Ash and Silver (8 page)

“Empty!” She halted, but kept her hold on me. “By the Everlasting, Lucian, did we break thee? We had devised the torment as a penalty for thy trespass—twisting the boundaries of the world with thy magic. Naari said
he touched thee with it in a fit of anger and quickly stopped when you suffered such distress. Naari does not lie, but if he misjudged . . .”

Tales called the Danae tricksters, who delighted in tormenting humans, but
this
trick, at the least, could not be laid at their feet.

“It was those I live and work with now who broke my memory. They needed to teach me things I couldn't learn, living as I was. I agreed to it.” Somehow. For some reason. “What trespass—?”

“
Thine own companions
broke mind and memory?” Her outrage aborted my questions. “They stole away thy beloved artwork and the studies of history thou didst value so deeply? What folly can match that of humans?”

Her grip tightened, as scorn dripped like acid from her tongue. “Mere movements and sequence do not define my dancing, no matter how perfectly I execute them. If I have no spirit, no exuberance drawn from my living to infuse my steps, the dance will remain dry and meaningless. How canst thou do any work of value lacking thy own true spirit? From the first moment I heard thee speak of Navronne's history, I recognized how extraordinary was thy spirit, and I witnessed its fullness on that sweet afternoon you worked magic for me, lay with me, and used thy pens and inks to show me what I am to become.”

Even with her support, I near stumbled over my own feet. Her words rattled my ignorance like hailstones on tin—names, places, studies of history, magic that twisted the boundaries of the world. That my art had shown her what she was to
become
; I dared not imagine what that meant.

Yet something worse shadowed all. Always I had believed that the most important pieces of my life must be engraved on my spirit, and that no matter my experience with the Order, the right spark must eventually bring those things back—in recognition or understanding, if not exact detail. To hear that I had known this fleshly, passionate woman, that I had
lain
with her, and that the experience was entirely lost staggered me. “Lady . . .”

“Come,” she said, pushing my hand from my eyes yet again. A few steps more and she drew me to my knees near the source of a quiet burbling.

Her hand cupped my forehead. “Lean forward just a little. And take off that dreadful mask. Trust me, my friend. I've seen thy comely body entire in all of its joyful parts.”

The cold was certainly no problem. Her touch, her smell, and the merry jibe scorched my every part. Half embarrassed, half roused, and entirely confused, I seemed incapable of words. Then, with a sure hand supporting
my head, she sluiced my face with fresh, frigid water. Once, and then again, and again.

“Ow!” I spluttered and spat.

Scolding, she swatted my hands aside as I tried to rub away the sting. “Clean thy hands before touching the eye!”

I dipped hands and gritty mask at one, then pressed the water from my eyes. With a careful breath—terrified I might see no one and know myself mad—I blinked them open.

The woman from the boat knelt beside a small pool that glittered with starlight. Her cheeks and brow were flawless, unmarked as I had seen her at our previous meeting, but . . . ah, sweet Goddess . . . water dribbled from her tangled curls onto shoulder, arm, and breast clad in naught but exquisite images of vines and trees, butterfly and lynx, inked in blue fire. Danae fire.

“Envisia seru.”
The words rose from my marrow, though I'd no idea what they meant.

Her sober expression bloomed as if an early sunrise had intruded on the fading stars. “Ah, dear Lucian, thou'rt a delight to my eyes, as well. Somewhere along this strange path hast thou learned a proper greeting for one of the long-lived.”

Emotions poured from her body like scents from an herb garden—pleasure, eagerness, regret.

“It was not I who taught thee, secret as I was in those sweet days.” She brushed drips from my brow in such intimate fashion my cheeks burned like summer sunrise. “Was it the other—the sentinel marked in silver you told Naari of? If her lessons remain in thee, then surely the answers to our questions can be found, as well.”

Enthralled by her every breath, every lineament, every word, I could only stumble onward.

“I know naught of these things—penalties, twisting boundaries, silver marks . . . you. I don't even know your name.” Nor what she liked to do, nor where she lived, nor how we'd become friends. Purebloods were discouraged from forming friendships. How had a pureblood artist come to know a dancer—a Dané masquerading as a dancer?

“Then our dilemma is indeed dire.” She pressed her folded hands to her mouth and frowned. “When the severity of thy trespass became apparent, Tuari Archon, he who speaks for the long-lived, sent me to the city called Montesard to learn of thee. I was only a youngling, but skilled in ways that passed me easily for one of humankind.
Not
easy was it to tease past the
rules that surrounded thee like an oyster's shell . . . and then past thy own shy nature.”

Her fleeting smile was quickly enveloped by a worry that tightened my gut.

“When I saw the drawing wrought on that wondrous afternoon, I could no longer deny that I had learned what was needed—and so very much more. The archon was anxious for my report, and thy grandsire was so very angry with thee that I left. Upon my return to the true lands, I told Tuari all I had learned. He commanded we stay close and watch thee, Naari and I. We tried to warn thee of the trespass thy magic wrought. The last time Naari gave warning, you spoke to him of another of the long-lived, one who named herself a sentinel—one who watches the boundaries of the true lands.”

She stretched out her arm and its glimmering cerulean, indigo, and sapphire marks.

“Thou didst say her gards were not colored with the hues of sky as ours are, but with bright silver. Thou didst claim she spoke of
Sanctuary 
. . .”

Her pause invited me to speak, but I shook my head. None of this held any significance.

“Now Tuari's patience grows thin. He has commanded me to fetch thee to him, as the tale of silver gards and Sanctuary is of great concern to us. But without thy remembrance . . . if he sees no worth in thee . . . Lucian, his wrath is terrible. He does not value humankind.”

Joint and sinew softened with her fear.

“The trespass thy magic wreaks opens our boundaries to dangers unimaginable. I am bound to take thee to the archon, but how wilt thou answer what he asks?”

A meadowlark riffled its melodious call from the hills beyond the marsh, startling me out of my beguilement. The stars had faded. Morning and the tide's ebb were upon us. Curiosity, no matter how maddening, and wonder, no matter how deep, could not define my duty. Not today.

“Two years have I fought to remember my life, lady,” I said. “It is impossible. And I can't go anywhere with you just now. Duty demands I report to my commanders with all haste. But I need an hour's rest before I go, and if you could just teach me of these matters—the true lands, trespassing boundaries—I would be ever grateful. And perhaps something of this grandsire you named. Gods, you know more of my own family than I do!”

But she leapt to her feet, her countenance riven with worry. “If thou
canst not come with me, then go. Others are on their way to meet us. Please, Lucian, be safe . . . but hurry. 'Tis much more difficult to argue thy necessity when there are five of my kin surrounding thee, even if they mean you no harm.”

No harm
. But she had already told me that this Tuari had no use for humankind and her worry was indisputable. I could likely hold together a few more hours and row.

“I'll go. But tell this Tuari I'll gladly speak with him as soon as I can. Let him test me and see that I've no will to do injury to your kind and no knowledge or magic that would permit it—even if I did before.” Certainly she would have to explain more before I could even know what to deny. “How will I find you?”

“Return to the estuary at any time. Touch its waters and I'll find thee. Until then, travel land and water with the greatest care.”

Rolling fog swallowed the new-birthed sun as I bowed to her. “Gracious lady.”

“Ah, Lucian, my name is Morgan.”

“Morgan.” The name was tart and sweet on my tongue, but not at all familiar.

She smiled as she vanished, as if her pleasure captured the last beams of the morning's sunlight.

Her tale sparked naught of memory, only a seething confusion. What, in the name of every god, could have compelled me to give up such gifts—an exceptional and unusual bent, studies that she said I relished even more, as well as the mystery, wonder, and affection embodied in this glorious woman? Was it greed or folly or a falling-out with this angry grandsire? Had I been a coward, unwilling to face the consequences of my choices in life? What had I done?

A future with the Order had seemed so clear a path, so honorable, so right. But Morgan's assertion that a future made no sense without a past struck me hard. What if she was right? New doubts companioned those grown from Damon and the Marshal's collusion, threatening to sear my resolution to ash.

“T
he Marshal commends your getting us the news so timely.” A plaudit could hardly be delivered with less appreciation than Inek's. “He says tell you that word of Prince Bayard's unholy alliance now spreads throughout the kingdom to every knight, to every informant, to every ear that heeds rumors of treason. He dispatched messengers as you wallowed in your bed.”

It was mid-afternoon on the day of my return from Ynnes, and Inek sat on his armory worktable. He didn't approve of what he saw. My clothes were still damp, stiffened with salt and mud. I had wakened late after a blessed six hours of sleep and decided it wise to report immediately. I could scarce recall what all I'd told him when I staggered into the armory that morning.

“And the Order itself will take action?”

“The Order, yes, after due consideration.
You
will resume your training this afternoon—and your seaward watch tonight. Twenty-two nights remain of your punishment. Be glad I've added none for losing a good horse or coming here stinking, ungroomed, and unprepared for work.”

“But I hoped—”

“You hoped I would free you from your duties and send you back to the estuary. I will not. You hoped I would answer the questions this woman—the purported Dané—has posed. I cannot. I applied to the Marshal for permission to review your archived memories. I told him it was critical now you are eligible for solitary missions, but he refused yet again. Unless the Archivist should permit it on his own—an unheard-of interference—I'll not have access to them. And I've certainly no relevant personal knowledge. Silver-marked beings? Magic—magical portraits—that assault some mythical boundaries? What are these
true lands
the woman speaks of? Divine Idrium? The Karish heaven? Hansk, or Pyrrha, or Aurellia itself?”

“I should study the lore of the Danae,” I said, trying to moderate the
urgency that felt like to burst my skin. “And references to places of sanctuary. Temples are traditional sanctuaries, as are Karish churches, now they're widespread. But I've an idea she speaks of something other. I could search the archives for historical references. Legends. Stories.”

The plan had seemed brilliant in the fogs of waking from half a day and a full night of sleep. But I didn't need Inek's you-are-an-utter-imbecile glance to hear how feeble it sounded now I was walking. He'd warned me that he would not relent in training.

He abruptly left his perch on the bench and wandered over to the sword rack.

“No. A paratus has no reason to dally in the archives. The Archivist has no true loyalty but to the Order, and on any day he would be equally likely to laud you for studying beyond your narrow concerns or report you for neglecting your proper work. And he and the Marshal . . . it often seems they speak with the same voice.” He fingered the sword hilts, but pulled none from the rack. “Neither spit nor bone of these matters makes sense. Truly, had I not seen that portrait, I'd follow you onto the seaward wall tonight and shove you over as a liar and a lunatic whose madness will be our ruin. As it is”—he blew an exasperated breath and pivoted to face me—“I can likely come up with a reason to read up on legends. And I'll devise a new mission to get you back to the estuary in the next few days. That won't be easy. You'll have to talk your way out of any consequences from this woman's master. That their grievance with you is related to Damon's interest seems unlikely, and yet both seem to concern your magic. I was told at the beginning that your bent was strong and would be useful to the Order. But what she said . . . You're sure she said you portrayed her as she was to
become
? Were those her exact words?”

So I'd told him that, too. I'd babbled until he'd summoned his tyros to drag me to bed.

“Yes. But I'm not sure what she meant. Maybe the light-drawings. Those on her body are exactly like to the portrait, but in person she has none on her face. Yet the portrait depicts unquestionable truth. If I'm able to draw something that's not occurred as yet . . .”

“That would certainly explain Damon's interest. But how could a sniveling portrait painter's magic, extraordinary though it be, worry these so-called Danae?”

His testy skepticism rankled. “You believe the portrait truth, as well, Knight Commander. What else could she be? She can vanish and appear
from nowhere. She spoke of humans as
other
and said my magic interfered with the work of
her kind
—the kind she calls
the long-lived
.”

“What work? To nurture the earth as our grannies tell?” he snapped. “I think they fail. Shed this sentimental drivel. Reasoned thought would be useful.”

Something deep was disturbing Inek. Anger, irritation, disappointment had never before spilled over into petty insult. He glared at me as though I were some plague-ridden sailor, drawing pestilence from foreign airs to taint Evanide and the Order. “The next time you are off-island, find out how your magic works to bother them, either from her or by putting pen to page and exploring the sensations it arouses.”

“As you say,
rectoré
.” Gods, if only I could go now!

“Now off with you. I've work to do and so do you. And Greenshank—”

“Knight Commander?”

“Control yourself. Your actions. Your responses. Your frustration. Changes are expected when a squire becomes a paratus. But every variance will be noticed.”

I inclined my back. “And you,
rectoré
, perhaps the same?”

His eyebrows shot upward. “Your tongue flaps too freely of late”—his bite yielded to a long pause—“but indeed, you are likely correct.”

It was the nearest to an admission of fault I'd ever heard from Inek. I headed to the sparring arena in a better humor than I'd expected. I yelled at my cadre and set parati, squires, quivering tyros—and myself—to work.

•   •   •

F
ive days of normal work—with unusually virulent magics and exceptionally sharp swords, it seemed—and six miserable nights on the seaward watch left little opportunity to think beyond the moment. Only one thing came certain. Leaving the Order was not a viable choice. Running away without sanction meant forgoing my past, and my hope that time and events could restore its most significant pieces was fading. If seeing a gloriously beautiful Danae woman could not rouse the memory of lying with her, then I could look on my own father, mother, or brother and not know them, or I could stand before a mortal enemy and see no danger.

A
sanctioned
withdrawal meant the Order would give me back my past, but a recovered past surely brought its own complications. My initial journey to Evanide had been a blur of constant panic, constant nausea, the restraint and punishment when I tried to run, the inevitable conviction and terror that I was mad, and the unending, murderous pain in my head. I'd no
idea where the journey had begun, what dangers had lurked there, or how long or how far we had traveled. And I would be stripped of all knowledge of the Order. Even if I were willing to abandon Inek to investigate the possible corruption of the Order on his own, would my memories tell me why a curator of the Pureblood Registry had such an interest in me? Curators were powerful sorcerers with wide influence. For all I knew,
Damon
could be my angry kinsman.

Inek was correct in his strictures. Such uncertainty could drive a man to madness sooner than true danger. The best I could do as I awaited my next assignment was keep ready and bury all thought of our treacherous pact.

•   •   •

O
n the sixth morning after my return from Ynnes, I raced into the Archive Tower Seeing Chamber for a mission study session. Though I'd done naught but throw on a dry shirt after completing my hours on the wall, I was late. The fire in the Hearth of Memory already blazed a searing yellow and white. Dunlin and Heron, two knights, two parati of other cadres, and three of Inek's squires were already seated on the half-circle bench that fronted the cavernous hearth. The Archivist stood rigid with impatience, his whipsnake fingers tapping the tall table where only one vial of his amber potion remained beside six empty ones and the bottles of acid-green eyeglim and its antidote.

“My apologies, Knight Archivist.” Excuses were irrelevant at Evanide.

“Drink and take your place.” The Archivist could have stepped off the massive basalt chimney before us. His tall, lean frame and his rust-colored mantle and mask made him a brother of the two knights—one defiant, one fallen—carved in relief on the ruddy stone.

I downed the bitter draught and took my place without delay, gripping the wooden arms that separated the seats on the bench as the world began to spin. The initial dizziness as the potion refocused eye and mind could topple even a seasoned knight.

Every mission the Order ventured was committed to a relict—a thumb-sized rectangular block of black-and-white stone—in the same way as every trainee's past life. Trainees and knights alike studied these missions to learn strategies, tactics, and history.

Squires did not receive the amber potion or the eyeglim. They would watch the unfolding events of the mission in the flames—the images wavering like reflections in a rippling pond. They would have studied the written transcript of the mission earlier and discussed the points of relevance with
their guide. The viewing was to provide visual examples to reinforce the particular strategies or tactics they studied.

For knights and parati, the study was entirely different. The potion, the eyeglim, and the rest of the Archivist's magic allowed us not just to see, but to experience the unfolding events as if we were the participants, training mind, muscle, and reflexes quite like practice sessions in the arena. The accumulation of these experiences, along with those of his own training at Evanide, were the foundation of a man's knighthood, remaining with him until he died.

My eyes, already bleary with salt spray and lack of sleep, blinked rapidly. The Archivist tried three times to dispense the eyeglim droplets that would allow me to experience the history our commanders had chosen. His growling annoyance hinted at a temptation to send me away—which would be a boon after six hours on the seaward wall. Alas, he got the drops in.

A blurred movement and a chink meant he'd tossed the relict into the flames. All I truly saw was the brilliant flash of yellow, white, and blue that transported me into another man's body existing somewhere in the past. . . .

A
bitter-cold evening, touched with smoke. No matter that the grapes were barely in—what grapes the corrupted seasons had left in the world. Winter's onset was no longer a gradual melding of golden fields and fragrant grapes with windblown leaves and frost-touched mornings, but the first blow of a brutal hammer that crushed us for nigh on three quarters of the year. We ran, my brother knight and I, pelting through the vineyard rows, uphill and down as fast as we could while holding complete silence.

I
, the paratus known as Greenshank, settled quickly into the knight's mind and body. At least thrice in a tenday we were sent into these missions from months or years past, living as a knight who had given up this personal memory of one of his missions. It was so strange, near impossible, to think this might be one of Inek's missions or that of the knight sitting beside me, neither of them able to recognize it as his own. Rumor had it that some knights matched the wounds suffered in a session with their own scars, but they could never be entirely sure; that was part of their sacrifice.

The sessions had been horribly uncomfortable at first, as if two minds wrestled inside my one skull, but I had learned to yield to the magic and open myself to the narrative the knight had provided, as well as his actions and sensory experience.