A Shadow on the Glass (22 page)

The seneschal of the Master of Chanthed held the lantern up, eyeing the young man with disfavor. The yellow light
fell on Llian’s pleasant, untidy face, the mess of brown hair and the tawny eyes.

“Stop pretending!” Turlew said, prim voice oozing from thick, pink, moist lips. “Get dressed. Last night has finished you. Wistan would have words with you before you go.”

“Go?” Llian said, pulling the cloak tightly about him. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got to do my telling.”

“Ha!” Turlew spat. “You’ve had your last chance.” He glanced around the room. “What a disgusting hovel you live in.”

“It’s all I can afford since I have no stipend. Anyway, my friends don’t seem to mind.”

Turlew sniffed. “Well, that’s no wonder. Get packing. You have an hour.”

“Where would he have me go?”

Turlew smiled a malicious smile. “You are expelled and banished from Chanthed.”

Shortly Turlew rapped at the door to Wistan’s chamber. A thin voice called, “Enter.” Turlew stepped inside and dragged Llian blinking into the light.

Wistan wore slippers and a dark-blue cloak over his nightgown. He was talking to his captain, Trusco, who was waving his hands in the air, flat hairy slabs the size of Wistan’s head.

Llian hesitated in the doorway, awaiting the notice of the master. Banished! What would he do?

“Master Wistan,” said Llian, after a long silence. “You sent for me?”

“Of course I did, you fool. Shut the damned door.”

“What do you want with me?”

“Breaking, entering, stealing; entering the library and the archives when they are banned to you; resisting the lawful authority of the college guard; causing bodily harm. These
are crimes enough, though were you of good character I might have overlooked them in view of your previous contributions.”

“But…” Llian began.

“Don’t bother to deny it. Trusco!”

Trusco held up a torn corner of red fabric edged with black. With his other hand he lifted Llian’s cloak, revealing the rent edge where it had been caught in the door. Llian slumped. He was ruined.

“But the crime that I cannot overlook is that you knocked over my lantern in our most precious archives and did not stop to put the fire out. That speaks a want of care that is unforgivable.”

“I checked a minute later,” said Llian. “The fire was out.”

“But it might not have been! A minute is a long time in a burning library.” He paused, giving Llian time to dwell on what his punishment would be.

Llian sat silently, sure that he would be stripped of his master’s honor. Finally Wistan began again, in a more moderate tone. “You’re finished! Dozens clamor for your place here, and I will waste no more time on you. However, something has come up during the night that I must address urgently. I have an offer for you—an urgent mission to Thurkad. Take it and I will give you money enough, and references, to make your life elsewhere.”

“What!” cried Turlew from the corner. “You would
reward
him?”

“Shut up, Turlew,” Wistan snapped. “I’ve had about enough of you too.”

Turlew looked shocked. “An offer, Llian,” Wistan repeated. “A second chance. You still have a lot to contribute if you will only grow up. Refuse, and you are out with nothing.” He was not looking at Llian, just staring into the ashes of the fire.

Autumn was passing. Llian wondered what message could be so urgent as to require crossing the mountains at this time of year.

“But what about my telling! People will wonder…”

“You’ve lost it! Anyway, a skeet came last night with a message. Mendark has begged this favor in the name of the Council and I cannot refuse. You know Mendark, and you have a debt to him.” Mendark would never have requested Llian for this task, but Wistan did not mention that. “Will you do it?”

“What is the job?”

Wistan’s eyes seemed to protrude even further, as though outraged that Llian should question him, and, getting up painfully from his chair, he hobbled over to the window. The casement crashed open and he stood there, leaning on the sill, looking out. A blast of cold air sent the candles dancing. Llian moved closer to the embers. The light of dawn outlined the hilltops to the east, and in the street below, the first of the
tudos
was already setting up his little stall on the footpath, lighting the charcoal stove, mixing batter. A bird trilled from a nearby ledge. There was a long silence. Wistan turned back.

“Someone has stolen a relic from Yggur. The thief has been hunted all the way from Orist and tries to cross from Hetchet into Bannador by the Tullin pass. Her name is Karan. She must be found and escorted to Mendark.”

A tiny memory woke in the back of Llian’s mind; his glorious dreams unfolded again. Suddenly he was interested in what Wistan was saying. “What is the relic?”

“It’s called the Mirror of Aachan and about it I cannot speak, save that it contains records, or memories of ancient times.
We
do not keep our secrets lightly.”

Pompous old fool, thought Llian.

“As to the woman, I know nothing of her. That is why I send you. You have a certain ability to gain the confidence
of others,” Wistan smiled mirthlessly. “Mostly ill-used by recent accounts.”

Llian did not respond immediately. Wistan always carried out his threats. That was how he’d remained master so long, though it was his only quality. It turned his stomach to submit to the odious little man, but what other choice was there? And it sounded as if the mission had a minor tale in it. That was all he really cared about anyway. He would have left Chanthed long ago if he’d had money and references.

“How will I find her?” he asked.

“She left Hetchet more than a week ago, heading to Tullin. She’s young, red-haired; she won’t be hard to find. You’ll have to go at once if you’re to catch her. Well?”

“I will do it,” said Llian; men, with a half-hearted attempt at defiance, “though not because of your threats.”

Wistan smiled, his slab-like lips peeling apart to reveal yellow teeth angling from gray, eroded gums. “The reasons for your choice do not concern me. Go now, before the town is stirring.”

“I’ll need gear for the mountains,” said Llian.

“All here,” said Wistan. He snapped his fingers and Turlew brought forth a bulging pack.

Wistan handed Llian a small purse tied with a drawstring. “This will suffice for your expenses, I trust? And here, your references.” A small scroll case.

Llian weighed the purse in his hand. It was heavy enough. His thoughts strayed. If he did it well it would gain him favor, but all the same, he wasn’t sure he was ready. And what would Mendark require of him when he got to Thurkad? He turned away. Turlew’s eyes watched the purse all the way to his pocket.

“And Llian,” called Wistan, as he reached the door. “Never come back to Chanthed.”

* * *

After he had gone Trusco said, “Why him? I have many who could better serve you. Llian is a dreamer. It’s not an easy crossing at this time of year.”

“He’s as happy to be going as I am to be rid of him,” snapped Wistan. “And he is well provided for, the best down-filled coat and sleeping pouch to be had, the stoutest boots, waterproof cloak, to say nothing of the money. No one can accuse me of skimping.”

“I can’t believe that you rewarded him after last night’s crimes,” said Turlew petulantly.

“They are mere misdemeanors,” Wistan replied, “despite what I said.” How I have sunk, he thought, to condemn a chronicler for doing what we trained him for. But there are some secrets that should remain buried. He endangers everything I have ever worked for, but I cannot tell these louts that. “The Zain are always trouble. After his tales in the taverns, half of Chanthed is laughing at the office of master. I have tolerated it for too long.”

“All know how tolerant, how flexible you are,” murmured Turlew.

“But it has gone too far. I could not allow him another festival, another triumph. Since the last one, the masters have spoken of nothing but bis telling. The mob is a curious thing—before today they have used the festival to acclaim a new master.”

“And they will speak ill of you if they hear of this,” said Turlew.

“That I must accept My time as master draws to a close but the thought of him in my place is unendurable. He knows nothing, save the Histories, and he would do
anything
if it would advance his knowledge or his art. He thinks me just an ugly old fool, as perhaps you do too.”

Turlew’s lips moved in a pretense of demurral, but Wistan no longer cared.

“As perhaps I am. But I love the college and he would destroy it. He is better gone. Genius untempered by ethics is a deadly commodity.”

They stood together then: master, seneschal, captain, each thinking his own very different thoughts. At last Wistan spoke and the anger was back in his voice.

“No, I would be rid of him, and this way has a certain symmetry. I dreamed about this Mirror and immediately thought of him. Let him go where his talents can be used. Mendark pressed me to take him, many years ago. Now I send him back. The irony amuses me.”

“He is no more trouble than some, and cleverer than most,” said Trusco, “though he be a dreamer. He has brought honor upon Chanthed.”

Wistan made a slashing motion with his hand. “Enough. Escort him to the gate.”

“I’ll go,” said Turlew, licking his lips. “They think they’re so clever, these young chroniclers. It’ll be a pleasure to hound him out of Chanthed.”

Wistan fixed him with a keen stare. “They are our past and our future, whatever their sins. Trusco, go at once.”

Llian began his exile in shock, bewilderment and loss. Chanthed had been his home for more than half his life, and there his needs had been attended to by others. Now he must look out for himself. What would he do when his purse ran out? More immediately, where would he sleep tonight? There was no inn between Chanthed and Tullin, four days away, and he had never walked alone across the mountains. In fact he barely knew how to make a campfire. His beloved Histories and his books of tales were lost, stolen. All he had was his journal and the book of the Great Tales that he had made himself.

By mid-morning the fog had lifted. Chanthed was gone
from sight. It was a glorious sunny day, a perfect walking day with just the gentlest of breezes, over everything a sense of winter holding its breath, waiting while autumn lingered. Llian felt as though a great weight had been taken off him. He should have left Chanthed years ago to make his own way in the world. In this mood even the magical dreams of last night could be achieved.

Once or twice he thought he heard the clack of horseshoes behind him as he walked, but no other traveler appeared. That bothered him for barely a moment, such was his humor.

At first the road was well kept and broad, with low stone walls on either side, but by the end of the first day it had dwindled to a potholed track. Still, this was country he knew well. Every fragment of wall, each ruined bridge or standing column had a label for him, and he could read the label and tell its story. There—a cluster of gellon trees, the black bark deeply fissured, the limbs tormented as they became in great age. Pellban, fifth master of Chanthed and everything that Wistan was not, in Llian’s eyes, had sat beneath those very trees and composed
The Lay of the Silver Lake
, the most bittersweet of all the epic romances. It was a Great Tale, and a very moving one, and Llian felt a special kinship with the ages-dead Pellban when he told it.

Damn Wistan! Flinging his pack down on the path he went across into the trees. The fruit of the gellon, over-ripe, lay on the ground all around, and its luscious peach-mango fragrance hung heavy in the air, like a sleeping potion. Llian sat in the afternoon sun, eating gellon and dreaming again, the smooth brown flank of the mountain framed between the black trunks, Chanthed a smear far below, and beyond the plains of Folc fading into the haze. The landscape slowly went out of focus, a misty background for the tragedy that
had unfolded here, pure and bright as a jewel, from Pellban’s genius.

The Lay of the Silver Lake:
the tale of the subjection, and ultimately the desolation, of the tiny state of Saludith. He opened his book of tales to the place, the rice paper silky under his fingers, but did not read. He could recite it word for word. The ending was in his mind now, the tragedy of Narcies and Tiriel. Narcies, in despair at the thraldom of her family and her people, went to the victory celebrations, on the mountain above the Silver Lake, in the guise of a concubine. Wrapping her arms around the Autarch she flung them both off the cliff into the lake. When the word was brought to her lover, Tiriel, he hurled himself over at the same place and was smashed on the rocks. Narcies, who had miraculously survived, came upon his broken body as she was borne back in triumph. She took her own life then, but all was in vain, for the vacuum was filled by a worse tyrant and her name became synonymous with futile sacrifice.

Llian walked a little further, but suddenly his legs ached, and his back, so he looked around for a place to camp. Even that was easier than he’d imagined, for here was another patch of ancient trees. These had no story to tell him, only an invitation. There was fuel in plenty, and he made camp among the trees. After much striking of sparks into damp kindling he got a fire going and burnt bread and cheese and fatty strips of cured meat together in a pan. Llian was a competent cook but this night he was too tired to care. He wolfed the greasy mess down, then discovered that there was no water left and that his perfect camping place was a long way from any. He swore, licked the last drops out of the waterskin, threw it on the ground and climbed into his sleeping pouch. All thought of the quest was put off until the morning.