Ash and Silver

by Carol Berg

  As for the knight, I didn’t know him. To have a stranger pestering about me seemed odd. “Did this Bearn mention what he wanted or where I could find him?”

  “He’s an odd one. Said he’d find you, as he was in and out on mission. Didn’t say what he wanted. But the Marshal’s got first claim anyways. The others’ll wait.”

  “The Marshal knows I’m here already, eh, Fix?” The rapid communication of arrivals was another of Fix’s mysteries.

  “Mayhap.” The old man grinned, as the wind tangled his gray hair and forced his gleaming eyes into a squint.

  The truer question was whether Damon the Spider was waiting as well. I’d lay odds he was.

  Fix shuffled up the quay, the water cask on his shoulder. Thanking him for his good service, I hurried past him to the first stair, then up and inward toward the southern flank of the fortress.

  Patchy torchlight showed the way through the afternoon’s storm-wrought gloom. Trainees, knights, adjutants, and servants strode past about their business. As usual.

  Astonishing I’d been away near a half month; mind and body insisted it had been but four or five days. Holy Deunor, so much to sort out. The sentinel, Safia, had been sad and secretive, yes . . . and afraid of some increasing danger. But mad? Surely not.

  Knight-retired Horatio barreled past me through the kitchen passage, clattering down the stair toward the training rooms. That was not so usual. The Marshal’s doorward couldn’t stand watch every hour of every day, but his absence at mid-afternoon, and his urgency, could not but leave me curious and wary. Indeed, as I crossed the upper courtyard herb garden through a deluge and charcoal light, no guard stood outside the Marshal’s chambers. Or was there . . . ?

  “Speak your name.” The dark-cloaked man stepped out from the shadowed colonnade, his pale complexion entirely bare. An outsider. Unmasked.

  My knife and spellwork were at ready in the space of an eyeblink. “Who commands it?”

  “Speak your name. Once assured of your identity, I shall reciprocate. If you’re expected inside, I’ll allow you to pass.”

  His steel-timbred voice scraped my nerves.

  “You’ve no authority here,” I said, cool, but loud enough I hoped someone else might hear.

  “Does it ease your concerns if I say my own master is inside with yours,” he said, “and that the two of them commanded me stand watch while Doorward Horatio is away on other business?”

  He moved farther into the lamplight, a tight-bodied man something near my own age. His richly black clothing and fair complexion, the black hair, slicked straight back, and the pale hands that held a very fine sword put me in mind of our relicts—so starkly black and white. His capable stance and a scar that creased a granite-hewn brow and cheek belied any impression of softness.

  “Curator Damon is your master, then,” I guessed.

  He inclined his back in the way of acknowledgement rather than deference. “I was given a list of those permitted to enter. If your name does not appear on that list, you’re to return tomorrow.”

  So he was an unmasked pureblood or an ordinary with iron balls. Having seen Horatio barreling through the halls gave weight to the man’s explanation, but it signaled further Registry intrusion into the Order’s business. I didn’t like it.

  “I’m Paratus Greenshank,” I said. “In-mission and reporting to the Marshal as required.”

  “Well met, Paratus Greenshank. Your name is on the list. I am Fallon, Curator Damon’s military aide.” He put a slight emphasis on his name, as if I might know some other military aide. “As is customary, your weapon must be sheathed before you can proceed. You are commanded to retain your mask.”

  Inek would be livid that we had outsiders on guard in the fortress, outsiders familiar with our customs. And since when did Registry administrators have military aides?

  Since the beginnings perhaps, when they dispatched sorcerer-soldiers to fire Xancheira or Harrowers to exterminate entire bloodlines . . .

  As Fallon stepped aside to let me enter, I returned my dagger to its sheath. His quick, firm hand atop mine prevented me yanking it out again when his body pressed my back and his breath teased my ear.

  “If you would hear a private warning from one deeply in your debt, Domé Remeni, pause at yonder font on your way out.” Then he backed away and vanished, as if he’d never been there.

  He knew me—Lucian.

  My hand did not release the knife or the spell invocation hovering at mind’s edge until I stood in the Marshal’s outer chamber with the thick door between me and Damon’s man. The outer chamber’s protective enchantments remained in place. Before stepping fully into the inner chamber, I verified that the two men beside the hearth were the only ones present. The white-robed Marshal was seated; Damon stood at his shoulder. No Inek as yet. Hearth fire and torchlight glimmered on the great windows, but it was lightning from the storm beyond that set the panes of citron and red ablaze, curdling my gut.

  “Come, come, Greenshank! All is secure.” The Marshal’s many-layered voice embodied welcome and reassurance.

  “The presence of an unmasked outsider at your door trumped a warning, Knight Marshal,” I said. That I offered an excuse was a measure of my unsettled state. What debt could Damon’s military aide owe me?

  As ever, ritual provided clarity and focus. I sank to one knee, touched forehead and heart, and lowered my eyes. “Knight Marshal, I report my mission complete.”

  “Blessed return, Greenshank.” He gestured me up, his eager posture bearing assurance of his sincerity and interest. “You find us met in haste. We’ve anxiously awaited the results of this mission, and without a word, you’ve already astonished us by your quick return.”

  I swallowed all reply lest I stumble into places I didn’t want to go. Of course they would know when Grey signaled me. With the foreshortened traveling distance through Morgan’s true lands, only four days had expired since I’d left Grey, not the six or seven they might have expected.

  “Perhaps the paratus ran away from the nasty halfblood,” said Damon, brisk as the sea wind.

  “Speak, Greenshank,” said the Marshal, ignoring the jibe. “As Commander Inek is delayed, you may summarize for now. Where was Prince Osriel going? What was his objective?”

  Inek’s absence disappointed. For once, Fix’s infallible instincts had failed him.

  Hands at my back, I told of the mission as clearly and concisely as I could. “Prince Osriel’s objective was magical power—searching out sources of it. Some from story or legend. Some from grotesque and unnatural rites. I assumed the mission in a woodland glade east of Lillebras . . .”

  Once Morgan had left me at the estuary, I’d given careful thought to this report. The map, the lake, and the cavern were fair game, but the portal must remain my secret—and Inek’s whenever I was able to tell him about it. I told how the prince had used a Cartamandua map to find the cavern. I described Voushanti and the warlord, and my decision to risk capture in order to discover Osriel’s purpose.

  “. . . convinced we needed to know more of anyone who uses such dreadful magic as what I saw in the bodyguard. On reflection, it was likely prideful and foolish to assume I had to be the one to discover this, but I know how rare it is for Osriel to leave his strongholds. So I devised a ruse . . .”

  This part would be risky. I wasn’t supposed to know of my bents.

  “Why a historian?” snapped Damon when I paused for a breath.

  “Flimsy, I know,” I said, “but it was the first thing that came to mind as a reason to be following princes and exploring caves. It allowed me to keep close to the truth. Indeed, the prince cast some spell to assess my truth—a complex and most intense enchantment. Though he judged my words accurate, he doubted my story as a whole. Yet he was curious enough—or greedy enough—that he sent me to examine the inner chamber that had drawn his interest. There were
paintings of beasts and god symbols on the walls, as are often found in Navron caves. But the only magic was of the subtle kind one finds in any holy place. . . .”

  All while I spoke, the little curator paced in circles. Every moment he was behind me, my back clenched in anticipation of a knife. Which was foolish, of course, as he clearly had some use for me. Yet his man had offered me a private warning.

  I brought the report to a rapid conclusion, speaking of Osriel’s unnerving power and of my escape. The Marshal was appalled at what I’d seen in the silver caskets. Damon was not.

  “Have I not told you?” Damon burst out. “So much work . . . so much hope when Eodward took Lirene as mistress and produced a son. The spawn should have died at birth.”

  Damon locked up his fury and snapped his attention back to me.

  “What is your opinion of this prince compared to his eldest brother, paratus?” he said.

  “My opinion, curator?”

  “Which is worthy to sit Eodward’s throne? How do you assess their prospects?”

  His interest in my opinions of the warring factions still seemed ridiculous, but the horror of Osriel was too vivid to silence.

  “What is to choose between a bully without conscience and a demon gatzé? Allied with Sila Diaglou’s savages, Bayard’s might in warfare is perhaps more formidable. But Osriel is personally more dangerous. He demonstrates subtle, intricate magic and explosive power. Every rumor of his depravity should be given credence. I believe he seeks access to power beyond that available to mortal men.”

  That was as near Osriel’s determination to cross into Danae lands as I dared go.

  “A valuable assessment of a dark situation,” said the Marshal, unruffled by Damon’s odd outburst. “Well done, especially for a paratus whose training is incomplete.” Was that a jab at Damon? “You should review your tactical decisions with Commander Inek as always, whenever he makes an appearance. Likely his tyros have been trying to drown themselves this morning.”

  No. Not Inek. Tyros would not keep him away.

  “Now, Greenshank, your next assignment.” Damon’s icy armor bore spikes. “At sixth hour of the morning watch, you will report to the Archives Seeing Chamber for a review of a relict I’ve selected. You will speak to no one about the appointment or anything else concerning me. I will not be a topic of speculation among parati and squires.”

  As the sun fired the image of burning Xancheira, a Registry curator spoke as my commander. Why did the Marshal allow it?

  Discipline shattered. “My service is not pledged to you or your Registry, curator,” I said, pivoting sharply to the man in white. “Knight Marshal, what is your command?”

  “Paratus Greenshank, you will not question any order given in this chamber.” The Marshal’s ferocity near drew blood.

  It was astonishing my mask did not blaze from the fire in my flesh. I knew it was not yet time to challenge them. And Inek’s own teaching commanded me: Think before speaking words you can’t take back. Yet submission to Damon rankled.

  It was clear what was expected. So I shackled pride and silkbound indignation and bowed to the Marshal. “Accept my apologies, Knight Marshal.”

  The spider had moved to the window and stared out at the lightning-riven blackness. Though it was near physical pain, I bowed curtly to his back. “My apologies, curator. I shall meet you in the archives at sixth hour tomorrow, as you command.”

  I offered no excuse.

  “The storm is on us, paratus,” said Damon. “Men and women of intelligence, courage, and conviction must face it together, else all we value will be swept away.”

  “Indeed,” I said, wondering if we valued the same things at all. Yet I—Lucian de Remeni—had chosen to pursue the mystery of the white hand to Evanide, knowing Damon intended it.

  “Your mission is discharged, Greenshank,” said the Marshal, rising as if to preclude any further exchange. “You have returned at a most fortuitous time. In a few hours our brothers gather to celebrate Paratus Cormorant’s investiture. He requested you to stand his vigil with him. Commander Inek stood in until duty called him away. Dunlin took up the watch yesterday afternoon. But as you’ve returned, you may vest yourself, serve out the last hours, and escort him to the Common Hall. Cormorant will be pleased.”

  “I’ll be honored to serve him.” And I was. No matter the taint of Damon’s presence and the Marshal’s cooperation with him, I believed in the Order’s way because of men like Inek and Cormorant. No worries or anger could overshadow such an occasion.

  “Dalle cineré, Knight Marshal. Curator.”

  “And one more thing, Greenshank . . .”

  “Sir?” I said, halfway through the door already.

  “As you are unwounded and shall be well fed at Cormorant’s investiture feast, Inek, wherever he is, would insist you take up your punishment duty as required at midnight. The sooner your nights on the wall are done, the better. I give you leave to shorten your watch by time enough to be prompt to your morning appointment with Curator Damon.”

  Great Deunor’s fiery balls! I wanted to slam the two heads together—the white and the dark. No chance to visit the archives on my own. No chance to hunt for Inek. At least he’d know where to find me. Where was he?

  “As you command, Knight Marshal,” I said. “Dalle cineré.” I would honor his office, even if unsure about the man who sat in it. What hold did Damon have on him?

  • • •

  The font stood in a corner of the herb garden outside the Marshal’s quarters. I cupped my hand and took a welcome drink, while every sense stretched out to locate the dark-clad Fallon. A cough from the colonnade that led to the infirmary cued his position, and I strolled in his direction, head bowed and arms folded as if meditating on the unsatisfactory interview. My dagger sat firmly in hand, tucked under my arms.

  “My master swore you’d not recognize me,” Fallon said softly, making his empty hands visible. For one who moved as quickly and smoothly as he did, that was only moderately reassuring. “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nor even your own true name nor what you were before”—he waved his empty hands—“all this?”

  “You spoke of debts and warnings.”

  He inclined his back. “We’ve a history, you and me. My father was Prince Perryn’s consiliar prime—his right hand—and you got him hanged.”

  His hand dipped into his jaque, screaming danger, debt, and vengeance.

  “Hold right there!” My body pivoted sideways, braced and balanced, knife at the ready. Fingers of my left hand lay on my silver bracelet.

  But it was only a folded scrap of parchment he offered me. “Perhaps this will raise a memory.”

  “You open it.”

  My pale magelight illuminated an ink drawing. A girl child of ten or twelve, a beggar child, I assumed, her hair cropped short and ugly, her white shift stained dark, her large light eyes sad. Knowing. Resigned to things no child should understand. Yet her cheeks were plump and smooth, her hands clean, and the shift intricately, beautifully embroidered. The depiction was not some allegorical work pulling together the contradictions of prosperity and poverty, but a portrait. Magic had infused the image with truth.

  Pulse hammering, I noted the scribbled lettering in the lower right corner:

  LdR-M.

  “Who is she?” I said, wary of Fallon’s every heartbeat.

  He folded the page and slipped it back where he’d got it. “My eleven-year-old half sister. My father debauched and strangled her, and you—perhaps on a night you cannot remember—gave her justice at the peril of your own life.”

  “I’ve no knowledge of any such occasion,” I said. The necessary words. This man served Damon. They were also the truth, though horror and wonder had me hungering to know more.

  My dagger lowered, Fallon stepped closer. “My master believ
es I blame you for my father’s fall from power, caring nothing for the circumstances of the crime. Lest you’ve not noticed, political gaming is my master’s lifeblood. But this shame was my devil sire’s own doing. Then and now I rejoice in justice done for an innocent. Though I serve the curator and share in many of his purposes, I’ve sworn to repay your service.”

  “So you believe I had a hand in your father’s fall.”

  His white teeth shone in the dark. “I watched the man who drew this portrait force Perryn of Ardra to execute his own consiliar prime as they were trying to steal the throne of Navronne. That man held the prince at bay until he had evidence the deed was done. His courage shamed me, because I’d not had the balls to call out the vile prince or my despicable sire.”

  Great gods, no wonder I’d had to run!

  Fallon’s urgency drew me on. “You cannot be unaware of my master’s interest in you, Remeni . . . or whatever you’re named here. Unfortunately, he’s not shared his plan for you in my hearing. But you need to know that he has summoned the Three Hundred to a Sitting. Do you understand what that means?”

  “An earthquake!” Shock choked me. “A hurricane.”

  Sittings of the Three Hundred—assemblages of the heads of family for the three hundred senior Registry bloodlines—were held perhaps once in fifty years, and only for events of dramatic significance. Strengthening the breeding laws with the requirement of Registry approval before any pureblood child could be conceived. Or tightening the restrictions on pureblood interaction with ordinaries or adding draconian penalties for ordinaries who aided recondeurs. The very first such assembly had ratified Caedmon’s Writ—the foundational truce between Crown, Temple, and Registry. Many purebloods still named the Writ anathema for its accommodation of any civil regulation of purebloods and their divine gift. What was in Damon’s mind?

  “Go on.”

  “This Sitting,” said Fallon, “is set for the first day of autumn at Cavillor Castle, the seat of the family Canis-Ferenc. Kasen de Canis-Ferenc is not only one of the wealthiest purebloods in Navronne, but he is well-known among Navronne’s ordinary legions as a master of strategic warfare. He has refused to serve any of King Eodward’s sons. Cavillor and the town bearing its name lie twenty quellae north of Lillebras—approximately five days’ ride from the Gouvron Estuary. The Three Hundred shall address the matter of corruption in the Pureblood Registry.”