The Gate of Gods (Fall of the Ile-Rien) (55 page)

Gerard was eyeing her thoughtfully. “You will be going to the memorial service for Colonel Averi, won’t you?”

Tremaine dropped into the other armchair, sighing in annoyance. She had gone to the private memorial, where Florian, Gerard, Niles, Captain Marais, Dr. Divies and several of Averi’s officers had locked themselves in the Observation Bar aboard the
Ravenna
and drunk all of the ship’s small remaining supply of liquor. Tremaine hadn’t known until then that Averi had actually retired from service before the war because of a wasting disease. It wasn’t something that could be cured either by surgeons or sorcerer-healers, though Niles had been keeping him supplied with charms and healing stones to keep the pain at bay. In some ways, it had been a mercy that he had been killed instantly when airships had fired on the
Ravenna
during the Lodun evacuation. Balin had died in that attack too, but there had been no memorial for her. She was just one of the dead people Tremaine hadn’t been able to keep a promise to.

The memorial being held at Aviler House tomorrow night would be a big public display, more of a demonstration that all was under control in the city than anything else. But there was no point in staying away. It would just elicit more unwelcome inquiries as to her health and state of mind. “Sure, I’ll go. Florian will be there too.”

“I see.” Gerard was still watching her with a faint frown. “I was rather surprised that you agreed to give Arites’s papers to Barshion. I thought you’d like to work on the translation for yourself.”

Tremaine leaned her head back against the upholstery that still smelled faintly of smoke, despite the hotel’s best efforts. She was getting really tired of being treated like an invalid. First, they had assigned her the duty of taking care of Gerard while he recuperated, as if Gerard wasn’t perfectly capable of sitting around in the hotel himself, as if there weren’t any number of Viller Institute workers within shouting distance at all times.

No matter how much time Niles and the other remaining sorcerers devoted to it, no one knew how Orelis had managed to power the gate spiral. No one knew how Arisilde had managed to power his copy long enough to send Florian there and bring her and Tremaine back, though the fact that it had caused even him to give up his tenuous hold on life implied that it wasn’t something an ordinary human sorcerer could do. And considering the small number of sorcerers left in Ile-Rien, it would be a very long time before anyone managed to figure it out.

Still looking at the water- and smoke-stained plaster overhead, she said, “All I had to read the papers with was the Syrnaic-Rienish word list Arites started. Barshion knows people who can do a much better job of translating them than me. And it was Arites’s version of what happened on the
Ravenna
. It’s a historical document. Who better to have it than the History College at Lodun?” She looked at him directly, tired of dancing around the real issue. “You were the one who told me that shared danger was no basis for building a relationship.”

“I remember it clearly,” Gerard said dryly. “I do wish I hadn’t said it.”

Tremaine looked away. The real issue, of course, was that she would never see Ilias, or any of the other Syprians, again.

She didn’t even know if they had been able to get out of the fortress. She hadn’t ever voiced this fear aloud, but Gerard and Florian and even Nicholas had all seemed to guess its presence. They had pointed out that the teenage Aelin had been able to get in and out several times, and that they had left a large amount of rope, food and other supplies behind. There was every reason to think the two men had made it back to Cineth easily. But it still wore on her and always would. Along with everything else that wore on her and always would.

Watching her as if he could read her thoughts, Gerard sighed. “Tremaine—”

Tremaine was almost relieved when the door opened and Nicholas entered. He greeted them with a nod, taking his coat off and hanging it on the rack beside the door.

“Well?” Tremaine demanded. She had spotted a rolled sheaf of gray paper sticking out of his coat pocket. One of the big printing companies had begun issuing a newspaper again, mostly to help people locate missing or wounded relatives and identify the dead. But it also carried news of the war.

Nicholas directed an opaque glance at her, but didn’t pretend he didn’t know what she meant. “The War Department won’t direct more troops into the Marches. There simply aren’t enough men available yet to waste them in police duties.”

Gerard made a noise of disgust. Tremaine looked at the dark window, locking her jaw.

The Rienish government was offering amnesty for Gardier Service or Labor caste who surrendered, on the grounds that most of them had probably been forced into the conflict. But that wasn’t working out so well. Many Gardier troops near Lodun, caught flat-footed by the sudden retreat from Vienne, had surrendered. An inadequate number of Rienish troops had been holding them in the town of Charven in the Marches, but local rioters had broken into the makeshift camp and burned it, killing many of the unarmed and wounded men and women. Others had escaped and were being killed by the local people, despite the Rienish military’s attempt to stop them. Paranoia about Gardier mixing with the population was rampant, despite the fact that the Aelin had never been allowed to learn the languages of the lands they had invaded so that blending in would have been next to impossible. There had been incidents where refugees or freed Gardier slaves from obscure countries who spoke Rienish poorly had been badly beaten or killed by panicked crowds.

For a long moment the only sound was the faint rustle as Nicholas removed the paper from his pocket, leaving it on the sideboard. Tremaine was a little startled when he broke down enough to say, “I agree that it’s regrettable, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Tremaine snorted derisively.
So all these people who surrendered on good faith are just going to be murdered. Along with whoever else gets in the way. Regardless of how difficult it’s going to make convincing the Gardier troops to the south to trust us.
They had nowhere to go, and offering them an option other than fighting or dying had been the only solution.
And it’s not going to work.
“Who said it was regrettable?” she said, hearing the acid tinge in her own voice. “I just don’t like having our record for murdering Aelin broken by a bunch of hysterical shopkeepers. We’re professionals, after all.”

Nicholas shook his head, giving her a dry look. “We’re not murderers, Tremaine. We’re killers. There’s a difference. A small difference, but a difference nonetheless.”

Tremaine rolled her eyes.
Yes, that was comforting.
“I’m sure it matters to the dead people. I think I’ll go downstairs for coffee after all.”

A
fter the door had closed behind Tremaine, Nicholas threw himself into a chair, the first betrayal of irritation Gerard had witnessed.

Standing on the beach at Cineth with Tremaine, when she had all but told him she meant to make the place her home someday, Gerard had thought of all the reasons she shouldn’t. The primitive conditions, the danger, the prejudices of the inhabitants. But Ile-Rien was no less dangerous, the war would go on for years and the Rienish were currently giving the Syprians a run for their money where irrational prejudices were concerned. And Tremaine had already done more than her part. And it had simply come down to the fact that this was a chance she would have to take, that she couldn’t know it was the right thing until she tried it. Now that chance had been snatched away. Watching Nicholas, Gerard said carefully, “It’s very frustrating as a friend, and especially I suppose as a parent, to know the exact solution to a problem, yet be unable to provide it.”

For a long moment he didn’t think Nicholas would reply. Tremaine tended to be reticent about her feelings, but next to her father she was positively fulsome. Then Nicholas grimaced, and said, “Especially since this is the first time I’ve ever had the slightest clue what she wanted.”

Gerard nodded, resigned. “I think this is the first time Tremaine has ever had the slightest clue what she wanted.”

Cineth, the Syrnai

G
iliead woke at dawn, his head aching a little from too much strong wine, with the feeling that the god wanted to talk to him.

They had sat up for a long time, Giliead talking to Karima, Halian, Gyan and Kias and the others. Ilias had mostly just sat there. Because of the late night, Giliead hadn’t done anything in their new set of rooms except unroll one of the mattresses and unpack a couple of blankets.

Ilias had also tossed and turned in his sleep, finally settling onto Giliead’s arm. Now Giliead managed to ease him off without waking him and climb out of bed. He dressed quietly in the dark room, finding a shirt in the clothes chest to replace the one that was muddy and bloodstained and shabby from their long journey.

Out in the atrium no one was stirring except a few sleepy Aelin whose names he didn’t know, preparing to go down to the harbor for cargo work. He let himself out the gate and walked down the quiet tree-shaded street, following the ground mist to where the path wound down the hill to the beach. At the top was a large tree, leaning at an odd angle to accommodate the rocks around its roots. He sat on the damp grass, with his back to the trunk, and waited.

After a short time, the god climbed down out of the leaves, wound its way down the trunk and settled into the grass beside him.

I
lias woke when Giliead did, though he pretended he hadn’t. He got up after Giliead left, dug out clean clothes and proceeded to wander around the house trying to avoid the other inhabitants. He managed to sit still through breakfast but ended up pacing the atrium afterward, waiting impatiently for Giliead to get back.

There had to be something they could do to get news. It seemed like insult added to injury that Ile-Rien itself wasn’t that many days’ sail away, yet separated from them by the world’s breadth and the lack of a curse gate.

Karima and Halian had come to the house the night before to greet them and it had turned into something of a party. Ilias had spent most of it avoiding people and trying to nod and smile at all the right times. He suspected the word had passed not to ask him questions because no one did.

It was nearly as bad as the first few days after he had gotten the curse mark.

He was standing beside the atrium pool when he heard a soft step on the stone walk and looked up to see Cletia.

She nodded to him, coming forward to stand on the grass nearby. She wore blue and green, with a wrap around her shoulders against the morning mist. “It’s good that you’re back.” She hesitated a moment. “I heard what happened.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ilias warned her. He realized he was going to be saying that a lot from now on.

“I understand. I just wanted to ask you…” She took a deep breath, seemed to steel her resolve. “If you would consider marrying again. With me.”

Ilias stared blankly at her. He had forgotten that as he was a married man, Cletia could ask him directly without having to negotiate with Karima first. He shook his head, not sure if she meant what she said. “I’m still married to Tremaine, Cletia.”

“Giliead told Gyan that it sounded as if the Rienish could never come back here, that killing the Gardier wizard leader killed the thing that made the curse gates work.” Cletia shook her head, her mouth twisted. “Would she want you to wait forever for nothing?”

Ilias felt his whole body go tense, but she didn’t say that Tremaine was most likely dead. He realized that perhaps Gyan and the others hadn’t passed that part of the story along. If they did, if Tremaine was known to be dead, Karima would have to take possession of the house. They probably thought it was just easier to keep quiet on that point for now. He looked away across the court, where Calit and two other Aelin children were digging industriously in a flower bed, wishing it was that easy. That you could make people live again just by skipping the part of the story where they died. He said only, “I’m not giving up yet.”

Cletia watched him a moment, frowning. “When will you give up?”

He swore under his breath, then faced her. “I don’t want to give up at all. I don’t want to look back on the time I knew her, any more than I want to look back on the time I knew Giliead. I want her to be with me when I look back.” He didn’t think he had fully realized that himself until the words came out. And if Cletia wanted plain speaking, so be it. “It’s not just that. When I got the curse mark, you listened to your family and treated me as if I was dead. Or ruined, as Pasima says. Now you’ve changed your mind, you’re sorry for it. But how am I supposed to trust that? This year you want me, what if next year you want Pasima’s approval more?” She looked stung, and he said, “I’m sorry,” before he walked away.

He went past the kitchen where Gyan and Davret and several of the Aelin were cleaning up after breakfast, then back through the portico and the storeroom and into the back court. It was small, with a spare cistern squatting under a ragged plum tree and a few slop jars. The wall here was only chest height, and looked into the neighbor’s goat pen. He leaned on it, fingering the ring that still hung around his neck, not noticing the brown-and-white goats crowding up to see if he brought food.

At least now he knew what was wrong, why this homecoming seemed so off-kilter.
Because they’re treating me like a man with a dead wife.
And if that was true, at least he could grieve and learn to live with it and go on. But he didn’t think of himself that way. Because in his gut he believed she had found a way out, whether she had intended to when she sent them away or not.