Scar Felice (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 3) (13 page)

By the time she reached the castle gates Felice was in two minds. There was just the faintest chance that the man was not mad, and some real danger might be present. If the Ekloi, whoever or whatever it was, could wield magic, then there was nobody here that could oppose it but the Faer Karani, Borbonil, and she was not inclined to go running to the creature with such a tale.

She made her way up to the battlements and spent an hour in troubled thought, looking out over the land that stretched away to the south, and at the mountains to the west. They were still lightly decorated with snow even though summer was well on its way in.

It was only after an hour that the idea came to her. She lifted Pathfinder out of its sheath and laid it on her hand, looking around carefully to be sure that there was nobody close by. Assured that she was alone, she spoke to her knife.

“I do not know if you can help me,” she said. “But I will ask you. I need to find something. I will tell you what it is that I need to find, and if you can find it, if it exists, point to me. If you cannot help me, point away from me.”

The knife did not move. It lay passively on her hand, and she caressed the blade gently with a finger. Every time she unsheathed the blade she felt an urge to touch the feathers etched into the metal. The detail was amazing, and she almost expected the light, warm touch of a wing, but the firm, cool tracery of steel was equally pleasing to her fingers.

“I am looking for a man who was not born in this world. Can you find such a thing?”

The knife was still for a moment, but then rotated slowly until it pointed towards her. That was a yes. She was unsure whether to feel fear or satisfaction. If she found this Ekloi, then what should she do? She should have asked him why the Ekloi wanted him dead, she thought. She should have insisted.

“When I say the words
show me
, you will point to the man who is not of this world, and if there is none such present, you will point to me. Do you understand this?”

The knife spun lazily through a full circle and pointed back to her again. Yes. Now she was prepared. She walked back down to the courtyard and found it still busy, though not as frantic as it had been that morning. She found a quiet corner, wedging herself behind a stone buttress in a position where most of the open space was visible to her. She drew Pathfinder and laid it on her hand.

“Show me.”

The knife quivered briefly, and then spun to point at her. Nothing. She waited for half an hour, watching people come and go about their business, grooms saddling and unsaddling horses, soldiers practicing various skills, wagons arrived and were unloaded by men and women from the kitchens. It was a vast space, and all around her the rhythm of an ordered life marked time. She repeated the command from time to time, but the response remained the same.

She passed a couple of hours in this way, but her search bore no fruit. She began to feel that she was being foolish. The man was mad after all. Almost every person in the castle must have passed through the courtyard in this time.

She gave up and went back to her room. She would be expected to attend dinner in the colonel’s quarters in an hour, and she had to bathe and dress for the occasion. There would be other guests, important figures at White Rock, and she did not want to seem a rough provincial bumpkin.

It took a while, but eventually she was satisfied that she was as well attired as she could be. Her dress hung off her, emphasising the weight that she had lost, and the trials that she had survived. In spite of herself she was looking forward to the meal. She was hungry, and food was the road back to strength. Besides, she would be meeting men and women who had taken part in events that were now legendary, people who had stood with Serhan in the earliest days.

A knock on the door told her that someone had come to show her the way, and she followed a smartly dressed guardsman down one flight of stairs and up another until they came to a door that was indistinguishable from her own. But once through the door she saw that the colonel’s chambers were big, much bigger than her modest guest room. Weapons and tapestries adorned the stone walls and carpets softened the floors, but it remained a temple to strength and military prowess. Everything that she saw shouted White Rock’s pride in its arms. Even the tapestries depicted battles. A grand fireplace dominated the west wall, but it was not alight, and although some light came from the windows on the east side, most came from dozens of candles mounted in three black iron chandeliers that hung from the ceiling high above them.

Felice was shown to her seat. There were just six other people at the table, though a number of servants made the room seem quite full and bustling with purpose. The colonel presided. She sat at the head, and she wore her casual clothes as though they were armour. She moved with motions that were accustomed to the weight of chain mail and the stiffness of plate. Felice sat at her left hand. The colonel had placed Tann and Pasha’s father, Lieutenant Falan, at her right, presumably because she thought that they would have something in common.

To Falan’s right was an older man. He was not a guardsman, his thin frame was draped in grey and white clothes, a tunic, trousers, an over tunic that seemed excessive in the warmth of a late spring evening. His name was Alder, and he was Serhan’s steward. Beyond him there was a young officer of archers, pretty but severe in face and poise, almost as though she resented being off duty. Her name was Sabra. Beside Felice there sat two more guard officers who conformed more to the type. She was uncomfortably reminded of Karnack. They displayed the same easy confidence and watchful eyes.

The food was simple and wholesome. It did not compare with the exotic treats that she had enjoyed as a guest of Ella Saine in Samara, but she had not expected that it would. At least the food was plentiful, and the wine never stopped flowing. No sooner did she drain her cup than it was filled again. She noted that the colonel and Falan did not stint themselves in the least, and nor did the other male guard officers, but Sabra left her glass half full and listened a great deal more than she talked. The steward, Alder, also drank little and listened a lot. Felice steered the middle course.

Her story made her something of a celebrity. The others all knew each other’s tales by heart, it seemed, and they scoured every detail out of her. She made a point of praising both Tann and Pasha, and saw their father swell with pride at her words.

“So he never doubted you?” he asked.

“Oh, he doubted, Lieutenant,” Felice assured him, “and perhaps he even despaired a little, but he never complained and never really gave up. He played his role with courage and determination.”

“So will you put him to the guard?” Bantassin asked. “It sounds as though he would make a fine officer in time.”

Falan shrugged. “If that is what he wants. He has not expressed a wish, though I know that he has a fondness for the sea, having grown up with his mother in Samara.”

“A ship’s captain is a skilled and honourable profession,” Felice said.

“We know little of the sea here,” the colonel said. “I, myself, have never seen it, and most of the men have seen it just the once, though we have a good contingent here now that once served at Ocean’s Gate.”

The other guard officers looked doubtful, and it dawned on Felice that she was not the simple country girl here. She had travelled half the world, made two sea voyages, passed through a great storm, been attacked by bandits, and made her way through the impassable marshes of the Great North River. She could count wealthy merchants and King’s Counsellors as her friends. She was, in a modest way, a person of note.

“I was wondering,” she said, “if anyone here at White Rock knows anything about the Shan, their ways and such.”

“Alder is your man there,” the colonel said. “He is a great scholar.”

The old man looked a little uncomfortable at suddenly becoming the centre of attention. He smiled slightly and put aside the task of eating. “I only know what I read, Ima,” he said.

“Modesty, Alder?” the colonel feigned astonishment. “You are not known for it.”

“Indeed, colonel, I am hardly known for anything at all.”

“Nevertheless, Aki,” Felice said, cutting in on what she guessed was a regular form of banter. “Will you permit me to ask you a question?”

“By all means.” He turned his gaze on her, and she felt that he could see within her. It was quite disconcerting.

“How do they view men?” she asked.

“Through their eyes.”

The guardsmen laughed, and even the colonel smiled.

“It is his way, Ima,” she said. “We have concluded that he cannot help himself. I have even heard him talk like that to the Mage Lord. It is a wonder that he is still alive.”

Felice tried again.

“Is there a particular historical context in which the Shan regard men?”

“A better question and one that deserves an answer,” Alder said, “though it may be a long one. The Shan divide the time of this world into five ages. The first age was the age of the Shan. They believe that they were alone on the world, accompanied only by dumb beasts. They developed their civilization, build their buildings and acquired wisdom according to their lights. They hold that this age, which lasted many thousands of years, ended with the arrival of men in the world. If you were to ask them they would date this event to about four thousand years ago. They say that men were put here by some higher power. The arrival of the Faer Karan just over four hundred years ago signalled the end of the age of men, and the banishment of the same a couple of years ago heralded the start of the fourth age, which they call the age of wisdom. They believe that men will learn to co-exist with the Shan, and eventually depart the world, leaving it to the Shan again for the rest of time.”

“Could what they believe be true?” Felice asked.

“Yes. Anything is possible, though we only have their version. The history of mankind has been lost, or a great deal of it has. The Faer Karan had little use for historical documents. The Shanish version of history is the only one with any claim to antiquity.”

“So how do men account for history?”

“Most assume that we have always been here.”

“It seems a reasonable point of view.”

Alder sighed. Felice recognised that particular sigh. It was the same noise that her teacher in mathematics had made when she jumped to an erroneous conclusion, a sigh that said
I knew it was too much to hope for
, she was not offended.

“I see that you do not agree,” she said, smiling at the old man. “You subscribe to the idea that everything changes, as in nature, where the greatest mountain will eventually be worn down to a plain, the mightiest rivers dry up, and the largest of lakes will be filled with silt. So why should we be any different? Change is the only constant.”

“I had not thought,” Alder said, “to meet somebody who had actually been educated.” He executed a small bow in her direction while still seated. The guardsmen laughed again. They were at the stage where anything would seem amusing.

“I was taught much, but much did not find purchase,” she replied.

“It is always so, or nearly always. I believe that the mage lord is an exception.”

That was the end of their conversation, and the impatience of the guard’s officers drove the company into more mundane, more entertaining avenues. Felice wanted to talk to Alder again, to ask him about the name; Raganesh, about the Ekloi perhaps, but this was not the time. She stayed in her seat and sipped her wine, but noticed that Alder glanced in her direction from time to time. She had made an impression.

Perhaps it was the wine, and perhaps it was boredom, but some time later she found that she had lifted Pathfinder from its sheath, and was toying with the blade. It spun smoothly on her hand, and she could see that it had caught the colonel’s eye. Felice touched the metal feathers of the blade, and under her breath she spoke the words.

“Show me,” she said.

The knife spun, but not to her, it quivered with purpose and pointed away, across the table, and she lifted her eyes along the line of the blade and met other eyes looking back at her. She picked up the weapon with studied calm and put it away, but that changed nothing. It had pointed. It had shown her a man not born in this world. Ekloi. It had pointed to Alder.

She picked up her cup and took a sip of wine. She was surprised that her hand was steady, because her mind was racing and close to panic. He had seen, Alder had seen the knife spin and point, but had he understood? She tried to remember the look in his eyes, tried to read it from memory, but she could not. If there was hostility it had been hidden, and if there was understanding it had not been obvious. It had seemed an expression that conveyed nothing other than interest, and perhaps surprise. Surprise might be bad.

She risked a glance in his direction, and his eyes were still on her, had never left her. The rest of the table seemed oblivious. Except for Sabra. The young officer seemed aware that something was going on between Felice and Alder, and glanced between them, her eyes examining them both with equal interest. It was perhaps a small assurance that nothing would happen here, at the table. The meal was over, though, and very soon they would all be leaving, and she would have to go back to her room where she would be alone.