“Hush, child, and listen,” Celine said to her after the third time Kellea ordered us out. “These are matters of concern to you.” And then to me. “Kellea is greatly gifted, but she has never known any of the J’Ettanne but her old grandmother, has never heard the stories told on Av’Kenat, never had a mentor for her talent. I could not be all things to her.”
“I need none of those things, Grandmother. Just you. I want you left in peace.”
“Did you not hear the story, girl? If we don’t help, then even such peace as we know may be swept away.”
“Why do you believe them? Because they say familiar words and names? You’ve taught me to trust no one, and now you open your door to these people without a question. It could all be lies.”
Celine patted my arm as she spoke to her granddaughter. “If you cannot tell truth from lies when you’re ninety, then you’ve made a great waste of your time and deserve no better than you get.” She gave me a thoughtful glance. “It’s quite a thing you ask, Seri, for me to read this man. It may not turn out as you wish.”
“But you’ll try?”
“I’ve seen my friends slaughtered and my sons and grandsons put to the torch. I’ve held life in my hand as few ever have a chance to do, with the choice to give or take. I’ve listened to the voices of my ancestors for ninety years. If you think I would miss the chance to find out why, then you should bottle me in one of my own glass jars and sell me as a specific for inducing madness.”
“Grandmother, you can’t!” But Kellea’s horrified exhortation was drowned in Celine’s hoarse laugh, and as Tennice and I joined in, the girl stormed out of the room.
“Now the two of you be off,” said Celine, wiping the tears that rolled down her dry cheeks. “Let me soothe the fears of my sulking child and take myself a nap. Bring your silent friend tonight after dark. Then will we investigate the mysteries of the universe.”
When we reclaimed our horses at the hostelry, one of the grooms was saddling a large black horse. The shape of its head, its legs… the trim of mane and tail… the saddle I had shared with Paulo on the ride from Grenatte to Dunfarrie… Rowan’s horse. I urged Tennice to hurry and did not breathe easy until we were lost in the press of traffic heading for the outer gates of the city.
CHAPTER 19
Year 4 in the reign of King Evard —midwinter
For endless hours I sat on the hard bed in the dark and tormented myself with “if only.” I remembered Karon’s birthday, the night when he had explained how he could not use his power for harm, even to protect himself or me. I hadn’t believed him then, sure that if this test ever came, he would strike as would any other man. When I had told him about killing the man in Threadinghall, and he had remained steadfast in his resolve, my confidence that he would do what was necessary had not been vanquished, only shaken. But the apology in his eyes as he was dragged away from me had withered my heart. No matter the horror to come, he would not fight. His last words to me had confirmed it. It is a wonder. All of it… part of a humorous J’Ettanni story that was the very expression of their acceptance of the vagaries of life—the path “laid down” for them. Damn them all! I wanted to shake Karon’s father and his grandfather and every cursed one of the J’Ettanne and scream that it was possible to lay down your own path in this world. No wonder they all were dead and forgotten. And now my Karon would be dead, too, for no one was going to listen to him and learn of the beauty and grace he brought into this horrid world.
I could not allow it. If Karon could not fight, I would have to do it myself. I just needed a little time. Plots and schemes fed one upon the other in the dark, until I fell into a exhausted sleep.
Seri… help me…
The cry startled me awake in the deepest hours of that dreadful night. It was a time of second memory, as if I had lived the exact event before: Karon calling out to me in the darkness. Surely I would open my eyes to silver moonlight streaming through the library door, my book pages fluttering in a summer breeze scented with balsam and thyme. But this room was cold and barren. No light of any kind shone through the window, a small rectangle of lesser darkness high on the wall above my bed. “Karon?”
Help me. He was on the verge of screaming. I could feel him struggling to hold it back.
“Tell me what to do.”
Talk to me. A tale, a song, an image, anything I can hold on to. Please, love, quickly.
I fumbled about for a moment, trying to think what might serve, trying not to think why he might need a distraction so desperately. After a few abortive attempts—too short a tale, too abstract a concept, too shallow a subject— I began to speak of Comigor, the ancient keep that had been my childhood home, the windy heath that attracted storms, but had repelled all would-be conquerors for six hundred years. I explored every passage, every cellar, every attic, every map in its library. As he had taught me, I used audible words to force my thoughts into a single pattern, not allowing worry or distraction to muddy what I left for him to find in my head. Every once in a while I would pause, listening. I heard nothing, only felt his desperate presence in my mind, as surely as if I could hear his harsh breathing or feel his sweat. So I continued.
I considered my warrior father, so distant, so strong, bewildered by his children, yet so gentle with my fragile, lovely mother. Her image was hazy, but I remembered her stories and her garden, and I explored those things, too. I described my bedchamber at Comigor, where I had imagined myself an astronomer, unraveling the mysteries of the heavens, or a minstrel, traveling the land singing songs of heroes that would ignite a warrior’s soul. As the high window spilled dead gray light into my room, I told how I had stood on Comigor’s highest tower, pretending I was a captive princess, waiting to be rescued by a handsome knight.
This time the princess has done the rescuing.
“No, no. You rescued me long ago,” I said, crossing my arms on my breast as if to hold him to me. “When you stepped from the shadows in my library with a rose in your hand.”
Seri, you must tell them I misled you, that I ensnared and deceived you with magic.
“I’ll do no such thing.”
You must. They’ve proven to me that they’re quite serious about all this.
“Don’t worry about me. Tomas has sworn to protect me, just as I’ve always said he would.”
Karon’s relief surged through the night. Good… oh, gods of night … He sounded so hurt. His voice in my head, usually so intense, so vibrant and colorful, was almost unhearable.
“What have they done to you?” I said.
It’s no matter, he told me. When I’m with you this way, it’s easier. But I don’t think you’ll ever call me fine-looking again.
I told him stories until I could no longer speak, and then continued by closing my eyes and thinking of the things I wished to say and see. Yet, deeper still, in a small place yet available for rational thought, I made my plan of battle.
My strategy was simple—political power. Those who wanted Karon convicted would manufacture what evidence was necessary, and, truly, eight people—Tomas, Evard, Sheriff Maceron, Darzid, and four soldiers—had seen Karon heal the stab wound in my back. The only thing that could overrule such testimony was a counterthreat to Evard’s war… and ultimately his throne.
I could not use Martin. He was in enough danger. But I could contact ten high-ranking nobles that had been close friends of my father and ten more that owed him life-debts, plus I had friends of my own, men with wealth and status, women with influence over husbands or brothers or fathers. All paid levies to support Evard and his war. All knew of Evard’s frustrated plans for me. They would believe me when I said that jealousy was behind the king’s accusations, and that if Evard could manufacture evidence against me and my husband, then no one in the realm was safe from him. All were honorable Leiran nobles and would come to my defense. I just needed a chance to speak with them.