Ash and Silver

by Carol Berg

  Fumbling at my sodden sleeve, I confirmed that the ruby bracelet was still in place. Baskets of silver splinters sat in the armory. Once the business of transporting a hundred Cicerons wasn’t pressing, it wouldn’t take long to link them. Then I’d need a plan to get the freed Xancheirans back to the greater world before they starved.

  “Are the b-boats back? Have you heard bells? The time?”

  “No bells,” said Bek. “All’s quiet outside. Still fogged in.”

  “I’ll look,” I said. “Keep your light shielded, serena. And pass the word to the people that we’ll be leaving soon . . .”

  “. . . and to be silent, and they can have whatever food or drink they find on these boats. You mustn’t get in the water again, Luka. You’ve no magic left. Someone else should go.”

  “I can swim without magic.” I threw off my damp jaque and boots again. “None of you must be seen, and we mustn’t open the doors.” The danger was greater this time; someone could have been alerted.

  Conall and I had agreed that we’d proceed only with contact, not signals on the second pass. Lights, enchantments, noises . . . anything we could do might be detected. Praying the knight and his rowers lay close in the fog, I dropped into the water and soon dragged my protesting body onto the quay.

  The night bells did not ring the quarter hours as in the day, but myriad hours on the seaward wall assured me we were yet in the deeps of night. Fix’s fog yet drifted about the silent fortress. A light wind swirled the veils and pockets, making the Defender’s task more difficult.

  Senses alert, I scuttered along the quay in the direction that seemed right. No steps followed. Fix’s door was exactly where it should be.

  “Ssssshhh.” A blade touched my neck and another pricked my back, nudging me forward. My hands flew up in surrender. Once the door closed behind us, the eye-searing magelight was not wholly unexpected.

  “Greenshank!” Voices in front and behind spoke it together and with great relief.

  The blades were withdrawn. The magelight dimmed. My muscles gratefully unclenched.

  “He looks terrible,” said Conall, the man in front of me.

  “Seeing you here imp-proves matters.”

  Fire popped to life in Fix’s brazier. Without invitation I dropped to my knees in front of it. The cold damp was making my back seize. Every shudder of depletion felt very like a new strike of the Order lash.

  “It might be the only improvement,” said the man beside the door, breathing hard. “Thou wert stealthy on thy approach?” The Xancheiran shoved a short sword into a sheath hung by the door.

  “I was careful. It’s g-good to see you up, Lord Siever.”

  “Prowlers patrol the docks,” said Conall, throwing a blessedly dry cloak over my shoulders. “Dunlin was clever enough to swim in from outside the fog and bring back word. Don’t know if someone spied the boats leaving or what. Fix’s guest here”—he indicated Siever—“sent them on a merry chase. He does an astonishing imitation of the boatmaster.”

  “Nawt a man’s ass is out in a fog like this’n,” drawled Siever. The wind-rasp in his voice was perfect. And a twirl of his hand shifted the firelight so that I’d vow old Boatmaster Fix stood there instead of the tall, lordly Siever. It was not so much illusion as a reordering of light, like reflections in rippling water. Even better, it lacked the definitive sensations of illusion.

  “More lightwork,” I said, breathing in the glory of the magic.

  Siever sagged onto one of Fix’s stools. “Takes far too much out of me, though.”

  “And Fix?”

  “Well hidden. But we can’t bring in the boats while someone’s watching,” said Conall, crouching at my side. “And it’s near midnight, which gives us no slack time. Fix has all he can manage with the fog.”

  “So we need another diversion.” I blew a long exhale. “If you’ll see to it, Conall, I’ll take your place in the boat. I’m drained to the nubbins, but I’ll need Fix’s rubies later. And you’ll do better covering if we’re late back, as I can’t modify the rowers’ memories.”

  “Give me a quarter of an hour,” said Conall, donning his cloak. “When you see fire on the mount, stutter the fog warning—three and one—and Heron will bring up the boats.”

  I appreciated that Conall didn’t argue. And the sack of cheese and flask of ale they’d left me on the table was the gods’ own benefice. The bells rang midnight. I cracked open the door and kept an eye on Idolon Mount while I ate and drank—likely far more than my share.

  “Lord . . .” Siever had dozed off. Gods, I’d questions needed answering before I left.

  Serena Fortuna provided. Wind swirled the flames in the brazier. Siever started, then wrapped his arms about himself and shook his head as if to clear it.

  “I can open the trees,” I blurted.

  Siever’s drooping head jerked up. “By the Goddess . . .”

  “But Safia said we dared not repair the Severing while she and her fellows walked the land, lest they infect the true lands . . . and all this world . . . with Xancheira’s sickness. She said we should take out your people, then seal off the portals and leave the Danae there to die.”

  “’Tis a dread ending for them.” He shuddered. “Like to burning from the inside out. But certain, they no longer fulfill whatever purpose the Mother ordained. Never have humans lived in so close a friendship with the divine as we did in Xancheira. We presumed too much on that.”

  “I can’t believe the only answer is to abandon them and leave the world broken. Is it true you might know how to undo the Severing?”

  “In theory only.” He poured himself a mug of ale and returned to the stool, rubbing his head tiredly. “My father created the Severing enchantments. He sickened early on. As he died, he repeated the undoing steps to me over and over. But I was very young, inexperienced, and angry, and I’d already lost my greater magic.”

  No wonder Siever refused to die.

  “But you know how.”

  He glared in annoyance at his bony, tremulous fingers. “The tools to aid in the undoing were sent with the Wanderers to be hidden. Alas, none of these that dwelt with us have a notion what became of them. With the tools, I might attempt it, though there’s no assurance I’ll regain the power necessary. Or live, to be perfectly frank. Thy knightly friend had to prop me up to guard the door.”

  “My grandsire was a historian,” I said, grasping at hope. “He hunted Xancheiran artifacts for years, but only one remnant of your city did he ever find. Is it possible—?” I hated to risk the asking. “How would I recognize your father’s tools?”

  Siever lifted his head, his glance sharp. “He packed them in a small chest of painted wood alongside other objects that could tell Xancheira’s story. Even if rescue never came, he’d not have us entirely forgotten.”

  My excitement could scarce be contained. “Objects like a wood spindle and an embroidered wedding stola that reveals how dual bents can reinvigorate a magical bloodline?”

  “Merciful Goddess!” Siever sprang to his feet just as a burst of yellow flame on Idolon Mount cut through the fog.

  For a moment I wasn’t sure which had astounded him more.

  “The stola and the spindle. By stone and sea, Remeni, the two together . . . they are the key!”

  • • •

  Conall’s fire on the mount sufficed to draw off anyone who might have interfered with our loading the boats and setting out for the bay crossing. Whether it was Fix’s cheese and ale or pure elation, I was able to take Conall’s stern-seat oars and summon magic for navigating Fix’s fog.

  Despite the loaded boats, the row was not difficult, as the night was calm and the tide with us. Still, the normal swells had Juli and more than half the passengers sick. My sister curled up around her misery, her head on my foot.

  Feeling more inclined to believe in divine interferenc
e than I had for years, I prayed fervently that Conall would come to no harm from his showy assistance and that Siever would thrive. We’d the means at hand to free the Xancheiran prisoners and reverse the breaking of the world.

  Once I’d retrieved the stola from Bastien and got it to Siever, I’d acquire the silver splinters from the armory and take them to Signé. She needed time to get them distributed and for Siever to regain his strength. I couldn’t assume I’d have power enough to help him work the magic.

  Only one obstacle remained. We’d need to undo the Severing soon after opening the trees, for I could see no other way to feed so many or get them back to the greater world. Two hundred had near wrecked me. Twenty thousand would kill me a hundred times over. Which meant, if Safia spoke true, we’d have to find some way to ensure that Kyr and the silver Danae were not walking the land when Siever worked his magic. I hated the only solutions that came to mind.

  But surely at sometime soon, we’d have a chance to set Xancheira free. The city would be a part of the living world again. Signé, her brother, and their people could take up their lives in the northland and, perhaps together with the Order, could take on the corrupt Registry—and Damon, if need be. For the first time, I dared imagine that such a healing might have some effect on Navronne’s crippling winter.

  Visions of grandeur, Greenshank! Damon likely started with such imaginings.

  Yet the Danae were real; the void was real; and the decay of Xancheira and its people were real. Was it so mad to think such breakage as the Severing had caused some ill effect on the greater world, as well?

  But, of course, all hope could end quickly. Damon and his gnarled plot awaited me at Cavillor.

  As we entered the smoother water of the estuary, one of the Ciceron men who’d had some experience on the water agreed to take my oar. Grateful for the rest and the few moments peace, I scrunched down beside Juli, hauling her upright and tugging her damp cloak around her.

  “Honestly, it helps to sit up and take deep, slow breaths,” I said. “We’re almost to the mainland and we’ve thinking to do. I understand you already know Coroner Bastien. He’ll protect you as you head for Palinur. But you need to decide where you want to go after that.”

  “Will I ever see you again, Luka?” She leaned into my side, her spark considerably damped.

  I would not lie to her. “Ah, serena, likely not. Beyond all this with Xancheira and the Danae, I’m involved in a game of power I don’t entirely understand. It’s all mixed up with the Registry and the princes’ war and those awful things that happened in the months before I sent you away. If I lose, I’ll be dead.” Or worse.

  “And if you win? Because I will never doubt you.”

  The flare of determination brought me a smile. Honesty did not require telling her how unlikely winning was when I didn’t even know what winning meant. But, much as I wanted to console her, I had to speak what yet held my mind.

  “My life cannot ever be what it was before, serena. I’m too much changed. I’ve found this place—good work to do that I’d like to think would make you and our family proud. But to do it well requires secrecy, anonymity, and leaving everything else—even family—behind.”

  “Sounds just like you.” Her resentment was softened by her grip on my hand. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Something extraordinary, I’ll wager. It might require becoming someone else entirely. My name is too dangerous even to speak. For now, you must lie low. Which means—”

  “I have to forswear you. Again. So that I can practice magic and keep our bloodlines alive. It didn’t work before . . . well, the lying part didn’t.”

  “Again? I don’t—”

  “That’s exactly what you said when you sent me to Pons. You stood in that graveyard so broken, wearing that dreadful mask and chains, and you sent me away to your worst enemy. You were exactly right to do it. But I’m not so good a liar as you thought. It was just Serena Fortuna’s blessing that Pons wanted to help us all along.”

  “She really did? You didn’t escape her. . . .” So much of what Pluvius had said had been proven true—my grandsire’s chest, his talk of a wound in the world, the significance of my dual bents—but I had never accepted his talk of the woman curator, Damon’s protégé who had split with her devious mentor.

  “She’s not an easy woman. But she hid me, talked sense into me, sent me to the Mother’s high priestess—the safest place in Palinur. She promised to see that you learned enough to survive. She said she’d fetch you back when the time was right, and clear your name and together you’d stand up to—” Juli stared up at me, her face pale in the starlight. “This game of power is about Curator Damon, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And if Pons is secretly opposing him, she’s in a very risky position. Curator Pluvius came here to fetch me away, claiming Pons sent him to warn me about Damon. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him.”

  “Ugh. Pluvius tried to lure us into his protection. That’s when you decided to send me off with the Cicerons. Prince Bayard’s troops were laying the siege, and you were out of choices.” Her face wrinkled into a frown. “Pons must be desperate to choose Pluvius for a messenger. Luka”—Juli sat up a little straighter—“I could go to her again, see what’s what. If she’s true, I could give her a message from you, tell her how she can find you . . . help you. She’s a stone-hard witch, but she’s truly powerful and believes you know things that could make purebloods . . . more honorable. That’s her words. She refused to tell me more.”

  “She was right not to tell you. Holy gods, I never imagined—”

  I wanted to reject Juli’s offer. I preferred she hide and survive. But Pons might know more of Damon’s plan and my place in it, and would surely have plotted her own strategy, lest I die or fail or lose myself along the way.

  “Signal ho!” Dunlin’s voice cried out from the lead boat.

  Perhaps Fix was wrong about family.

  “Truly, a few answers might make all the difference.” None should have been able to hear anything we’d said, but I pressed my mouth to Juli’s ear and drew a bit of enchantment around us. “Tell her this . . .”

  In as few words as possible, I told of my strange mission as Damon’s weapon to reshape the Registry, but sworn to justice, not the man; of my suspicions about the throne and the report I’d heard of coercion using my portraits. So short a time was not enough to tell all, but Juli knew a great deal on her own.

  “. . . and with what you can tell her of Xancheira and what we’ve done here, she should understand that Navronne’s future rests in our hands. But please, serena, have a care. At the least sign of danger—”

  Juli grabbed my hands and pressed them to her forehead. “To strike a blow for our beloved dead, to see you make right and honor grow from that horror, I will not fail. Hercule and the coroner will see me safe until Pons arrives in Cavillor. And I can tell Coroner Bastien whatever I find out. He’ll be able to get it to you easier than I, especially once I’m in skirts and mask again.”

  “I’ll arrange that with him.”

  All around us the rowers leapt into the water and dragged their boats into the muddy shallows of the middle estuary. Bastien watched from the upper bank as Hercule and others of the first party waded in enthusiastically to help their seasick friends go ashore, promising that fires and provisions waited just beyond the bank.

  I jumped out and lifted Juli from the boat. As I carried her to solid ground, she flung her arms about my neck.

  “Live,” she said fiercely, “and swear to me that before the name Lucian de Remeni-Masson vanishes forever into myth and hero tales, you will tell me that you’ve done so.”

  “I can’t promise—”

  She gripped a handful of my hair. Came near yanking it out entire. “Swear it or I’ll start screaming that a madman is posing as my brother!”

  “All right,” I said, my laughte
r laced with rue. Had the others in our family been so filled with spirit? “I swear it. And on that day you’ll tell me what gods I offended to be birthed from the same parents as you!”

  She wriggled and near leapt from my arms. It was surprisingly difficult to let her go. A part of me was no longer so empty as it had been. Perhaps our true lives were indeed graven in our bones, ready to recapture. I hoped.

  “Hercule!” Juli called, catching the attention of the crowd. “Palinur’s too far for all of us who’ve emptied our bellies in this wretched sea. I’ve heard favorable stories of a town called Cavillor. If I recall correctly from my lessons, it sits just inland from the port of Tavarre, which likely means it has a steady stream of sailors, merchants, and adventurers hungry for a taste of entertainments and games of chance. It could be a good way station on our journey home. . . .”

  She chattered on to the Cicerons as I jogged back to the boats. The rowers awaited my orders.

  “Well done,” I said. “Check in with the boatmaster before you set foot in the fortress, else you’ll have failed the exercise and will reap my Knight Commander’s favored consequence—a month’s tour on the seaward wall. If you’ve doubts as to your fitness for the crossing, speak now or the consequence will be doubled.”

  One of the tyros, a long-faced fellow with a bulging chin and heavy brow ridge, swallowed hard and raised his hand. “I’m flat, paratus.” His speech quavered a little—a trait of ever-apprehensive tyros. “Had a bout of flux a few days since.”

  “No excuses. But better to speak now than after you’re drowned. You”—I signaled my bow man, another of Conall’s tyros—“will be a third in this honest man’s boat. Trade off with him. Navigators and tails as before, save I won’t be with you. I’ll come after on my own, once I’ve seen our passengers off. Dunlin and Heron, lead out.”

  As soon as the small flotilla was under way, I joined Bastien at the top of the bank.