Son of Avonar (38 page)

“We have business with her.”

“You may tell me of your business.”

“No, young lady, this is private business.”

“The owner does no private business with strangers.” The girl's words snapped like dry sticks.

Tennice whispered to me, “Speak to her, Seri. You know I've never been adept at handling women.” An understatement to be sure. Though neither kings nor dukes nor judges could faze Tennice, a timid serving maid could throw him into a fluster.

I started again. “Perhaps, if you'd be so kind, you could give the owner a message from us?”

“I might.”

“Tell Kellea that we were recommended by a friend. He says this is the only place to buy a rare herb to treat the gout. We would appreciate a word with her.”

The girl looked at us strangely. “What word would you have with Kellea? If all you want is mycophila, then I can get it for you.”

“Please, we wish to consult Kellea on a confidential matter. You understand. A bit embarrassing to talk about . . . Is there a time when we could find her here or perhaps a place where we could meet her? Our friend recommended her especially.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders. “You're speaking to her already. I'm Kellea.”

No, no, no. The girl was too young. It had been almost twenty years since the destruction of Avonar. “There must be some mistake. Is there someone else by the same name? Your mother, perhaps? Or perhaps another herb shop? We were expecting an older person.”

“There's no other Kellea. My mother had a different name and is long dead, anyway, and this is the only herb shop in Yurevan. What's your business? Tell me the name of your friend.”

Tennice and I looked at each other in confusion. “I must have been wrong,” he said.

“Kellea!” called a croaking voice from beyond a narrow doorway.

“What is it, Grandmother?”

“Tea, dear heart. Could you bring me a cup of nine-leaf tea?”

“I have customers who are just leaving. As soon as they're off, I'll bring it.”

I looked sharply at the girl. “Your grandmother. Is her name perhaps the same as yours?”

“I told you, I'm the only Kellea. If you have business with me, state it.” She folded her arms tightly across her breast, her hostility shoving us out the door before our feet had moved.

I hated abandoning our only clue. Kellea was the only one of the four—Then it struck me. The herb shop, shelves laden with medicines. The names. “Kellea,” I said, scarcely restraining my excitement, “what is your grandmother's name?”

“This is ridiculous. What could you possibly—?”

“It would be a great kindness. It's very important.”

I might have been dragging the answers from her with red-hot pincers. “Her name is Celine.”

Context. How is it we can stand in two different rooms, hear the same combination of letters and sounds, and our minds construct such differing images? Tennice had spoken four names, but I hadn't listened in the proper context. “Celine” was not a vanished stranger, one more unmarked name in a list of the uncountable dead. I knew her. “Please, Kellea. May I speak with your grandmother? My information was in error, and she's the one I need to see.”

“My grandmother sees no one. She's quite feeble.”

“I swear to you that I mean her no harm. I'm a friend of her friends. Take her the message I give you, and if she commands us go, we'll go.” I took a deep breath and reached backward. “Tell her I knew a student of hers from long ago. He learned many lessons from her, but the most important one was to look at the whole person before judging the worth of their gifts.”

As rigid as an iron spike, the young woman disappeared into the back room. She returned quickly. “She'll see you. But only for a moment. You mustn't tire her. She turns ninety next month.”

Tennice and I followed Kellea into a tiny room that smelled of lavender and mint. A sunny window flooded the room with light and air and myriad other scents from a courtyard crowded with planter boxes and baskets of herbs and flowers. In a chair by the window sat an old woman, so withered and dry that it looked as if the slightest breeze could swirl her away like dust. Her head nodded continuously in the way of the very old, but her blue eyes blazed with curiosity. “Who is it speaks of long ago?”

“My name is Seri, madam, and this is my friend, Tennice of Verdillon. I cannot say how honored I am to meet you. Never did I believe I would have that privilege.”

“That's all very nice, but you haven't answered my question.”

“My husband was your student. His name was Karon, eldest son of the Baron Mandille, Lord of Avonar.”

Celine showed no fear. No hesitation. But she was listening, surely, awash in stillness. Even her head had stopped its bobbing for the moment. “And what has this to do with me?”

“He told me of his mentor whose name was Celine, and of how she took a frightened and awkward boy and taught him the beauty of his calling. And when he became cocky, as young men do, she taught him the grace to look for the gifts in everyone. He told me of your candlemaker and your sons, and how, whenever he had a problem, he would think first, ‘What would Morin do?' ”

The old woman extended her hand, her head nodding again as if I had recited my lesson correctly.

“Grandmother!” said Kellea.

But the old woman's handclasp was firm, and she examined me with unclouded eyes. “Karon. Such talent he had—and the heart to match his skill. Lifegiver, we called him. I didn't know he lived past the dark day. But I see in you that he has gone the way of the rest of them.”

“Ten years ago. He was discovered.”

“I was old when he came to me. Who would have thought I would outlive him? I suppose I've outlived them all.” How familiar was her speech. Not querulous or sad, but only wondering at the mysterious ways of life, rejoicing, even in grief, at the interleaving of joy and sorrow and pain and beauty. “And you were his wife. You were not of Avonar?”

“No. We met several years later.”

“You knew what he was?”

“Yes.”

“It's no easy thing to love a Healer—to share with a thousand others what should be yours alone.” She touched my cheek with her warm, dry finger. “You laughed with him?”

“Very much.”

“Good.” Celine settled back in her chair, shaking her head solemnly. “No. No easy thing to walk the Way with a Healer.”

Kellea stood watching like a new-honed knife, ready to slice the first thing that came in its path.

“So this is your granddaughter?” I said, wanting to leave the past behind and get to our business.

“Great-granddaughter. Morin's granddaughter, newborn only a week before the dark day. On the day the Leirans came, I had taken her for a walk in the hills to give her mother a rest. I watched from the hilltop as the soldiers burned Mandille and Christophe and Eduardo and everyone else of the J'Ettanne, and they put my Carlo and Morin and the rest of the people of Avonar to the sword. Now, why are you here? Not to reminisce. Not after so many years.”

“We found you through Professor Ferrante.”

“I'm surprised at that. He was sworn. Why?”

“The story is so long. I hate to tire you with it.”

“I've nothing better to do. Kellea runs the shop. I sleep here in the sun or watch the flowers bloom. Soon I'll be in L'Tiere and have all the sleep I'd ever want. Keep me awake for a while.”

Through the long afternoon I sat at Celine's feet and told her the story of D'Natheil and Baglos, and the reason I sought a J'Ettanni survivor. Whenever the bell on the shop door rang, Kellea would disappear and tend to her customers, and then she would return to her post at Celine's doorway. At every half hour, she would tell me that Celine needed to rest.

“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.

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.

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.”

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.