The Godstone

by Violette Malan

  Which told me that Fenra was not the class three practitioner she pretended to be, something I’d long suspected. It wasn’t until class two that you needed to be able to create small vaults of the kind Fenra referred to. I wondered, not for the first time, just how old Fenra was. True, one of her professors was still living, but considering that the average lifespan of practitioners was indefinite, the old man’s continued existence proved very little.

  “So you remember then that there’s no artifact, no external object used to seal the vault when it’s created, though one can be made later as a key. The pattern comes out of the practitioner herself, created from the practitioner’s own blood and bone, and only that same blood and bone can access the pattern. Without a key, there is no forran, no other object that anyone else can use to open the seal.”

  “And your vault has no key. So without the blood and bone of the practitioner himself, you can use the next best thing, a blood kinsman?” She rose, carrying her boots to place them outside the door, where the boot boy would pick them up for cleaning.

  “A powerful enough practitioner can. I’ve seen it done successfully . . . once.” When I didn’t elaborate, Fenra stopped, leaned against the closed door.

  “Successfully in that the vault was opened but the kinsman did not survive? That’s what Medlyn told me might happen,” she added. “But it won’t kill you, will it? Can they force you to take part? I mean, seeing as you no longer have power to protect yourself.”

  I didn’t answer. This was the time for me to tell her what I needed her for. My teeth clenched. Fenra stayed leaning against the door of the suite, arms crossed, looking at me. From her face, I didn’t have to tell her.

  “Arlyn. I know what you said before, but I think we should leave. Medlyn said that if you go to the Red Court you can question the summons, make the White Court show their hand.” She explained in more detail what her professor had advised.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have come,” I said finally.

  “It’s not too late,” she said. “We can still leave.”

  “You might be allowed to come and go as you please, but it may be too late for me. The advocate has already told the White Court I’m here, remember, made an appointment for tomorrow.”

  Fenra opened her mouth to protest, but she must have remembered that she was talking to another practitioner, and not an ordinary citizen. It’s long been the White Court’s policy not to let the people know exactly how much they can do. They didn’t keep track of every citizen all the time, though that was due to lack of resources, not desire. They could, however, pinpoint any individual in the City and its immediate environs, and someone who didn’t arrive for an appointment was definitely someone they would want to locate.

  As for going to the Red Court, that could be a problem as well. A practitioner could easily find someone to do him the favor of handing us over, in exchange for some favor in return.

  “I am coming with you tomorrow.”

  Now it was my turn to open my mouth to protest, and close it again without speaking. That was, after all, exactly why she was with me. “How do we explain your presence?”

  “Simple.” She went into her bedroom, emerged slippers in hand. “When you thought it was just the advocate you needed to see, your friend who accompanied you to the City minded her own business. Once you learned that the White Court was involved, you got nervous, and your friend assured you there was nothing to worry about, and came with you to prove it.” She waited until I nodded before continuing. “I would not be expected to know what unsealing a vault involves,” she pointed out. “I am only a third-class practitioner, remember.” She kept her eyes fixed on mine until I nodded my agreement.

  “So,” she said. “Tell me about the Godstone.”

  Three

  Fenra

  THE WAY ADVOCATE Lossingter’s mouth tightened made his unhappiness with my presence obvious. Unfortunately for him, no mundane had any say over the comings and goings of a practitioner, and besides, Arlyn wanted me there.

  After as short a carriage ride as the advocate had promised we entered the Court by the East Bridge, the one set aside for mundanes. Unlike the West Bridge I had used the day before, this entrance had guards checking the business of everyone entering. Their blue tabards, with the old-fashioned cut, were reassuringly familiar.

  For me they had no questions, only informal salutes. The others had to explain themselves.

  “Advocate Lossingter and Dom Arlyn Albainil to meet with Practitioner Metenari.”

  When I heard the name, I wished I had skipped breakfast. Of all the people who had been apprentices with me, Santaron Metenari was my least favorite. I hovered in the background when we entered the conference room in the North Tower. I noticed his jacket was too tight, something you rarely see among practitioners. Like everyone else our clothes conform to our bodies as we travel from Mode to Mode—another element that mundanes do not notice. When not traveling, we buy new clothes or have ours altered like any mundane. From the tightness of his clothing, Metenari had not been out of the City since his weight gain and had not bothered to buy new. Now that I thought about it, his clothing had always been on the tight side. Even when we were apprentices, he somehow arranged to be courier for only one mouth instead of the usual six. His eyes flicked over me, surprise flashing over his face for an instant as he took in my clothing, before he dismissed me with a charming smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I could tell he did not recognize me.

  He should have. I had entered the White Court several years after Metenari, but I caught up to his level quickly, as he was among the stodgier of my fellow apprentices. As I traveled more, my own progression slowed, however, and he lost interest in me. Santaron had a keen political sense, and took little notice of classes inferior to his own. Hal used to say that no one knew better where the potions were poured.

  “Welcome, welcome. You’re Arlyn Albainil? Executor of the testament of the practitioner Xandra Albainil?”

  Arlyn inclined his head in a shallow bow. “So they tell me.”

  “It’s wonderful that you were able to come so promptly, Dom Albainil. I take it your advocate has explained the White Court’s interest in this matter?” Metenari turned to me. “You’re more than welcome to sit in the observation area, Practitioner.”

  “I am here as a friend of Dom Albainil’s,” I said, putting on as strong a country accent as I could. Instinct told me that if he actually did not remember me, I should keep it that way.

  “Wonderful.” He widened his eyes at me, but there was still no recognition in them. I kept my face straight.

  “I knew nothing of this,” Lossingter was quick to chime in.

  “Practitioner Lowens is from my village,” Arlyn said, as we had planned. “She was good enough to come with me when I told her I was coming to the City. I’ve never traveled so far before,” he added, making himself sound even more of a bumpkin than I was pretending to be. He’d even pronounced my name as strangely as he could, LoWENSS, and Metenari still did not react. Though it suited my purpose, I had to admit it annoyed me to be so easily forgotten.

  When we were finally all sitting at the round table in the center of the room, Metenari offered refreshments, but in such an abstracted way that no one accepted, though obviously the advocate wanted to. His face bright with enthusiasm, Metenari opened a folder, much stained, full of papers which crackled with age. I sat up straight. These were clearly not documents known to Medlyn Tierell, and I studied them as carefully as I could while feigning disinterest. My old mentor would be interested in as much detail as I could get him. I could see a faint haze of purple, as if someone had shaken open lilac blooms over the paper. So the papers were so old they required preservation. I resisted the urge to look at Arlyn. Just how old was he?

  “Advocate Lossingter has explained that we need your assistance to open your kinsman’s vault, though we do n
ot need your permission.” Metenari’s musical tones made this a statement, not a question, but Arlyn answered it anyway.

  “Yes, that’s right, but my friend here tells me that it’s dangerous for me, what you’re suggesting. I know you’ve your rights and all, but does that mean I should put myself at risk? I mean, I have rights too, you know.”

  Two little red spots appeared in Metenari’s cheeks, and he took a deep, calming breath, his lips quirking into a stiff smile.

  “Let me assure you, Dom Albainil, that with all due respect to your friend’s learning—” I could almost see the words “village practitioner” passing through his mind, “—there is no longer any danger associated with aiding the White Court in the opening of a practitioner relative’s vault.” Now his tone was one of a patient teacher instructing a politically important but backward student. “In the past that may well have been so, but our techniques and knowledge have moved quite a fair piece along the Road from those primitive days.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him how many such unsealings had been done with the “new” techniques, but caution prevailed.

  “And let me assure you further of the utmost importance of what we are doing. You would be assisting in a project of the highest level of value to the entire world.”

  Arlyn was nodding, but his frown and wrinkled brow showed him perplexed. “I see,” he said finally. “Though I still don’t know how you think I can help you. I don’t know anything about the practice.”

  “Ah.” Metenari’s tone was more than condescending. “You let me worry about that, Dom. You may know something you’re not even aware you know.”

  “If you say so. Still . . .” Arlyn twisted his mouth to one side and tilted his head. “It’s all so new—I’d like to think it over some.”

  “If you think that’s wise, of course.” Again his tone was gentle, but I had seen Metenari’s lips crimp in the corners, and thought that what he really wanted was to take this country lad by the neck and shake him into immediate agreement. “I must advise you, as a friend, not to take too long, however, Dom Albainil. As you pointed out, we all have our rights here, and I would be ready to take this matter to the Red Court if it should become necessary.”

  Advocate Lossingter perked up at the thought of more fees. I do not know who he thought was going to pay them.

  “Ah, well, no,” Arlyn said. “I’d just like a day or two to get used to the idea that I’ll be participating in some scientific project. This is all so new to me.”

  “Naturally so. I look forward to hearing from you.” He turned and nodded just enough to be polite. “Advocate. Practitioner.”

  I stood when Arlyn did, returned Metenari’s nod without meeting his eye. Lossingter scrambled to follow us out.

  * * *

  Arlyn

  It took us longer than it should have to get rid of the advocate. I could see signs of impatience in the tight muscle of Fenra’s jaw. Finally we agreed to meet with him again the following day to “review our options.” At that, he only left us at the East Gate because it was clear we weren’t returning to our hotel, after all. Instead, Fenra linked her arm through mine and led me back into the maze of the White Court’s buildings.

  “You knew him,” I said as we crossed through a corner of the rose gardens. “The plump practitioner.” The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile.

  “I hope it wasn’t that obvious to him, though come to think of it, Metenari probably takes it for granted that other people recognize him.” She slowed down and I matched my pace to hers. “From what I remember of him,” Fenra said, knocking a loose piece of gravel to one side of the flagstone path with her toe, “and from his attitude this morning, this is his project.” She waited, hand outstretched to the nose of a passing dog, until the elderly practitioner on the other end of the leash pulled him away with a sidewise look at our linked arms. “Do you believe what he had to say about the unsealing ceremony?”

  “Not for a minute. I’m with your old mentor on this one. I don’t doubt the White Court has made some advances since my time, but the fundamental rules of the practice don’t change no matter how hard you work on them.” I stuck my hands into the pockets of my trousers.

  “So why did you agree? Are we not just delaying the inevitable?”

  We entered a large rectangular courtyard almost filled by a long pool full of water lilies. The last time I’d seen this place, the water had been kept clear—this was called the Mirror Patio because it reflected the buildings around it. I thought she meant to walk through the patio, but instead she led me to one of the stone benches under the arcade, sitting back with a sigh and taking a deep breath.

  “It’s not just a delay,” I told her, keeping my voice low. “I have a different plan entirely. We, or rather you, are going to reseal the vault. Then I can’t be used to unlock it.”

  She went very still, paled as much as someone of her complexion could. Her nostrils flared, her right hand began to close. Her eyes fixed on the edge of the path.

  “Reseal,” she said finally, without looking at me. She rose to her feet. “Come with me.” She started down another path without checking to see if I followed. I did, of course, but not without asking where we were going.

  “To Medlyn Tierell. He can help us.”

  Naturally I recognized the building she led me to, the barred windows on the first floor, the wide treads of the staircase, even the worn spot on the tiled corner where over time the touch of fingers had worn away the glaze. Medlyn Tierell’s office and workroom were on the third floor. My office had been on the sixth, the top floor. I liked to be up high.

  I’d always avoided him when he made his visits to the village, and I admit to being a little shocked at how old Fenra’s mentor looked. I’d never known any practitioner to show that much age. He sat looking at the door as we arrived, as if he’d been expecting us, the eyes bright and sparkling in his wrinkled face. His hand—his practitioner’s hand—shook as he held it out to Fenra. His head, when he turned his smile to me, trembled only slightly less.

  Once we were sitting down—me in the only visitor’s chair, Fenra with one hip propped on the edge of the desk—Fenra spoke.

  “Now, tell Medlyn what you told me.”

  “I want Fenra to reseal my vault.”

  “So, you found the Godstone after all, though the records don’t say so?” I could tell from the surprised look Fenra gave him that she hadn’t told Tierell who I really was. The old man was hard to fool. “Fenra is more powerful than she pretends, but is she powerful enough to lock the Godstone away?” Medlyn’s voice had an undertone I didn’t understand, at first.

  “It took all of his own power to contain it,” Fenra told him.

  I shut my eyes, called myself every kind of fool. No wonder she’d brought me here—where she had support—before letting me go any further. I used to be able to explain things clearly. “Fenra, I’m so sorry.” Which was worse, I wondered, that she believed I would happily use her—or anyone—to undo my mistake? Or that she was right?

  She let her gray eyes focus on the top of the desk before lifting them again to mine. “What exactly are you sorry for?”

  “This misunderstanding.” I looked at them both, made sure I had their attention. “I never intended to replace my seal with yours, but to intertwine yours with mine, changing it enough that anyone trying to use only my pattern would fail.”

  Fenra turned to her old mentor. “Would that work?”

  Tierell’s eyes looked into the middle distance for a moment, and then he smiled. “Not only should it work, but it should be permanent.” Fenra pulled her right leg up, propping her heel on the desk. “The vault can never be opened, since no one else will know there are two seals,” the old man continued. “And all with no danger to you, since you will just be adding to the existing seal, not making it yourself.”

&nb
sp; I was relieved Tierell saw so quickly. “Once we have Fenra’s seal in place as well as mine, nothing Metenari tries will work.”

  “So. To the practical,” Fenra said, straightened to her feet. “I have only made one such seal in my life. All theory, no practice.”

  “Have no worries,” Tierell said. “I remember examining you on that occasion, and I assure you you’ll have no trouble when the time comes.”

  I thought so. Lack of practice might affect execution, but no practitioner above third class had a poor enough memory to forget how to do something once they’d learned how. And Fenra was not third class, or even second, whatever she pretended.

  “Good.” Fenra nodded again, and picked up her stick from where she’d laid it down on the desk. Then her brow furrowed. “Can we do this intertwining without undoing your seal?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t voice my uncertainty aloud. If I was wrong, and our attempt to strengthen it opened my seal—my breathing speeded up, and I did my best to control it. I didn’t want to face the Godstone again. I had a back-up plan, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to try it.

  * * *

  Fenra

  As we were preparing to leave, Medlyn came out from behind his desk and asked Arlyn to give us a moment in private. Arlyn eyed the closed office door skeptically.

  “I’d rather not stand in the corridor. Do you mind if I . . .” He gestured toward Medlyn’s workroom.

  “Not at all, please.”

  Once the workroom door was closed behind him, Medlyn turned to me, gesturing for me to take the chair. He leaned back against the front of his desk and smiled at me, ankles and wrists crossed. “Tell me,” he said. “What’s troubling you?”

  “You mean, besides the idea of the Godstone?”

  “You knew about that before you came in. There’s more now.”