by Carol Berg
“Marta and Naina stayed. Marta feeds herself by sewing. Does my laundry and such. Looks to stay a spinster. Too hard to get along with anymore is my thinking. Naina married Lecue’s boy Frigo, and they’ve six brats already. Not a smat of wit in the lot. Jalene married a turnip digger down Jarasco side when she turned fifteen and’s never come back. I sent to her, but she doesn’t read and won’t ask. Wouldn’t come anyway. Da gave her a rumpus about the marriage, and she’s no more forgiving than him.”
No surprises there. “And our brothers?”
“Renit boodled for a while, too lazy to lay hands or mind to aught but a shovel. Ran off in a bother a year or so after I came home. Couple of men said he was dead did he come back but wouldn’t say why. Bandits. Gambling. Something like. Benno grew up bigger than me. He smiths at Corflet pits. Married into it but got a bad bargain, I say—Letitia makes Marta look like a sweet cake. Some happy family, eh?”
“And what of Andero?”
“Andero is as he always was,” he said after a long pull at his stoup. “Works the forge. Plods along day to day, never quite figuring out where he wants to be or what he wants to do, so he lags till summat better comes along.”
Everyone in Raghinne had been astonished when Andero ran away to war. He was big and quiet and moved slowly for the most part. But I had wrestled him enough to know the danger of assuming him either gentle or lazy.
Quick footsteps brought a steaming dish to the table in front of me. It smelled of fennel and bay. A ladle slopped the contents into a smaller bowl and plopped a fat chunk of bread atop it. I knew how things were done here.
“Douple, lord…great master. Though for a refined palate mutton pie might suit better, or a nice dock salat before winter sets in?” His whining set my teeth grinding.
“Naught else, Grev,” said Andero, quickly. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ve business.”
“Certain, Andero. Certain.” The hostler withdrew.
This time of year, douple would include beans, turnips, carrots, barley, onions, and mutton fat, and if times were good, scraps of meat. By spring it would be turnips and grass. I scooped a healthy dollop on the bread and forced it down.
Decent for what it was. Filling at the least. Though even Queen Eugenie’s rarest fruits would be unappealing at present, I needed the sustenance.
Honoring custom, Andero let me eat undisturbed, sipping at his cider and refilling mine as I emptied it. Other people drifted in and out, naught but shuffles and whispers. No one would dare interrupt us. No Covergan liked strangers. We ignored them, as if refusing to acknowledge such untrusty folk might make them go away. But for sure from this day forward Andero would be besieged with insults, prods, and challenges, all aimed at discovering the identity of his visitor with the silver collar. I doubted a mage had ever visited Raghinne.
“So you boss the smithy now?” I said, when I’d eaten all I could stomach.
“So it is. Da thinks he does, of course, but even before the accident his hands weren’t steady enough to finish things proper.”
“You didn’t find soldiering better than being here?”
“I stayed out near ten years. But enough was enough. Didn’t mind the fighting or living rough. It was the bossing around I couldn’t abide. Too much like a barrelful of Das, always telling me to sleep here, oil that armor, stick that fellow, run away from that one. I figured I’d come home and put up with just the one bully.”
His tale couldn’t but revive thoughts of Masson de Cuvier and his “boys,” who never loved him, but stayed alive, save in his dreams. I was glad Andero had stayed alive.
“And is there a Sonjeura Andero?”
“Not for want of looking.” He shoved the douple bowl out from between us. “Now, what of you, little brother? A few years ago I took some knives down to Jarasco market. A couple of traders told me outlandish tales of upheaval in Merona. And in the same breath as the King of Sabria, haunts, and villainy, here comes the name Dante—a master mage hobnobbing with royals or the Souleater, depending on who was tale spinning. God’s truth, I knew it was you.”
He paused for a moment, his curiosity dangling. I didn’t bite.
“When I decided to send to you about Da, I hiked down there again. Some Jarasco folk said the daemon mage was exiled. Some said in Ixtador. Others said in the ice caves of Gedevron, joined up with Dimios himself. I suppose the tales were wrong, as my writing got to you after all.”
“I don’t live at Castelle Escalon anymore. They forwarded your letter on to me.”
“Out of favor, are you? In disgrace or something? It’s nowt by me, you know. I figured I knew you better than those telling the stories.” He was almost apologetic—but I detected no fear. Considering what outlandish tales he’d likely heard, that was amazing.
“I was never in favor so much as useful to people of importance. And now that use is done and they prefer me elsewhere. But I reside neither in the netherworld nor in Ixtador. Not yet at least.” I swallowed the last of the cider, and he refilled the stoup yet again. “Not many know me well.”
He laughed—a full, honest laugh from his gut. “Now, that’s summat I can believe.”
It was much easier to talk to him than I’d expected.
He leaned so far across the table, I could smell the iron and coal soot on him. “Marta told me about the spill at the forge,” he said, his voice fallen almost to a whisper. “Was it as bad as they say? Where did you go after?”
I yanked off my right glove and laid my claw on the table.
“Glory, Dante!”
“I’m used to it now. But I wasn’t then. I went off looking for a healer.”
“But it was too late.”
“Aye, for my hand. Instead, I found a teacher.…”
I told him all of it. About the voices and the aether. About fat, illiterate Salvator with rotted teeth and a gift for teaching, and my odd schooling in the ways of sorcery. And while whispering patrons came and went, I told my brother of my bargain with Portier and the King of Sabria, and the long years of deception, and the voice in the aether that had given me a lifeline to sanity. I even relived for him the terrible climax of the Gautier conspiracy and the years since. Not even Anne or Portier knew the whole story. Stupid to be so free. This man was a stranger to me.
“Bones of the earth, if anyone else in the world had told me such a tale, I would have thrown him down a void shaft as a raver.”
“Didn’t mean to wear out your ears.” My own likely glowed like a forge bed. “It’s not like me.”
“We all have to shovel out the ashes sometime, but some things don’t bear talking about with people you’re with every day. And we were all right once, you and me. A time or two these past years, I’d have given a trunkload of silver for your ear to fill. You could always figure things out, explain things in a way a person could grasp. But god’s truth, tonight you’ve flummoxed me entire. To know you’re blinded, and in such a way, I can scarce believe it.”
“Comes the time for me to piss away all this cider, you’ll know it.”
“Aye, that would be a difficulty,” he said. “So will you come home with me, little brother? I’ll stand for Grev’s room upstairs if you’d rather; he owes me for fixing a broken axle.”
“I’ll not sleep under Da’s roof.”
“Nor will I,” he said. “I’ve my own place out past the bog. No palace, but two whole rooms all to myself. It’s fortunate the way you are; you’ll not be able to criticize my housekeeping nor tell if my bedding’s not so clean.”
I ought to sleep out, on the chance the broker’s remaining swordsmen or the daemon-crushing tetrarch came after me. Yet I’d neither felt nor heard any hint of pursuit through the day. Perhaps Ilario had taken them all out. De Santo had implied that the chevalier was a master swordsman. I shook my head and again wished the two of them safe. Truly, the prospect of a bed ranked near the prospect of Heaven. Nearer, as I’d a hope of the bed.
“I’ll share your house, brother,” I
said, “but not your pallet.” Which caused Andero to explode in laughter yet again. Years ago he’d managed to get himself a pallet of his own by squashing younger brothers and sleeping through our pinches and whining.
Grev Tey snored loudly in the corner. The whisperers had given up hours before. Still chuckling, Andero jingled a few coins, bringing the snoring to an abrupt end.
“On the morrow, Andero,” said the hostler thickly. “On the morrow, lord mage, may the Creator’s light shine upon your path.”
I snorted at that most unlikely of all prospects.
ANDERO HAD BUILT HIS COTTAGE tucked into a hillside at the near end of the village, about as far from the coal pits and the forge as one could be. Leaving Devil at the stable, we walked companionably down the cinder path. Our frosty breath dampened my skin. No one else was about so late. My brother was easy to follow. Our gaits were similar and he was a very large presence. I asked him just to walk a little ahead on my right and yell if I strayed toward the stinking bog. He laughed more easily than anyone I’d ever met.
“You know what’s the most astounding, Dante?” he said, as we left the bog behind. “To think of you, as good as married to the daughter of a conte—”
“Married? Gods, you can swallow that one entire. She’s the King of Sabria’s gooddaughter. She’s read more books than I’ve seen in my life, has traveled all of the Middle Kingdoms, and speaks something like nine foreign tongues. She dances, curtsies, and dresses in silk. They cleaned me up for my playacting, taught me about forks and how to use an indoor privy. But I am and will ever be a blind, half-mad, vile-tempered son of Coverge, who happens to have a decent talent for spellwork and will likely die in a cage. Now she’s away from me, she’ll realize what nonsense she’s spewed.”
Reflections, she’d said. Our souls were mirrors. What did that even mean?
“Anne killed two men to defend her family, her king, and the safety of the world, yet she will never in this life forgive herself for it. I once broke a man’s neck because I was hungry, and drove two more to kill themselves because they wronged my teacher. I’ve cracked minds, Andero, and battered a man half to death to convince my only friend I had turned against him. Never once did I feel guilty. Every hour, every day of my life, I have to hold back this daemonish temper before I murder someone else for crossing me.” Anne de Vernase and I were not mirrored souls. “Anne sleeps in the main house. I sleep in the guesthouse. She raises grapes. I raise the dead.”
“Hmmph,” he said, pondering. “I suppose I’d have to meet the lady to understand, which meeting would likely do your prospects no good at all. But truly, Dante, an indoor privy? Sacred spirits, you did live in a palace!”
He burst out laughing—and I laughed with him, though it came out creaking like a rusty gate. Not at all what I expected from my journey home.
CHAPTER 8
RAGHINNE
The unexpected harmony of the evening changed nothing about a morning’s waking. As I had chosen a pallet next Andero’s delicious hearth, rather than his bed in the cold second room, he witnessed my daily panic as he drank his morning ale. I hated that.
“Hadn’t thought it would be so bad for you,” he said, from his kitchen table, “with your magic and all. You seemed so matter-of-fact about it.”
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
“So you are. There’s hot water on the hob, cups and Marta’s best herbs on the shelf to the left of it. New bread’s under a towel on the table and butter beside. I’ve got to feed my dogs, so I’ll leave you to it. When you’ve done, we’ll head for the forge.”
My brother was a far more graceful man than I.…
“Oh, and you can piss in the yard, if you’ll aim to the right, or there’s a jar just round the corner in my sleeping room. Anything more, the privy’s out the back door; head directly right for about fifty paces. I showed you last night, but I’ve a mind you were too nogged to recall it.”
And direct.
After many false starts I did what was needed. Andero returned about the time I finished my tea. “Didn’t like my bread, eh?”
“Not hungry.” Indeed I was like to burst my skin with the need to get this done.
I had dabbled in mental compulsion through the years, using the sheer weight of power to impose my will upon other minds. But I had found success only when the person was already open to my desire—a child or a slobbering drunkard. I had nudged Portier once or twice early on, but he had detected it and resisted. That’s when I knew he had more substance than I’d suspected.
That this enchantress had planted answers with the last person I could ever wish to confront, here in the last place I could ever wish to go, spoke of tremendous power for magic, heating my natural fever to understand. Intellect told me that the trap in the defile was her true objective. For whatever reason, she wanted me. Yet my every sinew was wound tight with certainty that my father’s words would reveal some evidence of immense importance. I could no more have left Raghinne without hearing him than I could have slit my own throat.
It was mostly women’s voices that greeted Andero as we tramped through the village. One asked if he’d thought to bring in a healer to look after our father. Another speculated that Andero might be planning to send the old devil to his grave cursed. Only one inquired if he’d sent for the rest of his brothers and sisters. None of them acknowledged me directly. That suited me very well.
“Da’s a mind of his own how and when to die,” Andero told them. “And he’s settling his own accounts with the divinities; neither prayers nor cursing from me will change it.”
No clank of hammer, no roaring fire or heaving bellows marred the quiet at the far end of the village road. The mingled odors of hot iron, coal, mules, and boiling cabbage that had forever bespoke my birthplace had been lost in an overpowering, throat-clogging stench of charred timber. A touch of my copper bracelet revealed the shadowed rooflines of ramshackle sheds and buildings, clustered against a swale of earth, rock, and mine spoil.
“So the forge yet stands?” I said.
“Not that a strong wind or a hard kick would heed. We lost the roof and three walls in the fire, as well as the stock sheds. I’ve got flimsy walls up and a few roof timbers set. If the weather holds a bit longer, I might get it closed up before the snow piles. But I couldn’t let the paying work lag. If I thought I could bribe you to bide a while, I’d do it. Likely your one hand is better than most around here.”
“I’m far more trouble than worth.” And I’d rather be prisoned in a sorcerer’s hole than trapped in Raghinne again.
My father’s house stood some twenty metres from the smithy. The oak that separated them yet grew there, the only living thing in a close of gravel and iron.
“Hey, Mam!” yelled Andero, as our boots crunched across the rutted yard. He halted by the tree. Village manners forbade a closer approach without invitation, even for family. “Come see who’s here to watch
with us.”
“I’m out the back, washing.” Her voice was frail and querulous. “Can’t keep the quilts clean.”
I could envision my mother old no more than I could envision her young, though in my years at home she’d been scarce past thirty—my own age. I recalled her as forever gray and bony, forever tired, and forever of one mind with my father. Truly, I’d never really considered her a separate being.
“Is’t Jalene come?” Hope livened her question as her dragging steps rounded the corner of the house. The stink of bitter soap identified her, accompanied as ever with the spiked scent of the angelica root she used for every conceivable purpose.
“No,” I answered, before Andero could.
“Who then? Benno’s never—?” Her steps halted. “By the Souleater’s true name, why are you here?” I’d not expected welcome, yet neither did I expect hatred that dripped from her like etching acid.
Andero stepped forward. “I summoned him. It’s time all’s made up among us.”
“ ’Twas too late for this one lon
g ago. Dasn’t you know what he’s become and what he always were? Just look at him! Even the daemons are feared of him.”
“I know what’s said in Jarasco, but I also know what’s true and what’s not.”
“I’ll not have him here!” she spat. “This witching is his filthy doings.”
“Well, well, has our runaway lamb come home? Did you think there would be an inheritance to share?” The flat, hard voice was unmistakably my sister Marta’s. Somehow the third of our seven had sneaked up behind me.
I refused to startle. One show of weakness and Marta’s jibes would draw blood.
“So you’ve found naught to do with your mind but hone your tongue?” I said. “Or did they finally convince you that intelligence was the Souleater’s mark?” I’d once found Marta peering curiously into my books, but my offer to teach her to read them had been rebuffed with curses.