In the morning he had a visitor. A pink sunclinger had crawled through the window.
Cal-raven gingerly pried its seventeen legs free, which took a very long time. Once the last leg gave up its grip on the stone, he examined its headless, star-shaped body, bejeweled with sparkles, tough and gritty as the bottom of a pan when the stew’s burnt dry. He turned it over and watched countless white filaments flailing in the air beneath its grand legs as they slowly bent to find a new hold. In the center of that star was an open mouth, eager and ravenous, ready to accept whatever those limbs would carry in.
Cal-raven threw it back out to the inlet.
At once a torrent of birds cycloned from the sky to clash in competition, feathers flying. The splashing frenzy ended as quickly as it had begun. One of the gulls remained floating on the water, head bowed with the weight of its catch.
Cal-raven choked when he saw what was happening. The gull was trying to swallow the sunclinger and had worked two of those long legs into its gullet. But the other limbs had wrapped around the predator’s throat, adhering and holding tight. The weight was wearing down the bird. Slowly the sunclinger throttled its attacker. Eventually the bird would either choke to death or drown, and the sunclinger would break away to its undersea abode.
Cal-raven cursed the bird. He cursed the sunclinger. He cursed the spray that had saturated his garments during the night. He felt sick from breathing the salty mist.
Turning back to the wall of glossy green stones, he ran his fingers along their rugged, broken spans. He surrounded one of the stones with ten fingertips and applied soft pressure, concentrating on contours. His wounds flared in protest. With a deep breath, he released all other thoughts. A channel of softer lode shifted slightly. His fingers sank into the mortar, encircling the hard green block, and he drew it smoothly from the wall.
He cupped it in his battered hands, molding it as if it were a brick of green clay. Without considering his intention, he began to shape the Keeper. It was the first time he had done so since seeing the creature in the waking world.
Its edges and lines were complex, and he liked the possibilities. If he pressed, he could feel a difference in the stone’s density, find a line, clear away all that was unnecessary. This was where most sculptors went wrong—finding a line, they immediately pursued it. It was just as important to explore all around it, for sometimes there were stronger lines hiding deeper or fractures waiting to be discovered. Any hasty work would come out crooked and crude. Without this patient study, a sculpture would not last. But a shape consisting only of the soundest stone—that would weather storms. It would speak of something pure and true. It would unite generations.
The cell had seemed like such an ugly place, but now it was alive with opportunity. Everywhere he turned, he saw suggested lines, contrasts waiting to be broken, cracks waiting for pressure.
Hours passed. The work absorbed his attention. When he awoke from the effort, he was seated far from the window. As he lifted and turned the sculpture of the Keeper, it filled with light as if it might come to life in his hand. It did not much resemble the creature that had found him on that violent Barnashum night, but it was a good figure. He put it down and stared hard into that radiance. As he did, the white flare in his left eye suddenly returned, bright and harsh.
He set the sculpture of the Keeper in the window, then lay down, folding his arm under his head. As he gazed past its silhouette, the voices began again, murmuring beyond the wall like the waves.
The prisoners’ voices wove into his dreams. He did not know how many hours had passed—perhaps a night and a day—when he seized suddenly upon one word, bold as a knot along a thread of speech. Had he heard it or dreamed it?
Auralia.
The name startled him, like the face of an old friend suddenly appearing in a crowd of strangers. He pressed his head against the porous stone as if he might push right through it.
And again, Auralia.
A woman’s voice was raised in the fever of a story. He could catch only pieces, but he began to sense that the tale as he knew it had been very much revised. The real Auralia had not organized a revolt against his father. And the Keeper was not “Auralia’s moon-spirit.”
A blare of horns shattered his attention and drew him to the window. The tones flared high above him. He could picture them sounding from a hundred towers encircling the house, flags lashing at the sky like torchflame. Bel Amicans would be congregating on great platforms to see some wonder or receive some proclamation. How easy it would be to climb out the window and slip unnoticed through the masses.
Don’t make me come find you, Cyndere. I’ll trust, but only for so long.
He slumped to the floor.
Hunger and thirst began to get their claws in.
On the fourth morning the king awoke to find another meal waiting for him, and the sculpture was gone from the windowsill.
He drank half of the water, devoured the bread, then chewed the meat to a flavorless plug and spat it out the window. Again the birds came down.
The harbor was busy. Broad flats floated past, bearing subdued huddles of people listening to instructions from their guards.
The flats moved between fishing boats and vanished for a time behind a magnificent ship drawn by a team of seabulls. Sunclingers held to the ship’s wet hull just above the water, gleaming brighter and brighter, absorbing the light. Useless creatures. But glorious.
Wooden planks creaked above him, making him aware of a walkway and of other witnesses to this spectacle. Some steps were heavy—a large man, perhaps. The others were light and quick, two children. And then the laughter confirmed it—a man with two, no three, children. He must have been carrying the third. The children were counting and naming the sunclingers—Slimey and Grasper.
When the ship had moved out to sea, the crowded flats were far away, drawn to dock at the edge of the inlet. He thought he could see people moving off of them and into a series of spacious white tents.
“Can we go see the strangers, Papa?” a child asked.
Cal-raven heard a cough from somewhere beyond the wall, somewhere close. As he turned, he felt a flaring pain from his neck down his back—a cramp from a night sprawled on a wet stone floor.
Even though he was alone, he began to feel pressed upon from all sides, as if people were looking in and listening through the walls.
He woke to darkness and a quieter sea. Loose threads of scented oil touched the air. Somewhere voices were raised in dissonant litanies.
Do they think the moon hears their prayers?
And yet how many times had he addressed the empty air? How many times had he heard his father ranting in solitude as if someone might hear?
The ale boy sought the Keeper and was led to save so many lives. I spoke to my father as if his ghost might hear. I told him I wanted direction. And the Keeper appeared.
He stood and raised his voice, calling out, “I do not ask you to give me riches. Or power. Only that you help me to lead my people, to bring them into a place we can call home.”
“Who are you?”
He turned back to the wall of green stones, astonished. The voice, so near and sudden, sent his hand grabbing for the hilt of a sword long gone. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“I asked first.” It was a voice like a boy’s, but harsh, hushed, and urgent. He walked toward the wall. “I am from Abascar. Brought here. Imprisoned without explanation.”
“You’re a trespasser.”
“I was dragged into Bel Amican territory by slavers.” He eyed the green stones and heard a faint rustling of heavy cloth. “I had intended a proper visit. I’ve been summoned by the heiress.”
“Bel Amica has no heiress. Haven’t you heard? Partayn has returned. He’s restored to his proper place, first in line for the throne.”
Cal-raven was stunned. “The house must be overjoyed. But my claim remains.” He trailed his fingers along the wall. “What is your offense?”
“I won’t lie
,” came a weary sigh in return. “I’m tormented for pursuing what I most desire. You would think that this would please the Seers, who urge us to follow our impulses. But I tell you this: if your impulses run counter to those of the Seers or their favored followers, they do not hesitate to thwart your ambitions.”
He walked slowly along the wall, trying to find the point where the sound was strongest. It seemed to shift. Keep him talking. “I’ve been led to believe that the men and women of Bel Amica pursue happiness here in freedom.”
“We’re free to follow whatever paths we like. But does anyone see that all the paths we’re offered—for work or pleasure—have been carefully mapped and baited by the Seers? They keep us busy pursuing our whims. We dash about from this to that, more selfish all the time. Paths that might lead to any good are made complicated or concealed altogether. It is hard to make people care anymore, because their attention is enslaved.”
“Masses are easily fooled,” Cal-raven agreed. “My… King Cal-marcus once convinced Abascar’s Housefolk to give up their freedom. They agreed in order to gain his favor and to rise in power and status.”
“Ah, but Cal-marcus’s people resented his authority. Here, the people are more than happy to do their tempters’ bidding, because the Seers give them such enthralling and flattering potions. Bel Amica’s becoming a land of pleasant dreams, and we’re all so happily asleep that we may never awaken to do what should be done. I’m in trouble because I believe there are better possibilities. There are healing waters out there, running deep.”
“Are there?” He leaned in closer. “And colors. Such colors.”
The word gave Cal-raven a start. “You speak of colors. As I lay here, I heard a tale of Auralia through these walls.”
“Yes, we’ve heard stories about a young woman who caused trouble at Abascar. Bel Amicans love stories about rebels.”
“Auralia was not a rebel. She would not have done harm to anyone. She was a very young woman with a vision she wanted to share.”
“You knew her?”
His answer stuck in his throat, for it would have been a lie. He pinched the base of his ring finger, thought of giving Auralia his Ring of Trust to protect her against his father’s judgment.
“Tell me, Abascar man, why were you coming to Cyndere? Have you deserted your people?”
“Abascar’s king has a plan for them, but the people are hungry and weary. He has reason to believe that Cyndere might send help. I’m here to find out.”
“Send help? Cyndere is already helping them. Just today the people of Abascar—well, whatever is left of them—were given shelter and meals here, in Bel Amica’s safety.”
The words bewildered him, like the answer to a riddle he had missed in his sleep.
“They’re in a spread of tents down at the shipyards. Didn’t you see them carried in?”
“What?” Cal-raven gripped the windowsill. His heartbeat fell out of step. “Impossible,” he whispered.
“They fled their caves, escaping some kind of invasion.”
“Beastmen?”
“No, something else. But there are rumors everywhere. Captain Ryllion intercepted them in the forest. The queen is deciding what to do with them.”
“By what authority?”
“They’re under her protection. They are eating her food. Would you rather they were handed over to the Seers?”
Cal-raven turned sharply toward the voice. “I was under the impression that Queen Thesera did the Seers’ bidding. I know what the Seers are made of.”
“No one,” said the prisoner, “knows what the Seers are made of.” Cal-raven began to press at the edges of the window, widening it. “Cyndere,” the voice cautiously continued, “has become concerned about these people. Would you trust her to look out for them?”
“Can Cyndere protect them from the Seers?” The stranger was silent. Cal-raven waited.
“The Seers,” the voice quietly continued, “have been sinking their hooks into the queen for years. Many of us have wondered why they don’t just take the throne for themselves. But they have not gone so far yet. And they seem to enjoy their…their work.”
“You know a great deal about what is going on for someone locked up here.”
“I told you. I know too much.”
“I have to get out of here. I have to get back to my people.”
“And what do you think you could do for them? They have a capable captain.”
“Tabor Jan is here?” It was unthinkable. And then, before he could stop himself. “What about Lesyl? Have you heard of a musician called Lesyl?”
“I am not free to converse with the strangers,” the voice said dryly. “And you’ll bleed yourself to death digging at these walls. This is coarse, punishing stone.”
“If you can help me speak with Cyndere, I’ll free you from this prison when I leave.”
“Why do you want to speak with Cyndere?”
“I told you. I came here by her invitation.”
“I’ll ask you one more time, Abascar man. Why do you want to meet Cyndere? Many zealous men are eager to speak with her these days. She may have lost a husband, but she’s still young. And Queen Thesera is so eager for grandchildren.”
Exasperated, Cal-raven pushed his fingers into the wall. “What do you mean? I just told you! I’m looking out for the best interests of my people.”
“Your people?”
He bit his tongue. He had used the phrase once too often. He bared his teeth at his faint reflection in one of the stones.
“If Cyndere promised to help you, she will. But it’ll be a gamble. She’s cornered, you see.” There was bitterness in the voice. “The Seers are puppeteers, and Ryllion’s their favorite toy. He’s Bel Amica’s captain now, with all defenders at his command. If he gets his way, he’ll direct the watchmen, too, and all patrollers on the streets. Queen Thesera’s besotted, even though she’s twice his age. If she could make herself younger—and the Seers have made her think it’s possible—she might invite him to sit on Helpryn’s throne. Cyndere and her brother are struggling to preserve what little sense their mother has left.”
Cal-raven sighed. “Perhaps it’s folly, then, to put my hope in Thesera’s daughter when the Seers have Bel Amica surrounded. But I have to take that chance.”
Even the birds were quiet. Wind whistled across the widened window.
“You see things clearly now,” came the hushed voice. “Wait until the Seers’ potions take hold of you.”
“The Seers won’t seduce me. I’ve bested one before. One who promised aid to Abascar but instead led a swarm of beastmen to our doorstep.”
The voice sharpened excitedly. “One sure way to stay locked up is to speak openly of Seers in league with beastmen. Why are you telling me?”
“Because you’re locked up too. What harm can it do?” He put his hand against the wall, suddenly uneasy. “Will you keep quiet about what I’ve told you?”
“I’ve kept your secrets before.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t think you slipped away undiscovered the last time you were here, do you, Cal-raven?”
He stepped away from the wall.
“I followed you through the evening revels. My disguise was much more convincing than yours. And I know what scared you away. But don’t worry, King of Abascar. I haven’t told anyone. The secret’s too much fun to spoil. Still, you cannot blame me for wondering—can you really be trusted this time?”
The haze of Cal-raven’s confusion suddenly cleared. The answer took a clear shape in his mind even before he could ask the question. “Who are you?”
He heard a shifting, then footsteps.
He flung himself at the wall, his hands burning into the stone.
When he broke through into the next cell, it was empty, and the door was shut. There was a lingering scent of rosefruit in the air. Small footprints marred the dust, but they led straight to a solid wall—a wall upon which was chalked the likeness of the be
astman who had delivered Cyndere’s message.
Heavy boots sounded in the corridor outside. He struggled back through the opening into his cell. And even though he groaned for the ache of it, he scooped up piles of misshapen stone and slapped and pressed them together, hoping to repair the wall before anyone looked inside.
19
QUEEN THESERA TAKES COUNSEL
Full-grown, but enthusiastic as a puppy, Drunkard careened from side to side, a black blur barking at the netterbeaks and bumping into her brother Trumpet in his golden, stately stride. Holding one leash in each hand, Cyndere laughed, envying the dogs’ joy. Both knew they were off to visit their mother, Willow. The old grey hound would probably be curled at the queen’s feet before the fireplace.
As they crossed the narrow footbridge from the slender, unadorned stalk of the Heir’s Tower toward the stout monolith ahead, Cyndere’s gaze climbed the dark scar lines of her mother’s crooked tower. Those marks recorded the builders’ responses to Thesera’s frequent requests for a taller tower. For Cyndere, the lines were the rungs of a ladder her mother was climbing in hopes of escaping this world and all the loss she’d suffered in it.
Cyndere had grown up in the Palace Tower, listening to her parents’ footsteps in the chambers above her own room. Through one window she had watched the sea for oceandragons until she accepted the disappointing theory that they had left this world; through the other she’d waved at her brother, who lived in the tower set aside for the heir. Years after their father’s death, when reports came that Partayn had been slain by beastmen on the road to House Jenta, Thesera had insisted that Cyndere move into the Heir’s Tower to be formally acknowledged as Bel Amica’s next queen.
While the burden of that future pained her, Cyndere found some relief in the distance from her mother and the Seers, especially when she married Deuneroi. And when Deuneroi, too, fell victim to the Cent Regus while seeking survivors in Abascar’s ruin, the Heir’s Tower became Cyndere’s hideaway, a place to mourn.
When Partayn reappeared, Cyndere’s life was transformed, her ambitions rekindled. Partayn joined her in the Heir’s Tower, accepting only a small, simple room for himself. But the two were rarely to be found in their chambers. They worked together zealously in Myrton’s greenhouse, plotting rescue for the Cent Regus prisoners and seeking a cure for the Cent Regus curse.