“As she lay dying, his wife gave her husband a drink the Weaver had prepared, and the Stalker fell asleep as the last breath left her mouth.”
It was a romantic story, but the Scholar told it the same dry fashion Jes had used to recite his lessons—perhaps with even a shade less enthusiasm.
“The Weaver knew that without his brother, his powers would also destroy the All of Being, so he drank the same potion the Stalker had drunk. They slept, the Weaver and the Stalker. And while they slept, the Weaver dreamed a weaving to cover them both and protect his creations from them when they next awoke.”
The Scholar quit speaking.
“That doesn’t sound like the end of the story,” Seraph said.
“The story of the Weaver and the Stalker will not end until the All of Being ends,” said the Scholar. “And at that time there will be no one to tell its end.”
Hennea sighed and started to say something but was stopped by noise from the stairway.
Gura was the first to reach them, whining and wagging his tail and trying to wriggle his way onto Seraph’s lap. Since he outweighed her by a couple of stones she was hard put to save herself until Tier hauled him off by his collar.
“Gura, down,” he said, and the dog dropped to the floor and looked repentant for a moment. Seraph sat up and rubbed his side with the toe of her boot, and he wagged his tail cheerfully.
Jes had come with Tier, and the Guardian was staring at the Scholar, who had not changed his expression—or his focus on Hennea.
“Where are the others?” she asked.
“I left them cooking steaks at camp. Since we’ll be here a while, Lehr brought down a buck. Jes and I came to get you for dinner.” Tier glanced at the illusion, then he looked again, frowning. “Your friend is welcome to come with us.”
“Thank you,” said the Scholar, turning toward Tier as if he’d just noticed him. “But I do not need to eat, and I may not leave the library.” He paused. “It is good that you stay outside of the city. The dead walk the streets at night.”
“It’s an illusion,” Hennea told Tier. “One of Hinnum’s.”
“It told us a story,” said Seraph. “I think you ought to hear it. Scholar, would you tell the story of the Weaver and the Stalker?”
“Of course.”
When the Scholar finished, Tier rubbed his jaw, and said, “So the Stalker wasn’t something created by the wizards here?”
“No,” said the Scholar.
“The stories are wrong,” Seraph said.
“So why did the wizards leave?” Tier asked Seraph. “Why freeze the city this way? Why is the library the only thing that isn’t frozen in time?”
“There was nothing here for them. It was part of the price for what they had done. They could not bear to lose the library forever.”
Hennea frowned. “If they didn’t create the Stalker, what had they done?”
For the first time, the smile fell from the illusion’s face and left something very old peering out of the young eyes. “They killed the gods,” he whispered; and then he was gone as if he’d never been.
The Guardian growled.
Back at camp, Tier told the story of the Stalker to the others, as they cooked venison over the fire. As far as Seraph could tell, he used the same words the Scholar had twice used.
“I thought the Stalker was supposed to be evil,” said the Emperor, feeding the last of his fire-roasted meat to Gura, who accepted it with more politeness than enthusiasm. The dog had discovered during their trip that Phoran and his guards were not as hardened to pleading eyes as his usual family and had been making use of this new power throughout supper.
“That’s what the stories I’ve always heard say,” agreed Seraph.
“So it isn’t the Stalker that caused the fall of the Elder Wizards?” Lehr leaned back on his elbows and stared thoughtfully at the fire.
“Ellevanal told me the Travelers killed their gods and ate them.” Seraph braced her elbows on her knees and leaned her chin on her hands. “My father just told me there were no gods, but Hennea—and the Scholar—say the gods are dead.”
“I don’t know where I heard it,” said Hennea, and Jes rubbed her shoulder gently.
Hennea had been quiet since they left the library, but then, being a Raven, that wasn’t unusual for her. Seraph would have dismissed her suspicions that Hennea was upset about something, except Jes had been fussing over her.
“The Shadowed is evil,” said Lehr with conviction. “He killed a whole town, a town larger than Redern. He killed Benroln, Brewydd, and all of Rongier’s clan. He taught the wizards of the Path how to steal Orders.”
“The Shadowed is evil,” agreed Seraph.
Phoran cleared his throat, and Seraph turned to look at him. He glanced once at the setting sun, then said, “I ought to mention that the Memory came last night. I asked him if he knew who the Shadowed was, but he didn’t. I wonder if you have a question you would like me to ask him tonight?”
“I do,” said Seraph, before anyone else could say anything. “I’d like to know the details of the second part of the spell that steals the Orders to tie them to the gems.”
That night, when the Memory beckoned Phoran, Seraph went with him. She made everyone else stay back in camp.
“If it was willing to come out with everyone here, it wouldn’t force Phoran to come to it,” she said, staring first at Jes, then at Toarsen and Kissel. “I will see to it that Phoran comes to no harm—and he will do the same for me.”
“Now mind you,” she told Phoran as they tromped up to the little rise he’d gone to the night before “Jes is going to follow us anyway. There’s nothing I can do about that—but he’ll stay out of my sight, and hopefully not interfere with the Memory.”
Phoran smiled down at her. “If I’d tried to leave Toarsen and Kissel behind, we’d still be arguing.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But you are only an emperor, after all, and I am Raven.”
He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not. He rather suspected not.
The Memory came again. It said nothing to him, nor did it appear to notice Seraph. It fed from his wrist this time. Phoran had thought it would be less awful with Seraph there, but somehow it was worse. As if, he thought, someone was witnessing his rape, it increased the humiliation and feeling of violation. The pain was as bad as it ever had been.
When it was finished, the Memory said, “By the taking of your blood, I owe you one answer. Choose your question.”
Phoran staggered to his feet and felt Seraph’s arm come round his waist to help support him.
Phoran tried to remember what Seraph had told him she needed to know. “There are three parts to the spell that the Masters use to steal the Orders from Travelers and bind them to gemstones. What happens in the second of the three parts.”
“The Masters take the gem, already bound to the Order, and they place it in a man’s mouth. He is the sacrifice to power the spell. They cut his throat, and when he is dead they remove the gem.” The Memory swayed and its voice changed, rough with remembered agony. “They took it, still warm from the dead man’s last breath, and touched me with it. I could feel it pull, I knew that something bad was happening.”
“This happens immediately,” asked Seraph urgently. “You knew right away?”
“Yes,” said the Memory, but it didn’t sound like the Memory anymore. It sounded like a man in pain.
“Tier would have known if it started before that night in the Tavern.”
Phoran didn’t think that Seraph was speaking to the Memory anymore, but it said, “Yes.” And it was gone.
“Come,” said Seraph, stepping away from him until she held him by the arm rather than around the waist. “I need to talk with Lehr and Tier.”
Phoran felt so tired, so weary, and the camp seemed a long way away.
“Come,” Seraph said more gently. “Your Memory has give us a different clue than I expected.”