Daughter of Ancients (47 page)

He paused for so long, I thought he had said all he was going to. But I felt more than heard him inhale and breathe out again slowly, as a warrior does when trying to ease the pain of a battle wound. “She tried to pass it off as something new. Something innocent . . .”

He told Paulo of his brief struggle with the Lady, and the long, dreadful hours that followed, ending with him bolted to a slab of shellstone, forbidden to sleep. And he told of the ordeal of the past weeks as he had feared he was going mad and of his horror that he might become what others named him. What I had named him.

If I hadn't already learned how close these two were, that morning would have taught me. Constrained by philosophy and custom that forbade us to measure our fellows by which of the Hundred Talents they bore or the strength of power they could bring to their gifts, we Dar'Nethi spoke very little of sorcery. And we certainly did not dwell on our personal lacks or our feelings about them, unless we were talking with someone closer than kin. Gerick did not detail the torments D'Sanya had inflicted on him in her hospice workshop, but he was astonishingly frank about his humiliation at being so speedily and so roundly overcome, and about his terror as he lay helpless to avert his own disintegration.

“. . . The worst point was when I felt the power growing,” he said, “this huge, overwhelming, monstrous disease inside me . . . and I knew it was the same vile thing I'd grown when Notole and I worked with the oculus in Zhev'Na. But this time, instead of feeling horrid, the power felt . . . right. Even when I was twelve, I loathed their power at the same time I craved it. But now I lay there knowing I was going mad and knowing the consequences if I did, yet feeling as if I was whole for the first time in my life. If I hadn't discovered that I could expend some of it by manipulating my visions, I would have used it to get free . . . focused it through the oculus . . . used the damnable device . . . and that would have been the end of me. Earth and sky, Paulo, I was so close—”

“But you didn't.”

“Not yet. But I'm still not safe. . . .”

He paused, and I tugged the corner of the blanket slightly to uncover one eye.

He had stretched his bandaged hands out in front of him. They were trembling, and he glared at them as if they were diseased. “I feel like a siege cannon with the fuse burning.”

He was afraid of sorcery. I could not have been more surprised if someone had snatched me out of my own skin and set me down in an entirely new Jen. It had never occurred to me that a Lord of Zhev'Na could be afraid of anything, much less his own past or his own power. To look at him, ragged and filthy, unexceptional in size, picking up his spoon and gratefully devouring our daily slop of porridge as if it were sweet cream, having just heard him say he'd come a finger's breadth from retaking his place as a Lord . . .

I deliberately shifted weight onto my shoulder just so the sharp little warning would ensure I was awake.

Jen'Larie yna Sefaro, incapable ex-slave, involved in matters of such universal consequence . . . The thought came near choking me. Vasrin Shaper must find great humor in implausibility and incongruity. Yet, somehow, listening to Gerick's admission of his own fears and incapacities led me to analyze his experiences with more clarity than I'd been able to thus far.

He was probably right about the oculus having a particular hold on him. The Lords had deliberately molded him to be susceptible to its lure. I had been an unwilling witness to that. But about sorcery and power . . . he didn't have the least idea what he was talking about. Truth lay right in front of him, as bald as the rock, truth that must set our course over the next hours. He couldn't see it. And it seemed I was the only person available to do something about that. I just wasn't sure how to broach the subject.

Feeling a bit resentful, I threw off my blanket, sat up, and sniffed the dry air. “Is it truly impossible for a man to cook a meal without charring it beyond recognition?”

“Someone's here to see you, my lady,” said Aimee, knocking on the door of my bedchamber and poking her head inside. “She says her name is V'Rendal, an Archivist.”

“One moment,” I said, tugging on the leather strap that bound my small case.

Twenty-four wretched days had passed since Paulo and Jen had set out for Zhev'Na, three more than I had sworn to wait. Aimee had arranged for a cousin to drive me northward by carriage, believing it the best way for me to travel discreetly now that the roads in and out of Avonar were so heavily guarded. Unfortunately this night was the first the carriage had been available. Every vehicle and animal that could be spared was being used to transport men, women, and supplies for the Dar'Nethi army being assembled on the northern borders. An enormous force of Zhid had been sighted in the northern Wastes, marching toward the Vales and Avonar. But nothing more was going to delay my going to Karon. Nothing.

T'Laven reported that Karon seemed confused and disoriented, one moment asking where Gerick was, the next incapable of communicating his own name, and the next overcome with grief and guilt, recalling the Lady's report that Gerick had been executed for treachery. The Healer had chosen not to tell Karon of our belief that Gerick lived or of Paulo's mission. He was concerned that Karon might inadvertently reveal our secrets to others at the hospice. If we were to have the smallest chance of saving Gerick, we could not let D'Sanya know what we were doing. But imagining Karon grieving alone for Gerick tore my heart.

“Supper is laid, as well, and Qis'Dar will be here with the carriage within the hour.”

“Thank you, Aimee. Any word from T'Laven?”

“He says he will meet you at the Nightingale, the new guesthouse just outside the north gate. I'm to dispatch a message stone when you leave here. And do take your cloak, my lady; the weather seems to be taking an ill turn.” Even as she spoke, the night sky outside my window flashed with lightning, and thunder rolled over the mountains in a constant grumble.

“I'll follow you down.” The whole universe had taken an ill turn as far as I could see.

The young woman vanished back into the dark passage. With her servants called up to war, Aimee was having to mind the magical house lamps herself and was rarely home to do it. Her house had become a patchwork of darkness and lamplight.

I snatched up my cloak, the small case, and a soft bag that held my journal and some coins that Aimee had supplied. With no hand free to carry a lamp, I navigated the unlit passage and stair by the flashes of lightning that brightened the windows.

An imposing figure wearing a sweeping green satin cloak and a glittering silver comb in her red hair waited at the bottom of the stair, next to one of the house's garden alcoves. “Good evening, madam,” she said. “I had no idea you were preparing to depart.”

I dropped my bags and cloak beside the door and reached for the Archivist's hand. But she extended both hands, palms up, and bowed stiffly, and I cursed myself for my distraction. I was in Avonar. Dar'Nethi, who could probe bodies and souls with their magic, did not touch each other without invitation.

Turning my own palms up, I returned her bow. “It's a pleasure to see you again, Mistress V'Rendal. What can I do for you? I've a little time before I need to go.”

“I have always admired Gar'Dena's exotica,” she said, twisting her neck and peering into the thick little jungle of ferns and blooming pink orchids. “I seem to remember some fine bird specimens here.”

“Mistress Aimee has sent the birds to an Aviaran, as she has no one to care for them right now. Please, come sit down.” I gestured toward the small sitting room door, trying to restrain my impatience.

“Yes . . . everything is disrupted with the Zhid attacks. And now these new dangers in the east and south—Astolle Vale preparing for a siege by a force of thousands, and Seraph under warning. I've heard the palace is in complete confusion tonight. The Preceptors have officially summoned Prince Ven'Dar back to Avonar to answer questions.”

She straightened up and examined me as if I were one of her rare books. “I need not stay so long as to sit down. I am on my way to a musical evening at another house along this road; even in perilous times, we must feed our souls. But when I passed this house, I thought of you.”

“Yes?” Dismayed by her news, I was only half listening. Astolle Vale was far to the east, so the attackers could not be the same force seen in the north two days previous. There could be two Zhid armies . . . or even three, if the southern rumors were true. And Ven'Dar recalled. Only in the gravest circumstance could the Preceptors assert their authority over the Prince of Avonar. What was happening?

“On that day we spoke of certain history books that survived the destruction of the Royal Archive,” V'Rendal continued. “I told you they were rare and—”

“I remember. But I don't think . . .” The woman's heavy brows knit and her mouth turned downward when I interrupted her. “Pardon me, V'Rendal.” I clamped my mouth shut.

“Madam, I have ever been willing to believe the best of those who inhabit the mundane world, but you might find that a modicum of patience and good manners will cause your investigations to bear more fruit.”

“Of, course. It's just—Please go on.” I hated wasting time. History books were of no moment now. I could not have been more sure of D'Sanya's treachery if I had seen the oculus or the avantir for myself. I needed to be with Karon.

“As I was saying . . . the Archivist Fel'Tiega, an annoying, boneheaded man, sent me a letter this morning asking if I knew about some woman who had come to Avonar claiming to be D'Arnath's daughter.” She rolled her eyes. “The indiscriminate clown has ever been an embarrassment to our profession. But, having come up with this astonishing news a mere three-quarters of a year after the event, Fel'Tiega informed me that he possesses a copy of Mu'Tenni's
Ancients,
one of the few surviving histories written in D'Arnath's time. Did I think the Heir or the Preceptors might be interested in the volume?”

She flipped the edges of her cloak over her shoulders so the dribbling moisture would not wet her shoes.

“I responded that they would be quite interested,” she went on, “and I sent along the information to Prince Ven'Dar and Preceptor L'Neysine, along with an offer to review the material myself. Though I am quite confounded with all the work I have to do, I would certainly not trust
Fel'Tiega
to analyze the work properly. He accumulates a great deal, but
analyzes
nothing. But I've not heard back from the palace and have no mandate to lay aside my own work. Thus, as I come to my friend's house this evening, my thoughts turn to you. You seem to have the ear of Prince Ven'Dar. You seem an intelligent woman. If you were to read the history, you could perhaps digest the information and pass it on to those who would be interested.”

“I don't know, V'Rendal. I've urgent business away from Avonar.”

“What could be more urgent than the truth of history? Mu'Tenni has been proved an extremely reliable historical writer. He was actually a Speaker who preferred to dabble in the historical record rather than adjudicate current disputes. This means that his historical practice might be weak—not collecting all viewpoints or tracing all relevant threads of his information—but the truth of his observations would be impeccable.”

“So, where would I find this Fel'Tiega and his book?” I had no intention of being diverted, but perhaps Aimee could pick it up or I could send my own message to . . . someone. Suddenly awash in hopelessness, I almost retracted my question.

“A bookshop near Bridge Lane, so I understand. I'm sure anyone in the area could show you. The man is infamous for his oddity.” She brushed a water droplet off her gown and drew her cloak around her again. “I'd like to know whatever you discover. Perhaps we shall find that our sex has played a larger role in great events than has been acknowledged.”

“Thank you for coming, V'Rendal. Of course, I'll let you know if I learn anything important.”

Another exchange of bows, and the Archivist swept out of the house and into a large carriage, even as a smaller closed carriage came to a halt in front of the stoop. Raindrops pattered vigorously on the paving.

Aimee gave me a quick embrace, a traveler's blessing, and a magically warm packet of our uneaten supper before stowing me in the plain cushioned seat of the small cab. Under the pudgy and purportedly expert hand of her sixteen-year-old cousin Qis'Dar, the large-wheeled carriage rolled out of the circular courtyard and into the streets of Avonar.

Pink lightning flickered constantly over the lower city. Thunder rattled the carriage lamps. And the rain hammering on the roof sent my spirits plummeting even further. Before we had reached the end of the street, I had inadvertently crushed the food packet flat, and it was leaking on my hand. I threw it out the window.

Aimee's house stood on a hillside in the center of Avonar, just below the citadel of D'Arnath's Heirs. To reach the northern gates, we had to travel down to the center of the city to cross the Sillvain River and its eastern arm, called the Minor Sillvain or just the Minor. Sheets of rain lashed the city, so that by the time we reached the city center, the paved streets looked like newborn tributaries of the Sillvain.

Though the evening was foul, people were everywhere. They crowded the doorways of every guesthouse and gathering place, shouting news and rumors, or huddled over Avonar's printed news-sheets that stayed marvelously dry no matter the weather. But the bustle was not pleasant. Many of those abroad were armed with bows and spears, hurrying in the direction of the palace. Parties of horsemen, helmets and swords dangling from their saddles, raced past our carriage. Many house windows were dark, as well, and the carts of street vendors were shuttered, rain drumming dully on the flimsy canvas roofs. In one alleyway, two men wrestled under a cascading gutter. Violence was an unusual sight in Avonar, the most peaceful city I'd ever known. Fitting on this awful night.