by Carol Berg
The three of them stood between the crumbling columns. Shards of white marble, stained and streaked with black, littered the flat muddy ground. What forces had shattered pillars as broad as my armspan? Even broken, they rose to twice my height. Lightning, perhaps, or siege engines, used in some long-ago attempt to destroy Ardra’s only link with Evanore for a hundred quellae in either direction.
Elene stood at her father’s side, one step behind his massive shoulder. The gray daylight revealed even more likeness between them, if any personage so ferocious and intimidating as Stearc of Erasku could be said to resemble a graceful woman. Their noses were blunt, cheekbones prominent, and jawlines square—hers formed in ivory, his in granite. The air around them seemed to quiver like heat rising from paving stones in deep summer.
The thane snorted. “You’re not such a fool as to think this meeting is by chance, are you, monk? We’ve—”
“Excuse me, my lord.” Gram stepped out from behind Stearc, slightly stooped, black hair whipping in the wind. The secretary looked younger in the daylight, though even more wan and weak beside such exuberance of life as this father and daughter. “I’ve the provisions you required me to pack for the good brother.” Head inclined in deference, the gaunt secretary proffered a wineskin and a canvas provision bag. “I’ll bring the book, and we can discuss our needs as Brother Valen takes a moment to catch his breath.”
“If he can do this at all, he should be able to do it quickly,” grumbled Stearc. “He can fill his belly as we wait for sunset—assuming the damnable sun still exists behind these clouds.”
Thanks be, Gram’s good sense prevailed. I sat on a round of marble and made sure Stearc’s impatience did not worsen from waiting for me to devour the barley bread, soft cheese, and good ale. A fire would have been pleasant, but I’d no mind to delay my refreshment until I’d given the lord my answer to today’s puzzle. He’d likely throw me from the bridge when I refused to help. I could not waste more magic on their ventures. Only a few days and I’d need everything I could muster.
“My lord, if you’ve brought me here to question me further about the maps,” I said, when I was well through the little feast, “I’m afraid I’ve no more to tell you. I demonstrated everything I know in your first test. Any man with the knowledge you hold could have done the same.”
“Evidently not,” snapped Stearc, clasping his broad hands behind his back as if to keep from throttling me. His leather jaque strained with the display of his chest. “Others attempted to use the spell and trace the exact route you took. But they experienced no extraordinary guidance from the map. In hours of searching, they never came nearer the Well than the cliff. What caused your attempt to succeed where others failed?”
He leaned toward me, the pressure of his interest weighing like an iron yoke. Mouth stuffed with bread, I shrugged. But in truth I was not so nonchalant. So the eerie little pool Gildas and I had found…the Well, they called it…was indeed one of the hidden places that only my grandfather’s maps could reveal. The wind poked its chilly fingers under my gown.
I’d not used the guide spell of the map, only my bent and my instincts. What did that mean? I was not familiar enough with the more obscure pureblood arcana to know. My father could not find such places without using the enchantments of my grandfather’s maps—one of the matters that embittered him so sorely, I’d always thought. Max had always been more adept at tracking than at route finding. But then, I had been adept at nothing.
“Perhaps someone told you how to find the Well.” Stearc might have been a magistrate. “Or you ran across some mention of it in documents at the abbey.”
I came near choking. “No, my lord, I certainly did not read of the place. And I doubt—”
“Show him, Gram.”
The secretary sank to the grass just in front of me, sat back on his heels, and opened the book on his knees, searching for the page he wanted.
“Here, Brother.” He turned the book to face me.
I wiped my hands on the empty provision bag and tossed it aside, then took the book. The open page contained two small maps. The secretary pointed to a grousherre, painted in bright reds and yellows. The map was too small to have a cartouche. The tiny words embedded in twisting vines and leaves that filled the narrow borders of the little map would hold the spell.
The characters flowed together like a river of ink as soon as I looked on them, of course, but I needed neither cartouche nor border to tell me what this map depicted. The meticulous drawings of fortress, bridge, columns, river, and branching path were enough to identify the very place where we sat. Interesting that the twin columns were shown whole, each of them bearing a capital in the shape of a trilliot. King Caedmon had been the first to order the wild lily of Navronne sewn onto his cape and his banner and emblazoned on his armor.
My gaze swept the grass between us and the gorge. Among the shards of marble tumbled around us might be those very capitals. Such an odd sensation for that moment, as if I lived in both times at once and might soon see Caedmon himself defending the bridge, as his warlords retreated into Evanore to hold its mountains and gold against the invading Aurellians. The black-haired invaders from the east—my ancestors—had turned their acquisitive eyes upon Navronne when they discovered that the minor sorceries they could accomplish in their own land were not only easier to work, but took fire with power here. They called Navronne the Heart of the World.
And then, of a sudden, I envisioned my grandfather, a scrawny, squinting old man, his lean shoulders hunched, his thick hair gone white, beard yellowed around his mouth, sitting alone by a campfire on this hillside, his long fingers like spiders’ legs sketching this scene in his worn leather traveling book. Alongside the delicate pen strokes that represented the objects in the map, he would scribe a column of inked letters and numbers, noting the measures and proportions, names, and colors he would use to bring out the message he wanted to convey with this grousherre. He had chosen to show the fortress much smaller than the columns, had decided to depict the thrashing river of less moment than the bridge that crossed it or the overgrown paving stones of the approaches. Grousherres were about relative significance rather than accurate measure.
“Brother?” Gram remained sitting on his heels, facing me across the book.
Fire washed my cheeks. I shook off the cascading visions and the hostility and resentment that inevitably accompanied thoughts of my family. “Sorry. What is it you wish me to find?”
The secretary laid his slender finger on the largest object on the map. “This.”
“Oh!” I had assumed the great tree that spread its ghostly branches across the entire page was but part of the book’s decoration. Naught but straggling grass grew anywhere on this hillside. Certainly no tree stood where the map suggested, at the cairn where the path from the valley divided into two. “These maps were drawn years ago,” I said. “If the tree was ever here, it must have been cut down.”
“Perhaps the tree is only hidden,” said the secretary, softly encouraging. “Try it.”
“Try what?” I said, blank for the moment.
“Invoke the spell of the map!” bellowed Stearc, throwing up his hands. “What do you think? Spirits of night, must we be forever plagued with idiots and fools?”
“Give me a little time with the brother, my lord, and I’ll explain what we seek…as we agreed.”
Gram’s quiet insistence held sway. The thane betook himself to the brink of the river chasm. Elene’s glance wavered, but after a moment, she followed dutifully after him. They strolled onto the bridge—a fearsome thing to my mind, no more than one horseman wide and lacking parapet or railing. There they sat, legs dangling over the unseen void.
Gram blew out a great puff of air as if he did the same, though his precarious state seemed more related to his testy lord. “Please excuse my master, Brother. He is in a most difficult position, his life forever balanced on a knife edge. Those things he would do to right matters—deeds he has trained for his
entire life—slide ever farther out of his reach.”
“Because he conspires against his own lord, the Bastard Prince?”
No matter whether Osriel himself came to power—Kemen Sky Lord protect us from such a pass—whichever of the other two brothers became king would need to make alliance with the Bastard Prince to prevent his rival doing the same. Evanori lords who had failed in fealty to Osriel would be safe nowhere.
Gram’s gaunt features twisted into a wry mask. “Indeed, that’s a part of it.”
He tapped the page again. “So, to our problem: We have learned that this particular map will lead us to a location of great importance, a place where we can leave a message. Those who must receive the message live nearby, but we aren’t sure exactly where. And we need their help. But we’ve had no more luck with this map than with the one to Clyste’s Well. And so, again we ask your assistance.”
“But if they live nearby, surely this Edane Groult—”
“Edane Groult has no dealings with these neighbors,” said the secretary dryly. “He would not recognize them were they to sit on his shoes. Or if he did, then his aged heart would stop.”
My skin began to creep. How far did Abbot Luviar’s arrogance of intellect take him? If he could redirect a man’s loyalty to his prince, what could he do with a man’s loyalty to his god?
“What neighbors might these be, living so close to the cursed land?” I said, sounding bolder than I felt. “I am pledged to holy Iero’s service…”…and to Kemen’s and Samele’s and that of all and any gods and goddesses who allowed men to keep their skin and balls and fingernails and enjoy life without excessive torment. Unlike Magrog the Tormentor. The Adversary.
Gram lowered his head for a moment, as if in prayer, then lifted it again and glanced at me, though not so far lifting or so long glancing as to confront me as an honest man. “Good Brother Valen, we propose to deal with neither the Bastard Prince nor the Adversary nor their demonic lackeys, I promise you. Tell me, have you not read the inscription carved above your abbey’s gates?”
“When I entered the gates of Gillarine, I was in no state to be reading anything, Master Gram,” I snapped. I had the sense he was patronizing me behind his quiet manner, so like a monk himself. I didn’t like it.
“The inscription says, The earth is God’s holy book.” He said this softly and with sincere reverence. Without hint of superior laughter.
“I’ve heard the abbot say that,” I said. In point of fact, out of all the prayers and mumblings I’d heard throughout my stay at Gillarine, it had been one phrase that made sense to me. It spoke of worth in common things where others saw naught. And it recalled the words of the sanctuary blessing: by Iero’s grace…by gift of earth…by King Eodward’s grant… And now these men spoke of holy wells. Of hidden trees. Of unseen neighbors whose presence might stop a man’s heart. Of my grandfather’s maps that could guide men to—
I stared at Gram. His dark head was bent over the book, only a swath of his wide forehead visible. A lock of dark hair had fallen forward, but surely underneath it, his eyes would be wild and fervent. Holy men. Madmen. I fought to keep sober. “By my soul, you’re hunting angels!”
He was too intent upon his folly even to blush. “Not precisely. We believe there’s been some confusion through the years. Your god may send angel messengers to tend our souls and guard us from temptation, but care of the earth is charged to other beings. Their stories have been told for as long as men have sat around fires under the stars. They live in realms of earth, not heaven, protecting and enriching the land they walk—that we walk—yet ordinary men cannot find the way to their dwelling places, save by luck or magic. Somehow, the pureblood cartographer who drew these maps could discover them whenever he chose, using only his pureblood bent. And now, using one of his maps, you have opened the way to one of their most hallowed places.”
Struggling to keep from laughing at his sincerity, I touched the naked figures that supported the ribbonlike borders at the map’s four corners. One was the aingerou my grandfather had stuck into every drawing in the book, claiming he did so because I was so fond of them. But the other three figures, two male, one female, poised on toes, legs stretched and bent as if dancing on the page, were no round-bellied imps, but tall and graceful with perfect bodies and flowing red curls. Angels, one might say, though they had no wings. This all began to make some sort of perverse sense. “You speak of the Danae.”
Gram stood up, pulling his billowing cloak tight. “The long-lived have retreated far from humankind. They may be extinct, as reports claim. But a reliable source tells us that if we leave an offering at this tree before the sun reaches the zenith, a Dané will surely come at nightfall to fetch it, if even one yet exists. Then we could present our petition.”
A surge of good humor threatened to plaster a grin on my face. I brought my hand up as if to mask a cough. “An offering…so you’ve brought nivat seeds to buy a parley.” For if the Danae loved feast bread flavored with nivat, lore said they would bargain gems to obtain a quantity of the seeds. Nivat no longer grew in the wild.
“Yes. But first we must find the tree.”
I breathed gratitude to Serena Fortuna and controlled my excitement, bending my head over the map again lest he mark my improved humor. “A marvel that would be, Gram, to discover the Danae after so long. I’ve doubts I can help you, but with Iero’s grace, I’ll see what I can do.”
The wind blustered, snatching at our hair and cloaks and the fine vellum. I smoothed the page and held it to prevent its tearing or wrinkling. My fingers tingled and pricked as I brushed over the inked drawings. Spellcraft, certainly, as much a part of this book as compass roses.
I rotated the book to the left and then to the right, allowing my eyes to travel the lettered border and my lips to move slightly—Gram was watching very closely. Then I laid a finger on the bridge approach and dragged it to the branch point of the path whence the roots of the great tree spread like a spider’s web across the painted hillside. All the while my mind was racing, sorting through the magical tricks that pureblood children learn as they learn to breathe and walk. If only I had listened better to my despised tutors.
“I don’t think we can find this tree where it is not,” I said. “But when I touch the roots on this page…perhaps…” Leaving the prospect dangling, I shut the book and gave it back to Gram.
I would need a few things to make this work. When I stood up and stepped a few quattae to my left, I made sure Gram could not see what my foot encountered. “Do you accompany me this time?”
He bowed in acknowledgment. “One moment, if you would. Lord Stearc would join us as well.”
While he hurried off to fetch the thane, I reached down and grabbed the wadded canvas provision bag underneath my foot and stuffed it up my sleeve. Then I began to prepare a small voiding spell, the finest boon for a boy who wished to hide purloined items—wine, coins from his father’s purse, his mother’s divining cards, his man-smitten sister’s love philtres, or his brother’s prized knife. Strolling through the clutter of broken marble, I also sought a plant of some kind…Ah, there! Tucked up beside a boulder-sized chunk grew a scrabbling astelas vine. Astelas had nice spreading, hairy roots.
The others were returning from the bridge. Cupping my hands to my breast, I dropped to my knees, bent forward, and touched my forehead to the earth. Thanks to the summer’s incessant rains, which had left the ground damp and pliable, I was able to pull up the astelas, roots intact. Before rising from my prayerful posture, I stuffed the plant up my sleeve alongside the bag.
At a respectful distance, my companions waited for me to complete my devotions. The first spell structured and waiting, I closed my eyes long enough to prepare a second—this one an inflation, the simplest kind of illusion. When it was ready, I rose and joined the others.
“One thing before we go,” I said. “As I prayed Iero to guide our steps, I recalled that each time I’ve used the book, neither human nor beast has accompanied
me. Perhaps that circumstance has somehow contributed to the successful outcome.”
“The book says nothing of such a practice,” said Gram, “but we can certainly lag behind, if you believe it might help. It’s almost midday. If our first attempt should fail, we’ve no time for another today.”
“Exactly my thought,” I said, delighted at his practical reasoning.
“Just get on with it,” said Stearc. Was the man ever other than angry and snappish? “We can walk. Corin can bring up the horses. We’re no womenfolk needing to be coddled.”
I refrained from smiling or glancing at Elene, who had drawn up her hood. “All right then.”
As I strode briskly across the hillside, I honed my spells, straining to recall the nuances of skills so long unused. I could afford no explosions or sparks this time. I also plucked the leaves and stem from the astelas, scattering the bits and pieces of greenery by dropping them between my cowl and gown so they drifted to the ground as I walked. By the time I reached the cairn, only a thick clump of roots remained of the plant inside my sleeve.
As I knelt beside the pile of stones, I quickly traced an arc on the lichen-covered stone from the earth to a point a handsbreadth above the ground and back down again, allowing magic to flow through my hands into the voiding spell. The substance of the stone retracted—squeezed aside, as to say—to create the void hole, a gap in the side of the cairn. I reached in and scrabbled in the earth, spreading and burying the astelas roots as best I could.
Now the second spell—the inflation. Magic swelled and passed through my tingling fingers into the buried roots. Trusting that I had remembered enough, I unraveled the voiding spell to close the gaping hole. A gamble, this. To use the bent as I’d sworn not to do. To spend power that I would need within days. But to throw such an opportunity back into Serena Fortuna’s face was surely more risky yet. I rose and waited for the others to arrive.
“I see no tree,” said Stearc, planting his hands on his waist, uncomfortably near his weapons. Gram and Elene flanked him, the secretary paler than ever, the woman flushed and rosy after tethering their horses a few hundred quercae up the hill, then running to rejoin us.