Ash and Silver (24 page)

“Your
bent
has been returned to you?”

“By chance. I don't— It just happened.”

“Hmph. A bent often breaks through on its own, especially if it was used intensively before it was masked. Masking bents is one of the most difficult things I do.” Lecturing seemed to soothe his frenzy. “Bents are nature's imperative, as much a part of physical memory as of intellect. If some external spellwork cracked your mask, which from the way you prevaricate sounds likely, I'd be very interested in hearing about it. But I think you can have some confidence your talent will serve you—and confidence is a great part of our skill, yes?” He sounded almost friendly.

“Yes, certainly.” From Fallon's testimony and Bastien's, I had used my bent for portraiture very deeply indeed. “I've no idea how long it might take to produce something useful, but if you would . . . I must return to Cormorant by seventh hour.”

“I'll be needed for tonight's rites as well. But if you can give me some idea of what's been done to him, I'll work the rest of the night if need be. Reach deep for him, Greenshank.”

Whether for guilt or friendship, he cared deeply.

As did I. “I will.”

I settled on the floor beside Inek, unrolled the parchment, and sharpened the pen. Opening the ink cup released the oaky smell of tannin and the sour stink of green vitriol. In these two years the smell of ink and paint had roused longings I could not name. Now I could.

Bastien said I ran my fingers over the faces of the dead as I drew them. Easy to understand. I'd learned a great deal about magic at Evanide—about the huge role our senses play in designing the structure of our spellwork, allowing precision I hadn't known was possible. It was why we worked so vigorously to stretch our sensory perceptions. I would have to trust that my instincts knew how to link those perceptions with my two bents, and that my right hand recalled how to create a likeness, for I needed to reveal not just Inek's nature but what had happened to him.

Thus, as Inek hovered between death and life, uncomfortably exposed without his mask, my left hand traced the lines of his prominent cheekbones, his high, straight brow, his stern jaw. Then I dipped my pen, reached deep for the magic burning in chest and brow, and began to draw. . . .

• • •

“G
reenshank!”

My wrist seemed to be caught in a foot trap. Fruitlessly, I tried to retrieve it. “Let go!”

“The last quarter's rung and you must run for the Aerie. But Deunor's fire, look what you've done. I've studied it as you worked.”

The heat of my bent had cooled a goodly while earlier. But I was trying to push deeper, to find more. I'd surely failed.

No more noble figure could ever have worn the silver mail of the
Equites Cineré
than the man looking out from the page. His right hand wielded the warrior's sword; his left gripped the staff of magic. But the eyes peering through Inek's mask were solid black. Black blood streamed from a terrible, ragged gash across his brow and pooled near his feet. Images crowded the pool—a palatial home, an old man's scarred hand, a woman's face, a drowning tyro . . . But none of it gave a hint of Inek's assailant or any key to his healing. The background remained blank—solid white.

“There must be more,” I said, “if I just knew how to reach for it.”

But the flame in my breast had died. I felt a surety of completion. The image inside me was exactly this, and as well as I knew anything, it was true.

“But this is extraordinary!” said the Archivist, tapping the page in a woodpecker's rhythm. “Don't you see? This wound is devouring Inek's memory, certainly. But notice that all of the images are in the pool—perhaps the past that he has already given.”

“But the drowning tyro is his present life. Surely . . .”

“That
could
be a tyro, but I see no other sign of the Order. Silverdrake is lost in all this whiteness, but he holds on. Look at his fists—bloodless and pale—clenched about his weapons. And this neck chain”—he tapped on the thick-worked loop about Inek's neck—“is no simple decoration. Memory work is all about symbols, and this chain surely details the spellwork that binds him. Each link is a glyph. The symbology that memorists work with is a language to itself—because the concepts we deal in require thousands of words. And those words could be in any dialect of any language, though truly I've never seen glyphs representing any but a variant of Aurellian—which comprises only about three hundred dialects . . .”

Time pressed. “Knight Archivist, will Inek—?”

But he wouldn't stop. “If I could determine what alteration has been made to the original trap spell, Inek might have a chance. There are
thirteen links in the neck chain, thirteen glyphs, which are not half enough for such a working, but all of them are familiar pieces of a memory trap. Perhaps—” He held the page just under his nose. “Yes, see this one!”

Manic, he snatched the pen from my hand and pointed the tip to a link in Inek's habergeon, a link right over Inek's heart. It was brighter than others, as if a layer of tarnish had been polished away from that particular curl of steel.

“This is the same as the first in the neck chain. There's more of the pattern hidden in his mail. Just pray it is the key to unwind the spellwork, and that I can find and decipher it in time to help him.”

He dipped the pen and scribbled some of the patterns in the white space of the drawing, aligning them in various arrangements. “Get out of here! I've work to do. Say nothing of these matters to anyone.”

“Aye, sir knight.”

“I'll be in the Hall when Cormorant— Oh, wait!”

I was halfway to the door when his biting call stopped me. He fingered one of his silver medallions, then beckoned me down an aisle of the glass cubes. He touched one at just about head height.

Dissipating magic buffeted my face like a gale, as the cube's front face melted away. The Archivist pulled out a half-relict—a broken fragment that held a man's life—and laid it in my hand with gentle reverence.

World and time stood still. I glanced up, unable to speak, choked with words, thoughts, imaginings . . .

“No, no, Greenshank,” he said, impatiently. “This is Cormorant's, not yours. You must carry it to his rite. Second was supposed to do it, but—” He shrugged.

“Of course.” The flood drained away. “So mine remains in its glass. Inek didn't find it.”

No matter his mask, I could read the Archivist's discomfort clearly. The tale it told left me as still and empty as Inek. He led me down an aisle and pointed at the fifth cube from the end on the third row from the bottom—the glass that held my memory. I sank to my knees in front of it.

“Inek begged me to tell you he did not do this,” said the Archivist, his rust-colored robe brushing my shoulder. “The corruption in the glass tells me it has been this way for more than a year—perhaps from the day you arrived. Saints and stones, if Inek had only known that the man occupying these robes was his partner from the day we were tyros. . . . He could have
come to me, explained why learning more of a nothing paratus like you was so important. I could have shown him where it was, and I'd have seen that perverted . . . corrupt . . . wicked enchantment waiting. But he didn't know whether he could trust the
Archivist
, so he sneaked in, broke the seal, and touched what was inside.”

The cube's glass front was dissolved. What lay inside was no thumb-sized fragment of stone, but black dust and white splinters and a purulent enchantment that could set snakes devouring a mind.

“P
aratus Cormorant, it has been an honor to serve with you. The hour has come for your choice.”

The man in sodden gray gave all the appearance of sleep, tucked into the rocks as he was. But my hand on his arm roused his grin before he even opened his eyes. “Call me Terryn for now. Terryn de Pescatori-Salvados. Let me hear it.”

“Gods' bones! Terryn de Pescatori-Salvados . . . they gave you your—”

“A secret not to be shared,” he whispered. His face was animated, filled with life and experience and . . .
knowing
. “They give you back everything. So you can choose fully to hold or yield it. It's terrible and wonderful and painful, and you've only the two days. But to see your life beginning to end, to make sense of the world and reasons and where you belong . . . It gives a man confidence.”

Unless there was nothing to give back. The shock was only beginning to settle in. My past . . . and the man shaped from those years and experiences . . . was dust. Unrecoverable.

“Gods!” Cormorant slapped his head. “How could I—? Greenshank, did you find Inek?”

“He lives, but a spell trap has damaged his mind. The Knight Archivist is looking into it. For now, you've other things to think about. You know Inek would wish this night to go forward.”

Cormorant examined me carefully. “You're injured as well.”

“To see a fine man laid low by someone in this fortress”—outrage elbowed its way past self-pity—“we are all injured.”

His hand clapped my shoulder. “Whatever I can do to forward justice, I will do. Until then, I'll hold Inek in my thoughts. And you as well, brother. It's been clear for some time that Inek believes greatness awaits you.”

Laughter emerged as a mirthless bleat. “I'll hold to that as I walk the
seaward wall tonight. Come, you must dress. I wonder if they left you a towel . . .”

He needed no help, so I didn't see which tunic he chose, though I believed Dunlin correct that it would be black.
Cormorant
 . . . Terryn de Pescatori-Salvados . . . whatever name he chose to carry forward . . . was destined for greatness.

A trudge down the Aerie stair and through the deep passage led us to the armory. As we passed the armory door, I unfurled the Order's ensign—the white quiver blazon on a field of black—and led my brother into the lingering daylight on the side of Idolon Mount. Angled sunlight bathed the fortress in gold, the storm but a few bloated clouds in the east. To the cheers of three hundred knights, and a hundred parati, squires, tyros, and adjutants, we descended the outer stair and joined the Marshal and nineteen knights-commander in procession to the Common Hall of Evanide.

The anthem of the Order, sung with such strength and belief by the assembled brothers, raised the hair on my neck. But it did not send my soul soaring as every other time I'd heard it.

Inek should be here. To make a knight from ash and splinters was a work worthy of celebration. To harm one, as Inek had been harmed, was a work worthy of mortal judgment. I had to assume that the person who destroyed my relict was the same who had laid the spell trap, even if the deeds were two years apart. But it was the latter crime for which he would pay.

•   •   •

H
ow could I waste six hours on such a useless exercise? Every moment of my first hour on the seaward wall that night, I seethed, tempted to climb back down and tell the fortress watch commander—or the Marshal himself—I was unfit for duty. But that would be a lie.

Appetite had deserted me during the celebration of Cormorant's investiture. Sir Conall of the
Equites Cineré
he was now and would ever be. But the day with Morgan—the food she'd given me, the sleep she'd guarded, the very air I'd breathed—had refreshed and renewed me beyond measure, so that even the bay crossing and the invocation of my bent had not drained me. I had no excuse but frustration.

Inek had reasons for me to be on this wall. I'd hold faith in that if naught else. I wanted to have faith in the Archivist, too. At the end of the feast, it was announced that the Second Archivist had found Commander Inek in the armory, severely injured from an enchantment's backlash. Who would
dare contradict the story? I'd wager the Second Archivist himself sincerely believed it.

Yet the Archivist had so much as said he knew of the trap spell and that it was
alterations
had devoured Inek's mind. Who would destroy my relict and leave a poisonous enchantment for anyone who tried to learn about my past?

Damon, surely. He had sent me to Evanide. He had a use for me beyond a folio of portraits that frightened the senior pureblood families. And Damon was a linguist, who had been trained in Order magic. Who better to create a dialect of symbols to alter a spell? But why?

In the second hour of the watch, fog blanketed the fortress so thickly I could not see my feet. The only proof the fortress yet existed were the tide horns and the bell that struck the hours. Please gods no brother had been caught out on the sea this night.

Though necessarily focused on balance and calm, I could not banish thought entire, not with so much learned and experienced in the past month. Yet I could not afford the distraction of wrestling with puzzles, thus thoughts and questions flowed as they would.

My past might be gone, but my bents yet lived. What a marvel that a despicable prince's scouring had freed them. Yet drawing Inek's portrait had not returned me to the five-fingered land. What if Safia never allowed me through again? The Duchy of Xancheiros had been home to thousands. Was it possible they were yet trapped there? And Morgan was beyond my help if I could not satisfy her father.

Bastien said I'd had him bury evidence of my grandsire's investigation of Xancheira . . . a spindle . . . needlework of some kind. Evidence of the massacre, perhaps, or some hint of the city's fate. And surely if there was a route to Sanctuary in this world, it would lie wherever that city had once stood. I needed to get that spindle.

My grip was near bending the lance. My fingers had gone numb. I wriggled them inside the mail mitons to ensure I didn't drop it.

This Bastien knew more of my past than I ever would. Did Damon know of our unusual relationship—not just master and pureblood, but partners? Friends? What if the curator decided to eliminate anyone who knew me? Somewhere I had a sister. I needed to warn them both, keep them safe, Bastien and—

Why hadn't I asked Bastien my sister's name or where I might have
thought safe enough to send her when the Registry proclaimed me a murdering madman?

The answer sailed past like flotsam on the flood. Because she wasn't real to me. The horror I felt at my family's murder I would have felt at any other family's massacre. Yes, the sight of the fire had hit me very hard that day, but I'd felt no personal loss even after Bastien's telling. The outrage was the deed itself and that it had been committed by people like me. I'd never imagined so much of feeling and attachment was lost with the specific memories.

No matter what else I did, I would make that young girl real again. Get to know her in
this
life. Make sure she was safe and well cared for and not alone. She was likely safer at distance from me and Damon.
A spark of a girl
, Bastien had called her.
You loved her dearly . . . your only kin left in the world . . . sent her away . . .

Under layers of padding and mail, my sweat chilled. What had the silver-marked Dané said?
Thou didst send thy heart with them. . . .

A cry of anguish rose in me. Was it possible I had sent my only living family—my young sister who trusted me—through a magical portal with a ragtag band of Cicerons to a mythical place called Sanctuary, where she was trapped until
I
could get her out? Where those who waited to greet her might or might not be mad?

Balance! Focus! Eyes forward into the murk. Curl your toes and feel your feet . . . your ankles . . . knees. . . . The wall is solid beneath your boots only as long as you feel it.

The remaining hours on the wall crawled by. Damon had set something huge in motion. Something involving the Order, the Registry, and a Sitting of the Three Hundred. I had to learn what he planned, as well as what part he expected me to play in it. But my life's work, inside or outside the Order, would be to ensure that he could not do to my sister, my friend the coroner, or anyone else, the horror he had done to Inek.

•   •   •

D
amon, muffled in a wine-colored pelisse, warmed his hands at the Hearth of Memory as I hurried into the Seeing Chamber. No one else was present.

“I worried I'd be late,” I said. Sixth hour had rung as I threw on a dry shirt, splashed the salt from my eyes, and forced aside every concern but Damon the Spider. “Perhaps the Knight Archivist is delayed by the fog, as I was.” Or perhaps he was busy working to save Inek's life.

Damon didn't bother to turn around. Clearly he didn't realize how close I was to throttling him. “The Knight Archivist will not be present. I shall administer the eyeglim and potions myself.”

“And work the Archivist's magic?”

He pivoted and examined me sharply, as if he thought I might not be the Greenshank he expected. “Are the skills of a Registry curator so far beneath those of an Order pedant that you fear to engage in this session?”

“I'd no intent to offend, curator. And I'm certainly willing to observe whatever you wish to show me. It's only that the enchantments required are quite specialized to the Order. I must confess, I cannot grasp your position here or your interest in my training or opinions. Sometimes it seems as if your purpose and that of the Order must be the same, but recently . . . I'm no longer sure of that.”

The unmasked half of his face expressed only detached observation. But the quirking mouth and gleaming eye beneath the purple silk evidenced enjoyment of feint and counter. I hated that.

“Be assured, Greenshank, the Knight Marshal and I are of a single mind. My position and purpose have not been your concern to this point. But the time of secrecy is rapidly coming to a close. Now tell me: After last night's celebration and your ridiculous tour of the seaward wall, are you quite capable of engaging your mind? You will experience a series of complex scenes from a single perspective, and you must link their threads to make a story—as a
historian
does.”

“Quite capable,
domé
. The seaward watch teaches a man his limits. It's taken me a while to understand that. The time can also provide a certain clarity of thought. It is my duty to learn what every aspect of my training can teach.”

With Inek's fall, Damon and the Marshal had cracked open the door of their plotting. Now Damon seemed to have dropped all pretense.
So push him. Give him what he seems to relish.

“Why am I the only one privileged to observe this seeing? Is it some particular flaw in me that draws the Registry's concern?”

“The Order has you well practiced in dealing with uncertainty. You will be told what's needed when the time is right.”

“What makes you believe that I will listen to your needs at any time?”

Even such insolence did not ruffle him. “Because I know you better than you know yourself.” He poured the amber potion and passed me the
cup. “Experience what I have to show you. Then we shall discuss your future.”

As ever, I used magic and all my senses to examine the amber potion and the eyeglim. Occasionally, the standard formulas and enchantments were purposely altered to sting our eyes or empty our bowels—lessons not easily forgotten.

Both potions were as they should be. I would have to trust Damon's skills to do the rest. Curiosity trumped caution.

The amber potion quickly had me dizzy. Settled on the wooden bench, I allowed Damon to administer the eyeglim. And I did not fight when the blurred hearth fire flashed a brilliant yellow and I fell into another man's skin. . . .

I
hurried down the iron stair, nauseated as always at its tight twisting as much as at its destination—the dank pit where our cruelty festered and our hope was nurtured in darkness and filth like a tender mushroom. Why my colleagues picked the middle of the night for their games was unfathomable. It was just as black down here at midday as at midnight. Did they think the hour would hide their corruption?

I knew better. Light was coming to reveal their sins.
Our
sins. No deeds of worth allow the doer to remain unsullied.

It was inevitable the fools had fixed their minds on the portraits. Were I one of my single-minded peers, I would have burnt the damnable things the moment I saw them and buried the artist right then. But Pluvius-the-not-so-much-a-fool-as-he-pretended swore that all of pureblood society would notice the paintings' disappearance. Over the months of their creation, he'd made a great fuss about Remeni's brilliance and how we would hang the portraits whenever the new king took his throne, celebrating the Remeni—and thus the Registry—connection to the Crown. Exactly the kind of attention we could not afford. And then there was the matter of the massacre so close in time, making Lucian's fate more noticeable. We'd had to wait. I'd approved of Pons's solution to keep Lucian out of sight. Unfortunately, it just hadn't worked.