The Wide World's End (34 page)

A mantia, a spell of foretelling, was, in Ambrosia's view, a fool's game . . . but then, in so many ways, for all his cunning, her father was a fool. “So,” she said, “you're ready to kill me, I take it?”

“Not at all, my dear. Also, a more charitable way to look at it is that I'm giving you the opportunity to keep your mother alive.”

Ambrosia looked at the glassy egg in which shadows, flitting lights, and green-gray brain meat floated. “She won't thank you for this, Merlin. Believe me. I know her better than you do.”

“You may be right, Ambrosia. I suppose you are right. But I am not doing this to be thanked. Only a fool acts with that motive, and I think you'll concede that I am not a fool.”

Ambrosia never had, and never would concede this, but it hardly seemed important to say so just then. Merlin puttered around with his shining instruments of darkness for a while longer and said, “Excuse me, my dear. I have to see how that potion is getting along.”

“I give you leave to go,” Ambrosia said in her most regal (I-am-the-Regent-and-you're-not) tone.

Merlin snickered and ducked into the next room.

Ambrosia put her head back against the scaly wall. She did not think so much as feel. These might be the last sensations she ever had—the last things she saw, heard, smelled. . . .

A fishy, snaky sort of smell. What had he said about the fish-beast?

. . . your blood would almost certainly have poisoned it . . .

She looked down at the scaly arms imprisoning her. Did she feel a long, slow pulse within them, akin to something in the wall?

. . . your blood would almost certainly have poisoned it . . .

If the arms were alive, they could feel pain. They would react. They might react by crushing her. Yes, it would be a very dangerous risk to take, if she weren't about to die anyway.

. . . your blood . . .

Ambrosia bit her tongue—not metaphorically, but literally, hard enough to draw blood. Then again to ensure a lot of blood. Her mouth filled with it.

She spat the bright, burning blood down on the snaky arms imprisoning her.

The blood of Ambrose, the blood that betrayed their kinship with mandrakes, caused almost anything to burn. Anything but the Ambrosii themselves.

Her heart fell. The blood pooled, fuming, on hollow places in the snakelike arms, but the arms didn't react. The floor below began to burn as the blood dripped on it, but the arms holding her just went on being arms and went on holding her.

Well, it wasn't like she had another plan to fall back on. She wasn't Merlin Ambrosius, adapting to circumstances. She was Ambrosia Viviana, and she made circumstances adapt to her. She spat another mouthful of burning blood on the arms.

Then she saw their surfaces ripple like water. Perhaps the pain impulses had needed to travel all the way to the house's reptile brain, wherever that was, before there came a reaction. Perhaps the blood just needed to burn through the outer, tougher layers of skin before it could be felt. In any case, the arms were feeling it now.

She spat a third time. There were fuming craters in the snaky arms, and their reptilian muscles began to contract: she could see them move through the holes burned in the skin. For a moment she thought the arms were indeed going to crush her, but they just slid around her and contracted into the wall—trying to retreat from the fiery poison of her blood. She fell to the floor among the flames she had kindled.

But the arms carried the poison with them back into the wall. Now the wall began to ripple as the arms had rippled, expanding and contracting in pain.

Ambrosia jumped up and spat more blood directly on the walls.

Merlin came rushing in. “What have you done, you bad girl?” he screamed, just like he used to do when she was a child.

But she was a child no longer. She would have said,
Old man! You have lived long enough!
But her tongue hurt too badly to speak. But she was thinking it, and he seemed to read it in her face. In any event, he snatched up the crystal egg containing Nimue and ran away into his workshop.

Ambrosia grabbed a long serrated blade from the workbench and followed him. Behind her the walls continued to convulse and the fire continued to spread across the wooden floor.

Now she could see Merlin, through several arches, well ahead of her and running as fast as he could. But he was also having trouble hanging on to the glass egg; it almost slipped from his hands several times as she watched.

The fire was now running across the floor faster than Merlin or his daughter, and the gigantic snake or snakes forming the walls were writhing in agony. As they contracted, the inner framework of the strange house screamed: beams split and planks tore apart. A gap opened up in front of Merlin. He tried to dance away from it, but the floor was now sloping, funneling him toward the gap. He fell out of sight, still juggling the gigantic crystal egg.

He wasn't getting away that easy. Ambrosia ran down the slope and jumped into the empty darkness, brandishing her bright, serrated blade like lightning.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

End of Deceit

A day and a night gone by, and Aloê at last was ready to act. She and Denynê spent the time hiding in Fungustown. She found a little house with an overrun garden and a fountain, and a little stable in back for Raudhfax. She didn't think it had been occupied long before it was abandoned—and, anyway, a nightmare or two was a small price to pay for the silence and emptiness of the streets around them.

She listened to Denynê's story, helped her heal, and wrote messages. These she brought at night to the League of Silent Women—friends of hers for long generations—and they promised to carry them for her.

They finished a lunch of spring fruits from the garden. Aloê asked Denynê, “Are you ready?”

“Let's get the bastard,” said Denynê tightly. It was probably the first time she had used so crude a word. Aloê laughed and they went out to saddle up Raudhfax.

They rode straight through the city to the domed Chamber of the Graith at the ruins of the eastern wall. Aloê dismounted, helped Denynê down, entrusted Raudhfax to one of the watch-thains on the steps, and then leaped up the steps and into the shadows of the atrium.

Maijarra was there, most senior of all the thains; she stood guard alone at the entrance to the domed chamber.

“Vocate Aloê,” she said, lowering her long spear and gesturing with it. “The summoners await you and your second within.”

“Thanks, Maijarra,” said Aloê, and strode past her. When Denynê had entered also, Maijarra shut the double doors and barred them from without.

The two summoners were standing in discussion next to the broken Witness Stone. Denynê's orange-brown eyes were wide with interest: few outside the Graith had seen the Witness Stone, but she must have heard something of the terrible events during the last Station from her peers in the Skein of Healing. For all Aloê knew, Denynê had been among those called on to treat the spell-freed vocates. Aloê didn't remember her, but there was much from that day that she didn't remember, and some things she wished she could forget.

Bleys seemed to be desperately urging some desperate course; Lernaion's dark, somber face was etched with skepticism. Bleys broke off at Aloê's approach and turned on her in fury. “Well, here were are at your command, madam. I hope you find us prompt upon the hour and that we will not be rebuked for discussing some trivial business of our own instead of waiting in silence for your—”

“Oh, I don't mind,” Aloê interrupted airily. In fact, she was as angry as Bleys was, or pretended to be. But she would not let him know that he had gotten to her. “What were you discussing?”

Bleys' mouth snapped twice like an angry dog at the end of his chain.

“Tell her,” Lernaion directed.

Bleys' bald head and bat-wing ears grew red as a sunset. He pressed his lips together, as if to imprison words within. Slowly, his color cooled to something not much more ominous than his usual pale pink. Sweat glimmered on his scalp as it cooled.

“Vocate,” he said quietly, “we are trying to make right what your husband made so wrong.” He gestured curtly at the Stone.

Morlock's sword had shattered the Witness Stone into seven pieces. With astonishment, Aloê saw that they were now four. Somehow, three of the parts had been made to cohere—so closely that they seemed never to have been struck apart.

“Amazing!” she said in honest admiration. “Champion Bleys!”

The ancient summoner was somewhat mollified. “Thank you,” he said. “But the next step is somewhat . . . well, we are at a parting of the ways. We may have to choose between preserving the wisdom already implicit in the Stone or remaking it.” Then he said irritably, “Is that enough for you? Must you know still more?”

To needle him, Aloê said, “Perhaps you should wait for my husband's return. He is the master of all makers; so the dwarven masters say.”

Bleys grew redder than before and seemed to swell up with angry words, but before he could say them Lernaion interposed, “The process is more like healing. When we heal a wounded mind, or a wounded brain, the process often involves forgetting. The Stone is not a brain or a mind, but it was made to work in harmony with them, and seems to function, or fail to function, in similar ways. Which would you choose, Guardian?”

“Heal the Stone,” Aloê said without hesitation.

“Yes,” Lernaion said. “I agree.”

“The knowledge of the past that would be irretrievably lost—” Bleys began.

Lernaion raised a dark hand and silenced him. “My friend,” he said gently, “perhaps you are too concerned with the past. It is for us to ensure that the Wardlands has a future.”

“I'm too old for this job,” Bleys said with a good humor that Aloê found surprising. “That's what you're saying.”

“We are both old,” Lernaion said, smiling.

“No one is as old as I am. No one in the world. So it seemed to me when I dragged myself out of bed this morning, anyway. Very well, Lernaion: I'll heal the Stone, no matter what the cost. We'll have need of it; you're right about that.”

The Summoner of the City, not the oldest but the most senior of all the Guardians in the Graith, smiled with dark lips and turned unsmiling dark eyes to Aloê. “And now to your business.”

“The murder of Earno,” she reminded him. “Your peer.”

“Yes,” he conceded. “It is our business as well.”

“Not everything has been explained,” Aloê said, “and some may have to wait until you, Bleys, have healed the Witness Stone. But the murderer is Naevros syr Tol.”

“You surprise me,” Lernaion said gravely. He did not look surprised, but you couldn't go by that: his dark, narrow face kept its secrets well. Bleys said nothing at all.

Aloê described the uneven course of the investigation, including the murder of Oluma, the way she had come to suspect Naevros, the rescue of Denynê from Naevros' house, and then she displayed the original of Earno's last letter with its bloody finger marks, the stolen spell-anchors.

The summoners heard her out without asking questions. They looked at the evidence with evident interest but did not touch or handle it.

The doors of the dome chamber were unbarred and Naevros syr Tol entered. Thain Maijarra peered into the room after him, frank curiosity in her bright brown eyes, but she closed the doors and barred them anyway.

Aloê did not bother to repeat her account for Naevros. She did not meet his eye or acknowledge his presence in any way. Neither did he speak.

“Well met, Vocate Naevros,” Bleys said finally. “The Graith's vengeancer here claims that you are our murderer.”

Naevros still did not say anything. He seemed to be looking at Aloê but she would not meet his eye.

“Well, Vengeancer!” said Bleys. “I can lighten your mind by showing you that your suspicions are false. It's too bad that you didn't ask a few questions before you made this startling suggestion. Naevros was abroad in the Northhold before, during, and after the murder of our peer. He was seen by countless persons.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” Aloê said. “I saw him there myself, shortly before the slain summoner left the North. But nonetheless, I think Naevros had left the North some time before.”

“You contradict yourself.”

“I do not. The Naevros in the North, the Naevros you say was commonly seen, was a simulacrum. It passed by me without a glance. But you can see how the genuine article cannot refrain from gawping at me.”

From the corner of her eye she saw, and with her insight she felt, Naevros recoil in pain from her words.

“A woman's argument,” Bleys said dismissively.

“Yes.”

“It's not proof, Vocate.”

She shook her hand, still holding the letter and the bags of anchors; they rattled like dice in a gambler's cup. “This is proof. The kidnapping of Denynê is proof. The murder of Oluma is proof.”