Ash and Silver

by Carol Berg

  “Corruption!”

  “For two years, as he’s planned this event, my master has traveled to the seats of more than half of the Three Hundred families, carrying with him a folio of portraits, each bearing this same signature.” Fallon patted his jaque where he’d returned the girl child’s portrait. And waited.

  The scenario he painted bespoke a man building support for a plan to be proposed at the Sitting. But why with a folio of my portraits?

  “Have you an idea what he thinks to present at the Sitting?”

  “No,” said Fallon. “With each Head of Family he reiterates the Sitting’s stated purpose of addressing corruption. All other discussion is family matters or news of the day. I stand only as his aide and bodyguard, beneath notice of your kind, but I’ve good eyes and ears. The folio of portraits is always with him. And when he leaves, the Head of Family is always afraid.”

  Portraits that could reveal hidden truths. Blackmail.

  “Damon intends for you to be present for this Sitting, Remeni. In what capacity, I’ve no idea. But I’d say this is a move of power as we’ve not seen in Navronne since the Writ, and when serious, determined men make moves of power; it behooves their servants . . . and their instruments . . . to have a care. I certainly shall.”

  I had to make some answer. If he spoke truth, this man had just put his head on the block for me. “I’ve no memory of these matters . . . the girl child . . . the folio . . . But I’ll stay vigilant. And if ever there were dealings between us that laid this geas on you, let their burden be lifted now. Go in safety and with my thanks.”

  A shake of his head denied my grant. “This debt is for my lifetime. Ysabel was small in the world compared to duty and ambition. She died in torment because I did not pay attention, and it was not her brother the warrior who fought for her, but strangers. A portrait artist and a coroner. Do either of you ever need my service, I will answer.”

  Fallon melted into the shadows, leaving me awash in fear, curiosity, and an undeniable satisfaction that intellect insisted belonged to someone else, yet I hoped might belong in small part to me. Very like a Knight of the Ashes might feel when hearing of a righteous deed well done.

  • • •

  Aspeedy visit to the lavatorium and its ever-flowing, ever-frigid water, and the layered shirt, habergeon, and black wool tabard didn’t itch as they might have otherwise. My lighter cloak and spare mask completed my toilet, and I raced through the citadel and up the exposed stair on the north face of Evanide’s granite heart.

  No one I met had seen Inek that day. His absence nagged. The commander was not one to prattle about his duties, but he was serious about his students. He would never miss an investiture.

  My skull was like to burst with all I’d learned—and now this news. A Sitting of the Three Hundred less than two months hence, to be held in a pureblood house far from Palinur. Secret, then. And very near Evanide.

  Bypassing the armory and treasury, I plunged deep into the mount, arriving at a stair that had likely been in place centuries before the fortress itself was built. The steps were little more than a suggestion. Follow the stair downward into the bowels of Idolon Mount and one reached the misty Cave of the Spring, the source of our fresh water. Ascend and one emerged at a rocky nest called, appropriately, the Aerie—the highest point on Evanide’s islet. There, exposed to wind, weather, and whatever view of the wide world Erit the cloud goddess provided, did a paratus-exter spend two days and two nights considering the decision that would alter him forever.

  An iron gate stood at the top of the stair. My fingers worked out the spell, and I ducked through the low arch. Lightning flickered at the end of the short, steep passage beyond the gate, silhouetting a man standing guard. The thunder growled and rumbled, almost without break.

  “Who goes there?” Dunlin’s challenge was firm, but voiced quietly, though indeed Cormorant was unlikely to hear us over the storm.

  “’Tis your First, Paratus Dunlin. You are relieved.”

  Dunlin came to attention as I joined him at the verge of the grotto. Rain blurred my view of the gray-cloaked man nestled in a crotch of the craggy rocks behind him.

  “I am relieved. You have the watch.” Dunlin’s enthusiasm was clear. “Well met, Greenshank!”

  As my second passed me his lance, his entire posture changed. He yawned, scrubbed at his head, and stretched out his shoulders. “He hoped you’d arrive before the ceremony. The idea pleased me, as well.”

  “A near thing,” I murmured. “But the storm held off its worst till I got back.”

  “Unless I fell asleep and missed the last bell, we’re nigh on three hours from seventh when his vigil ends. There’s the standard you’re to carry before him.” Dunlin waved his hand at a long pole wrapped in silk and a small carved chest sitting far enough inside the passage to keep them mostly dry. “His robe and hood are in the chest, as are the two tunics.” Black for acceptance; white for rejection.

  “From the bell he’ll have half an hour to robe and get to the Hall. He’s to stay silent and not show you his choice until he’s dressed. But honestly after two days in the weather with only his future to chew on, he’ll likely need help to distinguish white from black. He’s not twitched since I got here yestereve.”

  “I’ll see to him,” I said.

  Dunlin stared past me and cocked his head. “Can you guess his choice?”

  “No guessing needed,” I said. “Cormorant was born for knighthood.”

  “Agreed. He’ll be the next Marshal, wait and see. Though he’s not got this Marshal’s ferocious rigor that will have his knights cursing his ancestors to the tenth generation while they die for him. Cormorant is simply everlasting fine at whatever he does.”

  I’d never understood Dunlin’s estimate of the Marshal. I saw no rigor. Nor did I perceive Heron’s Marshal—the priest of a mysterious warrior cult only initiates understood. It was the Marshal’s passion for right and his vision of a just world that spoke to my soul. Except today.

  “Of course, we’d never know it was Cormorant,” said Dunlin, screwing up his face until his mask look like a dune shore. “We’re all mad, you know.”

  “Aye.” Some of us more than others. “Would you give Inek a message for me?”

  “Certain.”

  “Tell him it’s urgent I see him, and the Marshal’s sent me back to the wall tonight.”

  “Your never-ending punishment tour. Do you imagine Inek will relieve you?”

  “I doubt it. Maybe distract me, though.”

  Dunlin waved and vanished down the stair. I took my formal stance, back straight, legs spread, lance extended. The bluster whipped my cloak and pelted my back with rain.

  Three hours left. I should ask the gods to guide Cormorant in his decision. If he chose to stay, the rest of us would witness his Rite of Breaking, as he hammered his past life to dust. We’d see him presented with new sword, armor, and knight’s tabard, and share a feast unmatched on any other occasion at Evanide.

  If he chose to leave the Order, he would announce whether or not he had decided to retain the memory of his life here. No matter which, he would leave the fortress in the same hour. The rest of us would still feast, raising our cups to his good service and his free choice, wishing him well on his life’s journey.

  Thunder crashed and cold wind gusted behind me. “Greenshank! At last . . .”

  I whirled around. Cormorant stood just behind me, dark hair dripping, his normally lean face pinched.

  “Sorry if we disturbed you.” I said. “Are you—?”

  “You’ve got to find Inek.”

  The worry lurking in my gut took fire. “The Marshal said duty interrupted his vigil yesterday.”

  “I doubt that. Listen”—he drew me away from the arch and across the Aerie into a cove of giant slabs. The cove offered a bit of shelter from the rain and wind, and no
one lurking on the stair or in the passage would be able to see us, much less eavesdrop on our conversation.

  He leaned his back on the slabs, drawing his sodden cloak around him. “A few days ago, Inek asked me to name you as my vigil companion. As you were in-mission and not expected back, he intended to take your place.”

  “Whyever?”

  “He admitted it was a strange request and unseemly to trespass on the rite, but he asked me to trust him that he’d no alternative. If you’re like me, you’d trust him with your mother’s life. . . .”

  I nodded, though yet confused. “Go on.”

  “He told me only that he had business regarding the most important mission he’d ever undertaken, and that I was to speak of it to no one but you.” He threw up his hands. “I didn’t know a Knight Commander took on missions beyond training! I even suspected it might be some part of my final testing. They throw some hard things at you in these last days. . . .”

  Like the lightning, Cormorant’s brilliant grin—the kind that could lift a man’s spirits in the most desperate hour—flashed and faded quickly.

  “Naturally, I agreed,” he said. “We paraded through the Hall, spent a few difficult hours in the archives, and then came up here as the rite dictates. The Marshal roused me with his usual call to excellence, as I was a bit of a wreck, and then left, taking everyone but Inek. That was at seventh hour of the evening watch, two days ago. A few hours later, near midnight I think, when the fortress was quiet, Inek left, saying he’d return by midday at the latest. They bring me water at midday.” He glanced up as if to ask if I understood.

  “He intended to be back before anyone knew he was gone.”

  “That was my thought. He swore me to secrecy yet again, and gave me his most solemn oath that his business was honorable and necessary. And he said that if he didn’t come back, something had gone very wrong, and I was to send you after him, as soon as you joined me here.”

  “And he didn’t come back,” I said, “and the water carrier noted it. So Dunlin was sent.”

  “Aye. So the Marshal must know what’s going on. That’s good, but I promised . . .”

  But the Marshal had failed to tell me that Inek was missing—which could have perfectly honorable reasons.

  I didn’t believe that. “Where were you to send me?”

  “To the Knights’ Relictory. You’re to go undetected and look for anything out of order. If you cannot find him—and only then—speak to the Archivist. And he added the strangest thing. ‘Tell Greenshank that if the occasion arises, he should draw me.’ Which made no sense at all, as he didn’t say what you were supposed to draw him into or out of.”

  I ducked my head, so he could not note my astonishment . . . or my understanding of the danger Inek feared. My guide didn’t want me to draw him into anything, but to draw him. To seek the truth with my bent. Desperation . . . and so much faith in me. Inek knew of my bent, but not that Osriel’s ravaging had opened the possibility of its use. He thought he was going to die.

  “Certainly, I’ll go. I hope you’re wrong to worry. And I’ll do my best to be back to escort you to your night of glory—whatever you decide.”

  “Find him, Greenshank. He was afraid.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Hood and cloak drawn close, I took a circuitous way through the fortress. The paratus supposed to be standing vigil watch with Cormorant must not be seen flitting about the halls. Inek had installed himself and then me in one of the few duties at Evanide unlikely to be interrupted.

  Inek . . . who had allowed Cormorant to see his fear. Draw me. It was all I could do not to run.

  Unusual for afternoon, only a few were abroad. A servant swabbed a wet floor. A paratus limped toward the barracks wing, sweating and bloody. A knight commander—not Inek—herded a trio of soggy, exhausted tyros just come in from a dunking in the bay. I slumped to disguise my height and strode purposefully into the Archive Tower.

  No guards or locked gates barred entry. A variety of spellwork webbed the precincts—spells of preservation, illumination, magnification, the occasional piercing bent of a knight or adjutant who was scribe, cartographer, or historian. A few warded rooms required the Archivist’s permission to enter, but I knew those, and none were my objective. Unfortunately, I had no idea where to find my objective.

  The Knight’s Relictory held the Order’s most precious trust—the memories of those who trained here. None below the rank of commander were allowed to know its location. Not even rumor made a guess, save the occasional speculation that it was up the testy Archivist’s backside. Though entering without permission could get him dismissed from the Order, I suspected why Inek had gone there. He’d sworn that night on the seaward wall that he would discover what I was.

  So where was the place? The second, third, and fourth levels were warrens of small chambers furnished with writing desks, book chests, scroll cases, and presses stuffed with documents. The fifth was a single large room, containing the map repository and long tables for spreading them out. A quick inspection confirmed that there were no masked doorways and all space was accounted for.

  The Seeing Chamber occupied most of the ground level. Two centuries of archived missions sat in their own relictory behind a heavily warded door.

  A scattering of squires and parati worked here and there throughout the Tower. None had looked up as I whisked by in search of the hidden relictory and something out of order. Curiously, neither the Knight Archivist, easily identifiable in his rust-colored mantle, hood, and mask, nor his second, similarly garbed in dusky blue, was anywhere to be seen. That was definitely out of order.

  The two men lived in this tower and rarely left it. That served the balance of the Order, the same that kept the Marshal in his windowed chambers and the Knight Defender wherever he lurked. So where were the Archivist’s personal quarters? The only place I’d not searched was a slate-roofed structure that joined the square tower to the seaward wall.

  A door in the wall next to a coal store, easily overlooked, opened into the auxiliary passage. Lamps illuminated several doorways hung with woven rugs. Two led into cells scarce larger than the one where I slept. A rust-colored cloak and mask hung on pegs in the first, ones of dusky blue in the second. The Archivist’s cell held the luxury of a padded armchair, a footstool, and a small writing desk. The second’s pallet was covered with a thick quilt of sewn-together scraps. A basket of scraps and a spool of cotton suggested the man was making another. Neither cell was occupied.

  A kettle sat on the cold hob in a third chamber. A cheese rind, half-empty cups, and unwashed soup bowls littered a table of scrubbed pine. A fourth chamber was a storeroom, its presses filled with neatly ordered ink horns, cups, pens, and the like.

  Draw me. I snatched up a pen, a stoppered ink cup, and a tied roll of clean parchment and stuffed them into my pockets. But when I returned to the passage, I felt a fool. There were no more doorways.

  Rain drizzled from an overhead grate at the end of the passage. Neither the lightning flashes nor magelight penetrated the heavy blackness, and yet boring hours on the seaward wall insisted a full third of the passage remained beyond that grate.

  I squeezed past the dripping water and found the hidden stair mostly by feel, as every common light spell failed. The stair twisted downward in a tight, steep spiral, three times blocked with subtle wards that needed untangling. So carefully hidden, this had to be the relictory.

  The last twist in the stair brought me to a vestibule so small as to hold a single man. Surprisingly, unnervingly, a thick iron door snarled with stinging enchantments stood wide-open.

  I stretched my senses through the blackness beyond the opening. . . .

  White daggers speared my eyes with such blazing ferocity, it was all I could do to stay upright. My sword flew from its sheath, clattering against stone and iron.

  Staggering sideways, I fumbled for my bracelets,
but mitons of ice sheathed my hands.

  “Greenshank! I’d given up on you.” Too rough a voice, and too . . . old . . . for Inek. Demanding. Impatient. Rusty.

  “Knight Archivist?” I shielded my eyes with my club of an arm.

  “First Inek, now you, blundering into forbidden places like scoundrel boys stealing apricots. I might have expected such indiscipline from a paratus, but by the Sky Lord’s lance, not Inek.”

  “What in damnation is going on here? Where is Commander Inek?”

  I wasn’t feeling very respectful. He’d muted his beam, but I could see naught but molten steel against a yellow haze. I’d swear two holes had been burnt into my face.

  “What is going on here is an excellent question—which your rectoré asked just before I sent him into a sleep from which he may never waken. And which Second asked, just before I put him into a state from which I may or may not revive him. Here”—clamping cold hands about my arm, he shoved me into a chair—“stop rubbing them or you’ll go blind. I’ll get the salve.”

  Glassware rattled somewhere I couldn’t see. My hands regained feeling as I sat on them, the only way I could avoid touching my scalded eyes.

  A rustle of slippers and the Archivist bent over me. “This will sting, but you’ll be seeing quicker. All to the good, yes? Better than Silverdrake fared.”

  “Silverdrake?” I thought I knew all the parati and squires.

  “Inek. Even as a tyro his hair was silver.”

  Inek as a tyro. My mind stretched . . . and brought me to my senses before a man I didn’t know and couldn’t see put more enchantments in my eyes.