[Lyra 04] - Caught in Crystal

by Patricia C. Wrede - (ebook by Undead)

  She was surprised at the number of things she had picked up on the journey; no wonder the pack had seemed heavier these last weeks! Slowly, she worked her way through the accumulated layers. As always, some of the “essentials” she had packed in Copeham had sunk to the very bottom and never surfaced again. There was a flint she’d forgotten; they’d used Glyndon’s throughout the trip. And a square of wool, and a small bronze knife. And…

  Abruptly, Kayl sat up very straight as she realized what was in the long, narrow bundle at the very bottom of her pack. It wasn’t exactly that she had forgotten Kevran’s rod; she had simply set the thought of it aside when she realized that she could not safely discuss it with Glyndon as long as Corrana traveled with them. And after so many months on the road, Kayl had become accustomed to the stiff presence of the rod in the bottom of the pack.

  But Corrana was at the Star Hall now. And Glyndon was downstairs. Kayl smiled and drew the bundle out of the pack. As she did, the wrapping slipped and her fingers touched the wood.

  Varevice was waiting in the hall just inside the door to the courtyard. Kayl took one look at the tiny crease between her brows and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “The Varnans have arrived. They’re waiting out there.” Varevice nodded toward the courtyard.

  “And?”

  “Barthelmy is going to have real trouble dealing with them.”

  Kayl raised an eyebrow. When Varevice did not expand on her statement, Kayl went to one of the window-slits and peered out. The three wizards were easy to pick out; they stood in front, and their robes were richly embroidered. The first was a tall, brown-haired man with a kind of angular good looks, the second a dark-haired, ordinary-looking man on the short side of average. The third was a willowy blonde, whose head was tilted at an aristocratic angle that proclaimed her contempt for the Star Hall and everything in it.

  Behind the wizards stood their slaves, five men in coarse brown robes, each with several bundles at his feet. No, not five men; the last one was completely hairless, and his skin was the same gray color as Kayl’s robe.

  “Sweet stars above,” Kayl whispered. “They’ve brought a sklathran’sy.”

  The rod slid from Kayl’s fingers, and the memory ended. Kayl sat staring at the gleam of wood that showed through the oiled wrapping. After a while, she realized that her hands were shaking.

  Carefully, she set the bundle down on top of the nearest pile. She leaned back, trying to put her thoughts in order. Kevran’s rod could not, simply could not be the cause of her sudden remembrance. The rod was the channel he had used, nothing more; in and of itself, it was not magical. With Kevran’s death, the rod should have become simply a piece of oiled wood.

  Should have… but this was not the first time her memories had risen at the touch of Kevran’s rod. Something similar had happened in Copeham, when she had picked it up in Jirod’s kitchen, but she had seen no significance in it then.

  Kayl shook her head, denying the connection, but her eyes were drawn again to the sliver of wood that gleamed through the gap in the wrappings. There was one obvious way of finding out whether this was real or a product of her imagination. Slowly, Kayl laid back the cloth that covered the rod. Then she bent forward and picked it up in both hands.

  Barthelmy sat hunched under her cloak, staring into the fire. Her black hair was even more wildly disordered than usual, and she kept casting dark looks in the direction of Beshara al Allard and the gray-skinned sklathran’sy who was waiting on her. Beshara pretended not to notice, though she seemed to find more tasks than usual for her servant to perform. Kevran and Glyndon sat nearby, playing some sort of game with carved twigs thrown into a circle they had drawn on the ground. Kevran’s dark hair was falling into his eyes, as it usually did when he was concentrating on something.

  Kayl stood in the flickering shadows just outside the ring of firelight, watching Barthelmy and Beshara. She frowned, wondering whether it would be better to try distracting Barthelmy or to leave her alone. They were only a few days from their goal; surely Barthelmy could keep her feelings under control that long!

  “Beshara should not bait Barthelmy so.” Evla’s voice came out of the darkness behind Kayl, echoing her own thoughts.

  Kayl turned. “No, but what can we do about it? I’ve tried to tell her, but she only smiles and behaves worse than ever.”

  “I don’t think that’s the right—” Evla stopped as Beshara rose.

  “Is the tent ready, Odevan?” the woman asked lazily.

  “Yes, Mistress,” the sklathran’sy replied. Kayl could see Barthelmy squirming at his submissive tone.

  “Come, then,” Beshara said. She started off, then paused beside Barthelmy. She smiled slightly and said, “You seem to have an interest in my demon.”

  “Sklathran’sy,” Barthelmy corrected coldly. “And yes, I do.”

  “I suppose it is only natural; they are a rare and dying race. But do, please, be careful. I have no wish for Odevan to get above himself.”

  Barthelmy leaped to her feet in indignation, but Beshara had already turned away. Odevan gave Barthelmy a wide grin, showing a great many dark, pointed teeth, then followed his mistress. Barthelmy stared after them, her fists clenched.

  Kayl shook off her paralysis and went over. “Barthelmy—”

  “What did she mean?” Barthelmy said. “About sklathran’sy being a dying race?”

  “I don’t know,” Kayl said. “I think she was just trying to irritate you.”

  Impatiently, Barthelmy shook off Kayl’s hand. “No! At least, that’s not the only thing she was doing. You!” She gestured at the two Varnan wizards studiously concentrating on their game. “What did Beshara mean?”

  “When?” Glyndon said cautiously.

  “Just now, when she said sklathran’sy were a dying race! You must have heard her.”

  “I—” Glyndon hesitated and looked at his companion.

  “She meant what she said,” Kevran said quietly. “They’re dying out. In another two hundred years, there won’t be any demons left.”

  “Sklathran’sy!” Barthelmy corrected furiously. “And it’s not true!”

  “I’m afraid it is. A lot of them are sterile, and those that aren’t don’t breed true. And whenever a… sklathran’sy breeds with one of the Four Races, the child is Wyrd or Neira or Shee or human, never a demon.”

  “Breeds with—You’re lying! No Varnan would ever…”

  “Oh, but they do. Quite frequently, I’m told.” Kevran’s smile was slightly crooked, as though he were laughing at himself.

  “Even if they do, the children of such a union couldn’t possibly be normal!” Barthelmy’s voice was hard.

  The twist in Kevran’s smile grew stronger. “No? But I’m normal enough, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You mean you—”

  “There’s demon blood in my family. A couple of generations back, but still recent enough to make the point.”

  “Oh!” Barthelmy whirled and ran out into the night. Kayl started to follow, but a hand on her arm held her back. She turned and saw Evla.

  “Let her be,” the Shee healer said. “She needs to think.”

  “She should have done her thinking a little sooner, and spared us a scene!” Kayl growled, torn between irritation and sympathy.

  Evla sighed. “Kayl, it isn’t that simple. You know how Barthelmy feels about sklathran’sy. And if they are a dying race, what will become of the demon-friends? And what will the Sisterhood do, when one of the points of the Star is no longer needed?”

  Kayl stared. She had been so wrapped up in the concerns of their mission that the larger implications had escaped her. Slowly, she nodded.

  Evla turned to the two Varnans. “I think you should try to keep out of Barthelmy’s way as much as you can. She’ll probably blame you for making her believe what Beshara said. It isn’t reasonable, but it happens.”

  “I understand,” Kevran said, and Glyndon nodded.

  “We’d better g
o tell Varevice,” Evla said, touching Kayl’s shoulder. Kayl nodded, and they went in search of her while the Varnan wizards returned to their game.

  Kayl heard a soft thunk as Kevran’s rod fell out of her hands onto the wrapping. She blinked stupidly at it, then reached out and folded the oiled cloth carefully over and around it. She sat back, feeling numb.

  The memories were the rod’s doing, somehow; it brought them back as real and vivid as if she were living through them again. Another thought struck her: all of them were memories of that last journey with her Star Cluster. Was that because of her current preoccupation with the Sisterhood, or was it something in the rod itself?

  Kayl looked speculatively at the covered rod. If she took it up again, this time concentrating on a different memory… She started to reach out, then stopped. What was she thinking of? She knew better than to take chances with unknown spells! Experimentation could wait until she had talked to Glyndon.

  She picked up rod and wrappings together and dug among the little piles of belongings until she found a length of yarn. She tied the wrappings tightly around the rod, then put it back in the bottom of her pack. The rest of her belongings went in on top of it. It would be a nuisance to get it out again to show Glyndon, but that was better than having one of the children unwrap it out of curiosity.

  Satisfied at last, she rose. Mark and Dara were sleeping soundly; unpacking and the interlude with the rod must have taken more time than she had thought. She picked up the lamp, adjusted the wick so that it burned more brightly, and left the room.

  The serving room below was half-full when Kayl came down the stairs. Most of the patrons sat at the tables closest to the fire that burned on the raised hearth in the center of the room. The few hardy souls at the farthest tables kept their cloaks wrapped loosely about them against the drafts that leaked around the edges of the shutters.

  Kayl scanned the room again. Finally, she located Glyndon. He was still hunched over the table in the shadows by the far wall, staring at a plate and mug in front of him. Kayl smiled in relief; she had been half-afraid that he had grown tired of waiting and had left in search of companionship.

  Glyndon looked up at her as she sat down. He blinked, owllike; then suddenly he gave her a disconcertingly charming smile. “Did you know that it’s easier to be overlooked if you sit in the middle of the wall? People always check the corners when they’re looking for suspicious characters, but their eyes slide right by the middle of the wall.”

  His speech was too precise, too careful. Kayl sighed in exasperation. “Glyndon, you’re drunk.”

  “Not at all,” Glyndon replied. “You asked me to wait; I’ve waited.”

  “And you just had a mug or two to pass the time.”

  “Or two, or three,” Glyndon agreed. “I had to do something, you know.”

  “Of course.” Kayl shook her head. “Are you sober enough to hold a sensible conversation?”

  “Always. For you, I will be sober as the High Mage’s Chamberlain and sensible as the Keeper of the Keys to the Queen’s Treasury.”

  “Glyndon!”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, very well. But let me guess—you’re going back to those bigoted women in the gray and silver robes, and you’re wondering how to break it to me.”

  “No,” Kayl said quietly. “It’s nothing like that.”

  Glyndon looked up, his face suddenly serious, searching her expression. “It’s not?” he said at last.

  “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do about the Sisterhood,” Kayl said, holding his eyes with her own. “But when I do decide, I’ll tell you first; I promise. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh.” Glyndon looked pensively down at his mug. “Then I have used up a good deal of winter wine by mistake. Pity.” He raised his mug again.

  Kayl caught at his arm. “Glyndon! You’re drunk enough already.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Never mind. I think this had better wait until morning; you’re in no state to be discussing Kevran’s rod now.”

  “Kevran.” Glyndon took a long drink from his mug. “Yes, it’s always been either Kevran or the Sisterhood, hasn’t it? One or the other. I could never…”

  Kayl waited, but Glyndon did not finish the sentence. “I think you’d better come upstairs,” she said at last. “While you can still walk relatively straight.”

  Glyndon muttered something and shoved himself to his feet. He swayed, then started around the end of the table. Kayl rose hastily; Glyndon’s coordination had obviously been far more affected by the drink than had his speech. She helped him across the room and up the stairs, holding the tiny oil lamp with one hand and Glyndon with the other.

  At the door to his room, they stopped. Glyndon pushed it open, then turned unsteadily and looked at Kayl. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize.”

  “How far off you were getting? Don’t start worrying about that now! Go on in and lie down before you fall down.”

  “I—” Glyndon stared at her a moment, then sagged against the doorjamb. “Never mind. I’m not quite that drunk.” He lurched upright once more, gave Kayl a smile full of self-mockery, and went in.

  Kayl stood and watched as the door closed behind him. Then she shook herself and, in a very disquieted frame of mind, crossed to the room she shared with Mark and Dara.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  The following morning Kayl awoke well before the children, and discovered that, once she had dressed, she had nothing to occupy her time until they awoke. The only thing that came to mind was mending the holes Mark had managed to get in his robe, and she had no more thread to do that with. She’d used the last of it in Thurl Wood, two weeks before, and hadn’t gotten around to purchasing any more.

  Perhaps she should simply buy him a new robe. Mark had grown on the trip from Copeham, and even with leggings below it his robe was beginning to look decidedly short. Kayl sighed. Having nothing to do made her feel cross; she was accustomed to being busy, usually with yet another task in mind to do as soon as she was finished with her present work.

  That could be part of her problem, she thought, and grimaced. In Copeham, she had buried herself in the work of running the inn and raising the children, to avoid thinking. Corrana’s arrival had shaken her out of that rut, but she realized with chagrin that she had fallen into the same pattern again. The needs of the journey had replaced running the inn: finding food and water and firewood, choosing a place to camp, practicing her swordcraft, teaching Mark and Dara, deciding how far to travel next day and whether to spend some of their dwindling store of cash on an inn.

  And she had allowed them to occupy her mind, seldom thinking of the decisions that lay ahead at the end of the journey. Now she was faced with those decisions, and she felt almost as unprepared for them as she had been in Copeham.

  Kayl rose and walked softly to the window, careful not to wake Mark or Dara. The wooden shutter and the oiled cloth nailed over the opening kept direct winds more or less at bay, but it was still a cold and drafty place to stand. Kayl peered out the cracks around the edges of the window, trying unsuccessfully to see what sort of day it was outside. Finally she abandoned the attempt and returned to the slightly warmer area beside the door.

  What was she going to do about the Sisterhood? Part of her wanted desperately to be one of them again, to have Dalessi’s warm and friendly wisdom to lean on, to know other women who understood what she meant because they shared the same background and beliefs. To have a family again. Another part of her whispered persuasively of the more tangible benefits the Sisterhood could offer: food, clothes, shelter, an education for her children, work that suited her.

  Yet she knew it was not so simple. Even if she could forget everything that had happened in the aftermath of her long-ago trip to the Twisted Tower, there would be Sisters who could not. And Kayl had spent fifteen years outside the Sisterhood, eight of them married to a Varnan wizard; she no longer
shared the background of most of the Sisterhood. Nor did she share all their beliefs.

  As for her children, Kayl doubted that Mark would ever be happy in the Children’s Hall. Dara, on the other hand, would probably adjust fairly well. But Kayl knew from experience what such an upbringing meant. She did not want to become a stranger to her children, separated from them for six months or more every year when she traveled to other cities on the business of the Sisterhood. Nor did she want Dara pressured into joining the Sisterhood.

  There was also the matter of the Sisterhood’s attitude toward Varnans. Kayl sighed again. If Corrana were typical, the Sisterhood had changed little in that regard, and all for the worse. There seemed to be other changes, too, changes Kayl did not yet completely understand. And there was the mission to the Twisted Tower, and Glyndon’s visions, and Kevran’s rod. Somehow they were tied together, and Kayl could make no firm decisions about any of them until she understood how and why.

  Mark stirred restlessly and sat up. Kayl rose to begin getting her children ready for the new day. She hoped Glyndon would be down in the serving room by the time they arrived. She had a great deal to discuss with him.

  Though Kayl and her family lingered over breakfast, Glyndon did not put in an appearance before they finished. He was presumably sleeping late; on reflection, Kayl found this quite reasonable. She was considering the advisability of going upstairs and awakening him, when she became aware of someone standing beside her.

  Kayl looked up. A girl of about fifteen stood waiting patiently to be noticed. She was wrapped in a heavy wool cloak; the dark gray robe of a student at the Star Hall showed beneath it. She bobbed her head and said, “Sister Kayl Larrinar? Your Justice?”

  “I’m Kayl Larrinar,” Kayl said, ignoring the startled looks Mark and Dara gave her. “But I’m no longer of the Sisterhood. Just call me Kayl.”

  “I bear a message for you from the Star Hall,” the girl said, and drew a folded parchment from inside her robe.