Turning Points (15 page)

Taran hated it. Hated being afraid of Havish, and the way he and his boys had beat on Griff like a hammer on a nail, hated how his “friends” had stood by and watched. And most of all, he hated himself, because he had been so afraid he’d just stayed and watched with them.

A muddled mind makes a muddled life
, his mother would say if she were here, before giving him a friendly cuff to the head. Since that was all that seemed to be missing, Taran rapped himself twice on the back of his skull before pointing left.

“This way,” he stated with a smile, hoping his voice showed more confidence than he was feeling.

In the old days, Keyral’s house had stood three stories tall, with a garden in back where the wizard grew herbs and held parties now and again. Taran could almost see it. Almost.

Now the building’s bones barely remained. Much of the stonework had been salvaged—by now the stones were likely part of the city walls or one of those houses Grabar and Cauvin had been building for merchants as trade revived.
The city consumes itself to rebuild itself
, Taran thought morosely. The rest of it lay in rubble on the ground.

Shamesh was staring at the ruins, looking as if he were sucking on one of those tart rock candies Taran got at holidays, except that he did seem to be enjoying the taste.

“What now?” Taran asked.

“I’m looking for an opening—a door to a cellar or basement…” Shamesh said at last. He picked his way through the rubble and began to heave rocks aside. Taran considered helping him, but the sun was warm and the rocks looked heavy.
Aristocrats need their exercise, and young men need their rest
, he told himself, stifling a yawn. It looked like a hopeless task anyway. In thirty years the rubble must surely have been picked clean. The overgrown remains of the garden looked far more inviting.

“I’m going to start looking over there—” Taran called as he made his way around the ruin, looking for a nice comfy spot where he would be well hidden from view. He brushed away a pile of dead leaves and lay down with a sigh.

There was a rock digging into his ribs. Swearing, he rolled over, pushing more debris away. But this spot wasn’t comfortable either. He sat up and looked at the ground on which he’d been lying. He couldn’t see anything pointy, and even sitting up he felt the irritation. It was in his head.

He ought to move, he thought then. But he was
tired
, and if he got up Shamesh would expect him to start working. Taran cursed again, then lay back and began to breathe slowly in and out, letting the annoyance flow out of him in the way his father had taught him when he was a child. Taran tried not to think about his father too often. Darios had been a wizard too, but it hadn’t saved him when the Dyareela cult came to power.

Taran could still feel—whatever it was—but it didn’t bother him so much now. He sighed again and rolled over on his side.

His half-closed eyes focused on something in front of him—a point of light that glittered where he had pushed away the leaves. With dream-like deliberation, he reached out for it.

Darkness falls again, in her forgotten world, the only thing that changes in her endless days. She begins to count, as she often does, a personal measurement of time. It is the only kind she has, now.

A face appears behind her reflection
—
or has her reflection changed? But that’s impossible. There are no changes here. She looks again, and realizes that the face is not, cannot be her own! She is looking at a boy, no, a young man, with a mop of ginger hair, while hers is fair. He looks confused
.

She laughs, then starts to weep, crying out to him, pleading, scratching at the barrier between them with desperate fingers.

The darkness gives way once more to light and the face is gone.

She pounds against the mirror, but only her own image remains to reflect her agony.

Taran sat up, heart pounding, as the vision faded.
What in hell was that
? His visions were usually nightmares—they’d never shown him a beautiful woman before. Had he been dreaming? The girl had looked like one of those Rankan princesses from a marketplace storyteller’s tale.

He felt a sharp point dig into his palm and realized that he was still holding something—it was a jewel. Whatever he had seen, this was real enough, and it looked valuable—an egg-shaped, faceted, indigo stone that left purple light on the ground where the sunlight passed through.

“Taran!” Shamesh was shouting. With a start Taran realized he’d been calling for some time. “Drat you, where’d you get to, boy? There’s nothing here, and it’s getting late. Time we were on our way home!”

“I’m here, in the back. Just keep your britches on.” Taran slipped the jewel into the leather pouch that hung around his neck, got to his feet and dusted himself off.

I had better luck than you did
, he thought as he rejoined the older man. But he said nothing. There was no point in getting everyone all excited until he knew what it was he had found.

Dinner had been a silent meal. If the searchers had been successful, the whole house would have heard about it. But Latilla knew better than to question men who were tired and hungry. Taran went off to his room as soon as dinner was done. He had that preoccupied look that usually meant he was trying to keep a secret. Likely he meant to sneak out to join his friends, and didn’t want her to know. She frowned at the thought, but let him leave unquestioned.

It was her lodger, pouring himself yet another cup from the flask of wine of Aurvesh he had brought back with him, who was her primary concern just now.

“The place is a ruin,” Shamesh said disgustedly. “You warned me—” He turned to Latilla. “I used to think that Ranke was past its prime… compared to this ruin, the capital is blooming!”

Latilla realized that she was glaring and looked quickly away. Why it should gall her to hear someone else confirm her own opin-ion she did not know, especially when the flush on his cheeks showed he was finally being overcome by the wine.

“Not a scrap of paper… not a smell of a spell…” Shamesh drained his mug and poured another. “Don’t know why I was so sure the answer was there! But there’s nothing. Ever’one who might of known what happened is dead or fled. Vashanka! What’ll I do now?”

He set down the mug with a thump that splashed blood spots of wine upon the cloth and rested his face in his hands. Latilla repressed an impulse to reach out and touch that bent head.

“You have done all that a man may,” she said softly. “No one will blame you if you give up the search now. You don’t have to go back—you could make a new life here…”

“Think it’s blame I fear?” He surged to his feet, swaying, and she stood up quickly to keep him from falling. ” ‘S my
family
… We were great, once, you know? But m’grandfather, and father, they had a genius… for choosin’ the losin’ side!” He giggled a little at the rhyme. “All the money’s gone, ‘n most of the land. To Koron Eridakos, whose forefathers were kings!” He raised the wine cup, and with drunken deliberation, spilled the lees out onto the floor. “Last chance… last chance’t’ save m’name…”

“Let’s get you up to bed,” murmured Latilla, draping his arm across her shoulders. Her husband had been a temperate man, but she could remember how her mother had dealt with her father in the days when he still had a weakness for wine. Some men got ugly when in drink. Shamesh, like her father, tended towards the maudlin. But these were more than sentimental maundering. The wine had dissolved the man’s impervious aristocratic calm, and her heart ached as she realized the depth of his pain.

His coordination was a little improved by the time they reached his room, but not his control. As Latilla eased him down to the bed his hand brushed her breast and remained there. “Stay…” he muttered. His eyes were closed. “I don’t want… to be alone…”

He thinks I’m someone else
, she thought, allowing her gaze to dwell on the finely cut features and mobile lips that had been haunting her dreams. His other hand closed on her shoulder. Even drunk, he was strong. Too strong to resist, she told herself as he pulled her down beside him, knowing even then it was a lie.

“
Please… Can’t you hear me? Someone, I know there’s someone… I will go mad, surely… it has been so long
. …”
She turns, battering against the glimmer of light that refracts around her. Something has changed, she is sure of it, something has changed the alternation of light and shadow in which she has lived so long. Hope, that fragile spirit she thought dead a lifetime ago, is stirring, frantic to be free
.

Blue… he is trapped in a maze of blue and purple light. Moaning, he struggles to get free. But wherever he turns his own reflection blocks the way, fair hair tossing, gray eyes wide with anguish. His senses reel, not least because in this nightmare he has somehow become a beautiful girl. He flails at the barriers that surround him, feeling the rasp of rough wool, and is confused anew, for all he can see is the polished prison of the Jewel. “Help me!” he cries. “Can’t anyone hear?”

Someone is shaking him. He opens his eyes. Through shattering purple lenses he glimpses his mother’s face and the familiar outlines of his room, and falls back with a moan of pain.

Taran shuddered, struggling to focus. His mother was bending over him, a lamp in her hand. Grasping for normal consciousness, he noted that she was still dressed, though she was disheveled as if she had slept in her clothes.

“Hush—” she was murmuring, “you’ve had a nightmare. You’re home in your own room. You’re safe here.”

He flushed, sure he had outgrown the need for such comfort years ago. The other half of his mind was still throbbing with the sensations of his dream.

“Purple…” he muttered. “It was purple, and I was a
girl
…”

“Ssh…” said Latilla. “It’s over now.”

Taran shook his head. “But I have to understand. I was a girl, and I was a prisoner in the jewel…”

His mother stopped patting his shoulder. “What jewel?” she asked.

“I found it in the weeds. I was going to tell you—” he added quickly, “but you were talking to
him
, and—”

“Do you still have it?” she interrupted him.

“Yes…” he muttered. He felt almost himself again, and was already regretting having given up his secret. The girl had been so lovely! He heaved himself up on one elbow, unhooked his neck pouch from the bedpost and tugged it open. Violet refractions skittered around the room as it fell into his hand.

“I found it and I thought it was pretty, that’s all. I thought it might be valuable.”

“You know that’s not all…” Latilla frowned. “There’s magic in it—if you haven’t sensed that already you’re not your father’s son, or mine! And you found it in a sorcerer’s den…”

Right
, he thought, grimacing at his own stupidity.
And I just lay down in the middle of it to have a snooze
!

“Do you think this has something to do with that girl Shamesh is looking for?” he asked when her silence had gone on too long. He had agreed to help the Rankan. Did that mean he was honor bound to give up the jewel? “Are you going to tell him?”

After another long moment his mother sighed. “I don’t know.”

Will he remember
? Latilla wondered as she ladled porridge into wooden bowls. The donkey-driver and the silk merchant who were her other guests this week were already sipping their tea. Shamesh had not yet appeared. She wondered if he would make it down to breakfast. She wondered if he would remember that he had not spent last night alone.

And if he does? If he looks at me, and remembering, smiles
? If the quest that had brought Shamesh here failed, he would have no reason to go home.
We could be happy together
, she thought,
if happiness based on a lie could endure
…

But the jewel might have nothing to do with his search, and she would not have to lie. Even if he did not remember, what had happened once might happen again. Her imagination started on its round once more.

By the time her Rankan lodger finally made his appearance, Taran had finished the morning chores he usually weaseled out of and had wheedled a second bowl of porridge—proof of her distraction. His eyes shifted uneasily from his mother to Shamesh as the older man sat down, squinting at the light flooding in through the eastern window. Behind him the fresco of Shipri, Queen of the Harvest glowed, the colors almost as bright as they had been when Latilla was young. Her mother was supposed to have modeled for that image. She found it hard to believe.

“Here’s tea—” she said, setting a mug in front of him. His gaze passed over her unseeing as he groped for it.

Perhaps it was the hangover that made Shamesh so distant, she thought, but she did not think so. Keeping silent about Taran’s discovery would be a fitting punishment for a man who could not even remember what she had given him.

As the tea hit his system Shamesh looked up, the fine eyes clearing. “That wine of yours was stronger than I expected. I’m afraid I talked a lot of nonsense last night—”

You talked about the things that matter to you
… She thought, gazing back at him, and understood that though she had held his body in her arms, she would never touch his soul. She sighed.

“Taran has something to show you,” she said aloud. Her son cast her a stricken look, his hand going instinctively to cover the leather bag.
We are both giving up a dream
… thought Latilla, but her own pain made her ruthless. “There was something left of Keyral’s magic after all. Taran found a jewel.”

For a moment Latilla wondered if her son was going to obey. She could see the struggle in his face, but after a few moments he opened the bag and very gently, set the jewel on the mat. Violet coruscations flickered across the walls as it caught the morning sun.

“When I hold it…” he muttered, “I see a girl… a beautiful girl with fair hair.”

Shamesh sat back in his chair, the color draining from his face and then returning in a rush. “The transmutation of souls…” he whispered. “It must be… But is she
in
the jewel, or is it only a gateway?”