“I haven’t that depth of affinity.” The Hearth Master handed it to Planir.
“You might surprise yourself.” The Archmage shrugged. “But I yield to your mastery. The question remains, what shall we do with it?”
None of the other three mages dared meet each other’s eyes. Usara slowly resumed his seat as Planir put the ring on his forefinger. “I know you’re anxious to assure us you’re not setting up in opposition to Hadrumal, ’Sar, but it occurs to me a degree of competition can be a healthy spur to learning. The scholars of Vanam and Col never make so much progress as when their rivals gain some new insight into a common pursuit.” He pursed his lips. “I’ll be interested to see if a mage fit to complete the square in this particular circle emerges from Hadrumal or Suthyfer first. Until then—” he tossed the ring to Usara who caught it, surprised. “You take it. You said it proved central to defending your mages against aetheric attack. You’ll be the first line of defence against that from now on.”
Kalion scowled. “If you’ll excuse me, Archmage. Usara, I’ll bespeak you when I have need of that ring.” He stomped out of the room.
“Don’t you approve, Troanna?” queried Planir.
“It’s little enough to me or my pupils, either way.” The Flood Mistress looked at Usara. “Do you still consider the Elietimm a threat?”
Usara hesitated. “For the present, from all Guinalle can read of the situation, no. Hopefully there’s no reason for us to be enemies now. There are four or five clans jostling for position among the Elietimm, well enough matched in men, land and adepts. They’re all wise enough to realise any one aiming for pre-eminence will be cut down by the rest uniting against any possibility of a new Ilkehan. They have as many misgivings about us as we have about them, so I don’t suppose we’ll ever be friends, though D’Alsennin’s sending the remaining prisoners from Kellarin’s mines back, as earnest of his goodwill.”
“That sounds well enough. You wanted to find Aritane. Don’t let me keep you.” Troanna made no move to stir from her chair.
“I’ll bid you farewell.” Usara stood and sketched a bow to both. “I need to see Strell as well, Planir. Temar wants her to know she can call on D’Alsennin for anything she might ever need.”
“I hope that’s of some comfort.” Planir plainly doubted it. Usara closed the door softly behind him. “You have something to say to me, Troanna?” The animation left the Archmage’s voice.
Troanna surveyed the room. “Even allowing for the diligence of your servants, there’s no sign you’ve been throwing crocks. Judging by the usual plentiful array of wines and cordials, you’ve not been drowning your grief. You’re thinner in the face but I’ve seen you dining with your pupils so you’re hardly starving yourself into a decline.”
“Your point?” Planir’s face was a chilly mask.
“I’ve buried two husbands and three children, Planir.” Troanna folded her arms. “I won’t say I know what you’re feeling because every loss is different and cuts as deep as any gone before. What I do know is you must grieve or Larissa will remain as dead to you as those ashes in that urn.”
Planir’s response was scathing. “You want me to picture her happily dwelling in the Otherworld, her virtues recognised by Saedrin as sufficient to save her from Poldrion’s demons?”
“Don’t be a fool.” Troanna was unmoved. “You’ve no more use for priests and their superstitions than I have.”
“Then what would you have me do?” snapped Planir.
“Acknowledge your loss and the unfairness of it,” Troanna told him forcefully. “In whatever way gives you release. Go to the highest point on the island and scream your outrage at the wind, the gods or whatever uncaring destiny visited such untimely death on the poor girl. That’s what I’ve done before now. Look honestly at the path that led her there and spare yourself endless reproaches over what you did or didn’t do. We’re not Aldabreshin barbarians to believe every twist of fortune is foretold by uncanny portents, that every evil can be averted if only we have the skills to read the signs. She died and you are entitled to grieve, but not to endlessly castigate yourself over a fate that was none of your making.”
“I set her on the path that led her to die,” said Planir harshly.
“Horseshit.” Troanna shook her head. “You diminish her by thinking so. Larissa was young but she was an intelligent girl and she made her own choices. I never approved of your association but no one can accuse you of influencing her decisions.”
“You’re too kind,” said Planir coldly. “Though that was because I loved her rather than out of any respect for your sensibilities. She is still dead.”
“Until you grieve, she will remain so.” Troanna ran a finger over the swell of the brightly decorated urn, apparently not noticing how Planir tensed. “There’s one notion the Archipelagans hold that I’ve come to share. No one is dead as long as one person who knew them in life still remembers them as they were. Do Larissa that honour.” She got briskly to her feet with a nod of farewell. “You know where I am if you want to argue this further, as light relief from twisting Kalion’s tail. Talk to Shannet. She’s outlived nigh on her whole generation and knows all about loss. This is possibly the only thing we’ll ever agree on.”
Planir said nothing as the Flood Mistress tossed that last comment over her shoulder. He sat motionless in his chair for a long while until finally, his expression still unchanged, tears coursed down his cheeks.
Suthyfer, Fellaemion’s Landing,
29th of For-Sutnmer
For a stone mason’s son, you make a very good carpenter, but can’t you hang up your tool belt for one evening?” I was exaggerating; all Ryshad held was a small hammer.
He held out an arm and I stepped into his embrace. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”
I looked around the shrine. Stones chosen for even colour and smoothness gave a solid foundation to close-fitted wooden walls. The roof above was held firm by rafters finished with the same exquisite care. Around the base of the wall the rich scent of new timber breathed life into niches where the incongruously prosaic vessels holding the ashes of Suthyfer’s first dead stood. Charcoal marks and faint scores on the wood promised carving yet to come; I could see Saedrin’s keys, Drianon’s eagle, Halcarion’s crown and Raeponin’s scales. In the centre of the floor, the palest stones Ryshad and his fellow craftsmen could find raised a plinth waiting for whatever deity this place would be dedicated to. The wide doors stood open and a shaft of sunlight lit up the empty circle.
I slid my arm around Ryshad’s waist to feel the reassuring strength and warmth of him. “Has Temar said anything about a statue yet?”
Ryshad shook his head. “Guinalle suggested Larasion.”
I could see the sense in that. “Sailors heading in both directions will always want to pray for fair weather.”
“Dastennin’s the Lord of the Sea and four men out of five in Zyoutessela swear by him before any other.” Ryshad held me close with absent affection. “Guinalle changed her mind, anyway. Talking about this new hall she and ’Sar want to set up reminded her that Ostrin’s shrine held most of the aetheric lore in the Old Empire.”
“Build a bigger plinth,” I suggested. “Let them share, like the temple in Relshaz.”
Ryshad laughed. “It’ll be a while before Suthyfer can boast anything that splendid. You could fit this whole landing inside that place.”
“It’ll be as fine as any Imperial fane when it’s finished.” I pulled Ryshad with me to look more closely at the faint designs on the inner face of the wall. “If Pered’s got anything to say about it. Is that Larissa beside Halcarion?”
Ryshad nodded. “He’s trying to include as many of those lost as he can.”
I studied the broad sweep of the mural Pered was planning for the first half of the circle. It followed the lie of the land outside so closely that, when it was finished, it would almost seem as if the shrine had windows not walls. Those coming for solace would see the gods and goddesses reassuringly engaged with the folk of the landing. Trimon sat with his harp, framed by dancing children. Larasion wove garlands for the girls who sat with Halcarion, all dressing their hair in the reflection of a still pool that, thinking about it, didn’t actually exist hereabouts. Never mind, Ryshad would doubtless dig one. Drianon wove reeds into baskets by the door of a solid little house, goodwives busy about her. Talagrin stood some way off with a group of men about to go hunting for something to fill the pots that Misaen was hammering at his forge.