The Soul Weaver (35 page)

“So, what do you think?” I said, when Paulo's expression looked a little less anxious. “Did you feel the same things as before?”

“You're not going to like what I say.”

“Go ahead.”

“I think you need to get away from here. You oughtn't stay—not even one more day.”

“This Source business is idiocy. I'll agree. But”—how could I explain what I felt here in the Bounded, despite the day's frustration?—“she was right about one thing. Where would I go?”

“It wasn't so much the voice, but the place . . . the whole thing. There's something wrong—something hidden. It's what she's
not
telling you that makes me skittish. I think we ought to leave. Go home. Hide out in Dunfarrie or Montevial if we can't go home. Get to Avonar somehow, if that's where you need to be to find out what's going on with you.”

Even as the worn rim of the stone basin had yielded to the dribbling water, his arguments and my own resistance were eroded by simple logic. “I can't face my mother, living or dead, until I know who hurt her. There are no answers in Leire or Valleor. All I can do there is hide. And if I go to Avonar without an explanation in hand, my father will kill me or the Lords will take me back, and I won't even know who to blame.”

He couldn't answer that. He'd been ready to kill me, too.

I draped Paulo's arm across my shoulders, and we walked slowly around the path and up the stairs to the gallery. “I'll be all right here for a while. But I'll have Vroon take you back . . . and the princess . . .”

“Now that wouldn't be smart,” he said between steps.

“If anyone was looking for you, and they found out the lady was come back from where you were . . . Well, she's not likely to keep it quiet, now is she? She'd lead 'em right to you.”

“I suppose so.”

“And I told you I'm stayin' close.”

“Even if I decide to stay here?”

“Nothin' better to be at.”

Without any further discussion, we stepped into the dark opening that would take us back to the Blue Tower. I wasn't yet ready to ask if he still thought I'd stabbed my mother.

We stayed. The princess was livid when she heard it was to be another three months until she could go home, and she told me I was still the stupidest boy in the world who would take the word of a bowl of water for anything. She didn't speak to me for three days, and then decided maybe it was more of a punishment to make sure I heard her complaining all the time.

I couldn't argue with Roxanne's premise. I certainly needed to learn more about the Source. But a number of things had to come first.

Paulo's condition improved every day, and soon we were able to send Nithea home. I made sure she had a supply of all the medicinal plants I found in the garden and that she knew as much as I about what to do with them. Her eager questions made me wish I had listened closer to Kellea.

As the Singlars seemed inclined to listen to me, I spent the days trying to untangle the mess the Guardian had created, dealing with their disputes and petitions. I remembered how my mother had treated the tenants at Comigor with honesty and respect, and how she had spent most of her time listening rather than talking. Those principles seemed to carry me pretty well.

 

“You must do something! You're forcing me to stay in this desolation, so it's your responsibility!”

I had never expected to find the Crown Princess of Leire in the queue of petitioners that jammed the audience hall as happened one morning a week or so after my visit to the Source. The Singlars watched in awe and fascination as she rattled the walls with her yelling. She stamped her foot and pointed her finger as if it were a crossbow aimed at my chest.

“I've no idea how you might amuse yourself,” I said.

“And I don't care. I've more important things to worry about.” What did she think I was?

“You've no horses, no dogs, no music, no dancing, no bow hunting, no books, games, lessons, or conversation . . . nothing. If I lose my mind from boredom, you'll have a larger problem than this fellow's collapsing wall.” She jerked her head at the Singlar just behind her. “One of his neighbors has been launching boulders at him, an amusement I might take up if you don't give me something to do.”

“Go away.” At least twenty petitioners stood in the queue, and each one was going to use up two hours or more explaining who he was or where she was from, the history of every day since becoming “real,” and the particular circumstances of today's need or grievance. Some of these people would still be here three days from this one, and twenty new ones would join the queue in between. “It's hard enough to sort out these people's actual problems.”

“Well then, I'll help you. I'm no stranger to assizes. At least I won't rot from disuse.”

“No.” Leiran laws and customs were not my idea of reasonable. “Go away. Ob, please see the lady out. . . .”

“Lady.” But Roxanne shook off the leathery man's hand and swept out of the room, her back rigid as a pillory.

On the next morning, as I labored through the first case of the day, trying to understand something about tappa skins from a Singlar who could not get out three words without an interminable pause in between, Vroon hurried across the room to my side. I was relieved to see only three more petitioners waiting, though the ever-present crush of babbling spectators milled about the hall. Vroon bowed to the waiting Singlar with a quick jerk. “Majesty, may I intrude on your speaking with this good Singlar?”

“Of course, Vroon. What is it?”

As always he swelled with pride when I spoke his name in public hearing, but his brow was drawn down in such a scowl, it almost hid his good eye. “It is the ever-talking woman, Majesty. She is making speeches with the Singlars, and I fear she is trying to make plots with them or to prevent their seeking help from you who can make them bounded.”

I jumped out of my chair and hurried down the long room, ready to throttle the woman if she was trying to undermine my authority. She was seated at a small desk, talking earnestly with a knobby-faced young woman and scratching notes on a sheet of paper. When I walked up and looked over her shoulder, she twisted her head and looked up, blinking innocently.

“Ah, Your Majesty,” she said. “This young woman wishes to take service in the Blue Tower. She's come from a great distance to beg a ration of tappa, but isn't sure she can find her way back to her fastness—a meager tower from the sound of it, and isolated, but I'll not burden you with the details of her poverty or her terrifying journey. She was delighted at the idea of remaining here and exchanging her work for her sustenance. I have noted her place of residence and her description on my sheet—which, of course, I was planning to leave with you when today's petitions are resolved—and told her that after a twentylight of good service, the king would consider granting her a name. Does that seem in order?”

My mouth was open to order Roxanne to stop interfering, but the young Singlar woman bowed her head and clasped her hands together. “No name is needed,” she said very softly. “Only to eat. To help. To be bounded is a hopeful blessing of great joy, but hunger is deeper. Told was I, that the king valued good service.”

“Of course you can stay. And a twentylight . . . that's reasonable. But you, Lady—”

“And earlier, a gentleman Singlar gave me a very long description of a device he has fashioned from sticks and vines. It sounds very like a sledge, which could, of course, be useful if you think to make anything of this somewhat . . . primitive . . . settlement you call Tower City. He was one of your Witnesses, who now feels the wholeness of being Avero. I have recorded his name and the precise location of his tower, so that you may go there and see his invention on your next progress through the city—assuming, of course, that, as the wisest of monarchs do, you intend to take up the practice of periodic journeys throughout your kingdom—and so, instead of standing in this queue, Avero has returned to his fastness and is excitedly building four more sledges to have them ready when you come to inspect them.”

“All right, but—”

“Have I done ill, Your Majesty? Shall I send for the good Avero to stand in your queue? His story of how he has grown his fastness from a mound of mud into a tower half as tall as this one is truly astounding . . . and interminable. And then there is the three-handed woman. . . .” Roxanne had not smiled even once.

“All right,” I said, still considering whether or not I should lock her in her room. I didn't trust her. Didn't fancy her running amok with her ideas. “But I want to hear about every one, and if there's the least—”

“I will dispose of only the most obvious requests. In all others, especially disputes of the kind which form the foundation of law, I will discover the facts of the case and note them on a paper which the petitioners will bring to you. Two of the men waiting for you over there have already talked to me, and carry my summaries in their hands . . . or feet, in the case of the one with no hands. And granting names is clearly your prerogative. If only Leiran nobles were born without names. . . .”

My daily audience ran smoothly from that day forward. Vroon disapproved of the princess, ever suspicious that she was subverting my authority. He watched her so closely, I didn't have to worry about the matter at all.

Though it was hardly necessary, I formally and publicly repealed the Guardian's rules that restricted the Singlars to the towers. I had no idea how to get the people to work with each other or make something out of their cities. I had to hope they would figure that out for themselves without killing each other. The Singlars seemed to learn everything very quickly, even the rotten things.

On the tenth change of the light after my visit to the Source, the morning was less grim than usual.
Morning
was a term only Paulo, Roxanne, and I attached to the first hours after the lamps came up. Before this particular one I'd never seen such a large portion of the sky clear enough to show so many millions of the green stars, enough of them that you could navigate the Bounded without lamps or torches. The wind was moderate and mostly warm. Occasional cool, moist pockets hung in the lee of the taller towers. The storms and lightnings stayed over the Edge, far beyond the horizon.

Paulo and I decided to take an early walk through the city. Roxanne saw us leaving and attached herself to the excursion, saying she wanted to see the new marketplace. Vroon and Zanore had told the Singlars what they'd seen in our world, and gradually the lanes of the Tower City were being transformed into a hive of flickering torchlight and unceasing activity. I wanted to see how things were progressing, too, but I also had a few things I wanted to talk about with Paulo. When you walked with Roxanne, you talked about what
she
wanted.

On this occasion, however, Paulo didn't give her a chance to start. He was excited about some large four-legged beasts Zanore had told him were roaming the lands beyond the Gray Fastness. The Singlar had said the beasts were very like the horses he had obtained for us back in Valleor. “I was thinking I might have to look into that,” Paulo said.

As we walked, he held his hands out in front of him, flexing his fingers as Nithea had commanded him. They looked dreadful, discolored and scarred where they stuck out of the bandages that remained about his palms, but he could move them fairly well and was gradually regaining his strength and dexterity.

“I miss Jasyr, myself,” I said. “Do you think he and Molly are waiting for us back—Stars of night!” I stopped and pressed a hand to my forehead. If four of my Witnesses hadn't been posted in front, behind, and to the sides of us as bodyguards, I might have thought someone had stuck a rapier right between my ears.

“What is it?” By the time Roxanne asked the question, the sensation was gone.

“Nothing,” I said, blinking my watering eyes and kneading my scalp a little, thinking I must have had too much wine the previous night.

Pink and orange lightning flashed from beyond the Edge. We walked on. Roxanne said something about riding. The piercing pain shot through my skull again . . . this time accompanied by screams and shouts from every side.

“ 'Ware!”

“Firestorm!”

With a skull-shattering blast, a forked tongue of brilliant white streaked across the green-starred dome above us. Wails of terror rose from the city.

“Face out!” Paulo shouted to my bodyguards, shoving them with his bandaged hands.

The four Witnesses drew close around me, one facing each compass point. Paulo had come up with the idea, thinking they could watch for the rifts heading toward me and get me out of the path. He had forced them to practice it over and over, even when they insisted no storms would dare come again, because the king was come to the Bounded.