More words weren’t really necessary, though, because he knew what the speaker meant. He’d seen the shape, the way the shadow of the bookcase had changed from what he remembered. Zelen darted over to the spot he’d seen, where a gap of a few inches ran on two sides between the case and the walls.
An object was changing the shadow, a long, thin object that someone had wrapped in dark cloth and shoved behind the bookcase. Whoever it was had done a decent job of hiding it back there—even the shadow wouldn’t have made Zelen catch on if not for the voice—and had wrapped it well.
He knew what it was all the same. The words wouldn’t come, but his stomach roiled when he saw the shape, his body recognizing what his mind couldn’t yet. Listening for returning footsteps, Zelen only had the nerve to unwrap the top of the object, but that was all he needed.
Dark blood had dried on gilt, leaving the outline of three fingers clear, though slightly distorted. Above it, the magelight shone off a huge fire opal, the same one that Zelen had seen over and over again in the hilt of Branwyn’s sword.
Chapter 28
Part of him had known. Part of him must have known, Zelen realized, because he didn’t collapse from shock, or vomit, or shout in rage. He didn’t so much as pause before wrapping the sword back up again, as tightly as Gedomir or Alize—it would have been one of the family, no point going through names—had concealed it before.
I’ll come back later, he thought at it, and stumbled to his seat. There was the shock, manifesting after the initial urgency had pushed it aside. He knew such things. He’d read the books and trained with the priests, even when his father had forbidden him to actually enter the Dark Lady’s service.
He would come back to that fact later too.
At first he toyed with the idea that his family might have been framed for the attack, thinking, They’re my blood. I owe them at least the same courtesy I gave to a Sentinel, but it wouldn’t wash. None of the household had been staying with the Rognozis. Except for Zelen, none of them had been in the city.
If, by whatever freak chance, they’d come across the sword innocently, it wouldn’t have hurt them at all to take it to the guard or one of the temples. They’d even have been praised for it, perhaps, as providing a valuable clue.
Why hadn’t they?
Because their story would raise questions, and they couldn’t swear to the truth of it in front of Tinival’s altar. Because at least one of the Verengirs had been involved in killing the Rognozis, and possibly in framing Branwyn for the murder.
And why had they done that? What would they get out of it?
Thinking even briefly of that question was like taking the bandage off a wound where blood poisoning had set in completely. There was nothing to find in any direction but putrescence.
If Zelen flubbed what came next, there would be no chance to discover how far the rot went or to heal whatever was left.
He sat upright in the chair and thought hard at himself: Nothing happened, you’re bored, you’re talking about the succession, you want wine and dinner. You want wine and dinner, nothing happened, you’re talking about the succession, and you’re bored.
By the time Gedomir came back in, Zelen had almost managed to make himself believe it.
“House not on fire, I hope,” he drawled.
“Hardly,” said Gedomir, in the same we-take-care-of-ourselves-better-than-that manner that had always irritated his brother.
Now Zelen just hoped he’d go on being superior. Superior might let him overlook enough.
* * *
“Do you know much about the wards Zelen put up?” Branwyn asked.
The morning had dragged into afternoon. Interesting as her book was, the urge to be taking action had crept back up after the exercises. She supposed talking magical theory could serve as a stopgap.
“Not a great deal,” Altien said. “Zelen mentioned that his ancestors had left belongings in the cellars here, and that a few of those had been warding disks.” He closed his notes and made a thoughtful purring noise. “He did mention a few more complicated ones that he hadn’t been sure how to activate. Do you believe you might know?”
“Maybe.” She’d never been a wizard, but the basic magical principles had been part of all Sentinels’ training. Branwyn had been interested enough to study more now and again. “It’s worth a look, at least, if you don’t think he’d object.”
“I doubt very much that you could do a great deal he’d object to,” said Altien, and went on before Branwyn could react in any way aside from an embarrassing blush that her bruises no longer camouflaged. “And he’s never been particularly sensitive about his family’s belongings. I’ll see if his servants will allow me access.”
Ten pages of poetry later, he returned with a small armful of metal and wood, and set it down on the table where Branwyn’s food had been.
“A few of these resemble the protections our mages use,” he said, “but not many, and not a great deal. Then again, it was never my area of expertise, and we have different symbols for the gods.”
“Sitha is a tower for you, not a spider, yes?” Branwyn picked up the first ward, a glyph formed of delicate silver links, and tried to remember what Vemigira had told her about waterfolk religion, as well as what she knew of magic. “This one might need to have a censer in the middle, though you’d have to ask an actual wizard what to put in it, or maybe a priest.”
“It’s true. We’re not overstocked with spiders, and our cousins”—he flared his tentacles indicatively—“spin no webs, so the metaphor’s less apt. And the sword is Talleita, not Alcerion, as it is for you. Neither flames nor tears have much meaning for us, you understand.”
“Underwater? Makes sense to me.” The next item was a wooden statue, with a hollow cup in front and the back curving up into a series of patterns. All were abstract, and none suggested any god to Branwyn. She suspected this one was meant to channel magical power directly. It probably needed a wizard to work, but it was hard to know for certain. That cup in front, for instance… With wine or blood, depending on the spell, a decently skilled amateur might manage some protection.
She picked it up, meaning to check if there was any residue of one substance or the other. An unevenness near the back caught at her fingers. “This could have been better maintained,” she said.
“It was thrown in a trunk with a number of others,” Altien confirmed. “I suppose the family wanted a good number of such things out of their way. Is it badly broken?”
“No,” she said slowly. Branwyn realized she wasn’t feeling splintered wood but a straight line, slightly raised. “I don’t think it’s broken at all. Pass me the fruit knife, please.”
An old catch was unlikely to be trapped, but one never knew, especially in this city, and Branwyn didn’t have Darya’s gift for ignoring poison. It was more frustrating springing it with the knife but less potentially deadly, so she was willing to take the time and bite her tongue when she wanted to swear. Altien closed his notes and watched.
The catch popped open at last. In the compartment beyond was a wad of old paper: a tightly wound scroll that had been folded in half before being jammed into the hidden niche.
“Old love letters?” Altien suggested. “It would seem an incongruous place, but any port in a storm, as the saying goes.”
“There’s a poetic sentiment about love chasing away demons,” Branwyn said. She smoothed out the paper. It wasn’t as old as she’d believed at first—this ward had been put away considerably after the storms had ended, likely in her own lifetime—but there were ragged places already, and the ink had blurred in spots. “But no, I don’t think so.”
Third month, second week, fifth day. Unusual appetites continue as expected. R. can no longer enter the ceremonial chamber, as her presence—or more likely the babe’s—disrupts the established magic there, and it takes hours to repair. Inconvenient,
but the best evidence that she truly bears the Vessel of the Sundered Soul.
Health otherwise robust. No emotional upset: she is radiant, rather, in the knowledge of her Great Purpose.
“I don’t know what they were doing,” said Altiensarn, bending over to read the cramped script, “but I suspect that I wouldn’t like it.”
“No,” said Branwyn. “Anybody who uses capitals like that has nothing good in mind.”
* * *
Dinner was a bad dream.
The food was plain as always, and there was no wine, but for once that didn’t matter to Zelen. He didn’t taste a thing, though he ate as heartily as he could make himself.
Father sat at the head of the table, a gaunter, taller version of Gedomir except for his eyes, which were very pale blue, a color he’d only passed on to Alize. He spoke very little, but Zelen knew that he heard all that the others said and was noting it down for future use. Mother, at the other end, was his dark counterpart, shadow to his ice, and she did speak.
“Zelen, what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Oh, this and that,” he said, weighing his options. Mentioning the festivities in town would have gotten him a rebuke for frivolity when the Rognozis hadn’t been dead a week. “Keeping fairly busy with the clinic, you know.”
“Charitable,” she said, and the approval still pleased him. “I hope they have a proper sense of gratitude for what you do. Alize, how are the harvests this year? More rice than last?”
So it went on, a tutor’s quiz about their own lives, with sparse smiles as the reward. Zelen and his siblings didn’t talk to one another at the table; they ate and waited for questions until the meal was finally over.
“I will retire now,” his father finally said. “Zelen, on your return to the city tomorrow, ensure that all is ready for our visit. It will be a painful enough occasion without chaos.”
“Yes, Father.”
He’d be going back the next day, then. That was just as well—it meant less time in which to give himself away, not to mention less time he had to spend in the house itself. Zelen would have liked to have been asked, but had long since given up expecting it.
After another interminable hour in the parlor, while Alize played well but somberly on the harp, bedtime arrived, and Zelen went thankfully to that as well.
He didn’t sleep, of course.
He did take his boots off. That would help. Then he lay on his bed for an hour, alternately reading a scandalous novel and wondering what Branwyn was doing in his house, until he was fairly certain that the rest of the household had sought their own beds.
Sneaking had served him well as a youth. Through learning to move quietly and blend decently with the darkness, he’d often been able to get food after hours and books he wasn’t supposed to read, not to mention pursuing a liaison or two with local girls when he’d gotten a bit older. He hadn’t thought to use the skill as a grown man, but it came back fairly quickly. He reached the scullery without waking the half-grown boys sleeping on the hearth.
A spare broom handle served his purpose admirably. The weight was very different from that of Yathana, of course, but Zelen doubted that any of his family was going to try to wield the thing. He held it close to his chest as he crept back into the hallway. The crash as one end knocked into a pitcher, or he tripped over a table leg, echoed endlessly in his mind but never actually came.
The library door sounded like an avalanche when he closed it. Zelen froze shortly beyond, listened for footsteps, and for a moment couldn’t make himself believe he heard none, or shake himself into action when he was sure. The enormity of what he was going to do, of what it all meant, descended on him. He was only glad that dinner had been hours in the past.
His feet felt too large as he headed toward the bookshelf. His hands were blocky, clumsy as they’d never been when healing, but he withdrew Yathana without breaking anything and quickly substituted the broom handle, wrapped in one of the old cloaks that had still been in his wardrobe. It looked enough like the sword’s wrappings to fool a casual glance. A more-than-casual one… He hoped to be well away before that happened.
Back, said the sword in his mind. Good.
If that’s the word for it, Zelen thought in return, and left the library.
The servants’ staircase was unlit, and without any carpet to soften the wood, the stairs were inclined to creak. Zelen descended one careful, measured step at a time, in dark silence bound by narrow walls. When he heard voices near the first-floor landing, he nearly jumped.
“…contained…Hanyi,” Gedomir was saying. Dim light came through the wall from where he spoke, so Zelen sidled carefully closer, making sure that Yathana didn’t bump into any of the surrounding wood, and peered through the minute crack. The view was too restricted for him to be certain, but from the direction, he thought Gedomir was on the first floor in the east wing. Voices did carry; that went with the drafts, particularly in the servants’ quarters.
“She knows what she’s about,” Mother replied calmly.
“But refreshing the wards is going to take another expedition.”
“And? There’s no shortage of supply.”
“It’ll draw attention.” Gedomir sighed. “Damn Sentinels, and damn Zelen. If he’d done his task competently—”
Zelen’s immediate wince, ridiculous given what he knew about Gedomir but as inevitable as his next breath, turned into startled paralysis at the sound of a hard slap.
“Watch how you speak of family.” Mother pronounced every letter in every word, and all of them were ice-edged. Behind the wall, Zelen blinked, and his grip on the sword tightened. He hadn’t anticipated hearing any of them take his part. Then Mother continued. “Furthermore, this is the second time you’ve forgotten your brother’s place in our plans. I might begin to believe it willful.”
“I assure you, Mother, I know his role.”
“Do you? Perhaps we were insufficiently clear in your youth. The youngest is a necessary distraction. In case you don’t comprehend both words, ‘distraction’ means he’s ill-suited to be your spy, and ‘necessary’ means he’s not collateral damage when you want somebody dead. We’d have to call up your tiresome cousin to fill his place, for one thing, since Hanyi’s far past being able to take on the role. There’s no end to the disruption that would cause. Particularly now.”
“Yes, madam,” Gedomir said, contrite or putting on a reasonable show of it.
“Seek your bed, Gedomir. The god has laid many tasks ahead of us for the next few days, and we must all remember our rightful positions.”
There was a silent moment. Zelen thought Gedomir was nodding and possibly bowing. “Good night, madam,” he heard again, and then footsteps.
Zelen started down the stairs again. The effort of it, the care involved in moving so that no step creaked under his weight, wasn’t exactly soothing, but it was a place to put his attention, which was almost as good. He wished it had taken more work.
Distraction.
The god.
The air of the stable yard was cool against Zelen’s face when he opened the door. That and the solid weight of Yathana were all that convinced him that he was solid and material, that all of the last few hours had really happened.
It had. He had to act on it.
As he made his quick, covert way across the yard to the coach house, Zelen felt the sword in his mind. There were no words this time, but he got a general sense of encouragement: a rough clap on his mental shoulder. It made the stones steadier beneath his feet.
Grooms and stable hands slept close to their charges, but the coach house was set off a little way in the stable yard and offered no half-comfortable bed of hay. Zelen was fairly certain that nobody saw him approach his carriage. The seat took some effort to pull up, and the ripping noise when it did come loose made Zelen hiss, but he created enough of a gap betwee
n the cushions and the wood to slide Yathana into. Fortunately, winter was coming on, and carriages weren’t overly warm. Furs hid a multitude of defects.
He was reluctant to leave the sword, not only because of fear that it—she, he supposed—would be discovered, or because she was the first sympathetic presence he’d encountered in the house. Power lingered about Yathana in a way that Zelen, no mage, could sense once he’d touched her. It was a refreshingly hot, clean force.
His mother’s words came back to him as he snuck back to his room. They hurt, but pain was familiar, even if not in that particular form, and secondary. She’d said Zelen was a distraction. He was afraid that he knew what he’d been distracting people from.
Chapter 29
“I’ve heard of the ‘Sundered Soul’ before, I believe,” said Altien. He closed the door behind him and took his seat, fur golden-brown in the afternoon light. “The memory occurred to me while I was putting the clinic in order. If I’m correct, it’s a story from the stonekin, and it concerns one of the gods, though I couldn’t provide more details. How is your knee recovering?”
“Quickly, thank the gods,” said Branwyn, and flexed it to show him. “Walking around the room only hurt a little today. The exercises have been helping. Have a look.”
Altien sat, peered, and then pressed in several places. Only three hurt, and only one drew a yelp from Branwyn. “Yes,” he said, finally, “excellent improvement. I’d give your physiology equal credit, though, and perhaps more.”
“The Adeptas will be flattered if I survive long enough to tell them. How would you say I’d fare in a fight?”
“I expect you’ve done your own assessment.”
“Yes, but two points are more stable than one.”
“Poorly, then, if you were up against a skilled opponent, or more than one. The knee wouldn’t collapse immediately, but it would hinder you badly. I suspect a day or two more before you’re at your full strength and speed. Do you anticipate combat?”
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