Ash and Silver (22 page)

The spider had moved to the window and stared out at the lightning-riven blackness. Though it was near physical pain, I bowed curtly to his back. “My apologies, curator. I shall meet you in the archives at sixth hour tomorrow, as you command.”

I offered no excuse.

“The storm is on us, paratus,” said Damon. “Men and women of intelligence, courage, and conviction must face it together, else all we value will be swept away.”

“Indeed,” I said, wondering if we valued the same things at all. Yet I—Lucian de Remeni—had chosen to pursue the mystery of the white hand to Evanide, knowing Damon intended it.

“Your mission is discharged, Greenshank,” said the Marshal, rising as if to preclude any further exchange. “You have returned at a most fortuitous time. In a few hours our brothers gather to celebrate Paratus Cormorant's investiture. He requested you to stand his vigil with him. Commander Inek stood in until duty called him away. Dunlin took up the watch yesterday afternoon. But as you've returned, you may vest yourself, serve out the last hours, and escort him to the Common Hall. Cormorant will be pleased.”

“I'll be honored to serve him.” And I was. No matter the taint of Damon's presence and the Marshal's cooperation with him, I believed in the Order's way because of men like Inek and Cormorant. No worries or anger could overshadow such an occasion.

“
Dalle cineré
, Knight Marshal. Curator.”

“And one more thing, Greenshank . . .”

“Sir?” I said, halfway through the door already.

“As you are unwounded and shall be well fed at Cormorant's investiture feast, Inek, wherever he is, would insist you take up your punishment duty
as required at midnight. The sooner your nights on the wall are done, the better. I give you leave to shorten your watch by time enough to be prompt to your morning appointment with Curator Damon.”

Great Deunor's fiery balls!
I wanted to slam the two heads together—the white and the dark. No chance to visit the archives on my own. No chance to hunt for Inek. At least he'd know where to find me. Where was he?

“As you command, Knight Marshal,” I said. “
Dalle cineré.
” I would honor his office, even if unsure about the man who sat in it. What hold did Damon have on him?

•   •   •

T
he font stood in a corner of the herb garden outside the Marshal's quarters. I cupped my hand and took a welcome drink, while every sense stretched out to locate the dark-clad Fallon. A cough from the colonnade that led to the infirmary cued his position, and I strolled in his direction, head bowed and arms folded as if meditating on the unsatisfactory interview. My dagger sat firmly in hand, tucked under my arms.

“My master swore you'd not recognize me,” Fallon said softly, making his empty hands visible. For one who moved as quickly and smoothly as he did, that was only moderately reassuring. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Nor even your own true name nor what you were before”—he waved his empty hands—“all this?”

“You spoke of debts and warnings.”

He inclined his back. “We've a history, you and me. My father was Prince Perryn's
consiliar prime
—his right hand—and you got him hanged.”

His hand dipped into his jaque, screaming danger,
debt
, and vengeance.

“Hold right there!” My body pivoted sideways, braced and balanced, knife at the ready. Fingers of my left hand lay on my silver bracelet.

But it was only a folded scrap of parchment he offered me. “Perhaps this will raise a memory.”

“
You
open it.”

My pale magelight illuminated an ink drawing. A girl child of ten or twelve, a beggar child, I assumed, her hair cropped short and ugly, her white shift stained dark, her large light eyes sad. Knowing. Resigned to things no child should understand. Yet her cheeks were plump and smooth, her hands clean, and the shift intricately, beautifully embroidered. The depiction was not some allegorical work pulling together the contradictions
of prosperity and poverty, but a portrait. Magic had infused the image with truth.

Pulse hammering, I noted the scribbled lettering in the lower right corner:

LdR-M
.

“Who is she?” I said, wary of Fallon's every heartbeat.

He folded the page and slipped it back where he'd got it. “My eleven-year-old half sister. My father debauched and strangled her, and you—perhaps on a night you cannot remember—gave her justice at the peril of your own life.”

“I've no knowledge of any such occasion,” I said. The necessary words. This man served Damon. They were also the truth, though horror and wonder had me hungering to know more.

My dagger lowered, Fallon stepped closer. “My master believes I blame you for my father's fall from power, caring nothing for the circumstances of the crime. Lest you've not noticed, political gaming is my master's lifeblood. But this shame was my devil sire's own doing.
Then
and
now
I rejoice in justice done for an innocent. Though I serve the curator and share in many of his purposes, I've sworn to repay your service.”

“So you believe I had a hand in your father's fall.”

His white teeth shone in the dark. “I watched the man who drew this portrait force Perryn of Ardra to execute his own
consiliar prime
as they were trying to steal the throne of Navronne. That man held the prince at bay until he had evidence the deed was done. His courage shamed me, because I'd not had the balls to call out the vile prince or my despicable sire.”

Great gods, no wonder I'd had to run!

Fallon's urgency drew me on. “You cannot be unaware of my master's interest in you, Remeni . . . or whatever you're named here. Unfortunately, he's not shared his plan for you in my hearing. But you need to know that he has summoned the Three Hundred to a Sitting. Do you understand what that means?”

“An earthquake!” Shock choked me. “A hurricane.”

Sittings of the Three Hundred—assemblages of the heads of family for the three hundred senior Registry bloodlines—were held perhaps once in fifty years, and only for events of dramatic significance. Strengthening the breeding laws with the requirement of Registry approval before any
pureblood child could be conceived. Or tightening the restrictions on pureblood interaction with ordinaries or adding draconian penalties for ordinaries who aided
recondeurs.
The very first such assembly had ratified Caedmon's Writ—the foundational truce between Crown, Temple, and Registry. Many purebloods still named the Writ anathema for its accommodation of any civil regulation of purebloods and their divine gift. What was in Damon's mind?

“Go on.”

“This Sitting,” said Fallon, “is set for the first day of autumn at Cavillor Castle, the seat of the family Canis-Ferenc. Kasen de Canis-Ferenc is not only one of the wealthiest purebloods in Navronne, but he is well-known among Navronne's
ordinary
legions as a master of strategic warfare. He has refused to serve any of King Eodward's sons. Cavillor and the town bearing its name lie twenty quellae north of Lillebras—approximately five days' ride from the Gouvron Estuary. The Three Hundred shall address the matter of corruption in the Pureblood Registry.”

“Corruption!”

“For two years, as he's planned this event, my master has traveled to the seats of more than half of the Three Hundred families, carrying with him a folio of portraits, each bearing this same signature.” Fallon patted his jaque where he'd returned the girl child's portrait. And waited.

The scenario he painted bespoke a man building support for a plan to be proposed at the Sitting. But why with a folio of my portraits?

“Have you an idea what he thinks to present at the Sitting?”

“No,” said Fallon. “With each Head of Family he reiterates the Sitting's stated purpose of addressing corruption. All other discussion is family matters or news of the day. I stand only as his aide and bodyguard, beneath notice of your kind, but I've good eyes and ears. The folio of portraits is always with him. And when he leaves, the Head of Family is always afraid.”

Portraits that could reveal hidden truths. Blackmail.

“Damon intends for you to be present for this Sitting, Remeni. In what capacity, I've no idea. But I'd say this is a move of power as we've not seen in Navronne since the Writ, and when serious, determined men make moves of power; it behooves their servants . . . and their instruments . . . to have a care. I certainly shall.”

I had to make some answer. If he spoke truth, this man had just put his head on the block for me. “I've no memory of these matters . . . the girl child . . . the folio . . . But I'll stay vigilant. And if ever there were dealings
between us that laid this geas on you, let their burden be lifted now. Go in safety and with my thanks.”

A shake of his head denied my grant. “This debt is for my lifetime. Ysabel was small in the world compared to duty and ambition. She died in torment because I did not pay attention, and it was not her brother the warrior who fought for her, but strangers. A portrait artist and a coroner. Do either of you ever need my service, I will answer.”

Fallon melted into the shadows, leaving me awash in fear, curiosity, and an undeniable satisfaction that intellect insisted belonged to someone else, yet I hoped might belong in small part to me. Very like a Knight of the Ashes might feel when hearing of a righteous deed well done.

•   •   •

A
speedy visit to the lavatorium and its ever-flowing, ever-frigid water, and the layered shirt, habergeon, and black wool tabard didn't itch as they might have otherwise. My lighter cloak and spare mask completed my toilet, and I raced through the citadel and up the exposed stair on the north face of Evanide's granite heart.

No one I met had seen Inek that day. His absence nagged. The commander was not one to prattle about his duties, but he was serious about his students. He would never miss an investiture.

My skull was like to burst with all I'd learned—and now this news. A Sitting of the Three Hundred less than two months hence, to be held in a pureblood house far from Palinur. Secret, then. And very near Evanide.

Bypassing the armory and treasury, I plunged deep into the mount, arriving at a stair that had likely been in place centuries before the fortress itself was built. The steps were little more than a suggestion. Follow the stair downward into the bowels of Idolon Mount and one reached the misty Cave of the Spring, the source of our fresh water. Ascend and one emerged at a rocky nest called, appropriately, the Aerie—the highest point on Evanide's islet. There, exposed to wind, weather, and whatever view of the wide world Erit the cloud goddess provided, did a paratus-exter spend two days and two nights considering the decision that would alter him forever.

An iron gate stood at the top of the stair. My fingers worked out the spell, and I ducked through the low arch. Lightning flickered at the end of the short, steep passage beyond the gate, silhouetting a man standing guard. The thunder growled and rumbled, almost without break.

“Who goes there?” Dunlin's challenge was firm, but voiced quietly, though indeed Cormorant was unlikely to hear us over the storm.

“'Tis your First, Paratus Dunlin. You are relieved.”

Dunlin came to attention as I joined him at the verge of the grotto. Rain blurred my view of the gray-cloaked man nestled in a crotch of the craggy rocks behind him.

“I am relieved. You have the watch.” Dunlin's enthusiasm was clear. “Well met, Greenshank!”

As my second passed me his lance, his entire posture changed. He yawned, scrubbed at his head, and stretched out his shoulders. “He hoped you'd arrive before the ceremony. The idea pleased me, as well.”

“A near thing,” I murmured. “But the storm held off its worst till I got back.”

“Unless I fell asleep and missed the last bell, we're nigh on three hours from seventh when his vigil ends. There's the standard you're to carry before him.” Dunlin waved his hand at a long pole wrapped in silk and a small carved chest sitting far enough inside the passage to keep them mostly dry. “His robe and hood are in the chest, as are the two tunics.” Black for acceptance; white for rejection.

“From the bell he'll have half an hour to robe and get to the Hall. He's to stay silent and not show you his choice until he's dressed. But honestly after two days in the weather with only his future to chew on, he'll likely need help to distinguish white from black. He's not twitched since I got here yestereve.”

“I'll see to him,” I said.

Dunlin stared past me and cocked his head. “Can you guess his choice?”

“No guessing needed,” I said. “Cormorant was born for knighthood.”

“Agreed. He'll be the next Marshal, wait and see. Though he's not got this Marshal's ferocious rigor that will have his knights cursing his ancestors to the tenth generation while they die for him. Cormorant is simply everlasting fine at whatever he does.”

I'd never understood Dunlin's estimate of the Marshal. I saw no rigor. Nor did I perceive Heron's Marshal—the priest of a mysterious warrior cult only initiates understood. It was the Marshal's passion for right and his vision of a just world that spoke to my soul. Except today.

“Of course, we'd never know it was Cormorant,” said Dunlin, screwing
up his face until his mask look like a dune shore. “We're all mad, you know.”

“Aye.” Some of us more than others. “Would you give Inek a message for me?”

“Certain.”

“Tell him it's urgent I see him, and the Marshal's sent me back to the wall tonight.”

“Your never-ending punishment tour. Do you imagine Inek will relieve you?”

“I doubt it. Maybe distract me, though.”