Ash and Silver

by Carol Berg

  “No one but the Marshal knows I’ve returned from Lillebras,” he said from the sheltered corner. “It will remain that way until you encounter me inside the fortress.”

  I dipped my head. The gibbous moon sailed out from behind gnarled clouds—a welcome brilliance. He must have known the sky would clear—thus the move to this hidden spot to prevent his being seen. I shifted a few steps over to where I could be seen, if anyone had a mind to check on my whereabouts.

  “Heed me closely, Greenshank. A battle is shaping northeast of Lillebras. Perryn’s legions began a move northward four days ago—shortly after he received word of his brother’s infamous alliance. And we’ve reports that Bayard’s second legion has joined him at Tavarre, and they march east from the coast, on a line to meet his brother in the valley of the Brasé. It remains to be seen if Sila Diaglou’s rabble will join Bayard before he engages his brother or hold back as a surprise mid-battle.”

  He stoppered his flask and shoved it into a bag under his cloak. My parched throat resented that enormously.

  “The most interesting report claims that Prince Osriel has been sighted not twenty quellae from Lillebras. The man in question travels with a small party and little state. But our informant has seen Osriel before, and we’ve heard the Bastard can sniff out a battle before it happens, as if the fester of hostilities draws him.”

  Stories told worse than that about Osriel and battlegrounds. The bastard Duc of Evanore commanded only his province’s mountain warlords. Those were fierce, but few, and no match for his elder brothers’ armies. Yet soldiers feared him far more than Bayard or Perryn. They spoke of mutilations and demonic rites, or gatzi summoned to couple with the injured to birth demon warriors to fill the prince’s legions. Wounded soldiers begged comrades to kill them rather than leave them lie where Osriel might find them.

  “You’re not asleep again?”

  “No, rectoré.”

  “And so we come to your part. The Marshal wishes you to determine whether Prince Osriel has dealings with the Harrower priestess or either of his brothers. I suggested that we proceed as before—that our more experienced spies locate our quarry, and we bring in Greenshank only when we have an idea of the Bastard’s activities. If you were to bide close to Lillebras, a triggered beacon could draw you into play quickly. I’ve recommended that the journey between here and Lillebras—rugged country threaded by streams and rivers that might slow your progress—should begin immediately, giving a raw paratus ample opportunity to find his way. Is this very clear?”

  Ferocious pleasure infused my bones with a bit of vigor. Inek had contrived an opportunity for me to speak with Morgan. “Aye, rectoré. All seems clear.”

  “Leave your silver bracelets in the armory when you go off watch. They’ll be fitted with the summoning beacon. Fix will provide the bracelets when you depart for Lillebras. Heed me. No matter delays along the way, you must be ready and in place when the spy’s signal comes.”

  “I will.”

  “Go in safety, Greenshank, and return in honor.”

  “In honor, Knight Commander.”

  He rose, lithe and easy as a juggler. The wind flapped his black cloak. “I’ve had no opportunity to work in the archives of late. And we need to explore your reactions to the mission study. But I doubt your stone skull could comprehend a discussion of history or tactics at present.”

  “Aye, Commander.” My desperation to speak of the incident had to yield to necessity. I had four more hours to stay awake and alive, and it would take everything I could muster.

  “But I do wish to hear how you’ve performed in the spring tourney. Clearly you’ve thrown yourself into it with your usual extravagant diligence.”

  Why in the Sky Lord’s midnight did he care for such trivialities?

  “I stand first in archery, third overall,” I said. “Out of eleven remaining.”

  “Better than my estimate.”

  Yes, it was a decent result; I’d worked hard on my blade skills since the last quarterly. Inek, of course, demanded that I finish first before the end of my training.

  He moved as if ready to go. The walk was too narrow for him to pass, so I had to move past the stair to let him down. My knees whined at the prospect.

  “One more matter, Greenshank.”

  I paused.

  “Answer me this: If your brother knight was ill or injured, unfit to venture his next assignment to the danger of his life, what would you do?”

  Inek, ever the schoolmaster. “I would offer to take his place, rectoré.”

  “And what if he was most honorably set upon doing his duty—a non-critical duty, as it happened—and refused your offer? Would you let him die for his pride?”

  “Of course not. I would speak to his commander—” My glib answers hung on the blustering wind like branches snapped from a tree . . . about to pummel me on the head, I feared.

  “It is a guide’s duty to push. It is your duty as a knight-aspiring to strive; strength, skill, and duty are your pillars. But, as you’ve said, it is also your duty to push back when it is clear a brother’s life is in danger. And why would it be important to save your brother’s life and not your own? Perfection is ephemeral, Greenshank, and true wisdom is the knowledge of when to bend. Now, have you anything more to say to me tonight?”

  Even my dull wit could not miss his meaning. True wisdom it might be, but the speaking was bitter. “Knight Commander, I am unfit for duty. But I can—”

  “You are dismissed—to resume this watch at the usual time only after you have accumulated no less than ten hours of sleep. All other duties remain as scheduled.”

  Clouds had swallowed the moon again. I cast light enough to guide my feet back to the stair, but moved past and waited, allowing Inek to descend first. A small way to demonstrate relief and shame . . . and respect.

  But he remained a short distance away, facing the sea. “I’ll go down later.”

  “As you say. Dalle cineré, rectoré.” The Order’s motto held immediate significance, when body and spirit were so weary. The prospect of sleep approached rapture. Perhaps tonight I wouldn’t dream of screams drowned in ash, of purebloods watching, of Damon’s cunning eyes peering through the Marshal’s white mask. . . .

  The embers of outrage flared hot and bright.

  “Rectoré?” I had descended but a few steps, and leaned into the upper stair as I shifted round to speak. Inek was scarce visible atop the wall, his black cloak billowing like a raven’s spread wings against the midnight clouds. “Who were they, the two at that burning house?”

  “How could I know? Have you forgotten their identities are purged? Go to bed and wake up with your wits about you.”

  “Not the Order knights, but the purebloods—the two who watched, laughing, as the walls collapsed. The knight saw them on the road as soon as the remaining Harrowers rode away. He thought it looked as if they dropped veils, and he assumed they were the last two of the nine riders. Did someone identify them, call them to account for such a crime?”

  For a moment I thought he’d vanished.

  “Commander, you’ve seen this study. Your squires saw it. You must know.”

  Inek abruptly drew his cloak tight and joined me. He sat on the wall, feet on the top step, his face on a level with mine. “I never imagined you were yet spellbound when I took the squires away. You were engaged, yes, but that mission is a terrible scene, and I knew it would hit you hard, prey to sentiment as you are. But my squires did not view that piece at the end, nor did your fellow parati. No trainees are allowed to experience it; it deals with complexities most are not ready to deal with. What else were you shown?”

  Sitting on the steep, narrow steps was impossible. Rather I perched like a steel bird.

  “Nothing beyond that,” I said. “It sickened me, as you expected. Worse. I believed I could never witness anything more vile than
people, especially those so gifted by the gods, amused at such savagery. And then, within the hour, the Marshal told me the story of the Order’s founding. About Xancheira and the Registry. Something I wasn’t supposed to know as yet. Why would he? And why the two together?”

  “He said naught of Damon or his interest in these matters, I suspect.”

  “No.”

  Another pause. “The two purebloods remain unidentified. Rumor spoke that one pureblood and one ordinary were executed for involvement in the crime, but neither matched the descriptions of those two. It is a strange case—”

  He fell so abruptly, so utterly silent, and the night was so black, I almost believed he’d gone. Or toppled from the wall.

  “Commander?”

  “Enough. You’ll be crashing down the steps, and I’ll not leap down to catch you. Be about our plan. Prepare as I’ve taught you. Nothing of this mission should require more of you than you can handle.” I fancied I glimpsed his blue eyes glittering. “But watch your back at every moment and speak to no one of seeing the purebloods at the end of the study. There are friends and there are enemies, and some that are neither one nor the other. I cannot yet sort out who is which. But be sure of this, while you’re off, I’m going to find out what in all Magrog’s hells you are.”

  PART II

  THE TEETH OF SPRING

  CHAPTER 9

  The sandy inlet up the Gouvron provided no easy mooring. I had to haul the boat up a steep bank so neither demon tide nor spring flood would wash it away, and tuck it into a tangle of tufted sedge and round-headed rushes so some wandering thief would not think it his for the taking.

  All morning as I rowed upriver, I’d watched for Morgan. Listened for her singing. Called myself mad to imagine she was what I believed or that she could find me anywhere as she claimed. Once the boat was secure, I perched on a rock, ate, drank, and hoped.

  The sun, thin and silver, slid past the zenith. With deflated spirits, I hefted my pack and cast a bit of magic to plump the crushed grass where I’d dragged the boat. Shorting a loop in the river left me a day’s walk to the hostler. Three days’ hard riding northeasterly would take me to the forest outside the town of Lillebras, where I’d wait for the signal. It was but a short ride from there to a hidden lake above the prospective battleground, where I’d meet the Marshal’s spy. I’d best move.

  “Lucian!”

  The woman came running along the grassy bank, chestnut hair and brown cape flying. My eyes were so expectant of naked flesh and blue fire that I almost didn’t recognize her. But with her every step closer, the day grew brighter.

  “Morgan!”

  Names were rich with association. Inek’s name evoked his commanding integrity, the pillar centering two years’ chaos of fear and striving. Dunlin’s name evoked easy humor and brotherhood—not friendship, but shared purpose, experience, and trust. Morgan’s presence struck sparks, no doubt—awe, excitement, urgencies of spirit and flesh. But her name—like the one I believed to be my own—fell upon my soul like a pellet made of lead. Though I hungered for it, it woke nothing deeper.

  “I’d almost given up on you,” I said. “Is something wrong?”

  “There’s no giving up.” Her brow was drawn tight, and her eyes darted everywhere but my face. “Tuari’s anger is grown to fury. I’m sworn to bring thee to him as soon as possible. But I’ve a thought how we might enliven thy memory before we face him. ’Tis a distance to travel. Please tell me thou hast no urgency to prevent our going!”

  “I’ve four days’ travel to my destination and a deadline of seven. Thus, assuming weather or ill chance doesn’t delay me, I’ve three to spend. But not an hour longer. I cannot fail my commander.” Inek pursued a dangerous course to unravel this mystery of the Order and me. The best I could do to repay him was to execute my duties with precision.

  Morgan squeezed her eyes shut, considering, then nodded sharply.

  “’Tis fortunate I’ve lived among humankind. The long-lived do not measure or tally the sun’s travels as humans do. And in truth, our tallies would not come to the same, as days spend differently in the true lands. But all should be well if we keep a good pace. Once Tuari is satisfied, I can hasten thee to thy destination.”

  “And he will be satisfied?”

  “He must.”

  Not exactly the answer I wanted to hear.

  “So where are we going? I’ve a map.” Perhaps she could point out what she named the true lands, and explain what in Deunor’s holy fire Danae thought my magic did to its boundaries.

  But the rolled skin wasn’t even out of my pack when she stilled my hand. “My kind need no pages. But I do need my gards. I cannot find the way while clothed in human garb.”

  She unlaced her bodice and threw off her skirts and tunic. Her feet were already bare.

  Body and mind became hopelessly tangled. My eyes flicked away and back again. And again.

  She laughed and thrust the bundled clothing into my arms. “You can carry these.”

  Before I could get my mouth closed and the garments stuffed in my pack, she struck out south and east, away from the river, at a pace that precluded easy conversation. Just as well. Eye and mind were wholly occupied with the grace and power of her form. As the sun teased through high clouds, the marks on her skin—the gards, she called them—came to life, not in shades of sapphire and lapis, but cerulean and sky, blues so pale as to seem silver.

  “You said your archon was disturbed when I spoke of others of your kind who were marked in silver,” I said, when she stopped to scoop water from a rain pool nested in a lonely slab of rock. “But yours . . .” I pointed to her arm, though I dared look at it only sidewise.

  “’Tis the sunlight fades my gards. And wearing human garb too long causes them to vanish almost entire. But these are not what you described to Naari. The sentinel’s gards were bright silver, you told him, drawings inked in starlight. We’ve lore that speaks of such, but few have seen the like. Come”—she hurried me away from her clear discomfort with the subject—“we’ve no time to dally.”

  The rock-strewn barrens yielded quickly to softer country laced with willow-banked streams. No matter the summer solstice just past, spring had scarce touched the land. The silver birches and spreading chestnuts dotting the grasslands still sported new green.

  As I marveled at Morgan’s sure navigation through drenching rain, I noticed oddities in our course. When we climbed out of a wet green vale onto a heath, startling a flock of dithering crakes from the oat grass, I would have sworn the cone-shaped hills on the horizon were not those I’d seen when we descended into the vale. And the grass was bone-dry.

  I blamed the stormy light. But over the next hours, I carefully studied the sky and the distant uplands. In late afternoon, we emerged from a woodland of deep-green yew and beech into a sunlit landscape of hillsides that were similar, but certainly not the same as the ones carved on my memory. If magic was responsible, it was wholly undetectable—which was entirely worrisome.

  “Hold, lady.”

  She turned around, the sun paling the glistening gards that had deepened in color in the wood. As before, her eyes darted behind me and to either side. “We must keep moving.”

  “I need explanation.” At the least, if she could so confuse me on the journey, how in the Sky Lord’s mercy would I ever find my way back? We’d not come near so much as a farmstead, much less a village or a road. “How is it that what I see ahead when we leave the wood is not what I saw when we entered? I’m not mistaken.”

  “We cannot dally, Lucian. Tuari is surely hunting us by now. He’ll know I’ve met thee, and his displeasure will grow hugely—worse than that, if he thinks I’ve spoken of matters humans are not meant to know.”

  My patience was worn thin with all the things I was not meant to know. “I’ve trusted you for all these hours,” I said. “But you’ve told me neither wh
ere we’re bound nor what I’ve done that so offends your lord. My first duty lies behind us, and I daren’t go farther without understanding.”

  “Oh, friend Lucian, canst thou not touch the ground here and call up thy magic to understand the paths we walk?”

  “I touch ground to detect traces of magic. I’ve tried it along the way and found nothing.”

  “But thou didst once read history from the land.”

  History! That made no sense at all. “You mentioned that I studied history, but— Why would I touch the earth?”

  “To see images of the past, you told me, to hear music or scraps of words, to follow threads of meaning. It was the magic thou didst value more than art, more than me.”

  “That’s not possible.” She had described the signs of a magical bent for history, yet the portrait witnessed that Lucian de Remeni’s bent was portraiture. Dual magical bents were exceedingly rare, and no one carried both to maturity. The Registry required one to be excised in childhood, for two mature bents led inevitably to madness . . .

  Lead settled in my belly. Was that it? Had incipient madness prompted my family to consign me to Evanide?

  “Perhaps I only wished for such a skill.”

  Morgan spun sharply and sniffed the damp breeze from behind us. “We must go, Lucian.”

  I smelled naught but the mingling of damp earth and the land’s late greening. No trace of the sea. Despite our speed, that seemed impossible.

  “Even if reading history with magic was my talent, it is dead or muted. Please, lady, just tell me what’s going on.”

  “I dare speak only this,” she said. “Those of my kind spend our lives learning the land, its shapes, smells, and sounds, the life that abounds in every field or pond, stream or hillside. We can use this familiarity to find our way . . . quickly . . . from one place to another that is very like. This—”

  “No. You speak of magic. You couldn’t hide such enchantments from me.”