“But my father . . . ! It isn’t possible, is it?”
“I’m afraid so. Our grandfather Gerraint Highlord promised his baby daughter Tieri to Master Gerridon in exchange for his son Greshan’s return to life.”
Kindrie dropped the contract and rose to pace, running distraught hands through his hair as if meaning to tear it out by the roots.
“You say it so calmly! That man, that legend, that monster . . . my father?”
“My condolences. As for ‘calmly,’ I’ve had a bit longer than you to get used to the idea; and, after all, he is also my uncle.”
“This is madness. Do you know what you’re saying?”
“All too well.” She paused to listen. The walls were silent, the listening presence gone. Nonetheless, her voice dropped. “This is a secret, Kindrie, deep and dark: Jamethiel Dream-weaver was my mother, and Tori’s as well. No, she didn’t die some three thousand years ago. In fact she was still alive . . . sort of . . . until the battle at the Cataracts. The Master is too, worse luck. He sold out his people for immortality, after all. I think you’re safe from him, though,” she added, seeing that the healer looked increasingly alarmed. “Both times, with Ganth and Tieri, he only wanted a daughter or, in the Dream-weaver’s case, a niece. I was to replace her, you see, as a reaper of souls. You and Tori were accidents.”
Although still shocked, Kindrie showed faint pique. “So this is all about you?”
Jame smiled. “Only as far as the Master is concerned. You and Tori are legitimate too—I checked—and just as important as I am, for another reason. You do see what this all means, don’t you?”
“Three legitimate Knorth Highborn. My god.”
“So to speak. What we are, or may become, are the three manifestations of divine power known collectively as the Tyr-ridan. Simply knowing that doesn’t make it so, however. Do you feel ready to become Argentiel, That-Which-Preserves?”
“Trinity, no!”
“Nor I Regonereth, That-Which-Destroys. Right now I’m a nemesis, which is quite unsettling enough, ancestors know, but not yet the Nemesis.”
“But Tori . . . ”
“There’s the real problem. As far as I can figure out, Destruction comes first to sweep away evil, with Preservation on its heels to protect what’s good. Without Creation, though, we have no future.”
“Have you told him?”
“What good would that do if he isn’t ready to accept it? The maddening thing is that I think he would be an excellent source of creation. Look at how he chafes now under this flawed society that he’s inherited. Just think what he could do with a fresh start!”
“But not as long as he can’t accept his Shanir nature.”
“That’s it.”
“He’s softened somewhat,” said Kindrie, a bit wistfully. “At least he doesn’t throw up every time he sees one of us.”
“True, but there’s something in his soul-image stopping him, and I can’t reach it. Can you?”
The healer shook his white head. “Not yet, not without destroying him. Remember, that’s why I didn’t accept his bond—and I wanted to, cousin, I really did.”
Jame indicated the contract, thinking of her conversation with Shade. To whom are you bound? “Do you still want it?”
“I . . . don’t know.” He spoke with a sort of wonder. “The craving to belong is as strong as ever, but maybe not in that particular way. I want to help Torisen, but we can only do so much without breaking him. The real work is up to him.”
“I think so too. There’s one thing you can do for him, though. Tori has to remember the names of everyone bound to his—that is, to our—house and so far he’s forgotten at least one of them. I’ve memorized all I’ve been able to learn. Frankly, though, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me in the hills. We need a third list-keeper. You.”
“Trinity. First Index’s shed and now this. Haven’t you written them down?”
Jame was taken aback. “That never occurred to me. They say that memory is safest.”
“Not if some overenthusiastic hillman is waiting to flatten your skull. As far as I can make out, people have been lining up to do that for years. No, we’ll have a paper and quill, if you please.”
Jame called in Rue. During the hunt for writing materials that ensued, everyone in the barracks learned what was up. In addition to the Riverland names that Jame had already learned, everybody had some Knorth aunt or uncle or cousin three times removed serving with the Southern Host or on detached duty whose name they wanted recorded. Operations moved down to a table in the dining room and proceeded well into the night. Officers and sargents arrived. Not all approved of the written word, but no one wanted to be left out.
“I didn’t mean to land you with something so complicated,” said Jame, regarding the weblike growth of names and connections between.
“That’s all right. I’ll enjoy making a fair copy of this.” He looked up through the fringe of his white hair with a quirky, almost shy smile. “It’s good to be able to help.”
It was well after midnight by the time they were done. Jame retired to bed too tired even to fully undress. She dreamed, or thought she did, of a disturbance across the reception hall in Greshan’s quarters. Jorin was dashing about, crashing into things, and so was something else that went ga-lump, ga-lump, ga-lump very fast.
The commotion crossed the hall and burst into her own chambers.
“Wha—?” said Kindrie sleepily.
Jame didn’t answer. Jorin had just galloped over her, paws driving into the pit of her stomach. “Oof!”
The rolling rumpus of ounce and whatever-it-was circled her pallet, then dived into it under the blankets, one on either side of her, both purring. She felt Jorin’s soft fur to the right, then bristles to the left. The latter stung her hand and side.
Wide awake now, she flung back the covers and rolled to her feet. Jorin sprang out of her way. The blanket fell over her other unexpected bedfellow and began to seethe as it tried to wriggle out. Jorin pounced on it, then leaped back as it fought its way free.
Jame glimpsed something about three feet long, rather like a fat, rolled-up carpet with a heavy white fringe and a decided will of its own. It also had at least nine pseudo feet kicking the air. Then with a squirm it righted itself and galumphed toward the door in a rapid series of undulations with Jorin in close pursuit.
“What?” said Kindrie again, sitting up openmouthed, staring.
“The wrym has hatched!”
Jame grabbed her coat. She reached the stair in time to see the crawler bounce down the steps, rolled into a tight ball. Fringe and side bristles kept it upright. Its back was covered with long, flexible hairs, its skin divided into segmented swirls of iridescent color that caught the night lights as it hurtled past.
By the time she got downstairs, Jorin and the former wyrm, now transformed into something more like a giant caterpillar, were rampaging about the training square.
Jame’s hand and side stung. She opened her shirt to reveal a row of reddening welts. “It still has its venom, or at least some of it.”
A half-dressed Rue had arrived beside her at the rail. “Then stop it, lady! It’s going to kill your ounce!”
“I don’t think so.”
Caterpillar and cat had both reared up on their hind legs (or feet) and were batting at each other, with sheathed claws on one side and poison bristles drawn back on the other.
“They’re just playing.”
Gorbel emerged, naked under his hastily thrown on dressing gown. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and advanced on the two, a spear ready in his hands.