by Angela Boord
I ached for him, as if I hadn’t lost my arm. And I hated him at the same time. I thought I’d put dreams of him out of my head, and it made me angry. I swooped down, talons outstretched, ready to gouge his face, to pierce the mail he wore. My talons were metal, and I was an eagle, eater of the dead.
But something knocked me out of the air before I reached him. I spun, head whirling with the pain of the blow, and fell to the ground. I beat my wings against the mud, trying to rise again, but the mud snared me like a falconer’s net.
“Little bird, why do you squander your strength?”
A man stood above me, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed black felt hat. In his left hand he held a long staff made of two strips of pale yellow wood twisted together. A raven perched on his gloved right hand, watching me out of shiny violet-black eyes. It clacked its beak together and I scooted away from it. I didn’t know if I was still a bird or a woman, but it didn’t seem to matter. The man wore a coarse blue shirt, a black belt, and leather leggings wrapped with tawny fur strips and beaded in intricate red-and-blue patterns. The hat hid the color of his eyes, but his hair was gray-veined black, and there was a scar on his face in the same place as Arsenault’s.
He looked like an older Arsenault. And then again, he looked nothing like Arsenault, nothing at all.
“What do you want of me?” I asked.
“Everything,” he said, then grinned. “Or nothing. It’s you who’s called me; perhaps I should ask you the same question.”
“Who are you?” I asked, though I knew the simplest answer to that question—Erelf.
He squatted in front of me, and his raven made a deep throaty sound and edged farther up his hand. “Shall I ask you the same? You’ve dined at my brother’s feast. You’ve hunted flesh; perhaps now you hunt wisdom. Or perhaps you don’t. Not everyone is born to See.”
“I’m not blind.”
“Or so you think. If you had been born without an arm, would you miss it?”
I flushed. “I would see everyone else with two arms. I would know.”
“Even so. Seeing is somewhat harder to define. Did you like the looks of this battle?”
I shuddered. “No.”
“Perhaps you’d rather be blind.”
“No!” I sat up. “Without my sight, what would I have? I’d be in the cripple colony for sure. Have you sent me this fever then, to take my sight?”
“To take your sight?” His mouth quirked upward. “Do you see more or less now?”
“More of dreams and less of the world. Is that a trade?”
“Only if you wish to remain here. Some do. Do you?”
“Why would I want to stay in this dream? Just because Arsenault says I have battle magic doesn’t mean I want your battles.”
At Arsenault’s name, the man’s expression hardened and formed lines; it made him look far older than I had thought upon first sight. Then, abruptly, he smiled. But his smile did nothing to dispel the storminess of his eyes, which I could now see were a dark, murky blue.
“Battle magic. Little carrion bird. Do you wish for battle magic?”
“No,” I told him, “I’m only telling you what Arsenault said. I wish all to be spared a battle. I wish I wouldn’t have taken the potion when my mother offered it to me.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You would have a child, then. A memory of what Cassis did to you.”
Was a child merely a memory of past love or betrayal, a memento of an afternoon rolling around in a stable, the fading ghost of a momentary flash of pleasure?
It seemed wrong of him to say so, even though my child was a memory in truth. He had never been born. And yet he remained with me always, much more than a mere image in my mind.
Sometimes as I lay in the dark, I would imagine my life if I had refused the potion my mother gave me. I would see myself with two whole arms, and a little boy with dark curls resting within them as I snuggled him to my breast. In my imagination, we lived in a hut on my father’s land with nothing but a bed and a chair, in which I would rock him and sing him lullabies after I was done with my work.
Sometimes, I put Arsenault into this fantasy, watching him duck under the low lintel of the hut door and straighten up with his smile flashing white in the darkness of his beard.
It was a fantasy that dripped out of me like blood, and it hurt the same.
“Well?” Erelf said.
“I would,” I said.
He stood. “You carry ghosts inside you. Nothing else. No matter what Arsenault says. Listen to him if you think he has the right of it. But know that you are blind and unaware that you do not see.”
He pounded his staff against the ground. The staff dissolved and from it a flock of ravens rose, their glossy black wings beating the air until it rushed past me. Ravens covered the sky like a blot of ink, and a shadow passed where they flew. Over the field they went, their hoarse calls obliterating even the sounds of battle. Men stopped in the middle of the fighting and stared up at the sky, or else they ran and hid in the trees. The battlefield emptied until only bodies remained, and then the ravens lit on the ground to devour them. I swooped in after them and landed on a man’s mailed chest, a man dressed in burgundy and gold, my father’s colors.
Flat gray eyes stared past me, blind in death. There was a metal streak in the man’s black hair.
I was an eagle, eater of the dead. Lest the ravens have him, I took him instead.
“Arsenault,” I said when I woke, days later, “What do you do in Liera? I must know. Tell me.”
Even Arsenault seemed taken aback. He stood and stared at me for a moment. I looked back at him and realized I must have been lying in his bed for days. He stood as if his leg pained him less, and he wore different clothes—just a plain shirt and trousers muddy at the knees.
“You’ve only just woken up. Perhaps you’d rather have something to eat.”
“Perhaps I’d rather have some answers,” I said.
He watched me silently for a moment. Finally, he said, “I work as a gavaro for the Prinze. Not as one of their military men. I conduct special business for the House. The position allows me to collect information for your father.”
“And no one questions you? That you’re gone so long?”
He shrugged. “People see what they want to see. It’s a special position. The absences make sense.”
“How long have I been here?” I hesitated, then asked what I really wanted to know. “Were you out very long? Was I alone?” I hated myself for wanting to ask the question, but it came out of me anyway.
He grasped the back of the chair and sat down. When he answered, he spoke in a soft tone that made me think that he understood why I’d asked. “They brought a new horse from Liera and needed a hand to subdue it. A destrier. Otherwise, you’ve been here eight days, and I’ve stayed as often as I could. When I couldn’t be here, Saes, Verrin, and Margarithe have all taken turns sitting with you. Lobardin wouldn’t be put off either.”
“Lobardin too?”
Arsenault looked troubled. “I think he was worried about you. But I also think he knew you weren’t merely out of your head with fever.”
“You should have walked Ilena back,” I murmured. “Then none of this would have happened.”
“No, it would have happened sometime. I’m surprised it took this long.”
I ran my hand over the blankets. I realized I was only wearing my chemise, and I wondered who had undressed me. I blushed and pulled the blankets up higher. “Was it magic? Did Ilena curse me? Or did you—”
Arsenault’s eyes lit up angrily. He rose and paced over to his worktable, running a hand through his hair before he turned back to me.
“You think I’d curse you?”
I sat up and threw the blankets off, forced myself out of bed, and tottered over to him. “But, Arsenault—these dreams must have come from somewhere—from some kind of magic!”
His fingers drifted to the pommel of his s
word and his mouth pulled down. Did he think I was dangerous? The thought alarmed me. Who had infected me with this magic if it wasn’t his?
But then he took my elbow gently. “At least sit down while I tell you. Please? Kyrra?”
“And will you explain?” I said as I allowed him to steer me back to the bed.
“As much as I’m able. And then you’ll eat. You’ve had nothing but a few sips of broth in eight days.”
I nodded and he took a breath.
“Whatever dreams you dreamed were yours. The magic gave them to you, as it claimed you. But also, it seems”—he let the breath out—“Erelf.”
Hearing him say the name aloud made me shiver. He leaned across me to pull the crumpled blankets over my lap. “Lie down,” he said. “You’ve probably very little strength yet.”
I grabbed the blankets to pull them up myself. “I saw him,” I said. “His ravens.”
“Maybe Erelf wants you because you’re with me; I don’t know. It’s hard to know why a god does anything. He likes to keep his plans close to his vest.”
“He’s a god?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“The patron of Sight,” Arsenault replied grimly. “I thought you were lying when you said you didn’t know anything about magic. I could See it so clearly around you.”
“And is that why you’ve been teaching me?”
“Will you believe me if I tell you?” His voice contained a hint of bitterness. “Partly—at least at first. I just couldn’t believe— Kyrra, you attract so much magic, you might as well be a wildfire. I couldn’t believe that anyone with that sort of light following her wouldn’t be aware of it. When I first heard your story and your father told me he couldn’t hire me to watch you but he’d be asking about you all the same, I thought I’d just drawn duty on a spoiled brat.”
I flinched. “Perhaps…that was fair.”
He shook his head. “No. It wasn’t. When I saw you wrestling with that water bucket over and over again until you’d conquered it…I knew you were different. And dear gods, that glow.”
He scrubbed his fingers through his beard. Then he sighed. “A man’s reasons can change over time, can’t they?”
There was something in his eyes I felt too weak to see. So I just nodded. Slowly.
His shoulders relaxed. “There are two kinds of magic. The first allows itself to be crafted and bent to a man’s will. The second tries to bend a man to its will. That kind of magic will swallow you if you’re not careful.”
“And which kind is it that I have?”
The way he looked at me reminded me of the way he’d looked in my dream as he brought down Adalus, the elk. That mixture of regret and sorrow.
“Oh.” I rolled the frayed edge of the blanket against my thumb. “The second kind. Of course.”
He sighed, heavily. “Kyrra, I’d have saved you from this if I could have. The Sight that comes and goes can be a burden. And battle magic…”
“Is that what happened to me? In the grotto?”
I tried to push away the memory of what else had happened in the grotto.
“Mmmm,” he said, clearing his throat and looking away. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. I think so.”
“We call it battle madness in Liera. It comes from Ires. His insane desire for revenge.”
“It’s still magic. It thirsts for blood and chaos, and it needs a conduit to satisfy that thirst. It finds its easiest course in those who have wrongs to avenge. If you can hold it back, it becomes an asset in battle. If you can’t…”
“You don’t need to tell me, I guess. I heard Lobardin laughing as he cut bandits down.”
Arsenault leaned back in the chair. “Lobardin. Yes. I thought that might be the way of it.”
“He came to see me?”
“He brought some broth from the kitchens. And—orchids. From the high road.” Arsenault gestured carelessly at a plain pottery cup on the windowsill that had been stuffed full of lavender blooms. “I told him I thought you might like them.”
I knew where those orchids grew. Once upon a time, I had dragged my chambermaids out into the fields so I could gather them into baskets. I cut so many, I couldn’t find enough vases for them, and so I used our good crystal stemware and arranged the flowers all over my room.
That was the spring before I met Cassis.
Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them, and I blinked them away furiously.
“Kyrra? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing.”
But I hardly knew, did I? It could be that nothing was wrong…or that everything was.
“Arsenault,” I said, reaching out to touch his hand. “Thank you.”
He lifted his head in surprise. “Why are you thanking me?”
“For giving up your bed. And taking care of me. For allowing Lobardin to bring me orchids.”
“Well.” He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “What else should I have done?”
“You might have done nothing. You might have sent me back with the combergirls where I belonged.”
“No, I couldn’t have done that.”
“But what will happen to me now?”
He sobered. “You’ll have to trust me. I told Mistress Levin you’re no longer bunking with the combergirls. You’ll be safer here.” He leaned forward. “I know how this is going to sound. But my intentions are honorable. There isn’t a room for you in the barracks to have for yourself. So, if you’ll have it, I’ll put up a screen and a cot, and…you can stay here.”
I pulled my hand away from his and drew the blanket up higher. “With you? In your room?”
He looked stricken for a moment. Hurt. Or maybe that pain was directed against himself.
Did he still think of himself as my bodyguard? A gavaro with a commission? Was that why he couldn’t make me any promises?
“I’m sorry for what happened in the grotto, Kyrra,” he said, his voice earnest and low. “It won’t happen again. It’s just that if Erelf wants you…I’d rather be there. To stop him.”
Chapter 13
What nobody tells you is that magic is a pain in the ass.
It’s like the dinner guest who always shows up uninvited. It comes too early and stays too late. It ruins your evening plans. It’s the mistake you wake up with the morning after.
Hopefully, it will leave me alone tonight.
The day crowds are starting to move out of the Temple District, changing up for night crowd worshippers, which are a different sort of people. Kinless, free class, and householder mix here, along with people from all the Eterean cities and every foreign nation. But the night gods are different from the day gods.
The lantern is hung on Cythia’s porch, inviting worshippers to pay homage to the goddess of love. The soft glow of candles illuminates a statue of Lusa, goddess of the moon. Pana, the goddess whose name just means willing, does a rousing business at night.
And then there are the dark sides of the major gods, which take ascendance when the light fails.
Though Erelf was exiled to the northern wastes when he killed his brother, Geoffre di Prinze has brought him back and elevated him to the position of Knowledge in the daylight.
At night he’s the god of secrets, the way he’s always been.
The god of magic.
It’s been a long time since I let myself think about Erelf. I did my best to follow Arsenault’s example while I was off fighting on my own in Rojornick, and I became adept at redirecting my thoughts whenever memories of him came up. My employer’s wife didn’t like magic, and I can only imagine what she would have said if I’d added unpredictable dreams of an exiled god to my list of offenses. But for five years I’ve managed—somehow—to stay out from under Erelf’s nose.
And now I’m planning to walk in right past it.
Razi and Nibas, the only men I trust at this point, are sitting with me at an outdoor table across the street from Geoffre’s new temple and its enormous statue of Erelf.
“You
can almost see up his nostrils,” Nibas muses, tilting his head for a better view of the statue’s giant nose. His beads clink together as he moves.
“You think they Fixed the snot, too?” Razi says, picking up a pipe that rests in a large bowl on the table. Half-full wineglasses and a bottle of red are arrayed around it. It reminds me of a drunken clock, ticking away the time until I can meet Jon Barra tomorrow for my gun.
“Do gods have snot?” Nibas says.
Razi shrugs. “How am I supposed to know what your gods have and don’t have? Do I care about your gods? Always arguing. Causing trouble. Dooming you all to a lifetime of misery.”
He takes a pull on the pipe and closes his eyes, then blows smoke with a beatific expression. “Now, that—that is something worthy of a god. Where’d you get it, Kyris?”
I’ve been throwing some of my money around since I got out of the silk warehouses. Kacin would work better to dampen my identity than this sweetweed mix, but I still can’t tolerate it.
“Got paid finally and went down to Pana’s temple,” I say.
Razi looks at me like I’ve betrayed him. “And you didn’t get me and Nibas first?”
I lean back with my own pipe. “You think I want to share everything with you and Nibas?”
“Besides,” Nibas adds, “last time, we had to drag your ass out because that sacred paste made you think you had ants crawling all over your body.”
Razi looks at him blankly. “I don’t remember that.”
Nibas glares at him. “I do, and it’s nothing I want to repeat. If Kyris tries to take you back into that place, I’ll put an arrow in your back. And his.” He turns to me. “What did you get us for? You need help?”