"We rule that the boy Flint shall be punished for his mischief, as Cinnabar so quaintly put it, by being confined to his house unless he is ac¬companied by Chert or Opal Blue Quartz.
Chert let out his breath. They were not going to exile the boy from Funderling Town. He was so relieved he could barely pay attention to what else the Highwardens were saying.
"Chert Blue Quartz himself has done no wrong," proclaimed Sard.
"Although his judgment could have been better," suggested Highwarden Quicklime Pewter.
"Yes, it could have been," said old Sard with a sour look at his colleague, "but he did his best to remedy a bad situation, and then realized that he
could not go on without the advice of the Guild, To him, no penalty, but he must no longer act without the Guild's approval in any of these matters. Do you understand, Chert Blue Quartz?"
"1 do."
"And do you so swear on the Mysteries that bind us all?"
"I do." But though he was reassured by what had been said so far, Chert found he was not as confident about what would be done in the long run. Also, he had grown used to doing things that others-especially the Mag-isters and Highwardens-might think were beyond his rights or responsi¬bilities. He and his family were dug very deep into a strange, strange vein.
"Last we come to the matter of the physician Chaven," said Sard. "We have much still to discuss about his claims and will not make a decision recklessly, but some choices must be made now." He stopped to cough, and for a moment as his chest heaved it seemed he might not go on. At last he caught his breath. "He will remain with us until we have determined what to do."
"But he cannot remain in your house, Chert," said Cinnabar. "It is al¬ready nearly impossible to keep our people from whispering, and it's likely that only the fact these Tollys have banned us from working in the castle has kept his presence secret from them this long."
"Where will he go…?"
"We will find a place for him here at the guild hall." Cinnabar turned to the Highwardens. Sard and Quicklime nodded, but Travertine and Gneiss looked more than a little disgruntled. Chert guessed that Cinnabar had cast the deciding vote.
"I am sure Opal will want to keep feeding him," Chert said. "Now that she's learned what he eats." He smiled at Chaven, who seemed not entirely to understand what was happening. "Upgrounders don't like mole very much, and you can't get them to eat cave crickets at knifepoint."
A few of the other Magisters laughed. For the moment, things in the Council Chamber were as friendly as they were likely to be-still tense, but no one in open rebellion.
"So, then." Sard raised his hand and all the Magisters stood. "We will meet again in one tennight to make final decisions. Until then, may the Earth Elders see you through all darknesses and in any depths."
"In the name of He who listens in the Great Dark," the others said in ragged chorus.
Chert watched the Magisters file out before turning to Chaven, who
was still staring down at the floor of the Council Chamber like a school-boy caught with his exercises unlearned. "Come, friend. Cinnabar will show us where you'll stay, then I'll go back to my house and pack up some things for you. We've been very lucky-I'm surprised, to tell you the truth. I suspect that having Cinnabar on our side is what saved us, because old Quicklime trusts him. Cinnabar will probably replace him one day."
"And I hope that day is far away," said the Quicksilver Magister, striding up. "Quicklime Pewter has forgotten more about this town and the stone it's built with than I'll ever know."
As they began to walk toward the chamber door, Chaven at last looked up, as if wakening from a dream. "I'm sorry, I…" He blinked. "That veiled figure," he said, pointing at the fabled ceiling. "Who is that? Is it…?"
"That is the Lord of… that is Kernios, of course, god of the earth," Chert told him. "He is our special patron, as you must know."
"And on his shoulder, an owl." The physician was staring down again.
"It is his sacred bird, after all."
"Kernios…" Chaven shook his head. "Of course."
He said no more, but seemed far more troubled than a man should who had just been granted his life and safety by the venerable Stone-Cutter's Guild.
23
The Dreams of Gods
The war raged for years before the walls of the Moonlord's keep. Countless gods died, Onyenai and Surazemai alike.
Urekh the Wolf King perished howling in a storm of arrows. Azinor of
the Oneyenai defeated the Windlord Strivos in combat, but before he
could slay him, Azinor was himself butchered by Immon, the squire of
great Kernios. Birin of the Evening Mists was shot by the hundred
arrows of the brothers Kulin and Hiliolin, though brave Birin
destroyed those murderous twins before he died.
— from The Beginnings of Things The Book of the Trigon
It…SOUNDED LIKE you said… that you were there." Briony didn't want to offend her hostess (especially not before she'd shared whatever food the crone had to spare) but even in the throes of fever and starvation, the habits of a princess died hard: she didn't like being teased, especially by grimy old women. "When the gods went to war."
"I was. Here, I'll put a few more marigold roots in the pot for you- you'd be surprised how nicely they cook up once you boil the poison out. I've been in flesh so long I can scarcely remember anything else, but one thing I don't miss about the old days-all that bloody, smoking meat! I don't know what they thought they were doing."
"Who? Wait, poison? What?" Briony was trying to keep still and avoid sudden movements. It had only just occurred to her that an old woman who lived by herself in the middle of the Whitewood was likely to be quite mad. She felt sure that even as weak and sick as she was, she could defend herself against this tiny creature, bony as a starveling cat-but how could she protect herself when she slept? She didn't think she could survive an¬other night on her own in the rainy wood.
"I'm talking about those bloody men and their bloody sacrifices!" the old woman said, which explained very little. "They used to be everywhere in this part of the forest, chopping wood, hunting my deer, generally making a nuisance of themselves. Some of them were handsome, though." She smiled, a contraction of wrinkles that made her face look even more like a knot in the grain of a very old tree. "I let some of them stay with me, bloody-handed or not. I was not so particular then, when my youth was on me."
It was no use trying to make sense of what the woman was saying. Briony shivered and wished the fire were big enough to keep her warm. Her hostess stared at her as she dropped more roots into a clay pot sitting on the stones beside the fire, then began to wrap two wild apples in leaves. When she had finished, the old woman reached out toward her. Briony shied away.
"Don't be stupid, child," she said. "I can see you're ill. Here, let me feel your brow." The old woman put a hand as rough as a chicken's foot against Briony's forehead. "That's a bad fever. And you've other wounds as well." She shook her head. "Let me see what I can do. Sit still." She brought up her other hand and flattened both palms on Briony's temples. Startled, Briony reached for the knife in her boot, but the woman only moved her hands in slow circles.
"Come out, fever," the old woman said, then began to sing in a quiet, cracked voice. Briony could not understand the words, but her head had begun to feel increasingly hot and vibrantly alive, as though it were a bee¬hive in high summer. It was such an odd sensation that she tried to pull away, but her limbs would not obey her. Even her heart, which should have sped up when she found herself helpless, did not comply. It bumped along, beating calmly and happily, as though having an ancient stranger set your head on fire with her bare hands were the most ordinary thing in the world.