by Greg Keyes
He did not sleep, but dreamed of terror anyway. It hovered beyond the light of his fire; it had invaded his body. If he finished the fanewalk, he would surely die.
The first triad of fanes had been aspects of knowing connected with the written word; the next three were wilder, as reflected by the cruder, more primitive carvings. Saint Rosmerta, the patroness of memory and poetry, was picked out in almost savage simplicity, barely recognizable as human. She took the use of his tongue. Saint Eugmie took his hearing, and from then on Stephen stumbled through the forest in eerie silence. Saint Woth took the sight in his left eye.
When he woke to all of this on the third day, he wondered if he was already dead. He remembered his grandfather talking about how death prepares the old by taking their senses one at a time. How old did that make Stephen now, a hundred? He was crippled, deaf, and half blind.
The next day seemed better; the fanes were to Coem, Huyan, and Veiza—aspects of wisdom, cogitation, and deduction. So far as he could tell, they took nothing from him at all, and by now he was getting used to walking on an insensible leg.
He was settling into the silence, too. Without birdsong or creaking branches or the sound of his own feet, the forest became a dream, so unreal that Stephen could no longer imagine danger in it. It was like his memory paintings, an image or series of images to which he was only distantly connected, that seemed to have very little to do with the here and now.
But when he started to build his fire that night, he didn't know how to do it. He rummaged through his possessions, knowing that he had the tools he needed. He could not recognize them. He tried to picture the process, and failed in that, as well.
He couldn't even remember the word fire, he realized, with swelling dismay. Or his mother's name, when he tried, or his father's.
Or his own.
But he remembered fear perfectly, if not what it was called, and spent the night huddled over his knees, praying for the sun, praying for an end to everything.
Dawn peeked over the trees, and he wondered who he was. The only answer he got was I am walking this path. He stopped in the various buildings he encountered. He couldn't remember why he was doing it and he didn't care. When he reached the last—somehow he knew that it was the last, and he was nearly finished—he was a cloud with a single eye, moving through a jumble of unfamiliar colors and shapes, many alike, all different. He passed like less than a wind, and the only sensation that remained was a rhythmic beating that the Stephen of a few days before might have recognized as his heart.
When he walked into the last fane, that beating stopped, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
DUEL IN THE DARK
AN EYE OF FIRE BLINKED OPEN in the darkness, just to Cazio's right, and Cazio found himself leafed in lamplight. Another lantern was unshuttered near his right hand. Both were Aenan lamps, which directed their light strictly in one direction by means of a mirror of polished brass enclosed in a tin hood.
Now Cazio's enemies could see him quite well, but he could see only vague shapes and the occasional gleam of steel.
He turned slowly, relaxing his shoulders and thighs, holding Caspator almost languidly in his fingers. He hoped fervently his attackers had only swords. Bows were forbidden inside the city gates to all but the guard, but in Cazio's experience, murderers didn't care whether they broke the law or not.
One of the men grew bold, and the long tip of a sword cut into the light, in a slice aimed at Cazio's hand. Cazio laughed, stepping away easily. He let the tip of his weapon drop to touch the ground.
“Come, you brave fellows,” he said. “You have me outnumbered and nearly blinded. And still you begin with this timid bit of poking?”
“Keep it shut, lad, and you may still have a heart beating when we leave you,” someone said. His voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“Ah!” Cazio said. “It speaks, and sounds like a man, yet demonstrates none of the equipage. Do you keep a bag of marbles tied between your legs, so none will know in daylight how fainthearted you are beneath the moon?”
“I warned you.”
A blade slashed into the light, swinging up for a cut from overhead. This wasn't a rapier, but a heavier sword suited for cleaving arms and heads from shoulders. In that instant, as the fellow cocked back for the cut, Cazio saw his forearm, limned by the lamplight. He hit it with a stop thrust, skewering through the meat and into the elbow joint. The man never completed his swing. The weapon clattered to the ground, as its owner shrieked.
“You do sing soprano,” Cazio said. “That's the voice I imagined for you.”
The next instant, Cazio found himself defending against three blades—two light rapiers and another butcher's chopper— and now he knew where his opponents were, sort of; attacking him, they entered the beams of light. He parried, ducked, lunged from the duck and very nearly pricked a surprised face. Then, very quickly, he spun and bounced toward one of the lanterns. A quick double lunge, and his point went right into the flame and on through. The startled bearer let go as oil spurted, caught fire, and turned the lantern into a torch.
Cazio spun again. Burning oil rushed along the length of his blade. Lifting his boot, he kicked the flaming mass that was clinging to the end of it, sending it flying toward his antagonists. They appeared in the sudden burst of light, and with a shout Cazio leapt toward them. He push-cut one along the top of his wrist, leaving a second man who couldn't hold a sword, then he bounced after another, rapier still flaming. He recognized the face—one of the household guards of the z'Irbono family, a fellow named Laro-something.
Laro looked as he might if Lord Ontro were come to take him to hell, which cheered Cazio considerably.
Then something struck him in the back of the head, hard, and pale lilies bloomed behind his eyes. He swiped with his weapon, but the blow was repeated, this time to his knee, and he toppled with a groan. A boot caught him under the chin, and he bit his tongue.
And then, suddenly, he was lying in the street, and the attack upon him had ceased. He tried to rise on his elbow, but couldn't find the needle of strength in the haystack of pain.
“This is no concern of yours, drunkard,” he heard Laro say. “Move along.”
Cazio finally managed to lift his head. The burning lamp lit the alley fully, now. Z'Acatto stood at the edge of the light, a carafe of wine in one hand.
“You've done wha' y'came for,” z'Acatto slurred. “Now leave 'im alone.”
“We're done when we say so.”
Behind Laro, holding the other lantern, was daz'Afinio, the man Cazio had dueled earlier that day. One of the men nursing his hand was Tefio, daz'Afinio's lackey.
“This man took me unawares and robbed me,” daz'Afinio asserted. “I merely return the favor.”
“I'll fix him, my lord,” Laro said, lifting his foot to stamp on Cazio's outstretched hand. “He won't play his sword games after this.”
But Laro didn't stamp down. Instead, he pitched over backwards as z'Acatto's wine carafe shattered on his face and broke his nose.
And, somehow in the same instant, z'Acatto had his blade out. He stumbled forward unsteadily. One of the other men made the mistake of engaging z'Acatto's blade. Cazio watched as the old man put it almost lazily into a bind in perto, then impaled the man in the shoulder.
Cazio wobbled to his feet, just as daz'Afinio drew his weapon and launched an attack—not on z'Acatto, but at Cazio. He managed to straighten his arm in time, and Caspator sank halfway to the hilt into daz'Afinio's belly. The noble-man's eyes went very round.
“I—” Cazio choked. “I didn't mean to—”
Daz'Afinio fell back, off of Caspator, clutching both hands to his gut.
“The next man to step forward dies,” z'Acatto said. He didn't sound drunk.
Only one of the men was left unwounded, now, and they all backed away with the exception of daz'Afinio, who was clutched into a ball.
“You're both fools,” another fellow said. Cazio recognized him from the z'Irbono guard—Mareo somethi
ng-or-other. “Do you have any idea who you just ran through?”
“A skulk and a murderer,” z'Acatto said. “If you get him to the chirgeon at the sign of the needle, he might yet live. It's more than he deserves. Than any of you deserve. Now, go.”
“There'll be more to this,” Mareo said. “You should have just taken your beating, Cazio. Now they'll hang you in the square.”
“Hurry,” z'Acatto urged. “See? He's spitting out blood now, never a good sign.”
Without another word, the men gathered up daz'Afinio and carried him off.
“Come,” z'Acatto said. “Let's get you to the house and have a look at you. Were you stabbed?”
“No. Just beaten.”
“Did you fight that man today? Daz'Afinio?”
“You know him?”
“I know him. Lord Diuvo help you if that man dies.”
“I didn't mean to—”
“No, of course not. It's all just a game to you. Prick on the arm, cut on the thigh, and collect your money. Come.”
Limping, Cazio did as his swordsmaster bade.
“You're lucky,” z'Acatto said. “It's just bruising, for you.”
Cazio winced at the old man's touch. “Yes. Just as I said.” He reached for his shirt. “How did you happen to be following me?”
“I wasn't. I went to find some wine and heard you shouting. Lucky for you.”
“Lucky for me,” Cazio repeated. “How do you know daz'Afinio?”
“Anyone with sense would. He's the brother-in-law of Velo z'Irbono.”
“What? That lout married Setera?”
“That lout owns a thousand versos of vineyards in the Tero Vaillamo, three estates, and his brother is the aidil of Ceresa. Of all of the people to pick a brawl with—”
“It was a duel. And he started it.”
“After sufficient insult from you, I'm sure.”
“There were insults to go around.”
“Well, whatever. Now you've insulted him with a hole from back to front.”
“Will he die?” Cazio asked.
“You worry about that now?” The swordsmaster cast about for something. “Where's my wine?”
“You broke it on Laro Vintallio's face.”
“Right. Damn.”
“Will daz'Afinio die?” Cazio repeated.
“He might!” z'Acatto snapped. “What a stupid question! Such a wound isn't always lethal, but who can know?”
“I can't be blamed,” Cazio said. “They came at me, like thieves in the dark. They were in the wrong, not me. The court will stand with me.”
“Velo z'Irbono is the court, you young fool.”
“Oh. True.”
“No, we must away.”
“I won't run, like a coward!”
“You can't use dessrata against the hangman's noose, boy. Or against the bows of the city guard.”
“No!”
“Just for a time. Someplace where we can hear the news. If daz'Afinio lives, things will cool.”
“And if he doesn't?”
Z'Acatto shrugged. “As in swordsmanship, deal with each attack as it comes.”
Cazio wagged a finger at the old man. “You taught me to look ahead, to understand what the opponent's next five moves will be.”
“Yes, of course,” z'Acatto replied. “But if you rely on your prediction, you may die if you are wrong about his intentions. Sometimes your opponent isn't smart enough or skilled enough to have intentions, and then where are you? I had a friend in the school of Mestro Acameno; he had studied since childhood, for fourteen years. Even the mestro couldn't best him in a match. He was killed by a rank amateur. Why? Because the amateur didn't know what he was doing. He didn't react as my friend assumed he would. And so my friend died.”
Cazio sighed. “I cannot leave the house. Suppose they take it as lien on my return?”
“They will. But we can see that it is purchased by someone we trust.”
“Who would that be?” Cazio murmured. “I trust only you, and even you not so much.”
“Think, boy! Orchaevia. The countess Orchaevia loved your family well, and you especial. She will take us in. No one will think to look for us there, so far in the country. And the countess can arrange that your house falls into the right hands.”
“The countess,” Cazio mused. “I haven't seen her since I was a boy. Would she really take us in?”
“She owes your father many favors, and the countess isn't the sort to let her obligations go unattended.”
“Still,” Cazio grumbled.
At that moment a fist thundered against the door.
“Cazio Pachiomadio da Chiovattio!” a voice cried, carrying faintly through the portal.
“You cannot duel a rope,” the old man said, for the second time.
“That's true. If I die, I die by the sword,” Cazio swore.
“Not here, you won't. You'll take a few, and then they'll bear you down by weight, just as they did in the alley.” Z'Acatto shrugged. “You'll remember I said this, when you feel the noose tighten.”
“Very well!” Cazio snapped. “I do not like it, but I concede your point. We'll gather our things and leave by the cistern.”
“You know about the tunnel from the cistern?”
“Since I was eight,” Cazio replied. “How do you think I got out, all of those nights, even when you sealed my window?”
“Damn. I should have known. Well, let's go, then.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE ABODE OF GRACES
A PRIM WOMAN IN AN OCHRE HABIT with black wimple and gloves greeted Anne and Austra as they stepped down from the carriage. Her gray eyes surveyed the two girls rather clinically from above a sharp and upturned nose. She was perhaps thirty years of age, with a wide, thin mouth plainly accustomed to the shape of disapproval.
Anne drew herself straight, as behind her the knights began taking down her things from the roof of the carriage. “I am the princess Anne of the house of Dare, daughter of the emperor of Crotheny,” she informed the woman. “This is my lady-in-waiting, Austra Laesdauter. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
The nun's lips twitched as if at a private joke.
“I am called Sister Casita,” she said, in heavily accented Virgenyan. “Welcome to the Abode of Graces.”
Sister Casita didn't bow or even nod as she said this, so that Anne wondered if she were perhaps hard of hearing. Could Vitellio be so different that they did not acknowledge the daughter of a king here? What sort of place had she come to?
I've made my decision, she thought, fighting down the sudden bad taste in her mouth. I'll make the best of it.
The Abode of Graces wasn't an unpleasant-looking place. Indeed, it was rather exotic, rising from the spare, rustic landscape as if it had grown there. The stones it was built from were of the same color as those they had seen exposed in seams along the road, a yellowish red. The coven itself sat on a ridgetop encircled by a crenulated wall longer than it was wide and enclosing an area the size of a small village. Square towers with sharply steepled roofs of rust-colored tile rambled up at odd intervals and inconsistent altitudes around the wall, while through the arched gate Anne could make out the large but oddly low-built manses across a flagstoned courtyard. The only height within the wall was a single ribbed dome that Anne assumed to be the nave of the chapel.
Grapevine and primrose crawled up the walls and towers, and olive trees twisted through cracked cobblestones, giving the place a look that was somehow both untidy and immaculate.
The only discordant note was provided by the ten persons with carts and mules who seemed to be camped outside of the gates. They were swaddled head to toe in patchwork linens and gauzy veils and sat or squatted beneath temporary awnings of light cotton fabric.
“Sefry,” Austra whispered.
“What was that?” Sister Casita asked sharply.
“If it please you, Sister,” Austra said, “I was just noticing the Sefry encampment.” She gave a small curtse
y.
“Be wary,” the sister said. “If you keep your voice low, it will be assumed you mean mischief.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Austra replied, more loudly.
Irritated, Anne cleared her throat. “Where shall I have my men carry our things?” she asked.
“Men are not allowed within the Abode of Graces, of course,” Sister Casita replied. “What you want, you will carry yourself.”
“What?”
“Choose what you want and can carry in a single trip. The rest remains outside of the gates.”
“But the Sefry—”
“Will take it, yes. It is why they are here.”
“But that's insane,” Anne said.
“These things are mine.”
The sister shrugged. “Then carry them.”
“Of all—”
“Anne Dare,” the sister said, “you are a very great distance from Crotheny.”
Anne did not miss the lack of any title or honorific.
“Crotheny travels with me,” she said, nodding at Captain Marl and the rest of her guard.
“They will not interfere,” Sister Casita assured her.
Anne turned to glare at Captain Marl. “You're going to let her treat me this way?”
“My orders preclude interfering with the will of the sisters,” Captain Marl replied. “I was to deliver you here, safe and whole, and place you in the care of the Coven Saint Cer, also known as the Abode of Graces. I have done so.”
Anne switched her gaze from the captain to the sister, then looked back down at her things. There were two trunks, both too large and unwieldy for her to lift.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Do your orders preclude giving me a horse, Captain Marl?”
“They do, Princess.”
“A rope?”
He hesitated. “I see no reason not to supply you with a rope,” he said at last.
“Give me one, then.”
Anne grunted, straining her back and legs at the earth, and her trunks dragged reluctantly forward another handspan or so. She shifted her footing.
“I can assure you,” Sister Casita said, “whatever you have there will not be worth the effort. Little is needed within these walls—habit, nourishment, water, tools. And all of those will be provided. If you are vain, rescue your comb. You will not be allowed to wear jewelry or fine gowns.”