Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (28 page)

“I… I don’t know of any potion that could make a person mute, Sire.”

If Jaevan remained silent, the blame would have to fall on either Ayriene or Sylas. Casian had no argument with Ayriene—she had always treated Casian decently enough when their paths had crossed—but if forced, Casian would sacrifice her to save Sylas.

“Of course you don’t!” Deygan shouted. “You’re not a bloody healer! It’s that Chesammos has done it. Probably at the Aerie’s instigation. I’ve already lost one heir and they mean to take another from me. How can a mute rule Chandris?”

He couldn’t—a thought that hadn’t escaped Casian. Had another of the Banunis dynasty been conveniently removed from his path?

“Can he write his thoughts, Sire?” This was a risk, and Casian knew it, but someone would suggest it sooner or later. His mind whirled as he tried to remember how exactly he had bound the prince—the precise words he had used to seal his compulsion. Creator, but he was in deeper than he had planned to be. If Deygan ever found that he was behind this…

“Excellent idea,” said Deygan, snapping his fingers at a pasty-faced servant skulking by the door. “Bring ink and parchment.”

When the implements were brought it was as if Jaevan had never seen them before—never written a word in his life. He would hold the quill if it was placed in his hand, but made no effort to dip it in the ink, nor any attempt at writing if the quill was dipped for him.

“That’s it!” said Deygan. “No more delays. The army leaves tomorrow. I’ll raze that accursed nest of traitors to the ground. They think they can take my sons from me one by one and then they’ll strike at me. Well, they’ll soon learn who rules on Chandris when their precious bloody Aerie is in ruins.”

Sylas spent the day under guard in the castle library, searching old herbals for any mention of blood elder root and its side effects to no avail. He was amazed he wasn’t in the dungeons, but Deygan had agreed to give him access to the books, to see if he could find a cure for Jaevan.

“I must have done something wrong,” he said, when Casian managed to slip away from the king to come see him. “The Lady help me, Casian, but I can’t find a mention of anything like this in any of these.” He indicated the books, then clasped his hands together, gnawing on the knuckles. He pushed dark curls away from his face. “How is Jaevan?”

The truth was, he was getting worse. Each time Casian went to his room, the prince had retreated further and further into himself. Casian had seen something similar in men who had experienced something profoundly disturbing, but Jaevan’s decline was so swift it frightened him. How much of it was the seeing, he wondered, how much the compulsion, and how much damage to the boy’s mind from the trauma of recent days?

“Just don’t say it’s your fault,” Casian urged. “Ayriene must accept the blame. She supervised you making up the potion. If the amounts were wrong, it was for her to correct it. If you so much as hint it was you, he’ll kill you.” Casian could try to influence Deygan, but from experience he couldn’t make the compulsion work unless the subject at least partly agreed with the thought or belief Casian was implanting. There was not a morsel of Deygan that did not believe in Sylas’s guilt. He would have Sylas’s head, and Ayriene’s too, if the master healer was foolish enough to return to Banunis.

“She mustn’t come back.” Sylas took Casian by the arm. “Send a message to the Aerie. Tell her not to come back.”

“You know she will. She wouldn’t abandon Jaevan in this condition. Or you. And if he recovers, someone has to train him.”

“They can send someone else. Olendis. Gwysias. Anyone. Anyone Deygan doesn’t have a grudge against. But he can’t kill the only healer talent. It’s Ayriene, Casian. He can’t kill Ayriene.”

Casian snorted. “I don’t think there
is
anyone at the Aerie that Deygan doesn’t have a grudge against right now. With the harbouring of the Cellondorans, I think he regards all changers with equal hatred.” When he told Sylas about the slaughter at Cellondora, Sylas had confided in him what he had seen at Namopaia. The friends he had lost. When he spoke of a man called Pietrig his throat closed and his voice choked up.

“It’s a mess,” said Sylas. “Just one big mess. If I went to Deygan, admitted responsibility and let him kill me, do you think I could end it? Would that put it right?”

Casian sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think it would. I don’t believe anything can put this right.”

Chapter 28

T
he force left Banunis early the next morning, horse and infantry by ranks, ballistas on their massive wagons pulled by long-legged cheen. Deygan intended to destroy the Aerie—to leave no legacy of the changers who had attacked his son and challenged his authority so openly. If he had his way, scarcely one stone would be left atop another.

If Deygan wanted that, Casian intended to see he got it. Once he had aspired to a council position, but at Deygan’s side he would learn statecraft, gather allies, and grow in influence. If he intended to stand in Banunis Castle and claim the throne for himself one day, as Miralee had seen, it would be from Banunis, not the Aerie’s council chamber. With the changers brought down, there would be no one to recognise the true extent of his talent, and to burn it from his mind.

When they left Banunis, Casian rode at Deygan’s side, as heir to House Lucranne. The details of his arrangement with his father would remain secret as per their agreement, so to the world he was still Garvan’s son. A pity Deygan had fathered three sons, he thought. Marriage to a daughter could have bound Casian to the crown with ties of blood as well as loyalty. No matter. If Casian played his part here, Deygan would raise him to more influence than he had ever dreamed. Deygan was right; in his current condition Jaevan could not inherit Chandris. Now Marklin was the only Banunis heir. Should Deygan make a slip in years to come, when Casian had proved himself, why then, Casian would not be beyond taking advantage.

The Aerie would regret slighting Casian.

Ayriene wondered if she could pretend not to have heard the knock on her study door. She had spoken to Miralee and Garyth since returning, but had hoped for a rest before the council met to discuss Jaevan’s changing. She discounted the idea as quickly as it had come. Healers didn’t get time off. If someone needed her, she made herself available whatever the hour.

“Come in,” she called, straightening her dress and trying shake off some of her tiredness.

Master Cowin poked his head around the door. “Excuse me, Ayriene.” He frowned as he took in her appearance—obviously she
did
look tired. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll come back another time.”

“Sit down, Cowin,” she said, gesturing to a chair. The Chesammos master rarely sought her out. In fact, she didn’t think he had been to her study in the nearly fifteen years she had been a master changer. “How can I help you?”

He lowered himself into the seat. He was a tall man—even taller than Sylas and he was tall for a Chesammos. Probably an uplander, she thought, remembering Erlach from Redlyn. His knee twitched restlessly. Ayriene couldn’t remember ever having seen Cowin so agitated. She sat too, and waited for him to speak. He licked his lips.

“I need to talk to you about Sylas.”

“Sylas?” Ayriene’s weariness disappeared in a wave of anxiety. “Is there a problem? The council aren’t showing an interest in him again, are they?”

“By the Lady, no,” he said, “And if what I suspect is true, the longer we can keep it that way the better. Is he with you?”

She shook her head. “I left him in Banunis. He can fly now, if not spontaneously, but I needed someone I trusted to administer Jaevan’s blood elder. And Sylas preferred to remain in Banunis, now that Casian is there.”

Cowin sucked in a long breath. “Changer blood in the line of Banunis. We live in strange times.”

“It seems so. Jaevan shows many of the signs. Strange, though—there is no hint of changing on either side of the family, any more than there is in Casian’s. It seems to have appeared from nowhere.”

“Kiana has a theory about that.” Cowin’s foot stopped bouncing and he leaned forward. “She speculates that it is not a matter of blood inheritance, at least not entirely. She thinks being on the island causes some sort of modification in humans. The modification is passed on and increased in each generation, until at last the ability to reach the kye and manage the change becomes evident. She thinks more and more Irenthi will become changers from now on, as more of them adapt to hear the kye, but they will have no Chesammos blood in their veins.” That was the origin of the stigma against changing among the Irenthi: the assumption that Chesammos blood was to blame.

The theory had much merit, and was not dissimilar to Ayriene’s observations of slight differences in the same plant species on Chandris and on the mainland.

“So the Chesammos are more likely to become changers, since their ancestors have lived here for generations, and this mutation is fixed in their bloodlines. Interesting.” She would like to discuss it with Kiana, but right now she had other concerns. “And Sylas?”

“Ah, yes.” Cowin smiled, and Ayriene appreciated why so many female hearts had been broken when he married Elyta. “It’s a little… personal.” Her face must have shown her first reaction, for he laughed. “No, Casian need not worry I’m going to steal him. Not when—” He broke off, fidgeted again. “Not when I think he may be my nephew.”

Ayriene stared, unable to find the words to encourage Cowin to continue. It was all she could do to stop her jaw hanging open. He smiled sheepishly at her reaction, cleared his throat, and continued.

“I wondered about him at that council meeting, when Olendis said the boy claimed to hear many kye. There is a Chesammos story…” He rubbed his face and stared out of the window towards Eurna. This was totally unlike Cowin. She had never known him to be tongue-tied. “I don’t suppose you want to hear Chesammos folklore, do you?” Again the sheepish grin.

“Just start at the beginning.”

If Cowin was Sylas’s uncle, then it had to be on his mother’s side. There would be no need for secrecy on his father’s side, and Craie was desert Chesammos where Cowin looked every inch the uplander. Cowin closed his eyes for a long moment before continuing. “When I was six years old, my sister left home to come to the Aerie. She was sixteen.”

“And her name was Shamella.”

He started. “You knew her? You would have been close in age, I suppose, but how did you guess?”

Her memory flashed to a terrified young woman she had healed of terrible burns to her hands, at a time when she was still Master Respar’s apprentice, and just learning her talent. The changers were told Shamella had died on a visit home, and Respar, then the head of the council, had impressed on a terrified seventeen-year-old healer that she must not speak of what she had seen. Shamella would have been eighteen or nineteen then. Cowin’s relationship to her had clearly been kept quiet, but by whose orders? Was this something Cowin himself had done, or was there involvement at council level?

“I healed her once. Go on. I’ll tell you my part of the story when you’ve finished yours.”

“When I was eight, Master Donmar came to our village. This was before he was council leader, of course, but he was newly-elected to the council. He said there had been an accident and Shamella was dead. This was just after the invasion, around the time Deygan came to the throne.”

She nodded. It all linked together. Cowin knew some parts of the story; she knew others. Maybe they could piece it together between them.

“The following year I began to change. I was only nine. My parents didn’t want me to come to the Aerie—they had already lost one child there, after all—but the Aerie insisted. Changing so early was unusual, they said. They wanted to watch how I developed. Master Respar interviewed me as soon as I arrived. He said I must tell no one that I was Shamella’s brother. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t ask. I was only nine and scared to be away from home. They had me use my secondary name, in case Shamella had mentioned me to anyone.” He stopped and smiled sadly at Ayriene. “Did you know that Sylas doesn’t use his true name?”

“Really? No. Why not?”

“Because his father wouldn’t let him use the one his mother chose for him. Which, incidentally, is my true name too. We are both named for my father. I’d have noticed him a lot faster if he had been called Erden. And so would others, I imagine. As it was, he was just another Chesammos boy, at least until Olendis mentioned the multiple kye.” He stared out of the window to the herb garden beyond. “Shamella heard many kye too.”

“I know,” said Ayriene. “Jesely wondered if that contributed to her death. He was worried for Sylas, in case something happened to him because of it.”

“Did Jesely have any grounds for believing hearing many kye was dangerous?”

“I don’t think so. I just think he was making sure Sylas was safe. After all, he was told Shamella died suddenly. No explanation. He was fond of your sister. He never really got over her.”

“I didn’t know that. She and Jesely would have been a good match, I think. But if I’m right, she didn’t die, but was hidden away somewhere. Long enough to have a son, anyway, and Sylas told me he had a sister too. I need to know why they lied to my family. I don’t believe Sylas knows any more than I do—probably less, from the brief conversation I had with him. But it seems you know a little about what happened to my sister.”

She rested her hand on his forearm. “I know that the changers were told she died at home, and you were told she died here. I know that Master Respar made me swear silence and that Donmar was appointed to the council shortly after, and to the leadership not long after that, for all that many of us thought he was unsuited to the post. I know that I healed her of burns just after the invasion was repelled, and from the way Donmar looked at her something dreadful had happened. And I know she is alive, and living in a little village called Namopaia, under the name of Zynoa.”

And then she watched as Master Cowin cried.

A changer returning to the Aerie thwarted Deygan’s surprise attack. She raised the alarm as soon as she landed, giving the Aerie at least some notice of what was coming.

The king rode at the head of a column of foot and mounted soldiers, with strange machines carried on huge wagons pulled by cheen. The Irenthi rarely used cheen, the long-legged, flat-hooved beasts used to haul wagons across the desert, but horses could not have pulled those weapons of war up the side of the mountain on which the Aerie perched.

The island hadn’t seen this many weapons in centuries. The Chesammos were peaceful, the past few months aside, and squabbles between the lord holders were addressed across the council table, or settled by duel. The island had never seen a battle, let alone a war, although the Lorandans had brought them close. The mysterious contraptions on the wagons were ballistas, Master Flain surmised from the witness’s account. He had seen pictures in books in the Aerie library.

The Aerie was thrown into confusion. Such defences as it had were to protect against wind and weather, not an army bent on destruction. And they had axes and knives, but those were for splitting logs and butchering cattle not splitting heads and butchering people. Anxious parents, changer and human alike, badgered the council for news. What were their plans? Would the women and children be allowed safe passage if Deygan attacked? How would they be evacuated? But the council, Jesely included, had no answers.

“Master Jesely!” A voice behind him made him turn.

The speaker was a young changer called Deckhan—untalented, but a hard worker and recently raised to the mastery. A friend of Cowin’s, if Jesely remembered correctly. The man was dark Irmos, almost as dark as Jesely himself. Not much Irenthi in that one.

“Deckhan?”

“The council is called, Master Jesely. Master Donmar asks that you attend.”

Better be a quick meeting. The king was barely an hour away, if the rumours were true. In the streets, the people milled about, exchanging news, indulging in wild speculation, casting fearful glances towards the main gate, which stood open as it always did at this time of the day.

On his way he heard mutterings, hastily hushed when he was noticed. Speculation was rife that the attack was because they harboured the men and women from Cellondora, and general opinion seemed to be in favour of handing them over to save trouble. Most of the Aerie’s inhabitants were Irmos of one shade or another, and many laid the Aerie’s present problems firmly at the feet of the Cellondorans.

Twelve of the thirteen council members assembled at the table; Tomas the historian was absent from the Aerie. Fennoc the herbalist had come straight from the garden, if his dirty shirt and fingernails were any guide. He sat miserably brushing at his clothes and picking earth from beneath his nails. Normally smartly turned-out in public, he was clearly ill-at-ease at this hurried call to council without time to change and wash. Caiet looked to have been supervising a flight, and wore only a gown pulled over a hurriedly knotted caigani. Unlike Fennoc, Caiet presented himself as calmly as if he were in his courtliest outfit. Flain had brought a book from the library, and was showing the people on either side of him the picture of the ballista. They did not seem comforted by the image.

The changers settled to Donmar’s rap on the table, all eyes turning to him and staring intently.