Ash and Silver

by Carol Berg

  Her eyes sparked like new stars. “Didst thou not think Bastien very like an otter with all that hair? He might well be content to burrow in drowned roots!”

  Laughing as I’d never laughed at Evanide, I pulled on clammy tunic and shirt and fastened my cloak, then pulled her into an embrace I wished might never end. “Very like. But I think the cave might do better . . . if his offer of help yet stands. Tell him I could dearly use a friend. Another friend.”

  “I shall ever be thy friend, gentle Lucian, delighted to ease thy sorrows. Someday, perhaps, we can talk again of history and why humans do the terrible things they do, or argue how matters might be different if everyone had magic or no one, or if artists could actually paint what magic looks like. Our discussions in Montesard were always lively.”

  “That would please me, as well,” I said. “Bastien said I didn’t know much about friends. But perhaps that was only because I’d already found one who could never be matched.”

  Morgan had warned me we could never be together, different as we were. And I scarce knew myself. But if I satisfied her father . . . made him understand my good intentions . . . friendship could grow.

  As I loosed the bowline from a clump of gnarled roots, she bent over the gunwale and pulled me to her again. Her lips brushed my ear.

  “Not at all a husk,” she whispered. “Not this night.” Then she gave the stern a shove and sent me on my way downriver laughing.

  • • •

  There was nowhere on Evanide’s perimeter to land the boat other than Fix’s little bay. Which meant I’d no way to avoid the hunched figure silhouetted by the graying light. What could I possibly tell him?

  “Blessed return, Greenshank,” said the boatmaster. “How has old Dorye performed this night?” His question lacked the gentle jabbing of other returns.

  “I tried to sink her, but managed not,” I said, knowing the jest would fall flat. “Fix—”

  “You’ve duties elsewhere just now. But before another night passes, you will sit with me and explain.”

  “Please, Fix, the Marshal must not—”

  “I am not bound to the Marshal. This is between you and me. Now be off. Sixth hour’s gone.”

  Astonished, disbelieving, grateful, I raced through the fortress like any other trainee returning from a hard night’s work. I narrowly avoided crashing into Dunlin and Heron. Their voices flattened me to a pillar outside the Hall, heart pounding.

  “. . . so where’s his ass?” grumbled Dunlin. “If we’re still to run or swim before eating, how is it he’s not out?”

  “Maybe he fell off the seaward wall.”

  “He’d never. Wouldn’t be righteous. He’ll be made Disciplinarian before he’s knighted.”

  “Or Knight Defender, securing Evanide by keeping us all fit and pure, every knight taking his turn on the seaward wall!”

  Choking back a laugh, I ran on as soon as they’d passed headed for the eastern wall to swim. No mudflats today. We needed fast hard work, not just slogging through chest-deep water.

  Only as I balanced on the wall, struggling to buckle on chausses just so I could be seen before taking them off again, did Heron’s mention of the Knight Defender wake a mad notion. Evanide’s cliffs and seawalls made it near invulnerable save through the sheltered inlet, the only bit of the islet that was ever connected to the mainland by land. So the Knight Defender . . . Fix?

  I dismissed the idea in the next breath. It was true Fix said he was not bound to the Marshal. He could carry a filled water cask with ease and drag even the larger skiffs about like toy boats. And there were his pointed insights, his awareness of everyone in the fortress, his convenient skill at notifying whatever commander was awaiting you. I certainly needed to talk with Fix. What might he know about the old Marshal and the current Marshal, or the Archivist and Inek?

  But truly my whim was ridiculous. The boatmaster was not a day younger than seventy years. No matter what his other skills, a Knight Defender was the last defense of Evanide. He chose his own successor from the elite warriors of the Order—those who could best any opponent with or without magic. Not even an exceptional man of seventy could do that.

  The seventh strike of the bells jolted me. I dumped the rainwater from my helm, abandoned mitons to retrieve later, tossed the lance into the courtyard below, and hurried—carefully—to the stair. Within the hour I was swimming in the bay, racing with Heron and Dunlin. Heron reached the lonely rock called Doom’s Knob first, but I beat the two of them on the return, even in the face of the incoming tide.

  “I’m speaking with the Archivist at midday about our lessons,” I said, still breathing hard. “Instead of sparring later, let’s do this again. One of you had better beat me. I’ve been awake since midnight.”

  “Standing still on—” Heron’s kick made Dunlin bite off his jab. “As you say, Paratus Commander.”

  “Now!” Grinning, I dived from the seawall into the swirling water. Energy and resolve pounded through me. For the family I’d once loved and this family at Evanide, I was going to make things right.

  • • •

  The fortress bells struck midday as I crossed the unoccupied Seeing Chamber heading for the Archivist’s quarters. Even after the night’s bay crossing and two hard swims to Doom’s Knob, my steps were brisk.

  Only when I reached the cellar relictory’s iron door—closed tight—did my rosy outlook fade. All the bits of information I needed from the Archivist thronged into my head like hungry tyros: Inek’s progress, tales of Sanctuary, of Xancheira, Knight Bearn’s identity and purpose. Allowing my near useless magelight to die, I yanked the bellpull.

  Latches and bars clanked on the inside, and the hinges ground noisily as the door opened a crack. And then a little wider. I shut my eyes. Magelight flared bright as clear sunlight through my eyelids.

  “Reporting as ordered,” I said.

  “Come, come.” He left me to close and bar the door. The enchantments crashed together behind me like steel gates, as I caught up to the angular figure in rusty red.

  “A terrible crime was done you, Greenshank, leaving you bound to silence about the event and lacking a guide. I should have had you back to speak of it, lest you do something stupid.”

  The frosty assessment chilled my remaining good humor, holding no more concern for my well-being than a hail from a watchman at a city gate. “I believe I’ve come to terms with it, though I would dearly like to know who did it and why.”

  He blew an impatient note. “I can’t help you with that. I still don’t understand what makes you of such interest.”

  Nor did I. “For today, I’m more concerned with Commander Inek. How does he fare?”

  “The puzzle is most complex. No approach has made improvement as yet.”

  Inek’s portrait lay on his desk amid a clutter of parchment sheets. The pages were entirely covered with little diagrams paired with lists of words, some of which I recognized as Aurellian—the language of all pureblood ancestors—and some not. He had circled some twenty-five or thirty links on Inek’s habergeon, each of an unusual shape and a slightly brighter shading than the rest.

  “Is it possible the person who created the spell was a linguist?”

  He glanced up at me sharply. “You speak of this outsider the Marshal favors. Do you have evidence to make such an accusation?”

  “Not unless you’ve detected—”

  “Then how dare you besmirch his honor—or, by implication, the Marshal’s which is the honor of the Order itself?” His anger set his magelight quivering. “Any further such nattering will earn you more severe consequences than the seaward watch. I can leave your mind like seaweed. I can seed dreams that will stain your every waking hour. I can have you looking over your shoulder, forever convinced you’re being followed.”

  His blistering fury left no doubt of his will or his capability to do as
he said. His jaw iron-like beneath his rust-hued mask, he carefully rolled the papers and portrait together. “I will continue seeking the solution. You and your two orphaned parati will meet me in the study chamber on the second level every day at ninth hour of the morning for memory work.”

  “We’ll be there. Is there anything else, Archivist?”

  He tapped the rolled portrait on his palm. “This is useful. I don’t see why you’re here and not contracted to some devilish ordinary.”

  “It mystifies me, as well, Archivist,” I said. “I’ve been thinking of trying another portrait of Inek. To spark my bent I’d like to examine historical information about this kind of spellwork.” Surely that would lead me to mentions of Xancheira, the source of our memory magic. “If you could direct me—”

  “Ridiculous!” he snapped. “You will pursue the proper business of your training, and that does not include lending your superior intellect to matters you imagine I’ve overlooked!”

  “I meant no offense, Knight Archivist. And I’ve one more inquiry.” I yielded no time for him to refuse. “Inek’s log mentioned a meeting with a knight called Bearn on the same night as he was stricken. Perhaps Inek told him of his venture to the relictory, of his plans or suspicions.”

  The Archivist’s anger vanished in an eyeblink. “Bearn? The name’s not familiar.”

  He pondered, his brow creased, while idly fondling the silver medallions on his breast. Perhaps not so idly. As his thumb rubbed one of them, a spark of magic stung my skin. Were the pendants some extension of his archives?

  “We’ve no knight named Bearn—never have. Is this another outsider?”

  Surprise nearly choked me.

  “He must be,” I said, though doubting it. “Boatmaster Fix would never have named him a knight if he weren’t. Perhaps Bearn isn’t his real name. Perhaps he’s one of the Marshal’s spies.”

  “Spies?” The door he’d slammed on his anger burst open again. “The Order is the last bulwark against chaos. Now we’ve outsiders sneaking around the halls. The Marshal’s honor questioned. Relicts destroyed. Insolent parati strutting their talents. Great Deunor raise our Knight Defender!”

  “Thank you, Knight Archivist.”

  I left him fondling his medallions. Perhaps it had been foolish to ask him about Bearn, for his eyes burnt holes in my back all the way to his door.

  An altogether unsatisfactory meeting. I trusted the Archivist to care for Inek, and he seemed to accept my story about my returned bent. But his testy defense of the Marshal left me wary of telling him anything more of my other business. Neither Damon nor the Marshal had demonstrated any awareness of my involvement with the Danae, and I had few enough secrets.

  So where was Xancheira? I headed up to the map room. The Marshal’s story of the Order’s founding and Bastien’s and Morgan’s mentions of Montesard placed the city near the coast of the northern sea, which agreed with my observation of the five-fingered land. . . .

  Another wasted hour. The archive map room had no detailed coastal maps. Fix’s chart room held the portolans detailing Evanide’s own bay and Navronne’s western coast that we studied every morning. Perhaps he kept all of them.

  I’d promised to return and explain my borrowing the squinch. I could ask him then. But I’d go after nightfall. Better to spend the daylight hours demonstrating my devotion to rigorous training. Damon would be watching.

  • • •

  The day was full to bursting. My three-man cadre viewed a short mission study Inek had scheduled to demonstrate the virtues and pitfalls of lightning shocks embedded in a blade. We followed it with two hours’ work with a spellmaster and three with the master Armorer to create such a blade. My meeting with the Marshal to report my cadre’s activities was brief and allowed no opportunity for further confidences or questions. Damon was there. He did not speak.

  After a hurried meal and a few hours’ sleep, I sped through the quiet fortress and down to the docks. The north-side dock lamp burned red, so someone was out on the sea this night; Fix would be awake, waiting. Lantern light gleamed inside his stone cottage at the south end of the quay.

  But I didn’t make it so far.

  “Thinking to take old Dorye out again, paratus?”

  The dark shape that stepped from behind the boathouse was almost invisible in the gloom. But the voice was unmistakable.

  “Nay, boatmaster. I’ve come to speak with you, as you said. My new responsibilities complicate my days.”

  “Aye, they would,” he said. “Come along. With Inek downed by this mysterious rebounding enchantment, curious eyes are everywhere. Many of them on you, which I doubt you want.”

  My skin prickled as Fix led me down the quay. I’d come ready to ask his help, but if he believed I was involved with Inek’s wounding, I daren’t reveal anything. If only I could see the old man’s expression.

  “No one could possibly believe I was responsible for Inek’s injury,” I said. Though I feared I was.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “But most believe Inek is the least likely sorcerer in the Order to stumble into a magical rebound. What do you think?”

  Fix pulled the door open and light flooded onto the quay, illuminating his face—masked! The perfectly fitting slip of linen was deep blue—as were the shirt and breeches that outlined a body entirely unlike the hunched boatmaster. His hair was not mottled with gray but black and thick, yet if I closed my eyes I knew it was Fix. The smell of him was brine and ale, tar and rope. The voice grated with the raw edge of a man constantly exposed to cold, salt air, and rough weather. Alertness wreathed him like a lamp’s glow—an alertness I’d always thought admirable for a man of his age. But either I had sorely misjudged that age or this mask and garments bore some illusion. . . .

  His garments. Their blue was the particular midnight hue I’d seen in the mosaic in the Marshal’s outer chamber—the depiction of the Order’s three ruling Knights. Of a sudden my whimsy took on an astonishing logic.

  “It might be more important to know what you think . . . Knight Defender.”

  “I detest believing one of our own might have done such a crime, but . . .” He lifted his shoulders and motioned me inside.

  No clear answer save a hard gleam in his dark eyes. Fix’s eyes.

  “Now what did you wish to talk with me about, Greenshank? Or were you really hoping to speak with someone else?”

  A glib response stuck in my throat when I saw the dirty white-haired man bound and seated on Fix’s floor. He wore an Order cloak and mail shirt, and a full-faced mask lay scorched and shredded on the stone beside him.

  The prisoner’s first glimpse of me had him grunting and straining at his bonds. He was certainly a sorcerer. Cords of silk bundled his fingers, ensuring he could not feed a spell; a rag binding his mouth ensured he could shape no words of magic. Shackled feet and sturdy ropes ensured he was going nowhere.

  “Greenshank, meet Knight Bearn—or, as you might know him, Curator Pluvius of the Pureblood Registry.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Pluvius!” I said, once I found my tongue again and suppressed an urge to kick him in the balls. “I heard that name in a relict-seeing . . .”

  In which the old man had expressed sympathy and regret while forcing a naked, half-mad Lucian de Remeni to hide his particular secrets.

  “Why would he be here disguised as one of us?” demanded Fix. “He came asking for you, Greenshank—in particular. Perhaps you summoned him. You’ve been alone off-island. Could have sent messages. Could have betrayed us, betrayed your oath, your commander . . .”

  The keen-edged words slid over my cheeks, burning like the kiss of a sharpened blade. Fix was the true danger here. I met his hard gaze.

  “Everything I’ve done has been with Commander Inek’s approval and with the Order’s integrity in mind. I’ve no idea why anyone’s interested in me. Likely you k
now far more of Curator Damon’s intents than I do.”

  Fix had not denied what I’d named him, so let him digest both Damon and Pluvius. I needed to know where the Knight Defender’s loyalties lay. With Damon? With the Marshal, who partnered with Damon but so pointedly distanced himself, as well? With the Archivist, who seemed fiercely loyal to the Marshal, yet friends with Inek? Or was the Knight Defender loyal only to the Order?

  Arms folded, Fix peered at his agitated prisoner. “He insists he’s come to bring warnings from a colleague who cares greatly about your welfare. He claims he does, as well. But he’s refused to tell me more. I had to ferret out his identity for myself.”

  A shudder rippled through Pluvius like an earth tremor.

  Coroner Bastien said Pluvius had made these same claims of concern for my welfare. He’d also said that Lucian de Remeni had never trusted Pluvius. But I greatly desired to know his secrets.

  “His concern, at least, is a lie,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, Curator Pluvius cares not a whit for anyone’s welfare but his own. Damon might tell us why this man’s here.”

  The prisoner shook his head vigorously, and his wordless grunting became angry, bawling insistence. Was he truly at odds with Damon or was he but Damon’s partner, terrified for his coconspirator to learn he’d gotten caught?

  “I knew from the first our impostor was a Registry man,” said Fix. “Not so much as a polite good morning for the boatmaster. I’d hopes Inek might ferret out his intent. But Commander Inek fell victim to a vile enchantment before he could tell what the villain had to say.” Fix squatted in front of Pluvius, who shrank backward as if to embed himself in the stone wall. “I’ve a special place I drop murdering sorcerers into the sea. They can usually keep themselves alive for an hour. Until the cold and dark get to them. And doubt creeps in as the chain on their ankles just won’t break. Then fear begins to sap their magic.”