not that it was high up. Although it may have been that, too. I think it was in a tower.” She paused, giving a shrill laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“Take your time,” said Yinaede. “It is strange at first.”

Miralee took a breath and continued more slowly. “He was in a room—in a tower, I think. The ceiling was high and vaulted, and there were coloured glass windows around the top of the room.”

“The assembly chamber at Banunis?” Casian raised an eyebrow. It sounded like the place where he had attended his father at meetings, learning what it meant to be lord holder of Lucranne.

“I don’t know. I have never been there. Does it look like that?”

“Very much. Were there tapestries on the walls?”

Her brow furrowed in thought. “I think so, yes. Maybe hunting scenes?”

Casian nodded. “That’s the assembly chamber, all right. No surprise that there was an Irenthi there, in that case. Did you see anyone else?”

“Yes. He—the Irenthi—wore a gold circlet with a green stone. A linandra, I think, but a big one. Bigger than any linandra I’ve ever seen. The metal was inscribed with scrollwork, like vines.”

“The crown,” said Casian. “You were seeing the king.” Casian had only seen Deygan wear his crown once, for a formal event, but the girl had described it exactly.

“But the king is older,” she said. “This was a younger man. Late twenties. No more than thirty.” And the king was fifty, at least.

“Jaevan?” Yinaede asked.

“I don’t know,” said Miralee. “I’ve never seen Prince Jaevan, and he’s what—twelve?”

“What else did you see?” said Casian.

“There was a Chesammos talking to the king—a clean-shaven Chesammos.”

“A changer?” Casian could not understand why a Chesammos would be in the chamber at Banunis, unless he was a friend of the king. And how many Irenthi had Chesammos as friends?

“Probably. Most Chesammos wear beards, don’t they? Except Master Cowin and Master Jesely and Master Donmar—they keep clean-shaven because it’s the changer way.”

“Even Master Cowin has been known to wear a beard from time to time,” said Yinaede. “When he is travelling and doesn’t want to call attention to himself, mostly. How old was your Chesammos?”

Miralee narrowed her eyes, staring at the ceiling as if trying to picture the scene. “I’d say the same sort of age as the Irenthi. Maybe a little younger.”

Casian’s heart lurched. Sylas was three years younger than he. An Irenthi wearing the crown of Chandris, speaking with a Chesammos of similar age, and in the assembly chamber of Banunis? Casian knew that his house had once ruled Chandris. Could he hope—could he dare to hope?—that it could come round again?

“There was a woman there too,” said Miralee. “A young woman. My sort of age. Sixteen. Eighteen. Certainly no more than twenty. She was Chesammos too, or very dark Irmos.”

So if the men were Casian and Sylas, the girl was a child yet. No more than ten years old. No point puzzling over her identity; that would become clear in time. Casian’s head spun at the thought of himself wearing Chandris’s crown. If Miralee had seen it, then it had to happen, didn’t it? Was he destined to be king?

Chapter 8

A
light glowed behind Craie’s kiln. On the outskirts of the village so that the noise and smells would not cause a nuisance, it was a meeting-place for many of the village’s youngsters, who took advantage of the lingering warmth for comfort in the coolness of evening.

Sylas scanned the building, eyes hooded. The rest of the village was still at the feast and he jumped at every noise nearby. His father would skin him if he noticed Sylas had slipped away before the end, but he had to know what was happening. Something had changed in Namopaia since his last visit. Even if nobody said it, Sylas could feel it. He did not need an empath talent to feel in his gut that something was seriously wrong. He wanted to know what danger awaited him if he returned to Namopaia.

A figure stood in the shadows, barely outlined by the flickering of a fire bowl. It raised a hand to beckon him closer, then slid back into the darkness behind the building. Pietrig.

Sylas pushed the door open and went inside, Pietrig following. The fire bowl illuminated the hesitant smile on Pietrig’s face and made his dark eyes glitter. He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on Sylas’s lips. The zacorro spirits with which they had toasted Aithne and Kael hung on his breath. Sylas pulled over a rush mat and they sat cross-legged on the sooty floor.

“I hoped you would come. Your mother guards you closely. I don’t think she thinks well of me at the moment.”

“But I hear my father thinks very highly of you.” Bitterness edged his voice like a blade. Everyone knew Craie would sooner have had Pietrig for a son than Sylas. With his looks and status, Pietrig had girls falling over themselves to marry him. Although he had been given the earring years ago, his betrothal had not yet been announced. Skarai negotiated with all the families from Namopaia and beyond eager to offer a daughter for Pietrig, and he drove a hard bargain. With eight children of his own, he could sacrifice the time to make the right connections.

“I have zacorro.” Pietrig waved two of the tiny tumblers and a container much smaller than a water or wine skin. “You wear the bead at last. Take a man’s drink with me.”

Pietrig’s cheeks had taken on the flushed look of one who had drunk more than he was accustomed to, and the way he tossed the spirits back in one mouthful suggested a grim determination to get himself utterly, blindly drunk. He coughed and wiped his mouth, then Sylas raised the spirits to his own lips. It tasted like the Lady’s breath in liquid form, stinging his tongue, then burning like fire down his throat. Even when he had fully swallowed it he could feel the flames in the pit of his stomach. He spluttered, eyes watering, and laid the beaker on the ground.

“So what’s this nonsense about rebellion?” Sylas used the same Irenthi word Pietrig had used earlier.

Pietrig’s voice rasped with the effects of the drink. “I will tell you all I know. But I warn you, they mean to involve you in their schemes and not even the Aerie will save you.” Pietrig poured himself another beaker and waved the skin questioningly at Sylas. No, he did not want any more; it was not to his taste. Besides, he needed a clear head to understand Pietrig’s words.

Pietrig gulped at the drink with an air of desperation, coughing up as much as he swallowed and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The linandra teams from the villages are hoarding stones—keeping them back from what is handed over to the Irenthi. They mean to buy weapons and fight.”

‘Weapon’ was also an alien concept to Chesammos. Pietrig’s exact words meant ‘tools for the hunt.’ Sylas shivered. This hunt would be for men—men like Casian. If this rebellion became more than a few desert dwellers with forbidden swords, his friend would become involved, and what that might mean for their friendship, Sylas didn’t like to think about.

“So you said. But how will the village manage on reduced supplies?” The Irenthi were careful never to say the villages bought the supplies with the linandra. No, they came by the grace of the lord holder to reward the hard work of the Chesammos. To say the Chesammos bought them would imply a value—an ability to negotiate and set a rate of exchange for the stones—and that the Irenthi would never allow.

“The ringleaders say the Aerie will help if we go short. Will they, Sylas? Will the Aerie help us?”

His friend assumed he knew what happened in the changer council, but he was far removed from their deliberations. Officially, the Aerie did not meddle in politics. Unofficially, it helped where help was needed. Recognising the Chesammos as the original source of the changing ability, the Aerie tried to aid them where it could. That was one reason the Irenthi hated having changers among their people. It reminded them that somewhere back in their ancestry, however far distant, they had Chesammos blood. He honestly didn’t know what stance the Aerie would take if they were caught between the Chesammos and the Irenthi. He liked to think they would help the indigenous people, but their support might falter beneath political expediency.

“I think they will aid us if they can,” he said slowly, “but they have less power now. There are fewer changers, and the Aerie’s wealth is lessened since King Deygan reduced the tribute. Lord Garvan is one of the more enlightened lord holders, with his son being a changer, but now that he has killed a digger…”

Pietrig’s face twisted. “That wasn’t soldiers. Ilend killed Yestro. Yestro would not go along with Ilend’s plans and Ilend slit his throat. We were all sworn to silence. You must say nothing, but these are dangerous men—desperate.”

Sylas stared at him, the zacorro churning in his stomach. He felt sick. So the hunt had begun already, and with one of their own kind the first victim. For a Chesammos to kill another went against all the Lady’s teachings. If the Chesammos abandoned the Lady they abandoned themselves. Omena’s wings! What would he be coming home to? The sooner he could get his mother away from this poison the better.

“They are amassing a fortune in linandra,” Pietrig continued. “Unsung, of course. They could not take it to a singer on the island—all are loyal to Deygan, or under observation by his men, or both. They plan to take you into a dig team and make your mother sing the crystals for them.”

His mother? They had to be mistaken. His mother was no linandra singer.

“My father would not let them threaten her.” Or would he? If Zynoa held that sort of power then his father gained power by association, and Craie would sell his soul for status. Sylas swallowed bile. If what Pietrig said was true, his mother could easily find herself involved in these men’s plans. He forced himself back to what Pietrig said.

“…if they could get you out in the desert they could…” Pietrig stumbled over the words. “They could… Ah, Omena’s wings, they could force you to lie with them. They know you prefer men. They say your mother would do anything to save you. Then they mean to buy weapons and turn against the king and the holders to make them treat us more fairly.”

Sylas’s head spun with more than the zacorro. “You told them?”

Pietrig shook his head. “They guessed. They say there are ways to tell when a man sheathes the krastos to the back.”

They had not guessed about Pietrig. But then Pietrig liked a beautiful girl, would flirt, steal a kiss when he got the chance. He had put up enough of a smokescreen that they had not spotted him. Or his father was powerful enough that they ignored it. Or both.

“Then I must do as they say, and so must my mother.”

“No! If you stay at the Aerie you are both safe, don’t you see? If you are with the changers they will have no hold on you or Zynoa.” Pietrig raised a hand to cup Sylas’s cheek. Sylas’s skin tingled, as it always did when Pietrig touched him. “Stay away. Keep yourself safe. I would not have you or your family harmed.”

“But then you will have to stay with the dig team. You will grow old before your time and cough your lungs up like an old man. I can’t let you do that.”

Pietrig took Sylas’s face in both hands, talking urgently. “I was selected in a fair draw, but my father will get me released. He has the influence. It may take a while, but he will do it. If you came back you would dig linandra until you died.”

Sylas leaned to rest his forehead against Pietrig’s. Skin against skin, he felt their breathing synchronise, their shoulders rising and falling in unison. He had already decided he would never return to Namopaia, but the reality of his choice hit him.

“If I do not come back, then I never see you again.”

The silence hung around them as they both considered that word: never. They had grown up together, more or less, although Pietrig had always taken the lead. Despite the differences between them—Pietrig’s father never quite approved of Sylas as a suitable friend for his son—they had stuck together, supported each other. They had never dreamed their ways would be so different. Pietrig, the more advantaged, to the linandra pits and Sylas, lowest of the Chesammos, to the opulence and privilege of the Aerie.

Pietrig spoke softly. “When we were all children together, I hoped that you’d marry my sister. You know that.” Simpler times, before the love of friends, of closer-than-brothers had become a physical love. Not forbidden, not exactly, but certainly shunned in a society where refusing marriage and children was a betrayal of their people.

Sylas tried to smile, but he could not ignore the sadness. “And I hoped you would marry Aithne, for all I thought her the most annoying girl in the world. Then we would truly have been brothers.”

“I’m not strong enough to stand against them. I have nothing worth making a stand for. But you are. You do. You have a new life at the Aerie. Your mother would want you to stay there, no matter what it took. The Lady knows I’ll miss you more than anything, but—” Pietrig’s voice cracked. He shook his head and scowled, clearly annoyed at himself for showing such emotion. Some of it was the zacorro, Sylas knew, but his own throat ached with unshed tears. He craved Pietrig’s lean wrestler’s body next to his own. He held Pietrig tight, and his friend laid his head on Sylas’s shoulder. Pietrig gave a short, bitter laugh. “Soon I’ll have a wife to keep me warm at nights, imagine that. Maybe she’ll even make me forget you.”

So, Pietrig thought Sylas was strong. He didn’t feel strong. He kissed the top of Pietrig’s head and his friend lifted his face to him. The kiss they shared set Sylas’s blood aflame. For an instant his thoughts flashed to Casian. How would Casian react if he found out? Casian was not faithful to him, Sylas knew. Each rumour of a new conquest cut him like a blade to his flesh. But his body responded to Pietrig, and the zacorro flowing through his veins made his blood hot with longing.

Pietrig leaned close, spoke softly in his ear. “Fienne has never had her flows. My parents fear she may be barren. No one would take her, if they knew, so they use her to tempt your father. My father knows Craie is desperate for children from your marriage, and he laughs behind his back. How stupid Craie is. How clever they are, marrying Fienne to you. They would kill me if they knew I had told you. Leave here tomorrow and stay away. Please.”

Pietrig stroked his cheek. “I will miss you, but I can bear the digging team if I know you are safe and happy and being what you were meant to be. I just need you one last time.” He kissed Sylas again, his mouth urgent and demanding. Pietrig slipped a hand up inside Sylas’s tunic and Sylas groaned as his need grew unbearable. Pietrig loosened the ties of Sylas’s breeches, fumbled with the ties of his own. They shed their tunics, and then, clad only in the caigani, they began their second wrestling bout of the day.

They grappled on the sooty ground and, as it had in the wrestling circle, ash clung to sweat-dampened bodies. There was passion, as there had been earlier, each man struggling to assert himself. But when Sylas found himself pinned by Pietrig for the second time in one day, he was glad enough to cede, and they thought of nothing but each other and their pleasure.

Sylas never understood how the village knew when it was called, but the residents came, drawn by some sort of collective consciousness. As they had the previous day, they gathered at the wrestling circle as the first rays of the sun rose over the desert.

Fienne stood there already, in a long, loose gown with her linandra bead on a thong around her neck, nestling between her breasts. If Pietrig had told the truth, she was not entitled. Only men and women fit to be married should wear the bead. But she was a pawn to be traded, as was Sylas.

Sylas’s clothes were fresh off the supply wagon he had ridden to Namopaia. And he was scrubbed, his skin and hair still damp from the bucket of cold water and the rag his father had made him wash with, cleaning away the dust and grime of the night before. His parents had raised eyebrows at his disheveled and filthy appearance, but neither asked. Neither wanted to know, today of all days.

“I’ll not marry,” Sylas muttered as the chill water ran down his back. “I want to be a changer.” And his father scowled and slapped a tunic across his ribs.

“You’ll do as you’re damn well told, boy. Elder Skarai is bringing his daughter to the circle this morning. You’ll be there to take her hand and say the words or I’ll take every strip of skin from your back.”

Craie stayed icy calm during the preparations. In some ways that was worse than his temper. Craie’s cold determination left Sylas more chilled than the water: chilled to his soul. Pretend all was well. Pretend his son would not prefer to lie in the arms of his bride-to-be’s brother. Pretend the marriage was all both families had ever desired.

And now Sylas found himself facing Fienne across the circle, his earring glowing in the early sunshine. The Lady’s energy flooded into him in joyous waves and the kye hovered on the edge of his consciousness. Their maddening chatter was a muted whisper, but it was the first time he had heard them without the pipe. Maybe he had caught the tail-end of a call from a lesson at the Aerie. The call carried a long way—much farther than the sound itself. Or perhaps he was learning to hear them for himself, his abilities increasing with time.

Fienne smiled shyly. They had been friends from childhood – if forced to marry a girl, he would have chosen her—but the nerves churned his stomach. Did she care that he loved Pietrig, or given her condition did she only think of snaring a husband, no matter what it took?

Sylas scanned the crowd. Pietrig was there; of course he was. He stood with his family, watching Fienne intently. Everything—every look, every gesture—took on a new significance after the revelation of the night before. For a moment Pietrig looked straight at Sylas, but sight of him made Sylas so heartsick that he had to look away. His mother stood with Aithne and Kael, clustered beside Pietrig’s family. Catching his mother’s gaze and holding it, he tried desperately to know what she was thinking, as she so often read his own thoughts. Why, when he needed to speak to her so badly, did she seem so far away?