“I’ll never understand that woman,” Gevan said when the door closed behind the futureteller. “Well, I must get back to my rehearsals. I am sorry about Dragon, though. Is there anything else my guild can do?”
I forced myself to smile. “I think not.”
Roland took my hands and said, “Do not give up hope for Dragon, Elspeth. Maybe Angina’s music will reach her. Will you come with me to see her?”
I shook my head and asked him to send Maruman to me when he awakened. I could not bear the thought of seeing Dragon lying so vulnerable, falling deeper into madness, and that in her madness she hated me.
“I must get back to the farms,” Alad said, his eyes compassionate. “I’ll ask Rasial to find out if animals are also dreaming of the dragon. Who knows, maybe it communicates with them better than with us funaga. After all, myth or not, it is a beast.”
I nodded and changed the subject. “How did Straaka react when you told him Miryum would speak to him at the moon fair?”
Alad shrugged. “The mere mention of her name renders him silent. I daresay he hopes she will ask him to bring her a mountain stone by stone for the sheer delight of doing so in her honor.”
I frowned. “As far as he’s concerned, he must provide something to replace the horses as a betrothal gift. And Miryum is supposed to decide what, right? And there is no limit to what she can ask?”
“Not so far as I understand. In fact, I gather he would be insulted if it wasn’t sufficiently difficult. But, Elspeth, what are you cooking up? Miryum won’t set a task for him if she does not mean to bond with him. It would be dishonorable, and her code would forbid it.”
“If it was an impossible task, he would never complete it. And if her sense of honor is bothered by such a ruse, then she must either keep the promise she inadvertently made in accepting the horses or let him die.”
Alad shrugged. “Tell that to her, not me.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry for snarling at you. It’s this business with Dragon on top of everything else.”
He relented and gave me a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow on the farms.”
When he had gone, I sank into a chair as Ceirwan attended the fire.
“Elspeth, ye smell of a hard ride, an’ ye look pale an’ faded,” Ceirwan said. “Why don’t ye bathe an’ relax. I’ll organize a meal on a tray.” Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door, and Ceirwan slapped his forehead. “That will be Wila. I fergot she wants ye to see her notes on th’ Herders in rough before she prepares them for th’ next guildmerge.”
“I’ll talk to her. In the meantime, maybe you could have Javo send up something light to eat.”
Ceirwan nodded and let Wila in on his way out.
The older farseeker arranged a pile of notes on the table and sat diffidently on the edge of her chair. “You understand these are just rough notes, Guildmistress?”
“Ceirwan explained,” I said, as ever discomfited to find myself deferred to by a woman old enough to be my mother. I had tried to be less formal, but it only made the older folk at Obernewtyn uneasy. Now I reminded myself that the deference was to my office and tried not to let it bother me.
Wila had riffled through a sheaf of scrawled notes and was now peering at one page in apparent dismay. This was an expression she often wore, so I simply sat back in my seat and waited.
“As you can imagine, we found it difficult to discover much about the upper ranks of the Faction because of their secrecy. But we have managed to get some vital information. The leader of the Faction is a man known as The One. He is served by a group called The Three. They, in turn, are served by The Nine. Theoretically, The Nine serve all of The Three equally, but in practice they seem divided up among them. That might be less a matter of faction and more to do with the various areas of responsibility of The Three. We have some of their names, but not that of The One, of course.”
“This One. Does he ever leave Herder Isle?”
“Never, and no one but The Three and a few trusted servants see him even on the Isle. Now, we call this group—The One, The Three, and The Nine—the inner cadre. They are the core of the organization….”
“What about the head priests of the cloisters?”
“They form the upper rank of the outer cadre. There are thirty-nine of them, and each has the power of a One over the hundred and seventeen senior priests who are next in rank. Lesser Threes. You see, it follows the same pattern as the inner cadre. The head priests are Ones, the senior priests are Threes, and under them are Nines—in this case, the ordinary, unranked priests.”
“You said there are thirty-nine head priests, but there are not thirty-nine cloisters in the Land….”
“There are fifteen on the mainland. But Sutrium has a double set of priests in residence, as has Morganna. Then there are two cloisters on Norseland and three on Herder Isle—training cloisters.” She paused as I added up in my head. “The extra ones are on Herder Isle, waiting to be rotated for their turn in a cloister. That turnaround happens every year, just like they shift orphans in the orphan homes.”
“Thirty-nine sets of thirteen comes to…over five hundred priests!”
“Not counting acolytes, novices, and bonded servants, of course,” Wila said. “Nor the thirteen who make up the inner cadre.”
I stared at her, wondering if she had grasped that her figures represented real priests. If she was right, there were nearly a thousand people in the Herder Faction. I would have guessed a few hundred at most.
Wila was talking again, and I forced myself to listen. “All wear gray habits but novices, who wear white. Then there are the bands. Head priests wear gold armbands, and senior priests wear red. The rest wear brown. Just before they go up a rank, the band is edged with the color of the next band. There are also priests who have other colored bands; most of the Sadorian priests wear green. On Herder Isle, there are a lot of priests who wear black bands. We have no idea yet what these colors signify.”
“So very complex,” I said.
“If you’ll pardon me for saying so, Guildmistress, those who have been researching the Herders believe the complexity and the secrecy are designed to keep the power and knowledge at the center of the Faction.”
“I wonder what they are hiding in their unassailable core,” I muttered, all of my old distrust and fear of the priesthood reawakened. I looked at Wila. “How did you learn all this about the inner cadre?”
“Nhills of The Nine happened to visit the cloister in Guanette when we were scrying it out.”
“You farsought this man?” I asked worriedly, for the upper-rank Herders were often mind-sensitive.
“Not him. A novice assigned to be his servant during the stay. He overheard a bit here and there, and we were able to put it together with other bits and pieces.” She looked justifiably pleased, and I forced myself to smile, although I was filled with dismay.
I could not imagine why Herders had not taken over the Land if there were so many of them. It was almost as if they were biding their time. But biding their time for what?
I rose. “You and your helpers have done some important work, Wila. It would be useful to have your report in full by next guildmerge. It is not necessary to come up with charts and lists as Tomash did. Just make sure the numbers are clear. Rushton will be back tomorrow, and he should know how matters stand.”
After she had gone, I sat thinking of the way no one really looked at Herders. Especially the ubiquitous brown bands. You saw the bald heads that came after banding, the gray whispering garments; you heard the reproaches and exhortations. But you didn’t notice how many faces there were, because in a sense, one Herder was the same as any other. The stealthy increase in their numbers was like a secret invasion, like the rotting sickness that had destroyed Pavo’s body, only revealing itself when he was riddled with its deadly spore.
I shivered and looked at the table before me. Under Maryon’s quarter-year dreamscape were Tomash’s chart and map, which I had yet to exami
ne properly. In my cloak pocket were Dameon’s letters, one still unopened. So much to do, and I felt suddenly exhausted.
Sighing, I lifted out the chart Tomash had made and began to examine it.
When Ceirwan brought me a tray a little later, my appetite had vanished. The number of Councilmen, soldierguards, and their collaborators was not as shocking as the Herder figures, but it was still high. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of our enemies, and that did not count the rebels and ordinary folk who feared and loathed Misfits.
“Ye mun rest,” Ceirwan said, sounding exasperated.
Ignoring his fussing, I told him of Wila’s findings, and he looked as stunned as I had felt. “So many Herders? Does Rushton know?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “He does not consider the Herders a specific threat, but only an aspect of the threat posed by the Council.”
“The thing that always shivers me is that Ariel is a Herder acolyte,” Ceirwan said.
Incredibly, I had forgotten that, and it was not a thing to be forgotten. Nor was it wise to forget that the ruthless slave trader Salamander also had some mysterious connection with the Herders.
After Ceirwan had left, I allowed myself to long for Rushton. Nothing would be changed by his presence, really, but just having him slide his arms around me would comfort all the vague and nameless fears that haunted me. And where was he? Riding still, perhaps, as it was not yet midnight. Or more likely he was sleeping under a tree, curled up by the equine that had volunteered to carry him to the lowlands. Or sitting at a bench, drinking ale in some roadside hostelry, sifting through gossip and drunken maundering for useful information.
“Rushton, love,” I whispered to the fire. “Time you were home.”
PART II
THE ROAD TO WAR
10
SLEEP DID NOT come easily that night. I tossed and turned for an age, thinking of the Herders and how ruthlessly they had dragged me from my bed to watch my parents’ burning. At some point, the face of my father became Rushton’s face, and this was too much. I got up again and stirred the fire before wrapping myself in a blanket on the chair. Before long, I sank deeply into sleep, past disjointed images from the day, and down into the chaotic swirl of dreams and imaginings. I sank as if something pulled at me. And I dreamed.
I was in a sunlit garden. It was cold, and there were mountains in the distance beyond a high wall. A girl was seated on a low stool with her back to me. She wore a mustard-colored woolen coat and a scarf. Long dark hair flowed down her spine in a thick plait. Before her was a square, white sheet of paper, clipped to a board held aloft by a three-legged metal stand. There were a few lines on the paper, and as I watched, she reached up with a stub of black charcoal to scratch another line that intersected the others. I was amazed to see the essence of the dark, bare mountains emerging in these few simple lines.
All at once, there were footsteps, and when she turned to see who was approaching, I found myself staring into the face of the girl from the flying machine. I was startled to see how dark her skin was away from the winking lights and tinted glass. She could easily have been taken for a Twentyfamilies gypsy. Her look of curiosity faded into a scowl, but it was not aimed at me. The man approaching was the target of her displeasure. Clad much as the man in the flying machine had been, he was younger and very handsome, but his eyes were the same flat gray as his coat, and the smile that lifted his curved mouth did not change them.
“Good morning, Cassy,” he said in a smooth voice.
“Mr. Masterton,” she responded coldly, and turned back to her drawing.
His smile did not falter. “I have asked you to call me Petr.”
Cassy made no response. Instead, she began rubbing one of the lines on the paper, smudging it with quick, finicky movements.
“The director showed me the sketches you made of the flamebirds,” he went on, still smiling. “They’re very good.”
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Cassy said icily, still rubbing at her line, still looking obstinately away from him. “I don’t like anyone seeing unfinished work.”
“Of course. Artistic temperament is permissible when there is true talent. But you do understand that his allowing you to paint the birds is an infringement of the rules here?” There was a hard note in his mellow voice now, as if velvet was laid over stone.
Cassy turned at this, standing and facing him squarely, her expression defiant. “What do you want?”
He ignored her manner and went on pleasantly. “It is an infringement of the rules, which, as head of security, I have to regard seriously. It was agreed you could spend time here only if you were kept under control. This is, after all, a top-secret establishment, and there is a great deal of delicate research going on. Those birds were part of a very sensitive project, and although they are no longer being used, your painting them is a serious breach of security. But there is a solution. I am sure the director mentioned that we have engaged a firm to design a logo for our organization.”
“He doesn’t tell me anything.” Cassy’s voice was rudely uninterested.
“Then he will not have told you that we were displeased with the designs. I would like to suggest to the director that your drawing of the flamebirds would serve very well as a logo. You would even be paid for your efforts.”
“Me design a logo for this place? You must be crazy,” Cassy sneered. “I’d as soon design a logo for a gang of axe murderers!”
The man smiled, and if anything, his eyes became flatter. “That is a pity, because I am afraid, in that case, I will be obliged to convey news of the director’s transgression to our superiors. I am sure you are aware that they are also your mother’s superiors, and they might well be interested to know of your…liaison, shall we say, with a Tiban rebel?”
“That is blackmail, and it is a crime, Masterton,” Cassy snarled.
“Petr, please,” he said suavely. He unrolled a sheet of paper and handed it to her. “You will produce a full-color work of this. It is my own design.”
I peeked over his shoulder and gaped to see, sketched crudely, the now familiar Govamen logo of three Agyllian birds flying around one another in an ascending spiral.
“I’ll need to see the birds again,” Cassy said sulkily. I could not see her face, because her head was bent over the design.
“I’m afraid that is impossible.”
“Then what you want is impossible,” Cassy said, still looking down. “I work from life. The drawings I made are quick, thoughtless sketches. I would need to do a detailed study if you want anything worthwhile.”
The man was silent, his expression still. At last he nodded decisively. “Very well. I will see what can be arranged.” He turned and walked away, and Cassy lifted her head to stare after him. I expected to see her look ashamed or angry, but her expression was of ferocious triumph.
I heard a screeching cry overhead and looked up to find the red dragon, its scaly wings outlined by the sun.
“Dragon!” I cried, and lifted my hands, but even as I spoke, the creature swooped, madness glittering in its eyes.
I flung myself sideways and out of the dream. Almost immediately, I was absorbed by a memory of myself as a young child in Rangorn.
I was in the little wood on the hill behind our home. My brother Jes was with my father in the fields, and my mother was hunting an herb she used to season our soups in wintertime. I had gone with her but had wandered apart, drawn by a golden butterfly. I lay passively inside my child self, enjoying my own wonder at what I had imagined was a piece of flame that had escaped the fire. The butterfly vanished from sight behind a tree, and I ran after it on my short legs.
I stopped, for behind the tree lay Maruman in his dream-tyger shape.
“Greetings, ElspethInnle,” he sent languidly, yawning and baring his red mouth.
“Maruman!” I cried, and the child self fell away, leaving me in my own form. “I’m so glad to see you. I was worried that Dragon had done something to you.”
/> “Marumanyelloweyes is safe. But Mornirdragon seeks ElspethInnle,” he sent.
I gaped at him. “You knew the dragon was her/ Mornir?”
“Now know,” Maruman sent succinctly. “Wake now, for the beast seeks you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to wake yet, Maruman. I need to see the doors of Obernewtyn. You said they still exist on the dreamtrails.”
“They do,” he sent.
“Take me there now,” I requested.
He looked troubled. “Dreamtrails danger filled. Mornirdragon confused by feelmusic but seeks ElspethInnle.”
“I have to see those doors, Maruman,” I sent. “It is part of my quest to destroy the glarsh. The old One would wish you to help me.”
He gave way suddenly. “Come, then. You must prepare/change to travel the dreamtrails.”
I did not argue, though I had no idea what he meant me to do. The thoughtsymbol he had used for prepare was unfamiliar to me. I drew close enough to his mind that I could see him rise nearer to consciousness—he took on his true, one-eyed form. But he did not wake.
I sensed a surge of energy and gasped as a silvery snake arose from his body like some fantastical umbilical cord. Light began to flow along the cord as water through a hose. It ran from his sleeping form and spilled from the end of the cord into a widening pool of silver that soon assumed the dimensions of Maruman’s tyger shape. But it was a form of pure light with no substance and remained attached by the cord to the body. Maruman’s consciousness was still within his flesh, but all at once, I felt his will flow away from it, up the silver cord and into the shape of light. Then the eyes of the shining tyger opened, and golden light flecked with blue swam in one, while a diamond-bright white light shone from the eye that had been removed in his true form.
“Must do same as Maruman. Only in such form/ shape can fly dreamtrails.” Maruman’s voice sounded far away and oddly distorted.