Stunned by a question she had never thought to ask, she had no answer to give him. She had been entirely in Camhóinhann’s power, first to last—why then should he fear to tell her the truth about anything? It had only been her own weakness, her own fear, that made everything he said seem a lie.
To her surprise, Dyonas bent down, worked some secret clasp on each of the silver bracelets, and took them away. “I believe you wished to work a healing on some of the men. I see no reason to deny you that opportunity now.”
She sat for a moment rubbing her wrists, bewildered as much by this as by anything that had gone before.
At last, gathering her wits about her, she rose to her feet and went to offer her help to the injured guards and acolytes.
Afterward, a little unsteady from the effort it had required to purge the lingering poisons and to begin the process of knitting together torn flesh, she turned her attention to the one who had been on her mind all along: the stern, solitary figure in crimson robes who sat apart from the others in a pose of meditation or prayer.
Camhóinhann opened his eyes at her approach, but said no word when she knelt down beside him. She hesitated, unsure how he would receive her offer. “I could heal you,” she said, gesturing toward his injured arm. “I need not use my mother’s ring. See, I removed it even before I touched Morquant or Rivanon, knowing that to look on it causes you pain.”
“You are mistaken,” he replied. “It does not pain us to look on Nimenoë’s ring, not in the way you mean.
It merely reminds us of what we were before—and that is a memory we do not like to dwell on. As for the healing you offer, it is not for me.”
She sat back on her heels. Why did she feel this pang of the heart at the sight of blood on his sleeve?
Empathy was a part of healing, but this—this was something more. And was it not a betrayal of everything she had been before, everyone she had loved before, that she should feel anything but hatred and loathing? If he had saved her life, that had been duty to his Empress who for some reason wanted her alive; had he been commanded to kill her, she would have assuredly been dead. So she reasoned—but all along she knew that reason was no part of what she felt. “Is it that you mistrust me?
But I helped the others—”
“What is allowed to them is not permitted to me. Even Rivanon and Morquant have not come so far down this road. Your offer is generous but may not be accepted.”
“But why?” she insisted. “Why is it denied you? Why should you not be healed like the other men?”
“Because I renounced it long ago. Healing, and many other things besides.” He rose to his feet, stood looking down at her with that unfathomable glance. “You do not understand yet—it’s not necessary that you should—but I could not be what I am and accept what you offer.”
The horses who had emerged through the partly open door much sooner than Winloki had expected them. She was sure the Furiádhin had called them; there could be no other explanation. Once mounted, they did not travel far that day, only until they found a little stream gurgling down from the higher slopes, where they might refresh themselves and water the horses.
On this side of the mountain, there was no stain on the land, and the weather was warmer. “We will rest here for a few days,” said Camhóinhann. “There will be game for the hunting, and forage for the horses.
By that time it will be safe to ride them.”
“It is only practical,” Dyonas agreed. “We will travel more speedily afterward.”
In the morning, when Winloki went to examine Rivanon’s wounds to see if they were healing properly, the acolyte surprised her by speaking up. “You asked me before what Goezenou wanted of you, and I did not answer. I think, perhaps, that I should have done so.”
She glanced warily over her shoulder, to see if anyone was listening. “In the catacombs, there at the end, I thought he would kill me.”
Rivanon shook his head. “Oh no, Princess, I think that he meant to rescue you—he has always imagined himself greater than he is.” Then he fell silent and the silence stretched out so long that Winloki began to fear he had decided not to speak after all.
“Few know this,” he said at last, “but Goezenou was the first to hail Ouriána as a goddess. Because of that, he believed he would also be first among her servants. When she chose Camhóinhann instead—”
The acolyte lowered his voice, leaned so near that his pale face almost touched hers. “He does not mean to be passed over a second time. He knows you fear him, and would ingratiate himself if he knew how.”
She had been kneeling, but now she sat down on the ground, all of the breath driven out of her. “He thinks that I—that I will someday—”
“It is what we all think, Princess.”
In its own way, the idea was far more terrifying than any of the fates she had ever imagined for herself at their hands. “Even Dyonas and Camhóinhann? They think I will be—a goddess?”
He shrugged. “Who can tell what Dyonas thinks? As for Camhóinhann, he is different from the other Furiádhin.” He dropped his voice again. “The nature of his bond with the Empress is different, too.”
Winloki’s mind was still spinning; it was hard to form a coherent thought. “In what way different?”
“While the others glory in her worship, his bond is one of pain. I believe it is the stronger for that, but—”
Rivanon frowned and shook his head. His face suddenly looked weary and very much older inside the black hood. “I should not speak of these things. I have said too much already.”
“I would never betray you,” she protested. She knew that it was wrong to press him—dangerous for him, perhaps even dangerous for her—but her desire to know more about Camhóinhann was stronger than ever. Returning to the task of bandaging the acolyte’s hand, she could not resist saying, “You must know I would never repeat anything you told me in confidence.”
“I did not think that you would. But there may come a time when, remembering I was indiscreet, you might wish to chastise me yourself.”
It was, of all the things he had said, the most horrifying, the most bewildering. What does his Empress mean to make of me? Does she think she can re-create me in her own image? Winloki was certain she would rather die a horrible death than allow Ouriána to do any such thing.
The kingdom of Reichünterwelt was a place of ceaseless activity but very little hurry. When Prince Tyr offered to escort his father’s “guests” through the workshops of King Yri’s artisans, Sindérian and the Skyrran princes readily assented. To be shown what few other humans had ever seen was, they agreed, too good an opportunity to refuse—particularly under the aegis of such a guide.
“And it is not,” she said, “as though declining his offer will hasten our departure from Yri’s realm by as much as an hour. Courtesy, on the other hand, may gain us much.”
Prince Ruan apparently thought otherwise, so they left him behind with the faithful Aell in attendance and accompanied the dwarf prince with a pleasurable thrill of anticipation.
The living quarters of the dwarves were warm and dim like burrows, but their artisans always made a bright light to work by. Forges, potteries, and glasshouses were hives of industry; in the workshops of goldsmiths, silversmiths, and jewelers were created items of timeless beauty.
“Some of these masters,” said Prince Tyr, “will spend years—nay, sometimes even decades—designing, casting, and perfecting a single exquisite item.”
Sindérian had seen such artifacts before, treasures of royal houses with the patina of age on them. But here the metal was bright from the fire: silver candelabra like branching trees, golden drinking vessels shaped into basilisks, mermaids, and griffons; sea serpent necklaces with emerald or ruby or diamond eyes.
They lingered longest among the jewelers. In one such shop, Prince Tyr explained, the artisans were crafting funeral jewelry. “We never bury our dead without some fine and precious thing to honor them.