“Thank you, Effr.” She looked at Shaso, wondering if he had been less eager to share the information than the merchant was suggesting: he had the look of a man who had eaten something sour.
“First off, a company of soldiers from Southmarch have been asking questions in Landers Port. They do not seem to have learned anything useful, however, and they moved on to other towns a day or two ago, so that will be some relief to you, I think.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” The day’s outing had made her realize how little she liked being out where people could see her, but she also knew she could not hide here in the merchant’s house forever.
“Also,” Dan-Mozan said, “everyone who has come from the south seems to agree that the autarch is pushing forward his shipbuilding at a great pace, which does make it seem as though he plans an attack on Hierosol. Most of the other nations in Xand are already pacified, and the strongest of those which resist him are in the mountainous regions to the south. There would be little use of a great navy there.”
“But Hierosol . . . that is where my father is prisoner!”
“Of course, Highness.” Dan-Mozan bowed as though acknowledging a sad but immutable fact, some ancient tragedy. “Still, I do not think you should be overly worried. Autarch Sulepis, even if he can put three hundred warships in the water, will not be able to overcome Hierosol.”
“Why do you say that?” She wanted to believe it. It was horrid to think of being stuck here with Hierosol coming under attack. Foolish and probably fatal as it would be, it was all she could do these days not to steal a few days’ worth of food and sneak out of the house, heading southward.
“Because the walls of Hierosol are the strongest defense on either of the two continents. No one has ever conquered them by force, not in almost two thousand years. And the Hierosolines have a mighty fleet of their own.”
“But for all that, Hieorsol has been conquered several times,” growled Shaso, who had been silent until now, staring at the barren tree as though he had never seen anything so fascinating. “By treachery, usually. And Sulepis has made more than a few of his conquests that way—have you forgotten Talleno and Ulos?”
Effir dan-Mozan smiled and waved his hand as though swatting away the smallest of flying insects. “No, and Ludis Drakava has not forgotten either, I promise you. Remember, his followers can have no illusions about what comes in the wake of one of the autarch’s triumphs. The Ulosians who turned to Xis did not have that knowledge and they paid dearly for it. Recall that Ludis and his men are interlopers, with no power except that which they hold in the great city itself. Not one of the lord protector’s followers will believe he can make himself a better deal with Sulepis.”
“Yes, but there are many that Ludis displaced, the old nobility of Hier-osol, who might think precisely that.”
Again the merchant waved a dismissive hand. “We will bore Princess Briony with this talk. She wants assurances and we give her debate.” He turned his sharp gaze onto her. “You have my word, Highness. As the oracles teach us, only a fool says ‘Forever,’ but I promise you that the autarch will not take Hierosol this year or even next year. There is time enough to get your father back.”
Shaso muttered something, but Briony could not make out the words.
“What else did you learn today?” she asked. “Anything about my brother or Southmarch?”
“Nothing we did not already know, at least in general terms. The only thing of interest I heard was that there is a new castellan at Southmarch—a man named Havemore.”
Shaso cursed, but Briony did not recognize the name at first. “Hold—is that Brone’s factor?” She felt sudden anger boil through her. “If he has appointed his own factor as castellan, then Avin Brone must be prospering under the Tollys.” Could the lord constable, one of her father’s oldest friends and closest advisers, have been with them all along? But if so, why had he told her and Barrick about the contact between the autarch and Summerfield Court? “It is all too confusing,” she said at last.
“Not so confusing, at least in one respect.” Shaso looked as though he wanted to swim back to Southmarch and get his large hands around someone’s neck. “Tirnan Havemore is well-named. He has always been ambitious. If anyone would profit from the Tollys being in power, he would.”
• * *
Shaso and Effir had gone in, and Briony had been left alone in the gar-den to mull over the latest tidings from Southmarch and elsewhere, large and small. She paced slowly, pulling her shawl close around her loose garment. Havemore being made castellan and the Tollys’ liegeman Berkan Hood being made lord constable, those changes were not all that surprising, just evidence of Hendon tightening his fist on power. No one knew much about Anissa, Briony’s stepmother, and the new baby, but they had been seen, or at least Anissa and a baby had been seen.
It’s not as if Hendon Tolly even needs a real heir, Briony thought bitterly. The baby might have died that night, for all anyone will ever know. As long as Anissa swears it’s true, any baby she claims is hers will be the heir, and the Tollys will protect the heir—which means the Tollys will rule. It was especially bizarre to think that this child, if it was the real one, was her own half brother.
A sudden pang touched her. Maybe he looks like Father, or like Kendrick or Barrick. For me, that would be reason enough to protect him. For a moment she did not realize that she had made another promise to herself and the gods, but she had. If that child is truly my father’s, then Zoria, hear me—/ will save him from the Tollys, too! He’s an Eddon, after all. I won’t let him be their mask.
She was so deep in these thoughts that she had not noticed the man standing across the courtyard from her, watching her in the growing twilight gloom, until he began to move toward her.
“You are thinking,” said Talibo, the merchant’s nephew. His curly hair was wet, combed close against his head, and he wore a robe so clean and white it seemed to glow in the garden shadows. “What do you think about, lady?”
She tried to suppress her anger. How was he to know she wished to be alone with her thoughts? “Matters of my family.”
“Ah, yes. Families are very important. All the wise men say this.” He put his hand to his chin in a gesture so transparently meant to look like a wise man’s pondering that Briony actually giggled. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Why do you laugh?”
“Sorry. I thought of something funny, that’s all. What brings you to the garden? I will be happy to let you walk in peace—I should go join the other women for the evening meal.”
He looked at her f’or a moment with something like defiance. “You do not want to go. Not truly.”
“What?”
“You do not want to go. I know this. I saw you look at me.”
She shook her head. He was using words, simple words in her own language, but he was not making any sense to her at all. “What do you mean, Tal?”
“Do not call me that. That is a name for a child. I am Talibo dan-Mozan. You watch me. I see you watch me.”
“Watch you . . . ?”
“A woman does not look at a man so unless she is interested in him. No woman makes such shameful eyes at a man if she does not want him.”
Briony did not know whether to laugh again or to shout at him. He was mad! “You ... you don’t know what you’re talking about. You were staring at me. You have been staring at me since I came here.”
“You are a handsome woman, for an Eioni.” He shrugged. “A girl, really. But still, not bad to the eye.”
“How dare you? How dare you talk to me like . . . like I was a serving wench!”
“You are only a woman and you have no husband to protect you. You cannot make eyes at men, you know.” He said this with the calm certainty of someone describing the weather. “Other men would take advantage of you.” He stepped forward, trying to pull her toward him, first her hands, then—when she slapped his fingers away—moving even closer to put his arms around her.
Zoria, save me! She was so ast
onished she almost could not fight. He was going to try to kiss her! A small, sane part of her was glad she had left her knives behind, because at this moment she would happily have stabbed him through the heart.
She fought him off, but it was difficult: he was pushing blindly forward, as though determined on something he knew might be painful but needed to be done, and her own knees were weak with surprise and even fear. She was terrified and did not entirely know why. He was a boy, and Shaso and the others were only a few paces away—one shout and they would come to her aid.
She got her arm free and slapped at him, missing his face but striking him hard against the neck. He stopped in surprise, then began to step toward her again but she used one of Shaso’s holds to grab his arm and shove him to one side, then she fled across the courtyard back toward the women’s quarters, tears of rage and shame making it hard to see.
“You will come to me,” he called after her, no more shaken than if someone at the market had rejected his first price. “You know that I am right.” A moment later his last words came, now with a hot edge of anger. “You will not make a fool of me!”
13. Messages
Why was it ordered so? Why should the entwining of two hearts’
melodies give birth to the destruction of the Firstborn and the
People, too? The oldest voices cannot say. When Crooked spoke of it he called it “The Narrowing of the Way,” and likened it to the point of a blade, which cuts where it is sharpest and which cannot shed blood without dividing Might Be from Is.
—from One Hundred Considerations out of the Qar’s Book of Regret
CHAVEN SEEMED A LITTLE BETTER with the cup of hot blueroot tea in his bandaged hands, but he was still shaking like a man with fever. “What is all this about?” Chert demanded. “Your pardon, but you acted like a madman while we were in your house. What is happening?”
“No. No, I cannot tell you. I am ashamed.”
“You owe us at least that much,” Chert said. “We have taken you in—you, a wanted fugitive. If you are found here by the Tollys, we will all be thrown into the big folk’s stronghold. How long do you think before one of our neighbors sees you? It has been nearly impossible, sneaking you in and out by night.”
“Chert, leave the man alone,” Opal growled at him, although she too looked frightened: the physician and Chert had come through the door with the harried look of two men chased by wolves. “It’s not his fault he’s fallen on the wrong side of those dreadful people.”
. “Ah, but it is my fault that I trusted one I should not.” Chaven took a shaky sip of tea.”But how could Okros know of it? That was the one thing I never showed him—never showed anyone!”
“What is the one thing?” Chert had never seen the physician like this, trembling and weeping like a small child—not even after his escape from death and the horrors of Queen Anissa’s chambers.
“Not so loud,” Opal said, quietly but fiercely. “You’ll wake the boy.”
As if we did not have enough troubles already, Chert thought. Two of the big folk in my house, one a grown man, both of them half mad. Just feeding them will kill us long before the castle guards come for us. Not to mention the uncomfortable and unfamiliar brightness of having to burn lamps at all hours to make Chaven and his weak, uplander eyes more comfortable. “You owe us some explanation, sir,” Chert said stubbornly. “We are your friends—and not the kind who have betrayed you.”
“You are right, of course.” Chaven took another sip of tea and stared at the floor. “You have risked your lives for me. Oh, I am wretched—wretched!”
Chert let out a hiss of air. He was losing his patience. Just before he got up in frustration and walked out of the main room, Chaven raised one of his wounded hands.
“Peace, friend,” he said. “I will try to explain, although I think you will not care for me so much once you have heard my story. Still, it would only be what I deserved . . .”
Chert sat down, shared a glance with Opal. She leaned forward and filled the physician’s cup with blueroot tea. “Speak, then.” Despite his curiosity, Chert hoped it would not be a long story. He had already been up half the night and was so weary he could barely keep his eyes open.
“I have ... I had . . . an . . . object. A mirror. You heard Okros talk of captromancy—a clumsy word that means mirror-scrying. It is an art, an art with many depths and strange turnings, and a long, mysterious history.”
“Mirror-scrying?” Opal asked. “Do you mean reading fortunes?” She refilled her own teacup and put her elbows on the table, listening carefully.
“More than that—far more.” Chaven sighed. “There is a book. You likely have not heard of it, although in certain circles it is famous. Ximander’s Book, it is called, but those who have seen it say it is merely part of a larger work, something called The Book of Regret, which was written by the fairy folk—the Qar, as they call themselves. Ximander was a mantis, a priest of Kupilas the Healer in the old days of the Hierosoline Empire, and he is said
In have received die writings from a homeless wanderer who died in the temple.”
Chert shifted impatiently. This might be the kind of thing that fascinated Chaven, but he was having trouble making sense of it. “Yes? And this book taught you mirror-scrying?”
“I have never seen it—it has been lost for years. But my master, Kaspar I )ye!os, had either seen it or a copy of it when he was young—he would never tell me—and much of what he taught me came from those infamous pages. Ximander’s Book tells us that the gods gave us three great gifts—fire, shouma, and mirror-wisdom . ..”
“Shouma? What is that?”
“A drink—some call it the gods’ nectar. It breeds visions, but sometimes madness or even death, too. For centuries it was used in special ceremonies in the temples and palaces of Eion, for those who wished to become closer to the gods. It is said that just as wine makes mortals drunk, shouma makes the gods themselves drunk. It is so powerful that it is not used anymore, or at least the priests of our modern day mix only the tiniest bit into their ceremonial wine, and some say that it is not the true, potent shouma anymore, that the knowledge of making that has been lost. In the old days, many young priests used to die in shouma ecstasies at their first investiture ...” He trailed off. “Forgive me. I have spent my life studying these things and I forget that not all are as interested as me.”
“You were going to speak of mirrors,” Opal reminded him firmly. “That was what you said. Mirrors.”
“Yes, of course. And despite my seemingly wandering thoughts, that is the subject closest to my heart just now. The last of the gods’ great gifts—mirror-wisdom. Captromancy.
“I will not task you with listening to much mirror-lore. Much is what seems like mere folktales, fairy stories to help the initiated remember complicated rituals—or at least so I believe. But what cannot be argued is that with proper training and preparation mirrors can be used hot for reflection of what is before them, but as portals—windows, certainly, and some even claim as doors—to other worlds.”
Chert shook his head. “What does that mean—other worlds? What other worlds?”
“In the old days,” the physician said, “men thought that the gods lived here beside them, on the earth. The peak of Mount Xandos was said to hold Perin’s great fortress, and Kernios was believed to live in the caverns of the south, although I believe there are other strains of wisdom that claim he dwelt somewhat closer, eh?” He gave Chert a significant gaze.
What does he mean? Does he know something of the Mysteries? Chert looked at Opal, but she was watching the physician with a speculation Chert found unsettling, as if her mind was awhirl with dangerous new thoughts. Hut why would Opal, Funderling Town’s least flighty person, the bedrock on which Chert had based his whole life, be so interested in this obscure study of Chaven’s?
“In later years,” Chaven went on, “when brave or sacreligious men at last climbed cloud-wreathed Xandos and found no trace of Perin’s stronghold, new
ideas arose. A wise man named Phelsas in Hierosol began to talk of the Many Worlds, saying that the worlds of the gods are both connected to anil separate from our own.”
“What does that mean?” Chert demanded. “Connected but separate? That makes no sense.”
“Don’t interrupt, old man,” said Opal. “He’s trying to explain if you’d just listen.”
Chaven Makaros looked a little shamefaced at being the cause of such discord. Despite living in the house for several days he had not yet realized that this was Chert and Opal’s way of speaking, especially Opal’s, a kind of mock harshness that did not disguise her true and much warmer feelings—did not disguise them from Chert, at least, though outsiders might not recognize them.
“Have I spoken too much?” the physician asked. “It is late . . .”
“No, no.” Chert waved for him to continue. “Opal is just reminding me that I’m a dunderhead. Continue—I am fascinated. It is certainly the first time any of these subjects have been discussed inside these walls.”