Trishien went quickly to help him settle into a chair.
Yce crouched on the threshold, wary and watchful.
Kindrie hovered, unsure whether to help or to go away.
“Stay,” Trishien whispered to him. To Torisen she said, “How may I assist you, my lord?”
He laughed a bit shakily. “The last time something like this happened, talking to you helped. If I told Burr or Rowan, they would fuss me halfway to my pyre.”
Trishien turned to her table, deliberately slid the lens out of her mask, and laid them carefully down.
As once before, her naked, farsighted gaze discerned the shadow that stooped over the Highlord’s bent shoulders, shrouding him.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Bang, bang, bang, he won’t stop pounding on the door inside my soul-image. The panels are shaking. The lock is jumping half out of its socket.”
Trishien felt her own heart knock against her ribs. Who was she to meddle with a problem such as this? But she must try. “It sounds to me,” she said carefully, “as if your father is throwing a temper tantrum.” The shadow raised an indistinct head over the Highlord’s dark, bent one. “Yes, you, My Lord Ganth. What, pray tell, is the problem this time?”
Torisen lifted his own head so that the other’s features overlay it like a caul; cold, silver eyes glimmering through.
“I want that stinking Shanir out of my house,” he said in a harsh voice not his own. “Now. See how he lurks, spying. What is he thinking, eh?”
Kindrie flinched and again edged toward the door. Again, Trishien stopped him.
“What do you see?” he whispered.
Rising anger mastered her fear, although her voice still shook. “A sorry sight. You always did hide behind your anger, Ganth. When you couldn’t have what you wanted, you tried to tear down everything, at whatever cost to anyone else. You were hurt, by your brother, by your father, by life, so you hurt others. All your son wants is to build a better world. He has the innate power to do that. Who are you to stop him?”
“My world ended in ruins. So will his. Do you think he is stronger than I am?”
“Or do you mean, than you were? Yes, when you leave him alone. Oh, Ganth.” Her anger gave way to pity. “I loved you once. Perhaps I still do. Don’t destroy yourself a second time in your son.”
“Ah, Trish. I could never love you as you deserved, not after I saw her.”
Again, that mysterious woman who had seduced the Highlord of the Kencyrath, had become his children’s mother, and had destroyed him with her leaving.
“‘Alas,’” Trishien murmured, “‘for the greed of a man and the deceit of a woman, that we should come to this!’”
“You don’t understand. What happened was fated.”
“Well, it was certainly fatal. Accept that and leave this boy alone.”
“Never!” His shadow spread, devouring the room. Kindrie shivered in the sudden chill as if under an eclipse, the past overarching the present. Yce tensed, snarling. “I do with my own flesh what I choose!”
Trishien gripped Torisen’s head. It took all her strength to force the darkness back through his eyes into his bones. “Ganth, my love, you are dead. Go away.”
Torisen swayed and nearly pitched out of the chair, but Trishien caught him by the shoulders.
“I think I understand what you did, lady,” the healer said over the dark, bowed head which he dared not touch, “and I thank you for it, but we both know that he will never be whole while that presence haunts him.”
Trishien sighed. “I have no power to exorcise it for more than a time. Perhaps you do.”
Kindrie drew back. “Lady, to touch him is to release what lies within, whether he is ready or not.”
“Perhaps, then, this is something he must do for himself. At least we have gained a respite.”
Torisen caught his breath sharply and straightened, wiping a hand across his sweat-beaded face.
“What was I saying?” he asked, blinking, sounding dazed.
“Nothing to fret about, my lord.” But her hands trembled as she fitted the lens back into her mask. Had she done good here, or further harm? “How do you feel now?”
“Better,” he said in wonder, touching his temple. “The pounding has stopped. All that’s left is a mutter and a sense of . . . pity? But that makes no sense.”
Kindrie stirred.
“Oh,” said Torisen, noticing him for the first time. “It’s you.”
“Do you want me to leave, my lord?”
“No.” He shook his head gingerly as if to clear it, and winced again. “I’ve been in a damnable muddle about you for far too long. This is your family. I said so. You’ll stay, if you please, and take up the job you came to do. Ancestors know, I need the help.”
Trishien’s eyes met Kindrie’s over his head and she nodded. One step at a time.
IX
Into the Wastes
The caravan was scheduled to depart on the first of Winter, ten days in the future. Meanwhile, Kothifir seethed like a kicked ants’ nest, getting ready. Couriers came and went between the city and the western training field where the wagons met. Every day, more joined those already there. Many of the latter had never traveled the Wastes before and were more eager to join in the potential profit than knowledgeable about the risks.
“They say it’s not only the biggest convoy ever,” said Timmon, “but also possibly the last.”
He, Jame, and Gorbel had met at the canteen after a day of maneuvers to share a cask of the Ardeth Lordan’s private wine stock. Gorbel probably had his own. Jame didn’t, not having thought to lay in such a supply. She sipped, trying not to make a face. Fine vintages were probably wasted on her anyway, if this was one of them.
Then too, her head still hammered from the previous night’s dreams.
Bang, bang, bang . . .
“I do with my own flesh what I choose!”
Damn you, Father, and poor Tori, to have such a monster caged inside your skull.
If he didn’t treat Kindrie properly, though, she would have something to say on her own, and he would damn well listen to her.
Timmon nudged her. “Are you all right?”
“Right enough.” Jame rubbed her forehead and brought her mind back to the matter at hand.
A mixture of seasoned randon, third-year cadets and second-years were going on the expedition, mostly those who had never previously had the opportunity. Timmon was one of them, to his delight. Gorbel, to his disgust, was not, nor were any other Caineron: Lord Caldane had made his interest in discovering the caravan’s destination entirely too obvious. Gorbel had told them about his father’s private explorations into the Wastes, to the vast, glistening pan of the Great Salt Sea and beyond.
“All they found were ruins half buried in the sand,” he had said in disgust. “Those, and the shell of a Kencyr temple.”
That last had surprised Jame. “What, one of the missing five?”
“Kothifir, Karkinaroth, Tai-tastigon . . .” Timmon had counted on his fingers.
“Tai-than, perhaps.” Jame wondered what Canden’s expedition had found. Trinity, how long ago it seemed since she and Dally had seen their friend off from Tai-tastigon’s walls.
“Kencyr prisoners at Urakarn claim to have sighted one there too,” Gorbel had said.
“At Urakarn, in the enemy camp?” That idea had truly startled Jame.
G’ah, too many mysteries, too few answers.
She now asked, “Do they say why this might be the last caravan?”
“No,” said Timmon with a grimace. “I’ve been among the drivers, buying them wine, listening for gossip, but they’re so scared this expedition will fail that there’s no loosening their tongues. King Krothen has enough wealth to last a lifetime—and to pay for his pet hobby, the Southern Host. He already has two treasure towers full of the finest trade silk. However, many merchants are gambling their fortunes and futures. It will be a hard time for Kothifir if this venture fails.”