“The orders to bring it directly to the Tarkin upon its arrival had never been changed,” Karlyn said, looking directly at Dhulyn. “And so it was brought to him.”
“And Cullen?”
“Saw the Tarkin in the hallway, heading for the gates, he thought, and chased him into the throne room.”
“Or so he says,” Parno said.
“Or so he says,” Karlyn agreed. “Either way, the Mesticha Stone was not found in the bedchamber when it was looked for afterward.”
Dhulyn turned aside, tossed her towel across the back of a chair near the brazier, and took a vest made of dozens of strips of supple leather out of her saddlebag, shrugged it on, and began fastening it shut. “The Shadow was in the Tarkin,” she said. “It must have been ‘visiting’ him, as we suspected it might. When the Stone arrived, it seized its opportunity.”
“It was the last piece,” Parno said. “It’s at its full strength now.”
Dhulyn looked up from her laces. “And the Racha seems content?”
“As far as any of us can tell,” Karlyn said. “Nor does the Cloudman object to riding bound, if we prefer it.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?”
“What is it you’re thinking, my heart?”
Parno looked from Dhulyn to Karlyn and back again. “He’d want to come with us, don’t you think?” He held up one finger. “We’ve got the only Seer he knows of, and,” he held up a second finger, “we’ve got a Finder.” A third finger. “We’re going to the only place we can be sure there are other Marks. What more does he want? He can let us do his work for him.”
Dhulyn had taken breath to answer him when Karlyn spoke.
“So we’re safe enough on the journey,” he said. “If the Shadow’s with us, it won’t do any harm until we arrive.”
“Us?”
“Under the circumstances, I’d better come with you, don’t you think?”
He kept his eyes down and his face animated. Now that he was whole again-he stifled the shape’s attempt to retch-he remembered more. He knew better how to hide himself. He had done it in the past. Instead of ignoring the shape’s own occupant, pushing its consciousness away once its knowledge had been shifted, he had to wear it as he wore the shape, occupy it as he occupied the shape. With care, he could bide his time. With patience he could deal with the Seer. Patience could lead him to the Lens.
Twenty-six
“THERE IS A SHADOW hanging over us all, a Shadow with green eyes.”
Koba the Racha bird eyed Dhulyn from his perch near the fire as Yaro of Trevel gestured her into a seat, hooked the heavy kettle of water on the andiron, and swung it into the fireplace until it rested closer to the flames. As Dhulyn took up her tale, telling what they knew, what they thought, and what they hoped, Yaro watched the kettle, waiting for the water to come to a boil.
When Dhulyn had been silent a moment or two, the woman who was once Yaro Hawkwing the Cloud, Mercenary Brother, tossed a handful of leaves into the now boiling water and, pulling the kettle away from the fire with a heavy cloth, set it on a small iron stand to one side of the hearth. The room began to smell of bee balm.
“I know why you’ve come to me,” Yaro said. She stood a few moments longer, looking into the flames, before turning to face Dhulyn. When their eyes met, the older woman reached up and touched the feathers tattooed on her face. “You would ask of Cullen.”
Yaro turned away to take two thick earthenware mugs from a small shelf to the left of the fireplace and set them down on the table between them. She picked up the cloth she’d used to shield her hand from the kettle’s handle, but, instead of turning to the fire, stood still, the cloth hanging from her hand, her eyes staring into a distance of time and space.
“If Cullen is not in his body, then Disha would not fly.” And as if the words released her, she was able to turn to the hearth, pick up the kettle, and pour out the strong-smelling brew into the mugs on the table. When she had set the kettle down once again on the hearth, she took the stool across from Dhulyn, wrapped her hands around the mug in front of her, and studied the surface of the tea.
“But if the Shadow is in Cullen’s body, would it not be in Disha’s as well? Could Disha not fly then?”
Yaro opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head once more. “I do not know if I can make you see. You told me that Tek-aKet Tarkin was gone from his body until the Scholar Found him?”
“In his own words,” Dhulyn said, remembering, “he said that at first he had been pushed out, then allowed to return, but as a passenger. Later, when I struck the Shadow, Tek-aKet was lost. As though the body lived, but he was not in it.”
Yaro tapped the tabletop with her index finger. “Without Healer or Mender, in the moment, however short, that the Shadow pushed Cullen from his body, Disha would fall.”
“But you-”
“Had a two-month bond, no more, and as it was, only one of us survived. Cullen and Disha have been more than half their lives one being. If they were severed, even for an instant, even for a time so short that the mind cannot conceive of it, they would die.” Yaro placed both hands palm down on the table, one to each side of her empty mug. “It is as I say, Dhulyn Wolfshead, my Brother. If Disha still flies, Cullen is free of the Shadow.” She breathed deeply in through her nose and, blinking, raised her mug to her lips.
Dhulyn nodded, slowly. There must be such a moment, however short, in which the Shadow did move. What Yaro said made sense-but Dhulyn was aware that it was also what she wanted to hear, and therefore suspect. It was clear that Yaro spoke what she thought to be the truth, and Dhulyn believed her. But was that enough? It seemed a small thread from which to hang the fate of the world. Dhulyn rose to her feet, touched her forehead with her fingertips.
“It is good to have seen you, Brother,” the older woman said.
“You will see me again,” Dhulyn said. Yaro raised her eyes. “In Battle.”
“Or in Death,” Yaro Hawkwing replied.
The bird flew overhead, circling, circling, balanced on the currents of air.
What to do, what to do? If he destroyed the Healer now, would they suspect, or would they think it merely her time?
A Mender was coming. If he destroyed any of the Marked now, even the old woman, perhaps the Mender would not come. If he struck, he might lose the chance to destroy the Mender as well. He looked up into the sky and watched the bird float on an updraft, seeming to hang in the air that these folk thought of as nothing, not knowing the true nothing. The NOT. If he struck, they would know he was here, now, when they had almost forgotten to suspect, and they would hunt for him. But without the Lens, what could they do?
He could wait. He had overheard the two younger ones talking in the night, when they thought all asleep. They believed they had the Lens, and this belief weakened them. They no longer searched for it, and he could destroy them before they ever realized they should continue to look. He was strong enough, now that he was whole again. He could turn all back to that moment, when he first had form. If he waited, if he managed to find the Lens before them. This time he could succeed. This time he could turn this world into the NOT.
Or could there be another way? The bird swept down, and he pushed himself away from the edge of the wall. What if he did not destroy? What if he occupied? Was he strong enough for that? His breath came short, and he tried to steady the pounding of his heart. Was one form any worse than another? He had never looked from the eyes of a Mark-but they would never suspect. Once accomplished, it would be the safest place for him to wait.
Oh, I knew Gotterang well. I traveled much in my younger days, as was the rule then, and had been, time out of mind, see you. Scholars traveled then, too, but the only ones who still do are you Mercenaries, and I think that tells us something, don’t you?”