by Melanie Rawn
“You’ll see them both again soon,” Sarra promised. “And you’ll like Sheve. It’s not Ambrai, but. . . .” She stopped, in danger once again of saying too much.
“I don’t remember much about home,” her cousin mused. “But don’t believe everything you hear about it, Sarra. The Octagon Court was a wonderful place, and I was very happy there. But people remember it as more than it was. They always talk as if it was . . . perfect. It wasn’t.”
Thumbing through her own memories, thinking about the refugees she’d met through the years, she knew Mai was right. Which, considering her own plans, was no very bad thing. “Don’t you think people need to remember it that way? Perhaps everybody needs to remember it. As a symbol.”
“Oh, for the sake of the Rising, yes. As a reminder of what was lost. But Ambrai was my home, Sarra, and it should be remembered as it was. This fantasy of perfection some people talk about never existed. Even if it had, it’s gone forever. It’d be hopeless to try and remake something that never was. A waste of time and effort on a lie.”
Though Sarra nodded, within her something insisted on substituting dream for lie—and this made the rebuilding of Ambrai neither hopeless nor futile.
The fifth night of the journey, Elomar Adennos came in while Mai was up on deck. He explained that she would stay there until he bade her return, for there was much to discuss with Sarra in private. Judging by the large pitcher of mulled wine he brought with him, it would be a long evening.
They got comfortable, drinks in reach. Sarra sat cross-legged on the lower bunk, the Healer Mage facing her in one of the two wooden chairs. He began without preamble: “The Mage Globe was not a common spell nor an easy one.”
“It was ready before I arrived on Ryka,” Sarra mused. “You don’t make something like that in a day. Was the glass blown around the Globe or the Globe inserted into the glass?”
“Either would be formidable work.”
“Meaning you don’t know. Well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. Alin said she wanted to watch me with it.”
“Of itself, the Globe was benign. Had it not been, the escaping magic would have wrecked the Cobbleyard. What little magic I dared touch told me that observation was indeed its purpose. Alin is more perceptive than he knows.”
“And Glenin is even smarter than I gave her credit for. It’s the kind of gift one puts out for visitors to see—token of Anniyas’s favor and all. Even on board ship, every time I took it out to admire it. . . .”
Adennos nodded. “Just so. You will be very wealthy and therefore very powerful one day. Perhaps this Globe is a usual gift to important persons.”
“Mmm. I don’t think so. I’ve visited quite a few Names, and nobody’s ever pointed one out—and they would, for pride. Why did Glenin give it to me? What does she suspect?”
“Or Anniyas,” he reminded her. “It was given in her name, though it was Glenin’s work.”
“How do you know?”
He hesitated. “The taste of the magic, if you will. Alin is unable to discern subtle differences in Mageborn work, but I can. It’s like a signature.”
“Can it be forged, the way Scholar Kanto will with Anniyas’s writing?”
“An extremely skilled Mage might.”
One more for Gorynel Desse! Sarra smiled at Elo. “I’m interrogating you like a Justice with a criminal, I know, but you’re uniquely talkative tonight and I’m taking advantage of it!”
“Ask,” he said, and actually grinned.
She laughed, appreciating the one-word reply. “All right, then—do you know why Glenin recognized Alin?”
“Did she?”
“Right before he broke the Globe. She wasn’t noticing him for the first time, Elo, or seeing a family resemblance. There isn’t much of one to see. She looked as if she’d seen him before. He says she hasn’t.”
“I can’t be any help there, Domna. I saw nothing of this.”
“Hmm. Too bad. Next question. . . .” She paused, staring into her wine. “Elo . . . what do you think they know about me?”
“Nothing. Recognition would have been instantaneous.” As it had been with her first sight of Cailet.
“As for the Rising. . . .” Adennos leaned back in his chair, crossing long legs at the knees. “They have nothing on which to base suspicions because you’ve done nothing suspect. But their eyes have been on Lady Agatine these several years. Perhaps the Globe was meant to watch her, not you.”
“Something else we may never be sure about.”
“One becomes accustomed to such things, in the Rising,” Adennos said dryly.
She made a face at him. “Has Kanto decided what Anniyas will have written to condemn herself? No, wait—Gorynel Desse will think up something, right? Is he really Telo Renne’s father?”
He choked on his wine. “Who told you that?”
“Never you mind. It’s true, though, isn’t it? Has he any magic?” She shook her head, impatient with her own foolishness. “He’s Desse’s son, of course he does. But he’s Warded, just like me.”
“How did you—?”
“Oh, it’s obvious! How could he have gone so far in government if Anniyas knew who his father was? Besides, he touched the remains of the Globe, and neither you nor Alin went anywhere near it. So he’s Warded, right?”
Recovering, the Healer Mage bowed slightly in his chair. “Are there any other questions you don’t need me to answer?”
Sarra laughed. “Only one thing more, and then I’ll have mercy on you. I’ll bet you’ve said as much in the last hour as you said the whole of last year!”
A wry smile lit his long, thin face. “More.”
“Very funny. Just tell me this—is there anything else I ought to ask?”
His smile changed slightly, and he did not answer. Instead he bowed slightly and made for the door.
Sarra slammed one fist into a pillow. “Elomar! Don’t you dare tell me to talk to Gorynel Desse!”
10
Ten miles to Roseguard and yet another favor for the old man—Well, hell, Collan thought sourly, I was heading there anyhow.
This had become a familiar refrain the last few years. Ever since the debacle at Pinderon he’d crisscrossed the whole northern hemisphere. Always to places where “Minstrels are welcome and can earn good coin,” always “only an hour or two of your time,” always “just a small favor.”
Always to someplace he was heading anyhow.
They knew him well in Roseguard. He was, in fact, modestly famous from Cantratown to Renig to Shainkroth. His reputation had even spread as far as Wyte Lynn Castle—though he wouldn’t be going back there anytime soon, due to a tiny misunderstanding about how a fifteen-year-old Ellevit daughter got locked stark naked in a closet. (Not his fault; he’d honestly thought her request for a private performance meant to bring his lute. She was a schoolgirl and half his age, for Geridon’s sake!)
When first Col began his career, earning his bed and board took a whole evening of songs, with all profits from increased business going to the innkeeper. Now when he rode in, word flashed through town, manor, or keep, and whatever tavern he graced filled rapidly. He brought in so many patrons that he could claim equal share of the profits. For a man who traveled with only a lute and a Tillinshir gray (the Witte gelding from Pinderon, which—with appalling lack of imagination for a Minstrel—he named Dapple), he was a wealthy man. And all of it, aside from the coin he needed on the road, was safely deposited with the Healers Guild in every major city in North Lenfell. He didn’t trust banks; they were notoriously easy for the Ministry of Commerce to investigate, confiscate, and eliminate. What should have been his own Guild—the Bards—was a disorganized collection of lackwit rhymesters these days. Col judged the Healers a certain bet for survival whatever laws the Council passed. People always needed doctoring.
Had he known that management of the Guild coffers was the charge of a branch of th
e Ostin Web, he would have fainted.
After Pinderon, Col had laid low for quite a while. Taig Ostin, finally catching up with him halfway to Cantratown, had done his best to recruit Col to the Rising. Col would have none of it. He owed Taig, though, and he’d learned long since that a debt not swiftly repaid tied a man down. So he agreed to take a message to a house in Cantratown—since he was heading there anyhow—confident that this would be the end of it.
But gorgeous Domna Garvedian in Cantratown had asked so sweetly that it would have been churlish to refuse her. So he and Dapple sailed down to Neele—a good idea in any case. The Council Guard still had his name at the top of its list weeks after the incident in Pinderon. Delivering the Domna’s message was the work of an hour; getting off Brogdenguard was the frustration of two solid weeks, until another woman connected with the Rising smuggled him on board a ship of her Name’s line. On arrival in Ambraishir, he’d paid for his passage by slogging poor Dapple through a thunderstorm to hand over a leather sack of he knew not what to a little old man living at the mouth of the Brai River. As it happened, the ancient ended up nursing him through a miserable cold. He also restrung Col’s lute and gave him a sheaf of rare songs dating back before the First Incursion. So when he was asked to take the same leather sack, contents again a mystery, to a farm on Blighted Bay, honor demanded that he do it.
Before he knew it—and certainly without his agreeing to it—he was a courier for the Rising. His roving life made him a natural; his attitude of “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know” made him invaluable. If caught, he could reveal next to nothing.
He hadn’t planned it. But no sooner did he rid himself of one obligation than another took its place. It was infuriating. Still . . . as long as no one asked him to visit Pinderon, and no connection with the Rising was suspected, he did favors to repay the favors done him. That this chain turned out to be endless caused a sardonic snort every now and then. The process also caused him to become a famous Minstrel and accumulate a hefty balance in numbered accounts in Healers Guild vaults.
Now he owed a favor to Warrior Mage Guardian Gorynel Desse Himself. Col knew a setup when he saw one. How else to explain the convenient appearance of Dalion Witte? The old man assured him it was mere coincidence; in Cantratown to court a Firennos girl, Witte was drowning his failure in a classic tavern crawl. But why had he just happened to show up in the tavern Col was performing in—and why had Gorynel Desse just happened to be there to save his skin? And singe it as well—the very instant Collan and Dalion Witte recognized each other, the hearthfire at Col’s back flared, dazzling all eyes except his. A quick exit to the alley, a moment to pack the lute in its case, and Desse had been beside him demanding to be thanked for his timely magic trick.
Collan rode to the stable near his usual Roseguard haunt still grumbling over the errand the Mage had given him. “Just a message,” he’d said. “One day, that’s all it will take. You’re heading that way anyhow. And they’re generous in Roseguard, they appreciate music. You won’t be the poorer for the trip.”
But this time was different.
Always before there had been wrapped items to deliver—which he never asked about because he honestly didn’t care—or a verbal message in code that made no sense to him, which was how he preferred it. This time, however, the items to be delivered were right out in the open, with no spoken message: the code was not made of words, but of flowers.
“A recent innovation,” Desse explained carefully, “making use of a tradition long out of fashion. You’ll recognize the meanings, I’m sure.”
He did, and didn’t much care for it. A few old songs used the intricate language of flowers and herbs, but most people only knew the basics: common saddle-charms, nosegays for first Wise Blood and courting. Floral metaphor was a brilliant code that nearly guaranteed secrecy.
Or it means the message is so dangerous it has to look as innocent as possible—and what’s more innocent than a bunch of flowers?
Collan snorted. Innocent, my ass. This was the first time he’d ever understood what one member of the Rising was telling another. And that made him vulnerable if the Guard caught him.
The way he saw it, he hadn’t much choice but to deliver the message. But it would be the last time. Absolutely the last favor he did anybody.
Naturally, the old man hadn’t considered how difficult gathering so many different flowers would be. First of all, it was winter. Second, though there were plenty of places to buy flowers, purchasing all of them at once would mark him as eccentric—at best. But neither could he alight at every flower stall and shop in Roseguard like a demented bee.
After stabling Dapple, he entered the Thistlesilk Hostelry (saying it three times—fast or slow—was the proprietor’s test of drunkenness). Col was tired from the long day’s ride and begged off singing. The domna agreed, knowing she’d reap the profits of his rest tomorrow night. After supper Col bedded down with his host’s charming niece and just before he slept decided that the easiest—and cheapest—way to acquire his needs would be to steal them from Roseguard Grounds. The message was for Lady Agatine; might as well use her flowers to send it.
Accordingly, the next morning he was first in line at the entrance. This was a pair of ancient barbicans, roofless and half-ruined, the stones held together by climbing roses. Guarding the Roses, he thought, and winced. In song he was used to wordplay; encountering it visually was just a smidge too clever for his tastes.
It was warm for winter, with a clear sky and a cheerful sun promising a splendid day. Collan paid the admission fee of a cutpiece, received a paper garden map, and prepared to search. Five steps later he forgot what he’d come for. Even in winter, Roseguard Grounds was a wonder beyond imagining.
Millions of flowers in a thousand colors and shapes and sizes, breathing fragrances to make a man drunk. Herbs, snuggling into tracery beds and growing in serried ranks on tall, broad-stepped, freestanding walls, giving forth yet more scent and a subtle shift of greens from near-black to silver. Down the center, a half-mile alley of velvety grass was bordered by matching pairs of trees, one on each side like candles, receding to a faraway blaze of coppery shrubs. To either side of him, arches cascaded purple, white, and crimson roses. Airy plumes of white and bronze ornamental grasses fountained behind massed flowers, and behind the grasses were more trees bearing all manner of fruit. Vegetables both practical and ornamental were laid out with the precision and color-care of a Cloister carpet, surrounded by thick, stunted hedges barely ankle-high. Throughout, bees hummed happy satiation and even the birds warbled on key.
And this was only what he could see after five steps into the garden. The map told him the entirety of it covered five square miles.
“First time, eh?”
The voice startled him from his waking dream of color and scent and sound. Slug-witted at the glory before him, he turned his head. A tall, muscular, pleasant-faced man of about his own age stood nearby, holding a pair of pruning shears in one gloved hand.
Collan nodded. “It’s—” And then he stopped, at a loss. Fine Minstrel he was, lacking a single word of appropriate praise.
But the gardener understood. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’m off on my morning rounds. If you’ve time, you’re welcome to come along. New visitors make me see with new eyes.” The shears were transferred to his left hand, and the upraised right palm was offered. “Verald Jescarin, Master of Roseguard Grounds.” He grimaced suddenly and pulled his glove off with his teeth. “Sorry,” he mumbled around the thick leather.
Collan belatedly recalled the reason for his visit. Who better to guide him to the required plants than the man who grew them? Accepting the salute with his left hand matched to Jescarin’s, he smiled. “If you don’t mind a lot of stupid questions, I’d be glad to join you.”
They strolled meandering paths, Jescarin describing what was placed where and why. This herb to repel insects, that to attract them; one section d
esigned for summer in graduating shades of red from ground to archway, another in the same artful triumph of winter blues. Rounding a tall hedge, Collan caught his breath at the shimmering beauty of a small enclosure. Every leaf, grass to bush to tree, was silvery; every flower, ground cover to tall lilies to wall vines, was white.
“The Garden of Ever-Snow,” Jescarin said. “Lady Agatine’s favorite. Took my Fa years to get it blooming all year long. You should see it when the white cherries are ripe.”
“‘And branches conjure Mage Globes/Of sweet white snow,’” Col murmured.
“So you’ve heard that song! But it wasn’t written about Roseguard, you know. It’s Ambrai that Bard Falundir sang of in that lyric.” Jescarin knelt to finger through a heavy fall of trumpet-shaped blossoms. “Aha! Got you!” He held up a stalk dripping a few pink flowers. “I dig him up every year, but every year he pops up again, blushing with shame for spoiling all this white.”
“Ambrai?” Collan felt a telltale throb begin in his temples. The name of the dead city he’d heard a million times; that couldn’t be it. But Falundir was rarely heard, owing to the Bard’s long disgrace. The sound of his name had triggered a familiar headache.
Verald Jescarin stood, tucking the offending plant carefully into his satchel for replanting in another bed. “That song cost him his music forever.”
Collan turned away to hide a flinch as the pounding grew worse. “I know Roseguard is a liberal place, but is it wise to say things like that?”
“Nobody within hearing distance but you. And I recognize your name, Minstrel. Tell me, how was old Gorsha when last you saw him?”
“Annoying, dictatorial, and ornery,” Col replied without thinking.
Jescarin laughed—a rich, deep sound that seemed to come all the way from his toes. “Which is to say he’s healthy as a horse. I’m glad to hear it. Now, how may I help you, Domni Rosvenir? Which is to say, why are you stealing bits of my oleander, lavender, and white poplar?”