Flesh and Spirit (42 page)

“Tormented spirits?” I said, wrestling with the ideas of dancing that could be broken and Danae who could be murdered while outside their bodies.

“Violent death. Corrupt blood.” My grandfather's face crumpled. “They did not blame me for those crimes—nor any human save madmen. They could not believe that any reasoning creature would purposely break the Canon. And they knew I loved the dance. Ah”—he clutched his heart—“to see the dancing in Aeginea again. But never will I. Never. I am lost until the last ages of the world. They do not forgive.”

As fog lifts from the mountains, revealing snow-draped crags and sunlit pinnacles, so understanding grew in me. Not only about the world and coming chaos, not only about the savage rituals of Harrowers and royal bastards, but about what I saw in front of me. I took his chin and drew his face around so I could look on his pain-racked visage. Every word of sense, every moment of stillness, cost him dear.

“Capatronn, what did you do that the Danae have punished you so terribly? That they have broken their last ties with humans? You must tell me, Grandfather.”

“I”—his brow creased; his lips twisted and fought to shape the words—“
stole
from them. A treasure they did not value. I had the right, but they could not forgive the loss of it. And then I failed her. Ahh…” He gasped and gripped his head in his hands, drew up his knees, and curled into a knot. The book slipped off his lap.

I laid my hand on his trembling shoulder. “What treasure? What was worth all this?”

His fingers curled and he drew his fists to his head as he began to rock. “Cannot tell. Cannot. Secret…secret…secret.” Though he was trying not to, he moaned…louder by the moment.

“Can I help you? I could stay a while.”

“Naught.” He shook his head wildly, even as he clamped his jaw over a scream, and wrenched his shoulder from my hand. “Naught can be done. Go.”

I quickly gathered up the book, stuffed it in the bag, and snuffed the lamp. As I crept through the darkness toward the door, my grandfather began retching violently. The stench of vomit and loosened bowels followed me to the door.

“Go!”

“For the book…Grandfather…thank you.” I pulled the door closed behind me. Breathing deep of the clean, wintry air, I leaned on the thick oak that muffled his rising screams and wished that most futile of all wishes: that I could begin again and weave the knowledge I had just gleaned through the days of my life.

Swallowing hard, I crept silently through the frozen courtyard. I stopped in the rose arbor, brushed the snow from the stone bench, and sat, pulling the book from its bag again. The book must go back to Luviar, and if it was ever to be of any use to the cabal, I had to open it to them. Tonight, for I might never have the chance again. I had to trust that they would use it wisely, accounting for the information I would send them. And so, accompanied by the unholy melody of my grandfather's screams, I touched the golden gryphon and recited the bit of verse he had pounded into me years ago.

I fed magic into the charm, which was supposed to impart whatever virtue you named to whomever you identified as the
hunter bold
. As a boy I had always inserted my own name as the hunter, wishing for strength to fight off my father's next beating or cleverness to elude recapture when I ran away. I had hoped to use the golden nest and agate eggs to pay for my own house or buy my own contract, before I knew such possibilities were as much myth as the gryphon itself. I'd not even known how to quicken a spell in those days.

The golden gryphon pulsed with warmth and light, and I considered whether to give access to anyone else. To leave it with only one seemed risky. So Gildas. He was younger, less prominent, and the Scholar, who needed to find the Danae. And one more? I considered Stearc, but settled on Gram, the secretary, instead. Clearly the conspirators relied on Gram's intelligence. And he understood the Danae better than any of the others.

Once done, I packed the book away and peered around the edge of the arbor to watch for Jullian. When the slight figure trudged down the path from the kitchen, lugging a heavy pail, I followed and slipped through the doorway behind him into the warm and comfortable apartment. The bathing tub was filled to its brim.

The boy about jumped out of his skin when I grabbed the door from his hand and closed it softly behind us. “Did you see him? Did you learn anything about the book? Is he truly mad?”

“Yes to all three. But first, did
you
have any trouble? Any suspicions?”

“The pureblood—not the one in these green clothes, but the other one in black and yellow—stopped me on the last trip and asked if I liked serving you. His hand was on my head as I answered, and I felt…unclean.” The boy averted his eyes.

“That was Caphur,” I said. “An overseer from the Pureblood Registry. Very skilled at his work, and he doesn't like me very much. I hope you told him the truth.”

He nodded. I surmised that Caphur had approved his answer. I did not press to hear it.

I sat on the chair and summoned him close, lowering my voice even more. “So tell me, how did the abbot and my sister plan for you to send them information?”

“The false priestess said I should tell the people here that she had thought-summoned me back to her temple,” he said. “Or I could ask for Silos and tell him a particular word she gave me, but to do that only if things were very bad. Elsewise, I'm to wait until she sends for me.”

I kneaded my scalp. The plan was much too obvious. No one would believe Thalassa summoning the boy in the middle of the night so soon after getting him assigned here. Having grown up with a brother like me, she didn't understand what trouble Jullian would have with lies. And I could not risk his safety by having him sneaking about with secret passwords.

“We're going to do things a bit differently. In a little while, I am going to start yelling at you and throwing some things. I want you to run both to Silos, the fine-scented temple guard, and to Caphur, the one in black and yellow, and tell them that I've frightened you. Tell them you want to return to the temple and that, of course, the Sinduria will allow it. Only that.”

“But—”

“You can't take the book. You might be searched. I'll hide it here under my palliasse, and the Sinduria can retrieve it. Here's what you need to report to her…”

They weren't going to like what I told them—that my grandfather had stolen some treasure from the Danae but refused to name it, and that they should look to Prince Osriel, who mutilated the dead, or these Harrowers, who sacrificed violated bodies to their Gehoum, as the root of Danae hatred for humans. He had even claimed such rites
broke the Canon
. What did that mean? Was it possible that some ritual dance could determine the fate of the world? Now I had seen a Dané, anything seemed possible.

Perhaps the conspirators could use this new knowledge to strike some bargain with the Danae and find out. And any stolen treasure of my grandfather's was likely to be in this house. If they could persuade the Danae to say what he'd taken, Thalassa could likely find it. Three of the cabal should be able to use the book, at least, leaving them with no need for a Cartamandua to guide them. Whether these things fulfilled their need, I couldn't say. I had no more lei-sure to think.

“…and lastly, I need you to tell Brother Gildas…only him, please, no one else, for I am sorely shamed by it…that I desperately need to see him. Tell him that I am…beset by my old sins…and need Iero's grace that only he can bring before I go to my new life. Can you remember all that?”

The boy rolled his eyes, a portrait of pained tolerance.

Despite my guilt at burdening a child and a holy monk with my perversions, I could not restrain a smile. “Well, of course, you can. The brightest scholar ever come to Gillarine. And the bravest. And the kindest. A light worthy of a holy lighthouse. Tell me one thing, lad; you've never—No one's ever said aught to you of your real father, that he was…special…in some way?”

He shrugged. “Mam told me he was a scribe who drank so much his liver rotted. She showed me his portrait that his sister drew on a bit of bark, so I could know him. But she said good riddance to him and that my new da was the better man.”

So much for legends, rumor, and Valen's clever insights. I squeezed the boy's thin shoulder. “Godspeed, Jullian. You make
me
wish to be a better man.”

This time, when I picked up the padded chair and threw it into the wall, two legs broke off. The stools, the upended table, and all the scraps from our dinner splashed into the overfull bathing tub, inundating the rugs. While making silly faces at Jullian to soothe his fear, I yelled and cursed and threw myself at the door until the hinges snapped. As soon as the door crashed into the courtyard, he ran. When Caphur and Silos found me, I was ripping up my fine clothes and dropping the silks, brocades, and fur-lined cloak into the greasy water. A knot burned in my gut.

Thoughts and plans roiled in my head all through that long night as I lay tied to my bed, feeling my disease and my craving devour me and praying for Gildas to come. My grandfather had been trying to protect me, not from my family, but from the Danae. He had violated their trust…a man who had traveled their lands for years…who had guided a high priest and a hierarch to Eodward and brought them safely back to Navronne. Janus de Cartamandua had turned thief, and in retribution for his crime, the Danae had severed their last ties with untrustworthy humans and threatened the grandson whom, for whatever inexplicable reason, he favored. To shield me from their vengeance he had let them take away his control of his mind and body. Great gods, what had I ever done to deserve such a sacrifice? What secret bargain had he made with this Clyste? And why would one more birthday set me free of the threat?

The Dané at Caedmon's Bridge had confirmed his story, speaking of thievery and treachery, of poison and bargains broken, and she'd said that we must return what was stolen before they would deal with us. What treasure had he stolen that could exact such a dreadful price? A “treasure they did not value,” but were determined to have back. Something he believed he had a right to.

The knot in my belly drew tighter, shooting bolts through my limbs, setting off firestorms of cramps in my calves, back, and biceps. Warnings. All my life I had ignored warnings, putting them out of my mind as fast as they were issued, for I believed them but more shackles on my freedom. I could not imagine what significance my grandfather attached to the age of eight-and-twenty. Yet, while lacking weeks until that mystical occasion, I
had
used the book in some fashion to intrude on a Danae holy place and to summon one of them to an unwanted meeting. Now Danae followed me through fields and town. And even before I'd used the book, the earth that was their domain had pulsed under my body as if it were alive, and their holy places—the cloister garth and the pool in the hills—had barraged my senses like siege weapons. What did my grandfather fear might happen to me? Perhaps I had worse things to dread than a lifetime of bound service to Osriel the Bastard.

Amid these fearsome questions rose wonders, too. My sister's help…the abbot's faith…and one phrase that hung vivid and poignant in the cold night, like the last, lingering tone of plainsong. Unimportant to any but me. My grandfather had altered his book for me
…who art without words, yet complete.
What did that mean? Why did those words from a madman soothe a hurt so deep and so raw? Another mystery to occupy my mind in the bleak days to come.

As the hours crawled by, cramps, sweats, and insidious craving claimed one part and then another of my body. Events and words, hopes and beliefs blurred together, impossible to sort. By morning, I could not think at all.

“
B
rother Valen.” The voice sliced through the pain like a steel claw through skin. “I've come to give you counsel.”

“Gildas?” I whispered harshly.
Lord of Earth and Sky, let this be Gildas.
I could not open my eyes to confirm it, lest my head fall apart, lest my teeth crack and fall out. The disease had come full upon me in the night. And the hunger.

“Yes. Iero's blessings be upon you this morning, Brother. I understand this fear that sets you trembling. And you are right to seek the Lord Iero's grace before embarking on this voyage of duty. I wish I could change what is, but I've brought at least temporary comfort. You must seek the ultimate solution for yourself.”

Praise all saints if
temporary comfort
meant nivat. “Iero's grace, Brother Gildas.”

“Sirs, I presume you will leave us some privacy to speak of a man's immortal soul.”

A wave of flowery scent had me gagging, and the fingers that tugged at the ropes about my chest and legs might have been a gatzé's flaming tongue. “He looks ill. Perhaps he needs a physician, not a practor.”

“Would not the prospect of bondage in Evanore give you pause for your soul's health, sir?” Ever-calm Gildas.

“Bound service, monk, not bondage. Purebloods have duties that ordinaries cannot comprehend.” Ever-prim Silos.

Go away
, I thought.

“Vowed initiates of Saint Ophir have duties that heathens cannot comprehend. But we shall not argue those things here. I am this man's mentor and confessor, and merest decency demands your tolerance. Please step out whilst I pray with Brother Valen.”

Pounding footsteps, crashing doors, slamming shutters. One might think a herd of cattle had stampeded through the cold room. Silos and his scent vanished. Then I felt the scrape of razor knives that was but soft breath on my face. I dragged my eyelids open.

“I don't know precisely what I'm doing here,” he said quietly, his eyes remarkably unworried under his dark brow. “To encourage such perversion of the body is a great sin. Brother, you must give up this horror.”

“I'm like…to give it up in the coming m-months,” I said, my teeth clattering with chills, not fear. “It's a sickness drove me to it. Please believe me.” Stupid to care what he believed.

“A sickness?”

“Never had a name for it, and now it's so tangled with this cursed spell…” The spell that had me yearning for boiling oil to scald my feet or a hook blade to tear my skin. “Please, Brother, I beg you tell me you've brought it.”

“I found a bit in the priory kitchen. Not much. I didn't know how much you needed. What must I do?”

To hear that Gildas was willing to help had me sniffling like a maiden. I'd not been able to think beyond the possibility of obtaining the nivat. I'd known naught of how I would manage the using, bound as I was. I tried to concentrate on the task. “At my waist…the green bag.”

Gildas dug through the layers of blankets and clothing. “The Sinduria said you hold the book of maps. I should take it out when I go.”

“You can't. Caphur…the Registry man…he'll sense its magic. Think you're stealing. He'll take it. Lassa must retrieve it. I can't—Sorry I can't help more. Tell Luviar I would if I could. Willing.” I could not examine my growing resolve to aid the cabal, only regret that my damnable weakness and blighted future left me useless to them. Beyond such fleeting concerns lay only pain and need.

“I'm glad to hear you're willing. This devil prince must not have you.” I fought not to scream as his fingers fumbled at my waist. “I know people of influence in this city. We'll see you safe with us by midday.”

Even as I despaired of its fulfillment, his ferocious declaration warmed me beyond measure.

He drew out the little green bag I had so painstakingly kept hidden through the past weeks. “Now tell me what to do.”

“How much did you bring?”

He unwrapped a scrap of cloth and showed me a generous mound of seeds, enough for at least three or four doulons. Amid mumbled prayers and thanksgiving, I told him how to crush the seeds and that he must free two of my fingers so I could work the magic. “…only twenty seeds. No more.” Only enough to ease my sickness.

As a youth, I'd seen the doulon-mad wallowing in refuse heaps and filthy hovels, scarred, starved, and forever shaking, tongues thick, unable to articulate a clear thought. One old man had scratched his skin off, trying to rid himself of invading “beetles.” Even enduring the pain of giving up the doulon would not have healed his broken mind at that late stage. I'd always been careful.

“And the rest of the seeds?”

“Into the green bag.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to free your hands entirely?” he said, a few moments later, looking dubiously at the two fingers of my right hand he'd wrestled out of the tight silk bindings. “We could rewrap them after.”

“Too slow. Won't take long for Silos to detect spellmaking.” I would not have my savior compromised. “Now, p-prick my finger. Draw blood.”

He jabbed the silver needle into my fingertip, and I managed not to scream. He had to grip my bundled hands and hold them over the crushed nivat so the blood could drip, as I was too unsteady and too awkwardly positioned to do it.

“D-don't t-touch the stuff,” I said, as he squeezed my two trembling fingers together to hold the thread steady. “The instant the fumes stop rising, when the scent fades, help me get it to my mouth. Then get out.”

He nodded, his expression curious, but not disgusted as I'd feared.

“Bless you forever, Brother,” I whispered, as I released magic to flow through my fingertips and bind the nivat to my blood.

Gildas fixed his gaze to the mirror fragment. I could see neither mirror nor fumes nor even the mound, but only glimpse a distorted reflection of the bubbling mess in his clear eyes. It looked huge and evil. I closed my eyes, ground my wrists against the rope to sharpen the pain, and tried not to vomit into my friend's lap as he crouched beside my bed.

“Now,” he said, in what could have only been moments. Or perhaps I merely lost sense in the meantime. “It looks black and thick, as you said. No fumes rising in the reflection. Shall we?”

I nodded, unable to speak. He used my own fingers to scoop up the reeking glob and put it to my mouth.

I convulsed. Howled. Drowned in fens of pain and pleasure…of guilt and shame and joyless rapture.

“What have you been up to?” The flower-scented Silos burst through the murk of my perceptions. He tugged at the ropes. Spent an inordinate time checking my hand bindings and fussing over the bloody marks about my wrists.

I raised my leaden eyelids to a glare of cloudy midmorning streaming through the open door. Gildas was nowhere in sight. I hadn't noticed his going. Neither had I felt him tuck my fingers back into their shroud nor seen him pack away the guilty evidence that now poked reassuringly into my hip.

“Nightmares,” I said, my tongue thick. Had the world burst into end-times flames before my eyes, I would yet sink into blessed sleep, burying the remnants of my shame. I had never felt so drained. So heavy.

“You work spells in your dreams?” Silos dropped my limp appendages heavily onto my belly. “A good thing
I
came and not Caphur. Your clerical friend did not tuck the extra cord about your fingers. What has he done with you? He looked smug as an adder as he left.”

I closed my eyes and smiled. “Brother Gildas cleansed my soul. When the Bastard Prince eats it, he will suffer a flux.” As I'd learned on the journey to Palinur, Silos's skills at detection were less impressive than his lightning bolts.

“You are a fool,
plebeiu
. And the Sinduria is a greater one to indulge you. Perhaps when I tell her you're working magic with the Karish, she'll reconsider. Last night she petitioned the Registry for your transfer to her custody, saying this contract your father has arranged is evidence of madness in the Cartamandua line. Her petition was refused.” He sniffed the air and poked about the bedcovers.

Shadows chilled my comfortable warmth at his mention of the future. “She's wrong”—my father was not mad, only soul-dead—“but I'll not tell anyone that. Tell her I can keep secrets.”

Secrets.
Only as I said the word did it penetrate my iron skull that Thalassa had unraveled her tongue-block. I had talked with Jullian and my grandfather of Danae, even speaking the word
lighthouse
to the boy. I dragged my heavy arms across my face and whispered the word into my sleeve just to make sure.

Surely this meant my sister trusted me; Abbot Luviar trusted me. Blessed Jullian had sent Gildas to succor me. And Gildas had promised they'd come to my rescue. Perhaps they
did
need me for their plan. In a wash of unreasoning euphoria, I smiled into my sleeve and mumbled louder, “Need to sleep now.”

Silos unknotted the ropes and tossed them aside. I giggled like one of my little sisters.

“Too late,
plebeiu
. Prince Osriel's man has arrived earlier than expected.” He shook me again.

Eventually his insistent prodding stole my good feeling. Dully I dragged my cold, heavy body to sitting. As my hands were yet cocooned in silken cords, I persuaded Silos to help me take a piss in the jar. He refused to wipe the crusted drool from my face.

“You should not have frightened off your valets,” he said, his mouth curled in distaste. “Though I suppose you'd best learn to groom yourself anyway. I doubt the Bastard Prince will provide you a bodyservant.”

Stupid Silos. What did he think I'd been doing for twelve years? Of course, I'd had my hands to use. Perhaps this prince would just cut them off. I pressed my wrist against my mouth to contain my rising gorge. No, no, the Bastard
wanted
my magic. He was paying for it.

Scarcely able to stay upright, I straightened my garments with my elbows and wiped my face with my sleeve…three times before I realized the offending substance remaining on my face was merely my skin. The open-necked purple and black tunic hung loose over my wool shirt, and they had provided me no belt.

When Silos held up the silver half mask, I could not summon control enough to disguise my loathing. And pride seemed unutterably foolish at the moment. “Ah,
domé
,” I whispered, begging, “not that one. Please, I cannot breathe in it.”

“Your new master provided a silk mask for the journey and a standard pureblood cloak,” he said apologetically, “but, as you are yet under Registry restriction, you must be delivered wearing this and the
recondeur
's yellow. Your protocols within Prince Osriel's house will be his choice, of course.”

No protections in a
recondeur
's contract. My master could require that I wear this mask forever. My stomach clenched. Sweat dribbled down my back and sides as the pressure of Silos's hand on my shoulder buckled my wobbling knees. He latched the band about my neck and secured the strip over my head, leaving me half blind, half deaf, and completely muted. Suffocating.

I panicked, trying to clear my clogging nostril, trying to suck enough air through the exposed half of my tight-bound mouth that I would not die. I scraped my arms across my face as if I could dislodge the hateful metal, and when I could not, I slung my bundled fists wildly into Silos, dug my feet into the rug, and lunged forward. My grandfather's whimpers and screams drifted through the open doorway as they did in every hour in that house.

“Settle,
plebeiu,
” said Silos. He grasped my flailing arms and shoved me down again. “Settle. You've plenty of air, if you'll just calm down.”

His firm assurances eventually slowed my heart, and my gratitude set me weeping. He knelt to shackle my ankles, then hoisted me up and propelled me through the door.

The unending symphony of madness from the corner apartments accompanied our journey through the courtyards and arches.
Poor devil.
I sniffled like a sentimental drunkard.
I'm as mad as you, Capatronn. They'll lock me up in my own filth, too.

Ssst…Silos.
My sister beckoned to us from a grape arbor threaded with dead vines.
We're here to save him.

Silos did not turn his head. I slowed, glancing over my shoulders. Seeing with only one useful eye made everything seem flat and out of proportion.

I bumped Silos's shoulder and nodded toward Thalassa, who now crouched behind a statue of Erdru with his goat's legs. Or were they
her
goat's legs?

The temple guard prodded me to keep walking. I stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop, grunting, jerking my head, and pointing my hands toward my sister.
Look at her. Are you blind?