Ash and Silver (42 page)

“My life cannot ever be what it was before,
serena
. I'm too much changed. I've found this place—good work to do that I'd like to think would make you and our family proud. But to do it well requires secrecy, anonymity, and leaving everything else—even family—behind.”

“Sounds just like you.” Her resentment was softened by her grip on my hand. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Something extraordinary, I'll wager. It might require becoming someone else entirely. My name is too dangerous even to speak. For now, you must lie low. Which means—”

“I have to forswear you. Again. So that I can practice magic and keep our bloodlines alive. It didn't work before . . . well, the lying part didn't.”

“Again? I don't—”

“That's exactly what you said when you sent me to Pons. You stood in that graveyard so broken, wearing that dreadful mask and chains, and you sent me away to your worst enemy. You were exactly right to do it. But I'm not so good a liar as you thought. It was just Serena Fortuna's blessing that Pons wanted to help us all along.”

“She really did? You didn't
escape
her. . . .” So much of what Pluvius had said had been proven true—my grandsire's chest, his talk of a
wound in the world
, the significance of my dual bents—but I had never accepted his talk of the woman curator, Damon's protégé who had split with her devious mentor.

“She's not an easy woman. But she hid me, talked sense into me, sent me to the Mother's high priestess—the safest place in Palinur. She promised to see that you learned enough to survive. She said she'd fetch you back when the time was right, and clear your name and together you'd stand up to—” Juli stared up at me, her face pale in the starlight. “This game of power is about Curator
Damon
, isn't it?”

“Yes. And if Pons is secretly opposing him, she's in a very risky position. Curator Pluvius came here to fetch me away, claiming Pons sent him to warn me about Damon. I wasn't sure whether to believe him.”

“Ugh. Pluvius tried to lure us into his
protection
. That's when you decided to send me off with the Cicerons. Prince Bayard's troops were laying the siege, and you were out of choices.” Her face wrinkled into a frown. “Pons must be desperate to choose Pluvius for a messenger. Luka”—Juli sat up a little straighter—“I could go to her again, see what's what. If she's true, I could give her a message from you, tell her how she can find you . . . help you. She's a stone-hard witch, but she's truly powerful and believes you know things that could make purebloods . . . more honorable. That's her words. She refused to tell me more.”

“She was right not to tell you. Holy gods, I never imagined—”

I wanted to reject Juli's offer. I preferred she hide and survive. But Pons
might know more of Damon's plan and my place in it, and would surely have plotted her own strategy, lest I die or fail or lose myself along the way.

“Signal ho!” Dunlin's voice cried out from the lead boat.

Perhaps Fix was wrong about family.

“Truly, a few answers might make all the difference.” None should have been able to hear anything we'd said, but I pressed my mouth to Juli's ear and drew a bit of enchantment around us. “Tell her this . . .”

In as few words as possible, I told of my strange mission as Damon's weapon to reshape the Registry, but sworn to justice, not the man; of my suspicions about the throne and the report I'd heard of coercion using my portraits. So short a time was not enough to tell all, but Juli knew a great deal on her own.

“. . . and with what you can tell her of Xancheira and what we've done here, she should understand that Navronne's future rests in our hands. But please,
serena
, have a care. At the least sign of danger—”

Juli grabbed my hands and pressed them to her forehead. “To strike a blow for our beloved dead, to see you make right and honor grow from that horror, I will
not
fail. Hercule and the coroner will see me safe until Pons arrives in Cavillor. And I can tell Coroner Bastien whatever I find out. He'll be able to get it to you easier than I, especially once I'm in skirts and mask again.”

“I'll arrange that with him.”

All around us the rowers leapt into the water and dragged their boats into the muddy shallows of the middle estuary. Bastien watched from the upper bank as Hercule and others of the first party waded in enthusiastically to help their seasick friends go ashore, promising that fires and provisions waited just beyond the bank.

I jumped out and lifted Juli from the boat. As I carried her to solid ground, she flung her arms about my neck.

“Live,”
she said fiercely, “and swear to me that before the name Lucian de Remeni-Masson vanishes forever into myth and hero tales, you will tell me that you've done so.”

“I can't promise—”

She gripped a handful of my hair. Came near yanking it out entire. “Swear it or I'll start screaming that a madman is posing as my brother!”

“All right,” I said, my laughter laced with rue. Had the others in our family been so filled with spirit? “I swear it. And on that day you'll tell me what gods I offended to be birthed from the same parents as you!”

She wriggled and near leapt from my arms. It was surprisingly difficult to let her go. A part of me was no longer so empty as it had been. Perhaps our true lives were indeed graven in our bones, ready to recapture. I hoped.

“Hercule!” Juli called, catching the attention of the crowd. “Palinur's too far for all of us who've emptied our bellies in this wretched sea. I've heard favorable stories of a town called Cavillor. If I recall correctly from my lessons, it sits just inland from the port of Tavarre, which likely means it has a steady stream of sailors, merchants, and adventurers hungry for a taste of entertainments and games of chance. It could be a good way station on our journey home. . . .”

She chattered on to the Cicerons as I jogged back to the boats. The rowers awaited my orders.

“Well done,” I said. “Check in with the boatmaster before you set foot in the fortress, else you'll have failed the exercise and will reap my Knight Commander's favored consequence—a month's tour on the seaward wall. If you've doubts as to your fitness for the crossing, speak now or the consequence will be doubled.”

One of the tyros, a long-faced fellow with a bulging chin and heavy brow ridge, swallowed hard and raised his hand. “I'm flat, paratus.” His speech quavered a little—a trait of ever-apprehensive tyros. “Had a bout of flux a few days since.”

“No excuses. But better to speak now than after you're drowned. You”—I signaled my bow man, another of Conall's tyros—“will be a third in this honest man's boat. Trade off with him. Navigators and tails as before, save I won't be with you. I'll come after on my own, once I've seen our passengers off. Dunlin and Heron, lead out.”

As soon as the small flotilla was under way, I joined Bastien at the top of the bank.

“You're sending the Cicerons to the place of the Sitting?” he snapped. “And your
sister
? Are you mad?”

“To the town, not the castle itself, and the Sitting's not for almost a month yet. Cicerons wander everywhere. And I don't
want
Juli there. But Pons will surely come for the Sitting, sooner or later. Juli knows her, respects her, and believes Pons can keep her safe and help us sort out this conspiracy. I'll be in Cavillor myself ten days from this. . . .”

I told him of my strange orders from the Marshal.

“I'm going to do exactly as he says—except for telling you and my ally
back at the fortress. If Juli learns anything I need to know, she's trusting you to get it to me. Are you willing?”

“Told you I'd do what needs doing. There'll be a decent sop-house near the market. I'll stop in every night.”

“Good. I'll share the rest of my news with you there. But first, I've someone needs to see the spindle. You have it?”

“Not leaving it in a sea cave, am I?” he grumped.

He rummaged in his sizeable rucksack—everything he owned, I supposed—and passed me a compact leather bundle tied with cord.

I tied it to my belt. “Thank you, coroner. To uproot yourself . . . to come so far to help in this business . . . It makes me wish I could remember more of our dealings.”

“Some of them, you would as soon not,” he said. “You were not a happy man. You didn't believe you and me could possibly get on, righteous prick that you were. But you . . . bent. Well, not the magical kind . . .”

“I understand. I've become a bit more flexible, I think. At least Cavillor will be a shorter journey for these people than Palinur.” Which brought up the tender subject. “Where's Morgan?”

“Waiting just upriver where the bank joins a spur of rock. Keeping her distance so's not to spook them. She was hoping you'd come to her before you went back.”

“Best I do that. Godspeed, Partner Bastien.”

A grin split his thatch of a beard. “Watch your back, pureblood. I'm invested in you.”

As he hurried back to the restless Cicerons, I picked a way through willow snags and slick alder roots along the muddy bank of the estuary. A few hundred paces upriver, Morgan sat atop a low rise, her gards like threads of indigo linking the stars one to the other. Across the splayed estuary, a reed forest whispered in the breeze. The beauty of the scene swelled my heart and slowed my steps halfway up the bank.

“Gentle Lucian,” she said. “Are all who were so sadly marooned beyond the boundaries safely ashore? Thy sister, too?”

“Yes. The bay crossing was difficult for people unaccustomed to water travel, but they're ready to go onward. Bastien will tell you their destination.”

As I resumed the short climb, she rose, her draping of spidersilk drifting on the air. The luminous gards and the background of stars made her very like a goddess in a temple painting. Until I saw her face.

Winter settled in flesh and bone. “Morgan, what's wrong?”

“I keep my bargain,” she said, cool as frosted steel. “I trusted thee to do the same. To tell me of Sanctuary and of madness among our kind that must be remedied. I thought thee careful of the Everlasting. But it seems not.”

With a glance behind me, she turned and walked into the starlight.

I whirled about and faced three blue-marked Danae, a glowering Tuari Archon in the center.

“T
hou'rt forsworn, sorcerer. Liar. Violator,” said Tuari. “As every human before and after thee. Dost thou imagine us blind and deaf to the world? Over and over this very night hast thou violated our strictures, transporting humans across boundaries they were not meant to cross, corrupting the Everlasting in such fashion as breathes danger to all we know.”

One of the archon's companions carried loops of vine rope. One held a bow with an arrow nocked. Tuari himself carried a thick branch.

“Morgan!” I bellowed over my shoulder, unwilling to take my eyes off the Danae.

“My daughter earns no grace amongst us any longer. Never fear, she will fulfill her noxious bargain before she pays the price of thy offenses. Does it please thee to think of her as vermin?”

“Of course it does not please me,” I snapped. “I never meant for my ignorance to put her at risk. I've tried to learn of the world without jeopardizing her.”

I dared not explain the Severing. Knowing what was done, Tuari might find a lingering thread that yet crossed it and destroy the silver Danae and imprisoned humans before we had them free. Surely Morgan would have told me if her father knew of the void. But then again, she had brought him here without warning me.

“Your treacherous daughter must have run out of patience with my human frailty.”

“Dost thou deny her charges?” said Tuari, snarling. “Thou didst swear that the particular magic that damaged the boundaries was lost to thee. Thou didst swear to tell us of Sanctuary and our silver-marked kin as soon as they were found, and to lead us to this aberrant sentinel.”

Tuari's companions moved to surround me. I edged backward, up the shallow spur of rock, keeping them in front. The terrain was slick with mosses and mud. Did I slip, our dance was done.

“I've regained my magic, as you've perceived,” I said, “and spent it to recover those I sent across the boundary those seasons past when I had no understanding of my power. I thought they'd found the verdant beauty of the true lands. But instead they were trapped in a wasteland that could not nourish them. Mercy bade me retrieve them before they died there.”

“This reeks of lies,” spat Tuari, tossing his long braid. “What part of the true lands cannot nourish—even in these days of skewed seasons?”

He truly didn't know what had happened at Xancheira.

“Ask your daughter what she saw in the city portal. She did not deign to tell me what a
crack in the world
signified or who were the
beasts
who would come ravening. If the long-lived who understand these things will not tell me, then how am I to learn enough to satisfy you? Tell me what you'll do when you meet your kin who wear silver gards.”

“No concern of any human are these matters. Hast thou spoken to the sentinel marked in silver since swearing thy oath?”

“Yes.”

“Hast thou taken me to her?”

“No. But—”

“Then by thy own words art thou and my daughter condemned.” Tuari spun his thick branch as if it were a twig. “Bind him to yon chestnut bole. Splay his hands. My stick shall break his fingers first . . . then wrists . . . then elbows. Only when he is ready to take us where we wish to go shall the breaking cease.”

“That won't be so easy.” I retreated another step, clasping my hands on my bracelets.

My power was naught but dregs. A firebolt . . . a leash . . . nothing worked. So, Fix's bracelet—

Blue-scribed arms clamped around me from behind, steel sinews pinning my arms and crushing the breath from me.

My head smashed backward, cracking fragile bone.

He bellowed, blood and phlegm gurgling. His grip loosened but did not drop.

I wrenched an arm free and slammed an elbow into his cheek. A quick follow with my forearm slammed a bull-thick neck.

My assailant staggered. Though blood poured from nose and mouth, he was still on his feet. But I didn't follow through with my fists. The three others charged like maddened bulls. I ran.

Drawing every scrap of strength from my legs, I sped across damp
uneven ground, furrowed with rock spurs and clumps of vegetation. Surprise and quickness gave me the moment's advantage, but I'd no illusion that would last. Even using Fix's magic, I couldn't hide. Morgan had seen straight through my veil. And I would not kill them. To slay a guardian of nature's creation must surely wreak havoc—

An arrow whizzed past, scorching my cheek. I touched Fix's bracelet and my own and released a burst of fire and smoke behind me, then angled sharply seaward across the flats. Too much farther north and the low scarp separating me from the shore would become a cliff. Could Danae swim? Every natural being had a weakness. Morgan didn't tire; she ate rarely; she could vanish. There
were
places she wouldn't go. Indoors. And—

That was it! She'd admitted one tale of Danae weakness was true.

As the coast was so often foggy, the saltern had a blessed beacon that could guide me through the darkness. I dashed more directly seaward and circled wide. I needed to head back toward the lower estuary and the marshes to reach the Order's salt pans, but I couldn't let my pursuers know my destination too soon lest they cut across the flats to intercept me instead of following.

My feet tripped on a lump of broken ground. Stumbling forward, I used Fix's power to cast a faint magelight, colored deep so as not to ruin what night seeing I had. The beating, the rowing, and lack of sleep weighed on my legs like shackles. But I ran. Tuari would leave my bones dust.

By the time the beacon prickled my skin, the Danae's bare feet were pounding in my ears. I dared not look back, lest I see an arm reaching for me. Where to lead them? They likely wouldn't enter the boiling-hut. And with the recent storm, the brine in the pans might be too dilute. I needed crystals—a lot of them.

Past the hut stood a ruin of sandstone blocks, little more than two half walls and two leaning pillars sunk in the ground, evidence that this place had been used to harvest salt for centuries before the Order came. I jumped from a ragged line of sand blocks into the shallow well of the ruin and darted into the shelter of the fallen columns. Breathing hard, I let my magelight die.

The five Danae leapt over the wall as if they weighed no more than goosedown, landing softly in the pit.

“Hiding in a hole like a rabbit?” spat Tuari.

I backed into the deepest corner of the ruin. Those who worked the salt in ages past had used clay for their pans, vessels, hearths, and countless jars
to transport the sea's gift. What remained was a heap of clay shards, clay dust, and plenteous salt. Crystals that could bind a Dané in place.

“Force me out!” I said, trying to slow my heaving lungs. “Bring your mighty sticks and arrows against a sorcerer.”

With a gout of power borrowed from Fix's bracelet, I raised a fierce beam of magelight, focused exactly on their faces. Surely, even Danae could be blinded in the dark.

“Perhaps we could talk about this like reasonable souls,” I said behind my light, watching the angry Danae enter the sheltered corner. My assailant's broken face yet dripped blood—as red as my own. “I'll not come out unless you drag me.”

They came in a half circle: one, two, three . . .

“Archon, wait!” bellowed one, staring down at his bare feet. He shuffled, but could move only a few steps forward or back, like a hound on a short leash.

“I shall not—” The archon strode onto the spoil heap, arm raised to shade his eyes, until he, too, looked down. Appalled. “What have you done, sorcerer?”

“Prevented your crippling a man who only wishes to be of service,” I said. “One who seeks answers for the world's disorder. One who cares a great deal about your daughter.”

“So thou'lt leave us here to die.”

“Crushing my joints with your stick is a surer death sentence for a human than this for you,” I said. “If you agree to a new bargain, I'll tell Morgan where you are. Hear this: Before year's end, when
I decide
I have learned enough of consequences, I shall take you to the place where I saw the silver-marked sentinel. The sentinel's choice to speak with you is
her
own, and the matter of your dealings is between you and her, but at that time you will declare my oath upheld and we shall speak together as honorable beings about my magic. Until then, you will refrain from punishing your daughter or me or
any human
for my offenses.”

“What value is a bargain made with one party held against his will?”

“The same value as a bargain tricked upon a party immersed in ignorance as I was in Palinur. As you knew very well.”

He fought to step free of the spoil heap. When his sinews yielded the struggle, he cast a final furious lash. “Thou shalt ever be an enemy of our kind.”

“I would regret that more than I can express,” I said. “The beauty and grace of the long-lived bring your own divine magic to the world. But I will not be a party to a confrontation whose result I cannot see, especially when it is approached with such spite and grievance as yours.”

“Thou'lt never speak with my daughter again.”

“That is between you and Morgan. This night has shown me her true loyalty, so I doubt you have aught to fear.”

“It is a bargain . . . your saying.” Tuari Archon's disgust told me I'd chosen rightly.

“Will you wait until Morgan returns from her journey, or is there something I can do to set you free sooner?”

Tuari's face twisted into deeper hatred, if such was possible. To admit need of a human's help must certainly gall him.

“Water.”

I bowed—without mockery—and clambered over the red mound of clay and salt well out of their reach. There was no water nearby save that in the tide-filled brine pans. I filled an empty jug with it. Several jugs of small beer sat in the boiling-hut, ready for those who worked to stoke the fires and collect the salt. If the water's purpose was to dissolve the salt around their feet, either should do. I sat for a moment to slake my thirst with a sizeable portion of the beer—and, ungenerously, to let Tuari stew a bit.

Then I hauled the two jugs into the ruin. “One is seawater; one is a mild brew of barley and herbs. Use as you see fit.”

I set the jugs just out of their reach and climbed out of the ruin. Let them work at it a little. Tuari yet clutched his stick.

• • •

B
y the time I reached the boat, the marshes were deserted, the Ciceron fires ash, and my knees jellied with weariness. The air bore the certain freshness of dawn. I would be late back to the fortress again after rowing against the final onslaught of the surge—a dangerous crossing when I was unfit. And a second lashing or confinement would follow a public return. Either consequence could see me dead or near enough as to leave me useless. The only way to avoid those dangers was to wait out the daylight hours, replenish my magic, and sneak in after nightfall.

•   •   •

A
fter a feast of fish and a full day of sleep, and no interference from searchers or troublesome Danae, I made good time across the bay. Night and cold rain veiled Evanide. I scuttled up the quay to Fix's cottage. As I lifted my hand to touch the latch, the door swung open.

“No blades this time?” I said, once the door closed behind me.

“Perhaps another taste of the lash suits better for a habitual miscreant,” said Fix, as his brazier burst into flame and lamplight bloomed from over his table. The surge of power that effected these things was weak for the Knight Defender.

“Had I attempted a crossing this morning, I would have floated out to sea without a boat,” I said. “Four times across the Severing void will take it out of a man.”

He blew a scornful note. “Try holding a true fog for fifteen hours, then scraping a night's memory from eight half-minded tyros and two parati.” Indeed his eyes were bleary and his shoulders tight. “Make your next rescue mission a shorter excursion, if you please. Better yet, do it somewhere else.”

“That's entirely likely,” I said. “Is Siever—?” I inclined my back as the Xancheiran emerged from the shadows, bearing a mug, fragrant and steaming. “Lord Siever, I've brought you a gift.”

Setting the mug aside, he perched on a stool and carefully unwrapped the
stola
and its spindle. “Ah, Greenshank, thou dost intend to challenge me!”

“So this is the artifact,” said Fix, peering over the Xancheiran's shoulder. “The bit of linen that could change the world, as well as repair it?”

“Though the genealogy is truth enough to upend the Registry, 'tis the spindle itself is the key to the Severing,” said Siever, running his fingers over the spindle.

A whisper of elegant magic revealed raised sigils on the smooth, dark wood.

“A few of the names in the genealogy are contrived to guide the spellwork. I'll need pen and paper to work out the steps.”

“I was hoping to take the
stola
to Cavillor,” I said. “I might need the evidence.”

“Better we keep it safe,” said Fix. “Draw it from memory if you need. Even a fool of a curator will understand why it was too risky to carry.”

Once Fix shoved a writing case and a few sheets of parchment in front of him, Siever retreated from the world. The Defender left him to it and joined me at the fire. He tossed a few strips of dried meat into my lap and wagged his head. “So much that we believed of ourselves. . . . How is this possible?”

“Two centuries of blood,” I said, relishing the salt and savory of the leathery morsels. “And we're not done with it yet. . . .”

Over the next hour, I told him all I'd learned from Bastien and Safia. I described the horror of the silver Danae's torment of the Xancheirans, my broken pact with Morgan, and the new one I'd squeezed from Tuari. And lastly, I told him of my interview with the Marshal and my orders to desert the fortress and join the Marshal in Cavillor. So intense was Fix's listening and his questioning, he could likely have recited every scrap of my telling back to me.