Ash and Silver

by Carol Berg

  “Like something mentioned in a song.”

  She dipped her head, then tossed the wilted campion aside.

  “On winter nights we oft sing of a wanderkin, a young one of our own who spends her days exploring and learning of the world as preparation for her duties. Against her elders’ warning, she sneaks into a human city, fascinated at the vigor of life there, undaunted by the crowds or filth.”

  “Was it you?” I blurted.

  Her cheeks . . . indeed her neck and breasts, too, took on a rosy hue. “Nay. But certainly this song made me curious to learn what beauty she found in a city. Rhiain made a friend as could ease the longing for her own life. As did I.”

  Now it was my cheeks heated.

  “The song can take us from moonrise to moonset, so I’ll tell, not sing.” She shifted her position abruptly as if to shake off sentiment. “A cruel woman recognizes Rhiain as one of the long-lived, lures her with nivé, and enthralls her. Books of lore have told the woman how to nourish a wanderkin’s spirit just enough to keep her living, and the wicked dame shows off Rhiain in the market for coin, like some do birds or bears. One morn while sitting outside her mistress’s house, filling a stone basin with her tears, Rhiain meets a human youth. When he asks what causes such grievous sorrow, she shows him what she is and begs him take a message to her father and mother that she is fading. Instead, the kind youth tries to steal Rhiain away. But he is himself enslaved—beaten, starved, and forced to harsh labors.”

  She glanced up from her tale, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Not all of our songs tell dreadful stories of humankind. This one . . .” Her shoulders rose in helpless good humor.

  Though my skin was near bursting to hear of the tale’s significance, I returned her smile—happy to see it on a day she seemed so somber. But as the earth’s face changes when clouds cross the moon, so did Morgan’s revert to melancholy. Her gaze grew distant. . . .

  “Rhiain steals her mistress’s books of lore and brings them to the youth where he lies chained in terrible suffering. ‘My people know a place of safety for those who’ve no escape,’ she says. ‘I never listened when told of it, as I am but a foolish wanderkin who believed the world’s ills could not touch her. Help me discover the way to Sanctuary, and I’ll take thee with me, for thou art brave as our heroes of old, and dearer to me than my own kin, who in all these seasons have not ventured the city to find me.’”

  Again, Morgan emerged from her tale, face and spirit retaining Rhiain’s grief so that I could not shed it either. “As thou hast seen, there is truth in the tales of the long-lived just as in thy magical drawings. It is that truth we hear when we sing Rhiain’s Song.”

  I touched her hand as if that might ease her sorrow. “And how does her tale end, gentle lady? What do we learn of Sanctuary?”

  She shoved my hand away. “Nothing at all. For season upon season we strive to remember. The song says Rhiain and her youth found refuge there and stayed until they were healed of their afflictions. Rhiain renounced her kin, but devoted herself to our work, celebrated amongst us until her passing. The youth, healed from his travails, lived for many years in harmony with our kind, before choosing to return to the human world. Even the books of lore eluded us, as Rhiain and her friend burnt them before finding their refuge.”

  I was very confused. “And before her passing, Rhiain didn’t tell anyone what Sanctuary was like, where it was, or how she got there?”

  “She may well have. But don’t you see? We’ve forgotten everything of Sanctuary, save the mention in this song. And we don’t know why.”

  I pressed the heel of my hand to gritty eyes, trying to follow the threads. “Rhiain and her friend left Sanctuary. They weren’t . . . trapped . . . there?”

  “Certainly not. It would be no sanctuary were it just another prison.”

  Exactly. So, something had changed. I had been so anxious to tell Morgan my mad notion about the Xancheirans, but now I wondered. Was she bound to tell her father everything I learned? Before revealing all to an angry Tuari, I needed to understand the consequences of what I’d promised him. I had to speak to the sentinel again.

  “It grieves me beyond saying that my magic has put you at odds with your kin—” And even as I spoke the words, a terrible realization struck me about Morgan’s danger—and perhaps her unusual melancholy. Gods save me, I’d violated my oath.

  “—and I must tell you something astonishing that happened yesterday!”

  I told her of following the prince into the cavern of the white hand, of his rapacious interrogation, and of finding a second portal so like the first. “. . . and when I touched the frame, seeking to understand its meaning, images and sounds and emotions, sensations of all kinds, flowed through me like a rampaging river. Somehow in the prince’s ravaging, my bent for history had been unmasked, and I used it—”

  “Oh, Lucian!”

  She lunged forward and pressed her hands to the sides of my face, bringing her rosy lips and fathomless eyes within a finger’s breadth—which near made me forget what I’d just said.

  “I was so afraid! I felt it, the twisting of the boundaries, and thou didst not tell me. For certain my father felt it, too, and I would have to tell him you withheld . . .”

  “. . . which would endanger you.”

  “And thou, as well. But Tuari knows of this dread prince and sorely mistrusts him. He will certainly believe this saying and rejoice that you can now take us to the silver one.”

  It was as if her own full-faced mask had fallen away to reveal a different person altogether. How lovely, how ripe and alive she was. Her soft cheek brushed mine. Her arms slipped around me, enveloping me in relief, fears, and desire. Her breasts, gleaming with blue fire, pressed against my damp shirt. . . .

  No, no, no. With screaming reluctance I retrieved her wrists, pressed her curled fingers to my forehead in apology, and placed them back in her lap. My actions had already left her life at risk; I dared not even think how Tuari Archon would react if I turned my attentions to her as my younger, foolish self had done. Especially when I refused to take him to Safia.

  “Sweet Lucian, let me—”

  “I cannot, must not, make your danger worse,” I said, hoarsely.

  Tangled desires did not mesh well with indignation. And no matter her words, her generosity, she was a stranger to me. If I could just remember those days I knew her—what we had talked about, how we had felt, what had made us each risk so much to be together. My violation of pureblood discipline regarding the body’s urges could have drawn lifelong punishments, as could her dalliance with me, it seemed.

  “What kind of villain threatens his own daughter with such a fate?”

  Morgan’s face blazed scarlet, stricken as if I’d slapped her. “My father is no villain. His concern is the world’s fate!”

  “That’s but an excuse for lack of faith,” I snapped. “Not just faith in humankind, but in his own kind, in you and himself. Prisoning you determines nothing of the world’s fate, save to diminish its glory.”

  She did not respond. She wanted honesty. But honesty could wound, and anything I might add would only make things worse. I munched on the purple berries I had dropped when she embraced me. They were hard, bitter, and gritty with mud, like so much of truth.

  I could not but contrast Tuari’s rancor with the image of Danae and Xancheirans amid the standing stones and the surety it had raised in me of a profound holiness, shaped of generosity and mutual sacrifice. I wanted to believe that image was truth in the same way the portrait of Morgan was truth—the harmony with her surroundings, the brilliance and beauty of her nature.

  She drew up her long legs, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her chin on her knees. “Thou didst speak with her again . . . the silvered one.”

  “Only for a moment, lest Osriel notice me vanished. She claimed she was the one who allowed me to cross the
portal or turned me back.” That scalding fire that only I could feel.

  “That is the proper task of a sentinel. Did she say more?”

  “She said I mustn’t use my magic when I was there—which would be impossible, anyway, as I can’t do other magic while using my bent. But she didn’t explain why.”

  Only that I would be trapped.

  Morgan puzzled at it. “Her saying makes no sense. Thy magic is of the Everlasting and thus draws on the land—the true lands and the human lands that are forever bound one to the other. ’Tis why thy ancestors came to Navronne, yes? What would forbid its use in Sanctuary?”

  “It makes no sense. But for now, we need to go,” I said. “Your feast has restored me. My horse should know the way, but I’m not sure he can take me to my boat . . . not from here.”

  “Set the beast free. I’ll have thee to the estuary before moonrise,” she said, unfolding herself. “And whenever thou hast need of me, dip your hand in the water of the estuary and call my name. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  We strolled down the hill side by side, my cramps and bruises easing. I tried to notice when she made the subtle leaps that would shorten the distance like gathering a loop in a rope or carrying a boat across the meander of a river, but it was near impossible in the rainy gloom. Her cool silence grieved me.

  “My oath stands,” I said. “And I will tell you all, but I am so ignorant about all this. I need to understand what I’ve experienced before I can describe it. And I’m often hasty, so anxious to do my duty, I get myself and others in trouble. I’m trying to do better. Like not leaving myself a husk.”

  “Dost thou regret thy oath to my sire?”

  “To respect and honor your kind and do them no harm? No. To do what’s needed to keep you safe and free? No. I’m only afraid that I’ve not the knowledge or power”—or the right?—“to do as he wants. As I told him, the gift I bear is not unrighteous. But I’ve got to find out why it seems so. Now I have at least a part of it back, maybe I can learn.”

  Morgan had said we were bound by what we’d done, that she could sense my needs. Perhaps that’s why I felt her emotions so clearly. It was my own were a mystery to me.

  The breeze gusted stronger as we descended a rocky hillside, certainly not the one where I’d eaten fish, onto the flats of the upper coast. The air was thicker. A heavy scent of briny deadness twined with old woodsmoke sent Morgan back easterly out of our way.

  “It’s naught but the salterns,” I said, tugging on her arm. “Someone’s worked them in the past month. But I doubt anyone’s working so late, unless they’ve a boil going in the hut.”

  The flats and the tides made collecting the salt water and trapping it between the earthen dams to settle easy. But even the constant wind on the flats was too damp to dry the salt completely. Thus Evanide’s servitors poured the brine into lead pans in the shed and boiled the water away. But not this afternoon.

  “I’ll not walk there,” she said, shaking me loose. “I cannot. Find thy own way through. I’m not needed.” She forged on to the east.

  “No, wait. Please.” I caught up with her. “I need to hear one more story. You have to tell me about the silver gards.”

  “Only if we go another way. I’ll not be forced.”

  “But why? None will see you.” Understanding escaped me.

  “’Tis the salé,” she said, exasperated. “It . . . sickens me. Does that please thee to know?”

  “The salt? But you walk by the sea, live near the estuary. You eat fish. I didn’t know.”

  “’Tis just . . . so much at once. The dry crystals. Come, I’ll tell thee willing of silver gards. ’Tis long past time.”

  Only as she drew me away on a path to avoid the saltern did I recall tales of greedy landlords and villeins who wished to trap Danae in their fields to ensure a rich harvest. They put out feast bread made with nivat—or even the seeds themselves if their purse was heavy enough—to draw the Danae near. But under the loaf or the pile of seeds they’d hide a fistful of salt, because the salt crystals would bind a Dané to the land like an iron chain. If that were true . . .

  “I didn’t think,” I said. “I’d never trick you, never force you to do anything against your will.”

  “Ah, sweet Lucian, I know that. But this matter of the gards . . .”

  Anger ebbed, she stretched out one hand, inspecting it, as if she’d never considered the wonder of it. The sapphire and lapis vines glowed brighter, their colors richer in the cloudy light.

  “We are sworn not to reveal such things to humans. Yet thy need demands it. Perhaps I can explain it in the manner of our tutors in Montesard—telling while not telling.”

  She took my hand and strolled across the barrens. “What if thy king’s eyes were the hue of ripe plums and the color of his eyes determined what crops would grow in his land, the course of his rivers, what stories are told, how many younglings are birthed there, and the talents of the subjects who serve him? The sign of this kingdom’s right ordering is that all these good subjects have the same color eyes as their king, despite a variance in hue. When they see through their purple eyes, they experience the world in a similar way and go about their work. When the king and his people join together to give an accounting of their lands and grapes and children, their harmony binds the kingdom in safety and health until the next time.

  “And then, one day, the king hears rumor of one with green eyes. How does that one see or experience the world? It cannot be the same as he does, yet the very vitality of his people depends on their experience of the world.”

  “It’s natural your father would be anxious if the silver gards have never been seen before. When my ancestors came to Navronne, the people here had never seen magic. They were afraid of us, and yes there were struggles. . . .”

  “Wars,” she said. “Thousands of deaths. Recall, I studied human history alongside thee. But the long-lived have no historical writings as humans do. We’ve no stories of those with silver gards nor do we recall seeing them. And yet my elders fear them, not as strangers, but as if the warning is writ in their bones or carved in the trees that do live in their memories. It is not just my sire. When I saw the abyss through the portal in the human city, the fear that afflicted me was the same in kind as when I hear of the silver gards. What lies beyond that portal is terrible and dangerous, though I cannot explain why.”

  “Is it only silver that worries you?”

  “My sire insists that any difference would afflict him the same. But others of more generous mind tell me that if they heard tales of green gards or gold, it would concern, but not frighten, them. We know that the Everlasting expresses itself in glorious ways, and when we find a flower, tree, or fish that none have seen before, we rejoice. As you’ve seen, our gards pale in sunlight, which is natural. But I’ve thought that silver might be so fearful because when we fade, as Rhiain did, from a life that is not whole, and our gards pale to silver in night as well as day, sometimes we do things that make no sense . . . turn our work to harm. . . .”

  Her voice shook so terribly, I stopped and drew her around where I could see her face. Shame and horror were writ on her. “What is it? I don’t understand.”

  “Madness,” she whispered. “Just like humans, we can go mad. And if this sentinel you’ve seen is mad . . . if there are more like her . . . who knows what is the truth of Sanctuary?”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Blessed return, Greenshank!” Fix the boatmaster snatched the line I tossed up to him and secured the bucking skiff. “Brought a storm, I see, as well as my best boat and mercy to my ears.”

  I glanced up. It was difficult to comprehend the old man’s banter. Now I was free of oars, rocks, and deadly whirlpools, foreboding choked the stormy afternoon, shrouding the fortress until my spirit could scarce breathe. Mad Danae . . . Goddess Mother!

  It was necessary to heed Fix. He was the
first judge of anyone returned from a mission. Perhaps the best. Though the lowest of servants, he saved lives—knights and trainees both—by detecting wounds of body or spirit that pride sought to mask.

  “Have the squires stoppled your hearing, Fix, hoping to raid the kitchens undetected?”

  None had ever figured out how the boatmaster stayed abreast of every person inside Evanide.

  “Nay. Seems like every hour of late, some’s pestering as to whether Greenshank’s come back. Knight Commander Inek’s worst at it; he feels shorted, no doubt, as ye’ve yet to complete your nights on the seaward wall. No guide likes his punishments interrupted with missions.”

  “Would Inek be in the armory, do you think?”

  “More like the archives. He’s studious of late.” His ruddy brow crinkled. “But then, he’s not there neither. He’s likely on his way to the Marshal, as the Marshal’s laid first claim on your carcass. And ’tis a mealy carcass at that. You look like summat Malcolm scrapes from the bay at low tide.”

  “I’ve no complaint,” I said. “Not drowned. No holes in me.”

  It was tempting to intercept Inek on his way to the Marshal. But we’d not have time enough to cover all I needed to tell. Best get the mission report out of the way first.

  “Who besides Inek’s been pestering?” A crash of thunder and the rising gale had me shouting.

  “More than’s usual for a shag-tail paratus. Oughtn’t say more. Wouldn’t want to put you above yourself.”

  “Just want to know who I’ve got to see before I can sleep.” I stowed oars and bailers, and passed Fix the skiff’s small water cask.

  Fix twisted his craggy face, speculating. “Well, Paratus-exter Cormorant for one, about his investiture. And a knight, name of Bearn.”

  “Cormorant’s investiture!” I’d completely lost track of the days. “It’s not happened already?”

  “Nah, you’ve come in time.”

  “Excellent!” Cormorant, the first of Evanide’s senior parati, was a brother I respected and valued. Now he was to take his final step to knighthood, the first of the trainees I knew well to do so. That he cared I should be here for his night of glory pleased me greatly.