The Dark Ferryman (38 page)

A Kernan, his dark hair peppered with gray and white, his apron rolled about an expanding waist, stopped his sweeping. He wore cuffs over his sleeves to protect them from ink stains. “May I help you, my lord?”

Sevryn recognized him, even if he hadn’t been recognized in turn, although the last time they had met, this Feldari had been perhaps fifteen years of age and now he looked to be in the last of his middle years, heading into the august years of seniorhood. He swept the hood of his cloak from his head to speak the passwords. “Greetings to you, as have been given to your father and your father’s father and his father before that, and as I hope to live to give to your sons and your sons’ sons some day.”

Feldari paled. His dark brown eyes squinted hard at Sevryn as he stumbled a step backward to be both stopped and supported by the high countertop behind him. His broom clattered to the floor.

Sevryn stepped forward quickly to take his elbow. Feldari could not tear his gaze away, his eyes now as wide as if he saw Death itself coming for him. “Have a care, Master,” Sevryn said. “One would think something unusual is happening.”

Feldari clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking as he tried to recover. “Quite right, right indeed. It’s cold outside. We have spiced wine warming on the back hearth. One moment, and I’ll have it fetched for you.” He paused after gulping down another breath. “We . . . I . . . heard he was dead. No word about you nor had your name ever been given. I can’t believe my eyes. You haven’t aged a day since I saw you when I was a knee-high stock boy. Well, perhaps a day or even a year or two, but not . . . not . . .”

“I understand, Master Feldari. That wine would go well about now, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Yes.” He raised his voice. “Alani, two mugs of that mulled wine, and quickly. I have business.” He looked at Sevryn. “Don’t I?”

“You do.”

Some time later, he found himself seated in a quiet vault below ground, tapers lit, with two wooden coffers left on a polished table in front of him. The Feldaris were scribes, record keepers, and contractors; and more than that, they were depositories. Gilgarran had owned several homes, but he did not assume they would remain inviolate while he traveled and plied his trade, so he counted on the discretion of a few businessmen about the lands to hold the goods he wished kept safe. Sevryn wasn’t at all sure what he’d find inside the chests or if it would help him at all with some of the questions for which he knew he had to find answers. If not here, then another day in another city. Sevryn stripped off his riding gloves, put his cloak behind the hilt of his sword, drew a taper close, and opened the first coffer after a bit of tinkering with its lock.

The lid fell back with an aroma of fine wood and pressed herbs drifting up, herbs that killed insects that might find their way inside to feast upon whatever treasures the coffer held. He brushed them off a few sealed purses, their leather strings still supple, their insides still bulging with coins and jewels and whatever else Gilgarran had placed inside. He sorted through the papers at the bottom, an assortment of maps and copies of contracts . . . he paused at that, wondering why, then saw Gilgarran had been keeping a somewhat surreptitious watch on the Oxfort trading empire. The map he wished for, he did not find.

That might make interesting and necessary reading later. What he needed now were the reports based upon which Gilgarran decided to raid the forge above the Silverwing and Andredia Rivers, the forge run in secret by Quendius until the two of them had raided it, causing Gilgarran’s death and Sevryn’s enslavement for nigh on to twenty years. He found a note or two on weapons deals and barters, but nothing upon which Gilgarran would act. His eyes scanned the other missives quickly, including a report speculating on the accession of young Lariel Anderieon to the position of Warrior Queen over the suit of her brother, Jeredon Eladar, and what Talents she might hold that would qualify her. It remained inconclusive, acknowledging that her grandfather had kept her gifts very secret and that only he knew what qualities he searched for in his heir. It had predicted correctly, however, that he would indeed pick Lariel over the more favored Jeredon.

Sevryn made an unhappy noise as he opened the second trunk. More maps and purses of gems and gold coins, money which he had not wanted traced for one reason or another, obviously not trusting the traders’ guild banks with all his goods. He sifted through the paper goods and found no word on the forges at all, no notes on the weaponsmith or the smithy slave working for him who knew how to imbue Demons into metal, let alone how to unbind and free them. What news or intelligence had set Gilgarran at Quendius’ throat? Who had sent him word on Demons? He shuffled carefully through relics without finding what he needed. No hint at all about who might have been so incredibly strong of will as to be able call forth Cerat and bring him into this world to wreak havoc—and who had left him to possess whoever and whatever he could. Or, most pressing, how to get Cerat to quit his possessions.

He could, he supposed, go to any temple and tell them he was Demon-ridden and see what sort of exorcism they proposed, but he knew he did not trust the Kernan priests any more than he would trust Quendius himself with his life and soul. Nor could he endanger Lariel’s position with a tale of his possession for rumors of that would run like wildfire through the lands, and whatever dislike the people already held for Vaelinars, it would be double-fold. They had been here for centuries: distrusted, disliked, and finally allied and somewhat accepted, but the news of a devil at her side would sweep much of that good away. No, not for himself or Rivergrace would he destroy the frail balance of power the Vaelinars had achieved. No answers here, none that he needed. He would have to keep searching the depositories for Gilgarran that he knew of, and his stomach clenched a bit because he knew that his mentor had revealed much, but not all, to him.

He was going to close the second trunk when a bundle drew his interest.

It was a single folded letter, bound to a small leather book by a faded ribbon, that he reached for and drew out carefully.

He slid the letter free and opened it, paper crinkling faintly. He knew Gilgarran’s handwriting, although this was penned most carefully and legibly, as if intentionally leaving a record.

Sevryn fought not to crumple the paper in frustration. Barest crumb? Not even that. Where did his mother die? Who gave that information to Gilgarran? How did he come by it? He clenched one hand, knuckles bled to white. As for suspicions, they were more than Sevryn had. Why not tell him so the truth could be found? Why not tell him, at last? Why?

And worse, a traitor buried within them. Gilgarran had worried at the revelation for centuries, if Sevryn knew him. How could Sevryn deal with what Gilgarran could not? What evidence Gilgarran might have had of these treacheries were not found in this casket. Had they died with his teacher? Or were they buried elsewhere?

The letter slipped from his numb fingers. He stared at it until his eyes went dry and he finally blinked. Then he opened his hand, reached out, and carefully folded it up, returning it to the coffer. He knew Gilgarran well. He knew the flowery script but not the flowery manner of his writing. Gilgarran was nothing if not direct. There might be more than he could see, and if he knew his old teacher, there would be a world hidden within that short missive. He would wait until he could think clearer, until he could puzzle his way in and out of the letter.

The small book, leather-bound, slipped out of the ribbon easily onto his palm. It held no title, handmade it seemed, and quite probably one of a kind. Perhaps Gilgarran had even been the bookbinder. It was aged but still supple, and it looked as if it had been carried and read for quite a while before it had been archived. He opened it carefully.

Sevryn read the title page twice. As he turned it, a small scrap of paper fell out, and he recognized this handwriting as more characteristically Gilgarran’s, hastily but carefully done.
Daravan also searches for this book. Why? Keep it from him
.

Sevryn closed the book on his finger to think.

Daravan. Another who delved into many secrets and shared few of them. Had they competed for this book? What knowledge did it hold that was not already on record in the great library of Ferstanthe? Did it hold truth or rumor, findings Gilgarran dared not repeat until he could confirm them, but he had diaries copied. What, then? Had chasing down the illegal weaponsmith and forges of Quendius cut short substantiating this book? Had he been in quest of the Old Deceiver? Gilgarran was not a man who doubted what he knew. What he knew, he knew well.

Sevryn glanced upward, wondering if he should give the book to Feldari to be copied or if that would endanger the Kernan. How could Daravan know if he did so?

Because Daravan seemed, as Gilgarran had, to be nearly everywhere and know nearly everything. He was a shadow without needing a sun to make himself appear.

Sevryn chewed on the corner of his lip a moment before paging past the opening and beginning to read. As his fingers held the book close, he felt a roughness along the binding. Turning it over, he spied a rougher edge on the inside leaf. He took his dagger out and carefully eased it open. A slim and folded piece of paper slid out. He opened it with the blade’s tip and saw a map. Answers he needed. He glanced back at the book. There were more answers within, if he knew Gilgarran. Perhaps even the code to reading the map properly, for he would wrap puzzles about puzzles.

He put the map aside and bent to read once more as if his life—no, his and that of Rivergrace—depended upon it.

AZEL D’STANTHE STOOD BY THE GATE to his small domain as if he waited for them, his burly figure swathed in voluminous robes against the now bitter cold of the forested north. A wind whistled through the great trees, ruffling their needled branches with a roar like that of the ocean, Meg told Rivergrace who had never been to the sea. The aroma of their sap and scent swirled around them, crisp and refreshing. Nutmeg freed one hand from holding the reins to wave in welcome.

“How did he know?”

“I’m not sure,” Grace answered. “He knows many things.” They rode up slowly, where she could see surprised delight on the historian’s face.

“Welcome, welcome, Lady Rivergrace and Mistress Farbranch!” he boomed, and held his arms out to help them from their mounts. “My library shall be full indeed this evening! What a wonderful surprise for an old man.” He wasn’t that old for a Vaelinar though doubtless generations old for a Dweller, but he carried his prime years in a body that looked experienced. He beamed as he set them on the ground. “I shall tell my lads to lay down a second fire and warm the chilly old place up a bit. What brings the two of you here?”

“Reading and to ask your advice,” Grace told him. “As usual.”

“Alas, my last advice to you wasn’t that accurate, I fear.”

“You meant well, and you were right in most ways.”

Azel shifted inside his robes. “And wrong in the most important one. I told you that you were nothing more than a vessel to hold a magic not of this world. That is an error I’m glad was untrue. You have a life of your own and you’re most definitely meant to be yourself!” He whistled, and one of his young scholar apprentices came flying out of the library door, robes billowing behind and sandals slapping upon the ground, to take the horses to the stables. A second apprentice hung in the doorway to see if he was needed, and Azel bellowed at him, “More fires! More rooms! More cider to warm!”

“Yessir, m’lord,” the youth relayed the order back as he disappeared into the great building.

“Now,” Azel said, as he hugged both to him. “I await the bidding of Lord Bistel who had sent word he was on his way this day, but you two go inside and eat and have a hot drink . . . I insist, and so I will brook no argument!”