The White Tree (45 page)

"We're close. Very close. Do we really need one more hand to help us shape the nether? Who knows? It would help more to have the book. Failing that, we're going to need all the aid we can muster."

"Then stop throwing hoops at me and make me into something that can tip the balance."

"Indeed." Larrimore snapped his fingers, looked surprised. "Oh, it didn't work!" He snapped again, then a third time. He shook his hand at the wrist, scowling at it. "Damn thing seems to have given out."

Dante stopped mid-stride. He bit his lip, oblivious to the self-inflicted pain, until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He opened the channels of his mind and let the shadows flock through them, calling out through the clear, open pathways Nak had showed him until he could actually see black streaks shooting from the dark places in the room to gather around his hands and at the trail of blood that leaked past his lips. So Cally too had used him and now Larrimore mocked him. Were all men treated this way? Or was it because when they looked on him they still couldn't see past his unlined, beardless face? They pretended to be wise, but none of these self-important men knew a gods-damned thing. Let Larrimore, at least, look on the full reach of his power.

For a moment Dante didn't know how he'd make it manifest, simply letting the forces grow until his limbs shook and his blood burnt with a sheer energy he hadn't felt since he'd strained all his body in the battle to free Blays from the lawmen of Whetton. He saw Larrimore's natural state of ironic glee melt away, his smile recede until his lips were a taught line, the light of his eyes shift from amusement to alertness, and perhaps to alarm. Dante's throat felt too tight to swallow. His vision grayed at the edges.
Release it
, Cally would say,
for the love of the gods let it go
. Dante let it burn on until his skin felt ready to peel from his flesh, enjoying every hot second of the pain that held him in its palm. He spread out his arms, as much for the spectacle as for the need, and then he nodded, once, and set the shadows free, not in a focused fire or the bleeding edge that cut people's flesh, but in a pure sphere of unfiltered force.

It expanded from his body so fast Larrimore was knocked down before he could cry out. It whipped the dust on the floor into billowing clouds. Rugs flapped and spun into the walls. Vases and statues flew sideways from tables like an invisible tablecloth had been yanked from beneath them, smashing on walls, clattering on the ground. Servants and students spun from their feet to land on hands and knees or hard on their backs. The sphere met the walls then, striking so hard it boomed like cliffside surf, like a battering ram swung into a great gate. Dante sunk to his knees, seeing black and white through the slits of his eyes. Then the crash of the nether was gone, replaced by a silence interrupted by the clinks of glass and pottery ringing to rest on the ground, by the slow crackle of stone flaking from the nearest wall, by the light sobbing of the servants and his own ragged breathing.

"How insightful," he heard Larrimore say, distant as a cloud. The man rolled to his feet and brushed dust from his worn clothes. Around them, the other men who'd been knocked down dragged themselves up and suddenly remembered tasks of calamitous importance, disappearing through doors and around corners. Dante made no move to get up. His whole body tingled as if it were no longer just his but belonged to all the world. His mouth was a loose O of dumb shock and simple exaltation. Larrimore toed a broken shard of glass. "As if we didn't have enough work already."

"I don't need you," Dante slurred, dreamlike. He laughed, the low, breathy laugh of an idiot.

"Shut up, you clown," Larrimore muttered. He crossed to the wall and fingered the cracks that had appeared in the stone. "I want you to go to your room and think about what you've done. Tomorrow your true purpose begins."

He'd walked back to his cell in a daze. The world felt as close and translucent as the time he'd been drunk back in Bressel. He lowered himself to his pallet, heavy as a boulder. It was a long time before his thoughts became shapes he could understand or control.

"Cally lied," he said when Blays showed up after night had fallen.

"He's pretty old," Blays said, turning his back and hanging his sword from a peg on the wall. "Maybe he just forgot the truth."

"Gabe, too. He said Samarand led a coup, killed the old priest.
Cally
was the leader, and the council forced him out, not her. And obviously she didn't kill him."

Blays frowned down on him, noncommittal. "Were they both lying? Or was Gabe just repeating the lies Cally'd told him?"

"I don't know," Dante said. He stared at the ceiling. "I don't suppose it matters."

"What do you mean?"

"Did Cally send us here to exact justice, or to execute a personal vendetta that's twenty years old?"

Blays' face clouded up. He shuffled his feet around the straw and dirty stone of their cell.

"You're thinking maybe it's a good thing it's taken so long to get things in place."

"I no longer have any idea what the good thing may be."

"Whenever I have that feeling, I try to go with whatever I haven't tried before." Blays sighed through his nose, ruffled his hair. His eyes shifted to Dante's prone form. "When did you learn all this, anyway?"

"Today."

"Not a week ago? Not a month ago? You haven't just been sitting on this while you let them teach you all their fancy tricks, have you?"

"No."

Blays stuck out his jaw. "I'm not stupid. I know you pretty well. You've been enjoying this. Playing them with one hand and me with the other."

Dante sat upright. "That's not true!"

"Isn't it? You're not putting off what we have to do so you can puff yourself up with power?"

"Blays! I'm not using you here." Dante told him about his conversation with Larrimore, how he'd asked the man what the order of Arawn was up to and how it had led to their talk of the history between Samarand and Callimandicus. He left out the part at the end, when he'd blown up the keep, and Larrimore's promise about his "true purpose," whatever that meant. "I didn't know," Dante said, clasping his hands in his lap. "You see? I'd been looking for a way to get to her. I had. And now it's all been swept away."

Blays blew up his cheeks and knocked his knuckles on his forehead.

"I'm going to ask a question," he said carefully. "It's going to sound crazy, but I want you to think about it before you answer. Okay?"

"Okay," Dante said.

Blays raised his brows. "Does this change anything?"

"That's crazy!" Dante said. Blays sighed again. Dante bit his lip, wincing when his teeth found the raw split where he'd bitten it open hours earlier. He lowered his voice. "We came here thinking she's a usurper. That if she died, reason would take her place. If her place in the council's legitimate, how can we expect things will be any different just because she's gone?"

"I don't know!" Blays hissed. "Gask seems peaceful enough. There's no more murder out there than in any other city. No towns were burning on our way through. But they
are
burning down in Mallon. If we can do something about that, how can we hold back?"

Dante looked down. Whetton, Bressel, the village he'd left the year before, they were just places he'd once drifted through for no reason more special than that they were near where he'd been born. He didn't miss any of the people he'd known from those times. Who were they? Faces, fragments of memory. That was all. Did the fact he had once known them somehow make them more important than the people in this city, in this kingdom? There were people in Mallon who wanted to worship Arawn shoulder to shoulder with the devotees of Gashen or Lia or Carvahal or Mennok. That was somehow a crime? Who'd made that decision? He shook his head at Blays.

"Killing her won't change a thing. It'll be like Gabe said. Someone else will take her place and the wheels of history will roll right on."

"Not if you're the one who takes it," Blays said. Dante squinted at him until he was certain the boy was serious.

"Did someone hit you on the head while you were sparring today? Let me see," Dante said. He stood and reached for Blays' head. Blays wrestled him away.

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Let me see your skull. I bet it's got a big fat crack."

"What's stopping you?" Blays said, shoving Dante back again.

"An army of men and an order of priests."

"Then here's what you do." Blays narrowed his eyes and tipped back his head in an owlish expression. "Get Larrimore or someone from the council to back you. Divide them up against each other and promise your supporter you'll be their cat's-paw, that you'll do the thing they wouldn't dare and so claim her seat in their name. Even if they throw you out right after, they'll be too busy squabbling to keep screwing up the south. And if they leave you in her seat, then you can rule like a king and end it all yourself."

Dante sat down and chortled into his hands. "You're right. Your question wasn't crazy.
That's
crazy."

"Only if you lack the vision to see it through."

"Let's suppose I give it a shot," Dante said, exaggeratedly stroking his chin. "I'll have to expose my plan to off Samarand to whoever I want to back me. What if they don't go for it? How well do you think that's going to fly?"

"Like a cat in a trebuchet?" Blays shrugged. "Someone's got to hate her. Just figure out who."

"Good gods. Sometimes I think we should just sneak into her chambers in the dead of night and fight our way outside."

Blays' brows knit together. "Do you think that would work?"

"I have the strange suspicion the high priest of Arawn is smart and strong enough to use her eerie powers to make sure nobody just stabs her in her sleep."

"So that's a no."

Dante squeezed his eyes shut. "You're supposed to be the reasonable one. This is going to be a disaster."

"You're going to do it!" Blays said, looking as if he couldn't decide whether to be enthralled or horrified.

"No. Maybe. Larrimore's got something in store for me tomorrow. Something important. I want to see what it is before striking down the road to madness."

"Ah! Cowardice."

"Cowardice! You're right," Dante said. "I'll have the whole place taken over by tomorrow, then. I'm naming you my Secretary of Parades. It had better be grand, or I'll redub you Secretary of Getting Eaten to Death by Rats."

They argued nonsense until Blays claimed exhaustion. Dante lay in bed for a while after Blays had fallen asleep, laughing softly at Blays' plan, its tempting confusion of absurdity and daring and total stupidity, until the darkness of the night and the talk he'd had with Larrimore bubbled back into the fore. Why hadn't Cally just told him the truth? Why send him all this way on a false story of Samarand's treachery? Didn't the old man know Dante would have thought the way Blays did now—that it didn't matter how she'd gained her power, that legitimate or not, the things she was doing with it were wrong?

But he knew why the old man had lied, of course. Because Cally didn't trust him to make the right decision. And so he'd used him in a way he knew would get the results he desired. Dante wanted to feel angry, to rage at the fact he'd once again been used as a piece on someone else's board, but all he felt was tired. For the first time since he'd touched the book, he wanted it to stop. He wanted a moment to catch his breath, perhaps to run away from all these schemes and live for himself, free from the snares of the ambition of other men and himself.

He knew that want was nothing more than fantasy. He was caught up in something that would only get bigger before it went away. All he could do now was ride it out until it came to rest.

"No lessons today, Nak," Larrimore said as he spilled into the chapel. "We've got more important work for our little scholar."

Nak rolled his eyes over his papers. "I don't see how you expect me to teach him two languages as well as refine his more ethereal talents when you're always dragging him off on your chores."

"I'm learning," Dante said in Gaskan. "Make me some lessons. I will go over them tonight."

"We'll start with clauses," Nak muttered. He waved his fingers, dismissing the boy. Larrimore led Dante into the keep and immediately made a left turn for the stairwell into the dungeons.

"What are we going down here for?" Dante said, peering into the dim torchlight. He had a sudden vision of being forced to torture Ryant Briggs for answers.

"Nothing!" Larrimore said. "How cunningly I've tricked you back into prison. You thought you'd get away with your insolence?"

"You could use a dose of sobriety," Dante said.

"Wrong. In time you'll learn the value of running your fool mouth until no one can tell when you're serious. Only then can you get away with saying anything to anyone."

"What does that even mean?" he said, but Larrimore didn't seem inclined to explain. The air of the lower levels rose up to meet them. Cool but sturdy, the faint whiff of human filth and things that may once have been rotten but had since turned to dust. Larrimore opened the door to the corridor where they'd hauled Dante not so long ago. Dante skipped his gaze over the thick door behind which he'd been imprisoned, straining his ears for sounds of Ryant. Was he still alive? Alone in the darkness of that empty room? He glanced at Larrimore. The man was smiling.

The hallway terminated in another door that opened onto a second stairwell. Larrimore grabbed a lit torch from a sconce in the wall and they continued down into the darkness. The walls weighed on Dante's shoulders. The stones seemed to move beneath the shadows thrown by the flickering torch, as if the walls weren't mortared in place but were in the process of a silent and half-stalled avalanche. Dante stared hard at his feet until they hit the landing of the lower level and the walls widened out into an unlit corridor.

"Here we are," Larrimore said, stopping at the hall's first door. He fit a key to the lock and leaned into the door as it opened, pouring himself into the room. From behind him, Dante saw black shadows, gray stones, the dull white of a floor full of bones.