Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars) (33 page)

“Books containing the language they made were hidden in the Library the Praeven closed when they vanished. I imagine there are folks who would like to find the books but no one has.”

I had more questions but Mordwen was clearly tired and would want to sleep soon. So I asked him about Kirith Kirin, since that was the other subject on my mind.

At first I thought he had not heard me. He wandered from the coal brazier where a teapot hung to a wooden writing table holding an ornate metal lockbox. Mordwen opened the lock and drew out a cut sheet of parchment.

Kirith Kirin had no scribe with him on his present journey, and the letter Mordwen handed me was written in the Prince’s hand. I held the letter stupidly, as if I didn’t know what to do with it. Mordwen took the suuren book to study on a cushion beside one of the lamp-stands.

The letter was dated the first day of Ikos, not long ago. At the time Kirith Kirin was in a place called Avyllaeron, a hilltop in west Arthen where Falamar once hoped to build a fortress. The name of the place was written beneath the date. “Mordwen,” the letter began, “I’m writing in some haste and urgency. The sealed packet contains letters of cachet and authority for your use in my absence. I’ll be back in Nevyssan as soon as I can verify the whereabouts of Nemort. Meantime do what you can to settle Cordyssa and above all keep the Nivri and Finru from quarreling with each other.

“This business has me worried sick. I should have been harder at the Nevyssan council. A war now is a chancy thing; and we’re already in over our heads. Athryn won’t stand for losing the whole north. We’re doing well enough against the garrisons but her patrols will be getting word to Nemort now that we’ve broken their backs, and he’ll be sending the news to Ivyssa. Even if we manage to beat him, soon one of the magicians will come. Where will our defense be then?

“I didn’t mean to brood over this so much. I suppose I’m lonely, if you can credit that. I don’t have enough friends to have you scattered to the nine winds. I look forward to a cup of wine and a warm fire when I get back. camp should beat me there. Give my greetings to the son of Kinth when he arrives.”

The last words filled me with momentary warmth, till I read the letter through again and felt the weight of his sadness. Mordwen was watching my face. “Why are you showing this to me?”

In the dim lamplight Mordwen seemed younger, and far more confused. “I wanted you to read his greeting for yourself.”

“Why is he so sad?”

“He’s set something in motion that won’t stop before a lot of blood is shed, and he wouldn’t be Kirith Kirin if he didn’t feel the weight of that.”

“But he has no choice.”

Mordwen had wandered to the tent opening. “No. That was what Ren Vael told us. The mobs would have stormed Bremn themselves sooner or later, and there would have been a lot of killing, and a lot of reprisal. One hates to think of the whole city population sold into slavery but such things have happened lately, in Turis, for example. Kirith Kirin had no choice all right, unless he could watch Cordyssans be slaughtered without feeling it.”

“But that doesn’t make things any easier. Is that what you mean?”

Nodding, stroking the embroidery on his sleeve. “This is a war we’ve fought to prevent for many years, even though every sign told us it was coming sooner or later.”

“Is Kirith Kirin afraid he can’t beat General Nemort?”

“We can handle Nemort. We can pen him up in Gnemorra anyway. But after that, once word reaches Athryn and she summons the Wizard, what will happen then?”

I began to understand. What if Drudaen marched north to rescue Nemort? The General might not like wizards but he would accept help from any place he could get it if he were besieged. “But don’t the Cordyssans understand that?”

“Yes. But it doesn’t make any difference. Even fear will only push people so far. The Fenax has had enough. Cordyssa has had more than enough. People are starving, are losing land their families have held for ages. Kirith Kirin has had enough too, I think, though he dreads the price we’ll have to pay.”

“Has he left Arthen?”

Mordwen looked shocked. “Of course not. He can’t leave. Kirith Kirin hasn’t yet broken any of the Law of Changes, and as long as he doesn’t, we’ve still got hope. Pelathayn and Imral have led the troops outside in Angoroe, and Karsten won the victory at Anrex. The Jhinuuserret are under no one’s injunction to remain in Arthen. The Law of Changes says nothing about how to behave if it ever becomes necessary to overthrow the King or Queen.”

The next thing I heard was the singing of crickets in the autumn evening, still warm like summer. I walked to Mordwen’s side, watching the cook fire outside our tent, the flickering torches, hearing the murmuring of the guards who were kneeling by the fire. Gaelex and two others. Gaelex was on her way to her own tent, and called a greeting to Mordwen.

Presently he offered me a final goblet of wine. When he said good night I spread my own pallet on the layers of carpet in the tent, trimmed down the lamp, and slept. I could hear Mordwen breathing in the next chamber, a comforting sound. I rested much easier than I had in days.

2

I sang the morning song while jaka was brewing over the cook fire, and rode suuren in the surrounding hills while the rest of camp was rousing itself to another day. Following instruction, I returned to the hills and copied an entry for the day into the suuren book. Again no summons came to Illyn Water.

Because I could write some I was employed as a scribe, and because I could be trusted Mordwen used me to copy confidential letters or writs of order he was reluctant to give to the other clerks. My day passed with this fresh discipline to occupy me, copying letters to various noblemen in Cordyssa and on the Fenax estates to call up soldiers, letters to magistrates in Cordyssa setting prices on various market items. With practice my writing improved. I copied each letter neatly, and in fact was faster than the other scribes from so much rune-writing at Illyn.

Cothryn was in the tent most of the day, since he was kin to Ren Vael and could help with management of the city. I was working close to Mordwen most of the day and Cothryn always managed to hover near. I could not name the change in his manner toward me and was uneasy, thinking myself vain and giddy. He was paying attention to me, though, and after a while I could not deny it.

Outriders from main camp reached us at dawn the next day, and the column itself arrived about midmorning. Gaelex had been up half the night getting ready, and with the help of Inryval and Vaeyr she soon managed to make some order of the site.

That was my favorite of all the places we ever set our tents, because the Woodland grew so wild there, the earth pitching and rolling from sheer hill to deep ravine. Small, tenacious trees throve in Nevyssan, and elgerath abounded, spilling down whole hillsides. Perfume from lavender blossoms floated on every breeze. The stewards pitched tents as best they could, using any near-level spot. The merchants who sold at the camp market had only a good-size clearing and did a lot of grumbling but made the best of things. As for the shrine tent, the shrine sat at an angle and had to be jacked up on wooden supports. Gaelex said nothing better could be had under the circumstances.

Axfel arrived in camp sick with some kind of fever. If I was fifteen Axfel was rising eight, and the fact of his age was not lost on me. A big dog like him does not live much longer than eight or nine years. I always kept a close eye on him and was careful to give him the proper remedy whenever he got sick — there are herbs for the healing of animals just as there are for people, and some are the same for both. Axfel had come down with a surprisingly human-sounding cough. Following lamp-lighting I nursed him most of the night, making him a bed behind the shrine-tent, building a small fire to keep him warm, wrapping him in wool blankets that had been packed in a chest since spring. We were in high country, where the summer nights can be chilly. The dog was better by evening the next day, eating a meat gruel made from supper scraps I gathered in the common tent. Because of my nursing duties I was sleepy during Vithilunen, however, and was distracted afterward when Cothryn spoke to me. “Is the Prince’s lieutenant working you too hard, young Jessex? I ought to speak to her about that.”

“No, sir, my dog is sick and I was up all night tending him. I’ve had no rest to speak of today, either.”

He was smiling in a way that I did not find altogether attractive. “Even when you’re tired you’re still very beautiful.”

Not really believing I had heard his actual words, I turned and walked away. I went behind the shrine to clean the lamps. Cothryn had been one of only a few celebrants at ceremony and remained after the rest were headed toward the lower camp. I had to dawdle in the workroom, finding chores to attend to, before I could be sure he had gone.

I continued my duties as scribe in Mordwen’s work tent, and more often than not Cothryn was there. With the coming of the shrine to camp I saw him at morning and evening ceremonies as well, and in that context he was more boorish. Following lamp-lighting he spoke to me publicly in spite of the fact that I was in sleeves. He complimented my singing. He complimented my looks in subtle ways. Though these attentions were troublesome, I only became alarmed when his first gift arrived.

A servant wearing the gems of his house brought me a worked wooden chest bearing a jeweled dagger resting on a bolt of cloak fabric, under cover of a polite note informing me of my loveliness and charm. I was taken aback by the richness of the gifts and the forwardness of the note. Here was writing in his own hand, and signed “Cothryn son of Duris.” Here were luxuries, preening themselves over their costliness.

I knew what offering the gift implied, having heard my share of barracks talk even in my state of relative isolation. When an older man or woman wants to take a young lover, courtship begins with a gift. But this custom is for men and women who are old enough to wear cloaks. I sent the gifts back by the householder who brought them to me, being certain it would please nobody to see me courted by this man.

Next day a servant returned with another pair of gifts, a porcelain jar of perfumed oil and another bolt of fine cloth. The note was polite and even more presumptuous. He took my first refusal, he said, as a sign of my enduring virtue, proof that my beauty was not wasted on a soul of chattel. I thought this “soul of chattel” to be a particularly vile phrase, and so I kept the note this time, though I sent the gifts back.

At Velunen he was waiting near the shrine and would have spoken to me but I hurried to mount Nixva. He stood in the clearing watching me ride away. Some other soldiers who had come to ceremony took note of this.

Following Vithilunen he lingered in the clearing again, and that time I was starving and could not think of enough tasks to outlast him. When I headed for lower camp he followed me, speaking charmingly of the weather and other trivialities. He had heard rumors about Nemort’s march and related them to me; his news at least three weeks old, though I could not tell him so. A time of silence, after which Cothryn wondered aloud, in well-modulated tones, why I had returned his gifts when they might have pleased me had I only kept them.

I answered that I had not yet reached my cloaking-day and that I would dishonor my uncle if I began accepting gifts before I was of age. He answered (he actually said it) that my beauty was beyond my years and that convention was not for me, or something on that level. Luckily we reached the eating tent soon and I, seeing Mordwen, excused myself from Cothryn at once.

A Nivra who is taken with a common boy doesn’t often have the best intentions. I was astonished he would speak to me in public after I twice refused his gifts. When Mordwen asked me what Cothryn wanted I answered vaguely and turned him to another subject, asking about a letter I had been copying.

That evening, in my room behind the shrine, no gift awaited me. I relaxed.

My vacation from his passion was brief. A few days later another gift arrived, this one placed in my room when I was not there to refuse it. The accompanying note again flattered me and begged my company. I had only to wear the embroidered sash and silver bracelet and he would fathom my wishes, he would have me brought secretly to his tent.

This was odious enough. But he had drenched the letter in scent, false sweetnesses like rotted elgerath blossoms. I had just come back from Illyn Water where fresh flowers were in bloom.

It was obvious he meant to persist. For a day or so, between other tasks, I wondered what to do, and considered asking the lake women for their advice. Finally I rejected that as silly. Even Words of Power would have been of no use to me unless I wanted to make something dreadful happen to him. I would be breaking my promise if I did that.