Clare was silent now, her eyes once again closed. Her voice had become rough in the end. Silently, Linden stood and brought some food and two glasses of water. Had she ever seen Clare, who was quiet, shy, and efficient, talk for so long?
"Thank you, my lady. You shouldn't have ..."
"No one can tell me what I should or should not, Clare. Unless I am hurting someone or something, that is. No one should be able to tell you, either." She took Clare's hand again. "Oh, Clare, I am so sorry."
Clare shook her head again. "I don't want to believe in this story, Lind."
"This is not a story, Clare. It is stories, and more complex than they look at first glance." Perhaps Linden should not have said this; it sounded analytical and coldhearted. Presently it was comforting Clare that was important, not analyzing what Clare had said. And yet ...
"I don't want to believe!" Clare's voice was even rougher now. "A story or stories, it is all the same, they say that the Master is evil and that the world he made is foul, but this is the world we live in, and I want it to be a good world, Lind! I want the Master to be as kind and benevolent as the Bers say that he is, and I want—I don't want him to have killed this lady Mother. I don't want to have lost a kind mother like I lost Da and then Oldma. Oldma found me the position at Qynnsent, did you know? She met Nan some way or another, and she made Nan promise that she would teach me to read and to talk like a Mierberian, although Oldma herself never could. Oh, Lind, I want to forget that fire was gone even here, in the House, where fire is never supposed to be gone! This House has been my safe place—I—" She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. "I want to forget and live on, but I cannot."
"Clare. My friend." Linden leaned to wrap her arms around Clare and looked deep into the girl's eyes—blue eyes, like the water she feared.
"If I can make this House remain your safe place, I will. But there is something I think I should tell you, so that perhaps you stop torturing yourself with trying to forget all these things. Your Oldma told you to forget, and yet she remembered. For, stories that pass from grandparents to grandchildren, from the time of the Master until now, are the living memories of those who have told them—of those who refused to forget. Think about it, Clare, those stories are much older than your Oldma, or at least the events in them are, for seven hundred and six years have passed since the rise of the Master, and even Noble Houses have not assaulted others' land for more than a hundred. These are not stories about forgetting. You see, I never knew about that Lady of Water. Now she lives on, even in me."
No. Linden's eyes blurred even as she said it, her fingers gripping Clare's shoulders. Somewhere far away, Clare screamed her name.
No, wretch it, I did not mean it in this way. I should have learned, I should know better than to jump into someone else's sad story and further work the sadness until it is personal to me. I should know better. I am not her. I am not defeated, abused by a man, burning, my rivers running low, muddy, and weak, their banks withering dry. The man I love did not force me today. I am not her—she might have even never existed. I am not burning. I am not her!
"Lind, come back to me! Please, Lind, come back!"
Come back? She was still here, even though she could not see Clare clearly, but still she saw the intricate shape of a white snowflake, flickering, melting as it kissed the window's glass. She reached out with her mind to the snowflakes turning into drops of water and shivered with a strange mix of pain and peace.
"Lind, my lady, come back!"
She did, suddenly afraid of where her mind might lead her, her body suddenly weary with all that had happened in the last days. She should be careful; today she had almost let her mind freeze her, and Rianor was not here right now to kiss her back to life and warmth—No, she was not going to think about that again now!
"I am sorry, Clare." She took the girl's hand again. Think about something else, think about stories. Stories and how they seem to rule the world. "I ... I think I should go to sleep."
Clare squeezed her hand tightly—then jumped as a knock sounded on the door, loud and persistent. "Shall I ... shall I see who it is, my lady?"
Linden nodded, once again watching the snow. A moment later she heard, "You again, Blake, you great monster!" amidst barking. Then, more quietly, "Oh, I am sorry for shouting like this, Nan." Linden laughed, suddenly feeling better, the snowflakes going further away as the barks came nearer. A moment later Blake sat before her, raising one paw on her chair.
"This personage is to sleep here tonight if you would let him." Nan's voice, cheerful, despite eyes that always looked tired these days. "Instructions of the High Lord." She put a hand on Linden's forehead, and whispered, so that Clare would not hear. "He is presently with Desmond, talking about that new book of yours—otherwise I think he would have come himself. I am to check on you for him. How are you feeling, Lind?"
"I can manage, Nan." She did not want to lie to the old woman, telling her that she felt fine. Would Rianor have come, truly? She had practically run away from him when they had reached the House. "Thank you for coming. I think I will sleep now. Clare, please stay with me and Blake."
If Nan noticed Clare's reddened eyes, she did not comment.
"Sweet dreams, my girls. We all need them these days," she only said, her voice suddenly choking; then she absentmindedly straightened the sofa's covers and left. Linden watched the door that had swung closed behind her. Perhaps she should go comfort the old woman. Nan had seemed a pillar of strength during Linden's first days in Qynnsent, but more and more often she looked as if she could not manage, as if she could not take it any more.
But Nan had been a pillar of strength when Qynnsent had still been mostly "normal," Linden suddenly knew—when, except for Linden and the events around her, everything that happened in the House had already happened before. Even the High Lord and his wife's untimely deaths years ago, sad and disruptive as they had been, had still been normal. High Rulers died and others replaced them—but fire did not simply stop.
"It is so cold." Clare was shivering, her eyes set on the snow, even though the heat was strong in the room.
"Go to bed, Clare. Here, in my suite. Take the back room as when you care for me, but this time I will care for you." Linden could not go to Nan—because Clare still needed comforting. Rianor was right, Linden could not do everything and care for everyone all at once.
Yet that thought, sensible as it was, was not comforting to Linden herself. She had thought that she would fall asleep easily, weary as she felt, but she did not. She lay in the bed, her eyes wide open, listening to Blake's even breathing. She hugged the dog, the touch of his fur and his doggy warmth making her feel a little better, making the heavy thoughts a little lighter in her head. But a little was not enough ... She turned to lie on one side and then on the other, pulling her blanket to her face at one moment, crumpling it to her feet at the next, her body numb and jittery at the same time, just like her mind.
Clare had only fallen asleep after being covered with three blankets. Linden thought of the life Clare had lived, and she thought of the Lady of Water, and at the same time she thought of the wolf Dreadful and hoped he would heal. She thought of the Ber girl, too, and about how she had thanked her "not only for today." A Waltraud daughter, a Qynnsent enemy, and the same Ber woman as on that day. It could mean ... It could mean so many things, and she thought of some of them, or perhaps of them all. Most of all, though, she thought of Rianor, and there the thoughts became too tangled.
Linden turned to lie on her other side—again. Blake adjusted himself beside her, again, grumbling in his sleep. Good that both he and Clare slept. Right now Linden felt as if she had forgotten how to fall asleep. Forget. Clare's story. Poor little people in Dobria Province—centuries of two Houses warring for Dobria's grain had left a trace that was yet to be wiped out. And hadn't Linden heard another story of some lost Mother? She did not remember right now. She tried to recall it even though she did not truly want to; her mind was
overworked as it were.
Couldn't she stop it from working for a few hours? She had succeeded in stopping it only once, in her fever during her first days in Qynnsent. It had been a moment of thinking of nothing, and it had scared her so much that she had snapped out of it immediately. Interesting if those people who thought less than her and did not understand her—most people, that was—had such moments more often. Interesting what the world would be for one who could spend a minute or an hour with an empty mind ...
Then Linden gripped the blanket tightly, jerking herself into a sitting position so fast that Blake jumped with all four paws, startled, having no time for even a bark.
"Wonder, wander, little girl, to the forest, to the world. Empty head is what you'll need, 'something' is what you'll meet," Linden whispered, and then, "What exactly would you meet if your mind were empty, Blake? That old man knew. He knew perhaps more than the Bers themselves."
And then, because of today's stories, she added, "In forgetting, there is remembering of what is truly there. Our minds are too full."
Chapter 5: Stratagem
Ber Adept Physicker Iain to Ber Acolyte Morten, Mierber, Year of the Master 693:
One thing that you should know is the difference between Physicka and Science. Physicka relies on the rules of the outer world more than any other Ber path does; it is a path about physically affecting objects in the outer world while relying on these rules. The rules of Science as described in the Science books are similar to the rules of Physicka, and yet Science knows only some of the rules. Science is what we present to ordinary people to make them less ignorant of the world that surrounds them.
Ignorance is usually a good thing in people but, as you know, too much of a good thing can become a bad thing easily.
The main difference, however, is that while Scientists only know the rules themselves, Physickers know how to apply the rules to work with Magic. Mostly, what we do is make Mierenthia cooperate with the Magic of other Ber paths—but we do have Magic of our own, too. We have Magic to check what the rules are of the outer world, and if the rules still hold that were true a century ago.
The rules change. More often than we would have liked them to.
Physicka is a dangerous path. Other paths rely on rules and order wrought by the Master, or by the Powers That Be, or by other Bers. We, on the other hand, rely on the rules and order of Mierenthia—and Mierenthia is fickle and has been known to betray us.
Ah, but it is an Artificer that you want to be? Good. This is indeed a path that relies on rules and order that are much more human; Artificery depends on the Artificer himself and on the Artificers that came before him. It almost does not depend on Mierenthia.
Rianor
Night 29 and morning 30 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706
Rianor woke up long before the first rays of the Sun would come playing on his study's windows. He had fallen asleep at his desk, the Ber book clutched in his hands.
A small table clock stood on the desk before him, ticking. Another one lay beside it, silent, torn into useless parts.
He had been unable to make that clock tick. He never could, before, just like he could not remake the mechanism of a newer toy—and he could not now, either, despite the book.
Rianor resisted a great desire to smash the book into the wall. It was useless. It had taught him nothing, after all.
He walked to his suite and took a shower, but even the cold water did not dissipate the tightness in his head and what felt like grains of dirt in his eyes. "Focus," the book said. "Focusing is the first prerequisite. Being able to stay focused on your own fire and your own mind for long periods of time is important regardless of the path—but for Artificery it is of cardinal significance."
Rianor understood that well enough. At least, he understood the "mind" part. The second prerequisite was to focus on only one piece of his mind (and fire) at a time, and he could do that, too. Last night, after talking to Desmond and sending Nan and Blake on their way, he had focused on the mind's part that cared for the book and book only, even though the thoughts of a certain woman had been very difficult to ignore. Damn her. Rianor had contained her in a certain part of his mind only, and even now he did not want to look there, for there everything was in tangles and a mess.
He snapped the shower's dial switch to an "off" position and scraped his hair dry with force that almost tore the towel. Damn them all.
Desmond had, surprisingly, paid little attention to the book—had urged Rianor to leave the book alone, rather.
"Read it if you must," he had said "but be careful with tampering with what you do not understand. You do not know why she gave it to you; it might be the Bers' next step in humbling us. Whatever it is, it is dangerous. More important than this book is to keep your eyes and ears open tomorrow, as well as what impression our House will make on others. Most important of all is building our relationship with House Laurent. We need allies in these uncertain times, Rianor, especially Balkaene allies."
Rianor thrust the towel into the laundry basket. Of course, this was what Desmond would say. People, impressions, relations, always people. Desmond had earlier disapproved of sending Brendan to the Edge, too.
Yes, certainly, communicating with fools was what was important, not Qynnsent sitting down to learn all they could about fire and how they could live if the Bers took theirs away. Outside, the world was still stiff with snow and ice, and there were thirty more days until the official beginning of spring—but that was not the heaviest thing on Desmond's mind. No, the new High Lady of Laurent and Rianor's saving of her mother deserved the special honor.
Rianor understood his First Counselor's thinking. Politics was what Desmond knew, so politics was what he clung to, desperately, in a world that was now changing every day.
But it was high time that Desmond and the rest of them learned to see the world as it was, not as they were used to it being. "Look around. Look at the world," Linden had told Rianor last night. He had. He was looking at the world even now, even though he also wanted to be looking at her.
Back in his study, he made himself concentrate on the piece of his mind that held the book and clocks again. He drew one of the symbols described in the book and then assembled the parts, drawing and assembling just as the book instructed. Then he drew the only other symbol listed in the book. He kept his eyes on his drawing all the time, all the time imagining all the clock parts connected together in one whole and ticking—again as the book instructed.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours. Like earlier in the night, he lost track of time—and, like earlier in the night, at some point he found himself sitting at his desk, trembling, his body drenched in sweat, his lungs barely able to take a breath. Minutes or hours later he realized that he was cold, and that he wore only trousers and a light shirt.
Shirt? What was that and why did it matter? Rianor stared at the clock parts before him for a few more minutes before he stood and dragged a sweater over his head. There! The shirt was not enough in the cold, that was why he was thinking of it!
It took a few more minutes for the High Lord of Qynnsent to start shaking with the realization that he had been proud of himself for being smart enough to dress himself.
And still the clock would not tick, and the book would not say why it would or would not, or even what the two symbols meant—if they meant anything at all. It was a thin book, named Practical Introduction to Artificery, and the only information it contained was the two prerequisites, the two symbols, and the instructions of dissembling and assembling a simple clock like Rianor's. Even fire was not mentioned, except regarding the prerequisites, and Rianor had the feeling that it was only mentioned there because the book was for Bers—that perhaps all Ber books had to mention fire. The book also contained, in a pouch clasped to the back cover, small metal tools. That, at least, was a good thing.
Rianor dragged himself up from the chair, drank half a glass of water and splashed the rest over his face. There, the wor
ld was becoming clear once again. There was a hint of pink lightness in the sky, too, and soon he must leave the book and focus on the coming day.
And why was he focusing on that book at all! It did not work for him, and it gave no reason for his failure. It even gave no reason why the parts should be assembled in the way they were—forming what resembled a mechanism and yet was not one. Something like this would not work according to the rules of Science. So, Science and Magic were not, after all, the same. It was not surprising; he had known it for some time now. But what were the rules of Magic? Were there rules of Magic? "I do not know," Merlevine of Waltraud had said, and her book provided no explanation, either, only another ritual to follow mindlessly.
When Rianor did try to follow it he felt as if he should be walking on a path but was instead colliding with a wall. Perhaps he should let Master Keitaro try it—some of his mindless rituals worked, such as the calming one. Or perhaps Linden would have more success.
And perhaps the pigs would have lived because of the Water of Life, but they had not. No. Rianor would not let her tamper with this. He would not expose her to the risk.
What was he thinking, anyway? He blamed Desmond for not seeing the world as it truly was, but what did Rianor see? He had hated the Bers for a large part of his life, but all his life he had believed in them—and so he still did. Despite everything that had happened recently, despite the failing world outside, the pigs, the elevators and can openers, despite the fire outage in Qynnsent itself and despite Merlevine, Rianor would still seek wisdom in their books.
The Makers of Light Page 17