Kirith Kirin (The City Behind the Stars) (35 page)

Her voice drifted to silence. I said, finally, “There won’t be much warning, will there?”

Commyna shook her head. “Hardly any. And worse, these present soldiers have not faced magic. Only the Jhinuuserret have ever fought against one skilled in our arts.”

“Can’t we do anything?”

“We can wait for Yron.”

“Do you have any sign he’s close?”

Commyna lifted her face to the wind pouring over the tower. “I wish I knew. We’re finishing the cloak we made for him. We’re hoping.”

When the lesson was over we returned to Illyn Water, and I meditated at fifth level for some time before returning to camp. Vella and Vissyn were sitting beneath the duraelaryn, stitching Yron’s cloak while clouds blew over Illyn, a storm of no one’s creation. The lake women watched the clouds mildly, wind lifting strands of their hair. Vissyn asked me what I thought of Seumren and I said I had found the shenesoeniis to be wonderfully exhilarating, the air tasted sharp and fresh, I wanted to go onto the stones and would have except Commyna said no. The rapture of my description must have taken the women aback. “He isn’t exaggerating,” Commyna said. “I watched him. I believe he could do well even on such a place.”

“You didn’t find Seumren to be oppressive?” Vella asked.

I shook my head, and Commyna agreed, “We were guarded from most of that, sister. Cunuduerum had no hold on us, and no eye living or dead knew of our journey.”

“Did you take him to the Library?”

“He’ll have to find that place on his own.”

“What library?” I asked

She signaled she would answer no further questions and I fetched a pot of water to make tea. We performed that ritual and I returned to Nevyssan.

My conversation with Commyna had disturbed me, and I forgot Cothryn until I reached camp. When I walked Nixva to the horse line, soldiers throughout camp were replacing bits of armor, mending saddlebags, replacing leather laces, sharpening blades, tipping arrows in preparation for fighting. I hurried to the scribe tent where Mordwen, Imral, and Kirith Kirin sat surrounded by secretaries, officers, and gentry. The Venladrii Prince, who nodded to me when no one else was paying attention, noted my entrance. Because of all the bodies and the burning of several braziers, the tent was warm. From outside I could hear the howling of winds and the ominous rumbling of northern thunder. A storm was blowing over Nevyssan same as Illyn, and the day darkened.

Mordwen gave me a letter to copy from Kirith Kirin to Ren Vael, who was in Cordyssa preparing to lead more troops to the siege of Gnemorra. In the letter Kirith Kirin was urging him to send officers into east Fenax to recruit from the farms and villages. Mordwen signaled me to copy the letter discretely, and I carried my writing board to a corner and trimmed myself a lamp-wick. When I was walking across the tent with the lamp, threading my way between by-now familiar bodies, it occurred to me I had not seen Cothryn, and Kirith Kirin looked up momentarily from a discussion of the terrain around the north end of Angoroe. In the clean light falling through the transparent viis, his face seemed softer and clearer.

I copied out the letter and returned it to Mordwen, who gave me more work of like nature, a budget for the movement of Cordyssan squadrons from the city to Angoroe, an authorization for a payment of gold from the Prince to the city’s general treasury, and a plan for a contingent march that would lead the army down the extreme western edge of the Fenax, guarding that route to Cordyssa should Nemort slip past our army and the Venladrii.

I stayed at this work longer than I meant to, missing my archery drill and only remembering the evening ceremony in time to splash water on my face. The crowd for lamp-lighting swelled with Kirith Kirin in camp. I sang the Evening Song while the lamp flickered on the altar. Cothryn son of Duris came nowhere near the shrine that evening.

Mordwen was absent from his tent when I went there, and I wondered if he were with the Prince. I found supper at the cook tent, keeping company with one of the other clerks, a pleasant girl just past her cloaking with whom I had struck up something of a friendship. She was full of gossip, as was nearly everyone those days, and she was careful to share the latest she had heard, something she learned when she stopped by the command tent to retrieve her money purse. A party was leaving camp that evening, ordered away suddenly, led by Cothryn. Kirith Kirin had sent him to south Arthen to join one of the border patrols. It was unheard of to send such a high-ranking person to duty of that sort; already rumors were circulating as to the reason. She asked if I had heard anything and I said no.

The anger I had harbored vanished. My supper companion continued with her speculation at some length. It was she who told me Cothryn had come to Arthen in disgrace, having been sent away from Cordyssa following a scandal involving a merchant’s son. I felt better after hearing that; though I had no idea if the story were true. I finished my supper quickly.

At the shrine a torchbearer awaited me to take me to Kirith Kirin’s tent. We hurried through moon-dappled shadows along the rocky path, the night full of music, birds calling, somber breezes in autumn leaves. The torchbearer relinquished me to Imral Ynuuvil, who asked after my health. I was at the point of asking him what was going on when he touched a slender finger to his lips.

Inside the tent Mordwen awaited us both, and before I could greet him he embraced me. He had a fine tunic in his hand, crimson worked with silver, trimmed with stones called pearls that are said to come from the sea. Their luster caught my eye and I reached to touch one of them, having never seen anything like them before. Mordwen laughed. “The boy does have a feeling for finery, doesn’t he?”

Imral said, “I find that to be an encouraging sign since we are taking so much trouble over him.”

“Trouble? Have I done something wrong?”

“What makes you think that?” Imral asked.

“I heard gossip in camp.” I decided it was best to get right to the heart of my fear. “Cothryn has been sent away. Is it my fault?”

Mordwen snorted his disgust, and Imral knelt so that I was looking down into his face. His expression was tender. “Cothryn got what he deserved, Jessex. I’m sorry you had to hear the news from strangers, and Kirith Kirin will be sorry too. But don’t think anyone can bear you a grudge, unless Cothryn is a fool and chooses to. You did nothing wrong.”

“In fact you behaved like any decent boy should have.” Mordwen lay a familiar hand on my shoulders. “Though decent behavior is rare enough in this degenerate age.”

Kirith Kirin called from the inner chamber and Imral turned, smiling. “I’ll let him know you’re here. Give him the tunic, Mordwen, he should be better dressed.”

I slipped my plain white tunic over my head, standing briefly bare but for my linen drawers and leggings while Mordwen fumbled with the clasp of the other garment. When I had smoothed the short skirt and settled the brocade neatly on my shoulders, Mordwen gave me a final inspection, and we went inside.

Kirith Kirin said hello and led me to a cushion by a wooden table on which was set a flagon of wine and cups. Mordwen and Imral sat with us, as if I were some favored relation, and I was full of their affection again, lit like a lamp. I had not known how lonely I had been.

The Prince asked after my lessons and listened to me read from “Luthmar,” praising my accent and diction. He asked about archery as well, and how I liked riding Nixva, and Mordwen praised my work in the clerk’s tent, maybe more abundantly than was required. But it made me happy to hear the pride in the Seer’s voice, to feel Imral’s friendship, the Prince’s spirit open to mine. It pleased him to have me there, and for the first time he made no shift to hide it.

Finally, when we had drunk the cup of friendship and were proceeding to the cup of mirth, Kirith Kirin glanced at me, and I would almost have sworn he was nervous. “Jessex,” he began, “before you hear it from others —”

“He’s already heard,” Imral said quietly. “Apparently Cothryn could not keep quiet.”

Kirith Kirin looked at me somewhat dumbstruck. “I’m sorry. I wanted to give you the news myself.” He shook his head, plainly disturbed. “No matter. It was gossip that got us into this mess to begin with, why should I think that tongue-wagging would have stopped in the meantime?” He looked at me and smiled. “At any rate, Cothryn won’t trouble you any more.”

A householder poured wine. Kirith Kirin leaned back into the shadow of the lamp. He watched me without word or change of expression. Imral sipped wine from his cup and Mordwen ran fingers through his own shaggy hair. I settled back against my cushion. Finally I said, “Forgive me if this question is impertinent, but I think I ought to know. What’s changed since you summoned me to the test on Sister Mountain?”

He looked at me again, seeming very young. “I haven’t changed my mind.” He touched my hand shyly. “You are a mystery to me. Whether you’re witch, or angel, or farm boy, I don’t know. But I know I’ve missed you these past months. There’s no reason to say more than that, except that you can’t know what it means to one whose life is as long as mine, to feel with heart, to miss anyone. I won’t forget it again.”

4

Within a few days Nemort neared the mouth of Angoroe, and Kirith Kirin prepared to leave camp with many soldiers, riding west along the rough trail out of Nevyssan.

I was with him most evenings, though never alone. Mordwen was a more circumspect guardian than ever and I was rarely out of his sight when I was in camp, unless I was preparing for the lamp ritual or sleeping. When Kirith Kirin needed a letter copied or notes taken at a private meeting I was the one summoned, and it pleased me to be taken for granted, to be asked in an easy tone to fetch him a pen for signing a letter, or for a cup of water or tea, or to bring something from his tent that he had forgotten.

The seriousness with which he worked infected everyone around him, and the reality of the coming war sobered me. When one is drilling with sword, pike, and bow, the whole of warfare seems a game; one does not think much of the sword truly piercing the soldiers side, the complexities of making certain that there are sufficient arrows for the archers, the need for tents to house the wounded. Yet we were heading for days when soldiers — living women and men — would die, suffer pain, receive wounds that would cripple them for life. The soldiers moved toward this conflict joyously, with no thought for the danger or the suffering, because that is the nature of a war in the beginning. A blindness comes. The worry was left to Kirith Kirin, to Karsten, to Imral, Mordwen, and others who had seen such times before.

One night I wakened to hear noises in the outer shrine and rose to find Imral Ynuuvil at the lamp, making a strange sound that I realized was sobs, trying to stifle the sound with his sash. For a moment I was torn, not knowing whether to go to him or return to bed, pretending I had heard nothing. In the end that seemed the coward’s path, and we were friends, after a fashion. I knelt at his side and lay my hand in his fine hair.

He was glad of the company. He said nothing, but made no attempt to hide his tears or his sadness. “I’ve dreamed of men and women dying, and blood spilled, and sicknesses loosed on the world by magic. I dreamed Karsten was killed on the field, and Mordwen taken, and you were in my dream too, son of Kinth, imprisoned in a dark room.”

“Do you think it was a true dream?”

He shook his head. “No. This was only what comes of too much work, too much thinking about misery. And I miss Karsten, and am afraid for her. The Jhinuuserret can die in battle same as other mortals. Our lives are prolonged but not protected.”

“Do you think the battle will be — do you think many people will be killed?”

He gave me a long, sobering look — his own despair was in it, and he hid nothing. “This is only the first battle. And yes, I think a lot of people will die before the world is a happy place again.”

A vision of my neighbors farm passed through my head, a ruin consumed by weeds. I tried to imagine it when the soldiers were killing the family, hanging Commiseth and raping Sergil. I pictured my own farm, my father bleeding on the ground, my sisters screaming, my mother forlorn and battered, clinging to the back of some stranger’s horse. Imral noted my expression and asked me what I was thinking, so I told him.

“I forget sometimes that the war has already started for some.”

“Do the Venladrii have wars of their own, or do they only fight in other people’s?”

I had thought this was a simple question, but suddenly his eyes were full of pain. I thought he was angry with me, and so I apologized. “No, Jessex, I’m not angry. The Venladrii fight wars of their own. For many thousands of years we did not, but that was long before we crossed the mountains into your land. We thought we were a peace-loving people where we came from. But we brought a terrible war to a place that had never known war before, and we’ve mourned it ever since.” He took a long, deep breath. “My mother died then. A long time ago.”