Shadowheart (118 page)

“Good excuse to take it out of the stable, sir,” said the coachman cheerfully.

“Did you come to see the princess?” Vansen asked. “Or to say farewell to Prince Barrick?”

Chert shook his head and pointed to Flint, who was already leading Opal toward Briony’s tent. “You’ll have to speak to the boy. I know it sounds foolish, but I promised I would ask no more questions until he was ready to explain.”

Vansen knew the boy’s history, so he was not surprised that Chert had been forced to come along, if only because Opal would have insisted. But why the strange child wanted to bring them here of all places, and just at this time, he couldn’t understand.

By the time Vansen led Chert into the tent, Opal and Flint were sitting on cushions at Briony’s feet. Chert reluctantly allowed himself to be convinced to sit beside them, but Vansen chose to stand beside the door flap so he could hear what was going on outside. He had no fear of Chert and his Funderling family, but he did not much like the notion of more unexpected arrivals.

“Well, Mistress Opal,” Briony said, “we have not met before, but you must know that your husband means much to me. He likely saved my life.”

Opal colored a little. “Well, he’s always up to something, my Chert. It’s a bit much for me to keep up with it all, sometimes.”

“It has been difficult for all of us lately,” Briony said. “These have been confusing, sorrowful times. But if I am not mistaken, we may learn a little more today about some of the mysteries that have plagued us.”

“Not from me!” Opal said breathlessly. “Goodness, no, I don’t think so ...!”

Briony turned toward the boy. “You have flitted in and out through many of the tales I have been told in the last few days, young Master Flint. Is it time now to talk about you? It is plain enough that whatever your relationship with Chert and Opal, you are not a Funderling by birth.”

“That is true, Briony Eddon,” the boy said gravely.

Vansen was a little shocked. “Lad, it is polite to address the princess as ‘Highness’ or ‘Your Royal Highness ...’”

Briony lifted her hand. “Generally that is true, Captain. But I suspect we are facing something a bit different than the ordinary here.”

The boy nodded. “I’m not Chert and Opal’s child, that is commonly known.” Watching the boy speak, Vansen felt the hackles lift on his neck and arms. He did not act like any child Vansen had ever known. Flint was not even acting much like himself—surely the child never spoke this formally when Vansen had seen him before.

“Where were you born, then?” Briony asked.

“Here in Southmarch . . . but it was a long time ago, as you measure it. Fifty years and more.” The boy nodded. “Merolanna is my mother. My father is Avin Brone, count of Landsend.”

Through everything that had happened, Vansen had never seen Briony truly astonished . . . until now.

“Avin Brone?” she cried. “Avin Brone was your father? He was Merolanna’s secret lover? But she said the child’s father was dead!” Her eyes narrowed. “And whatever else you may be, you are no comfortable old man of fifty years . . . !”

“The Qar took me when I was small. A childless Qar woman stole me from the house of my nursemaid, but they were disturbed in the doing and did not leave a changeling child to hide their deed. They took me to Qul-na-Qar and raised me. Although I aged but little, many years passed here during the time I was behind the Shadowline. At last Ynnir the blind king sent me here as part of his pact with Lady Yasammez—if I could bring out the essence of the god Kupilas to wake Queen Saqri, then the castle and its inhabitants would be spared.

“The queen was dying in slow drifts, like snow carried away by wind even as it falls—but the god was dying, too, and had been for centuries. Kupilas, as he is called by northern men, had long been failing from the treacherous wound Zosim had given him. But now his true end was upon him, and all who could sense such things knew it. In their place beyond this world, the sleeping gods could sense it. Even those only partly of the blood of Mount Xandos could sense it, too—Jikuyin, the great one-eyed demigod that Ferras Vansen met, and even your own brother and father, Briony Eddon.”

Vansen was startled to hear his own name, but no more startled than was Briony. “Do you mean to tell me Father and Barrick
knew
what was coming?” she demanded.

“No, but the nearness of the dying god and of the place beneath Southmarch where Heaven touched earth when the gods were banished troubled their blood and their thoughts.”

“But how can a child like you, even if you
were
raised by the fairies, know all this—know the business of all the gods and of my family, too?” A cold, hard sound had crept into the princess’ voice, and for the first time Ferras Vansen recognized it for what it was—not contempt but fear: Briony was frightened by what she might hear from this prodigy, and when she was frightened, she hid behind her royal mask.

“That is part of the tale,” the golden-haired child said. “It is what comes next—
my
tale. Only now can I see it whole and clear. It has the shape of a riddle.” He nodded, almost with satisfaction. “My first mother asked my second mother to hide me. My third mother stole me from my second mother. My fourth mother took me in when my third mother lost me. And then my
first
first mother saved me.”

Vansen did not like the aura of mystery that hung over the child’s speech. Briony’s discomfort was clear and the two Funderlings were no happier than she was. “What does that mean, ‘First first mother’?”

“My first mother was the duchess, who gave me to my second mother the nursemaid in one of the farm villages outside Southmarch. A woman of the fairy folk stole me from the nursemaid, even though she had no changeling to give in turn, so the theft was discovered. My third mother in turn lost me to the blind king of the Qar, who had a higher purpose for me than simply to keep the thief-mother’s fires tended and her house swept. And when I was taken across the Shadowline, Mama Opal and Papa Chert took me in.”

“Yes, we did,” said Opal with some feeling. “We wanted you. Didn’t we, old man?”

Her husband did not hesitate. “Yes, we did, lad.”

“And I have learned things from you that I learned from none of the others,” Flint said. “In truth, I needed the wisdom of all my families, because the days ahead proved to be very, very dark.

“When I brought Ynnir’s glass to the place where Crooked had banished the last of the gods, to the thing called the Shining Man, the vitality of Kupilas flowing into the glass threw me into a kind of ecstasy. Even a dying god is made of forces that mankind cannot understand, let alone harness, and a bit of the god’s dying thought touched my own. For just that moment I could see as the god saw, I could look through mountains as if they were glass, I could see
what might be
nearly as well as I could see what was and what had been—and I could see them all at the same instant.

“And in that instant, though I did not realize it then, Kupilas of the Ivory Hand and the Bronze Hand
left a piece of his godly essence in me
—a seed, as it were. And it has grown in my head and my heart ever since. More and more, it came to shadow my own thoughts with perceptions that were foreign to me—and yet not entirely so—and with understandings that were beyond me also . . . but not completely so. Slowly the presence grew, and slowly I grew with it, until I can no longer tell what is me and what is the seed of Crooked that has sprouted in me. ...”

“It could be just a sprite,” Opal said abruptly. “Some sort of earthboggin deviling your spirit. We can ask the Metamorphic Brothers ...”

“The Brothers probably would not help me if they could, Mama Opal,” the boy said with a kind smile. “Do not forget, it is in part thanks to me as well as Papa Chert that they no longer have a temple.”

“Good . . . !” Vansen laughed, but it was not a comfortable sound. “I nearly said ‘Good Gods.’ Can any of this be real? My head is spinning.”

“Can any of this be true is the question, I think,” Briony said. “I mean no offense to you, Flint, but why should we believe you? I have had my eyes opened to many things, but I am still not sure they are wide enough to see the god of healing hidden in the body of a little boy.”

Flint smiled again. “You are right to be cautious, Briony Eddon . . . but I don’t ask anything of you. In fact, I’m leaving Southmarch.”

Opal’s muffled cry of despair was immediately followed by a flurry of half-articulated questions from everyone present. The boy waited calmly until the uproar had lessened.

“I can’t stay, Mama,” he said when they were ready to listen again. He smiled sadly as Chert did his best to comfort Opal. “I’ve never been this sort of thing before, don’t you see? A part of me feels as if it has been released after centuries in a prison. Even the part of me that’s just Flint is a confusion of different things—not Qar and not Funderling, neither human nor immortal. I must find what kind of thing I am. I need to go about in the world, to wander . . . to learn.”

“So is it you, then, who truly stands behind the defeat of Zosim, the demon-god?” Briony said. “I have heard many stories of those last hours, but all of them seem to be missing a piece.”

“Any one of them, taken by itself,
is
missing a piece,” the child said. “Without Vansen’s courage and wit and the bravery of the Funderlings, no one could have held the autarch back long enough. Without the Qar’s sacrifice of so many lives, the Trickster god would have escaped to the surface and then no one could have halted him. Without the Rooftopper Beetledown giving up his own life, none of it would have mattered. Even with a piece of a god growing inside me, I did not understand until very late who the true enemy was and what he planned. Did I help here and there? Yes. But it would have meant nothing without the actions of others.” Flint smiled and looked up, as if he meant his words for all of them together. “When you wonder in the days ahead if the gods are with you, think how even the smallest, cruelest whims of a sleeping god nearly became the end of all things. But if you think that means you are helpless in the hands of Fate, think of this: that same immortal god, master of fire and deceit, Death’s own son, was brought down in large part by a man so small that my Papa Chert used to hold him in the cup of his hand.” Flint stood up. “Now it’s time for me to leave. Soon your brother will be here, Briony Eddon, and I think you still have things to say to each other.”

“But . . . but why are you telling all this to us now?” The princess looked quite shocked, as close to helplessness as he had ever seen her. She turned to Vansen as though he might have some idea that had escaped her. “And why all the way out here?”

“Because first my parents must release me from a promise I made not to leave. Just as importantly, though, I want you to take them with you to the castle when you go back from here.” He said this as though it should have been obvious. “I have learned enough about people to know that they will be sad when I’m gone, especially Mama Opal. Take her back with you so that she can help you care for your brother, little Olin Alessandros. She is a very fine mother. You will see.”

Opal, who had calmed herself a little, started wailing again.

“Of course . . . of course I will see that your mother and father are . . . are well taken care of ...” Briony began.

“No,” Flint said firmly. “It does not take the god in me to know that you will be busy in the days ahead. Too busy to be a proper parent to a growing child. Do you want your father’s youngest son, who might become either your own heir or your greatest enemy someday, to be raised by servants you scarcely know?”

“But . . . how . . . why . . . ?” Briony held out her hands; Vansen marveled to see the young woman who would in a matter of a tennight or two become queen of all the March Kingdoms rendered helpless by the arguments of a tow-headed child.

“To give things shape,” Flint told her. “That is one thing the gods do. They give shape to the stories of men.” He rose. “Now I must go, if you will let me. Papa Chert? You once made me promise not to leave until five years had passed. I cannot wait that long.”

Chert spread his hands helplessly. “I could not hold you to a promise I forced on you when I did not understand everything. Of course—you are released. ...”

“No! Don’t go! It will be dark soon!” Opal cried.

“Mama Opal, do you really think I am afraid of the dark?” The boy looked at her sternly. “Even if I was only as old as I look, I would still have at least ten summers!” He went to her then and embraced her, holding on for a long time. Chert joined them and as Vansen watched, the three whispered to each other, heads close together; Chert and his wife both had tears in their eyes.

“Your other guests have arrived, Briony Eddon,” little Flint said at last, pulling away. “I hear them now.”

Vansen had only a moment to reflect that he himself had heard nothing, but then one of his guards called for him. He leaned out.

“A large force coming this way up the road,” the soldier told him. “I think it’s them Qar.”

“It is,” said Flint. “I will leave you to meet them. Farewell!”