Stone of Inheritance

by Melissa McShane

  “I’m too superstitious for that.” Alaric squeezed her knee gently and turned away. Sienne petted Spark’s mane again as she watched him go. He moved, not gracefully as Kalanath did, but like a force of nature, like someone who was so used to other people getting out of his way he was completely unconscious of it. She wondered how that would feel, never worrying about having to move aside for anyone.

  It took another few minutes for all of them to be ready to leave. Perrin’s eyes were bleary and squinted against the clear morning light as if they pained him. Maybe he had trouble getting drunk, but he suffered all the aftereffects anyway. She hesitated to ask when they would stop for him to make his devotions. He hadn’t said anything about it at breakfast—hadn’t said much of anything—and she felt awkward bringing it up. But if Perrin’s relationship with his avatar was on shaky ground, didn’t that affect all of them? She just didn’t think nagging him, even if it wasn’t meant as nagging, would help.

  Alaric guided his large gelding toward the gate. “We’ll stop at Harchow around noon for a meal, then press on to Verrone to spend the night. That second leg of the journey will be longer, but there’s no helping that unless we want to camp somewhere instead of staying at an inn.”

  “I’d rather an inn,” Dianthe said.

  “Did you not say it makes you soft?” Kalanath teased.

  “I did. It does. I’m soft. And I don’t care.”

  “Ride on,” Alaric said, and they trotted out of the stable yard together.

  The streets of Uless were crowded with plainly-dressed men and women headed for the commons south of town. A couple of carriages, one finely decorated and gilded, the other plain and black, made even less progress against the tide of humanity than Sienne and her friends did. The road cleared substantially when they passed the commons, where booths flying the standards of various large farms and ranches dotted the fine new lawn. “What is it they do?” Kalanath asked.

  “Hiring fair,” Dianthe said. “People come from all over for jobs on local farms or those ranches—over there, to the south, you can see one. It’s usually a big party time, though it looks like today is strictly business.”

  “My father always turns it into a major event,” Sienne said. “They have a festival, and they crown the Queen of First Summer, and he and Mother and all us children would have to go around and be nice to the major land holders. I didn’t like that part much, but I was young then—I left for Stravanus when I was fourteen. I liked the harvest fairs better. So much amazing food.” She giggled. “Though the first summer festival does have the greased pig contest. All those young men, falling over themselves to catch a well-oiled piglet…”

  “Why would they do that?” Perrin asked.

  “Well, they get to keep the pig, for one. A good pig can provide a lot of food, come winter. And it’s funny.” Sienne giggled again in memory. “Nobody has any dignity when they’re half-naked, covered in mud and grease and chasing a pig.”

  “You had a remarkably rural upbringing for a duke’s daughter,” Perrin said. He sounded amused, and it cheered Sienne that he might be coming out of his funk.

  “My father loves the land,” she said, “and he makes it a point to know his landholders and their problems. And he has a country estate he likes to putter around in. People come from all over to look at his roses. So I spent most of my youth outside the city.”

  “I can’t even imagine that,” Dianthe said. “City girl, born and bred. I was even more out of my element the first time I traveled rough than you were nine months ago.”

  “I, too, am a creature of the city,” Perrin said. “Though I find I enjoy our excursions into the wilderness. It is a contrast that increases my pleasure at my return to civilization.”

  “I’m never really comfortable in the city. It’s stifling,” Alaric said, shrugging to adjust the position of the sword slung across his back. “So which do you prefer, Sienne?”

  She almost said Wherever I’m with my friends, but discarded it as being terribly sentimental. “Oh, I like both for different reasons. I like cooking over the fire, and I like a bed with a mattress.”

  “Not things you can have at the same time,” Alaric said. “Unless there’s a spell for that, too.”

  Sienne grinned. “Convey again, but I’m not sure I could manage something as large as a bed, even if I had the spell.”

  “Kalanath, you’ve been quiet,” Dianthe said, turning to look over her shoulder at where he rode near the rear of their group. “Everything all right?”

  “I did not sleep well,” Kalanath said. “Bad dreams.”

  “Not about the falcon again?” Sienne asked.

  “I will be happy when it is gone.” He looked, Sienne realized, as tired as Perrin, his skin sallow as if he’d been shut away from the sun for weeks. His attention never strayed from the bundle Sienne carried in front of her. She wanted to ask what he’d dreamed about, but had a feeling he wouldn’t answer.

  A rattling from behind them announced the approach of a carriage, and they moved to one side to let it pass. It was heavy, painted a plain, unadorned brown, and the windows were closed and curtained. That was a shame, given how beautiful the day was. Sienne waved at the driver, who ignored her, his gaze focused straight ahead. “I’m glad we’re not cooped up in a carriage,” she mused aloud.

  “Yes, you don’t know how lucky you are. Alaric is a terrible traveler. He gets sick in enclosed carriages,” Dianthe said.

  “I do not.”

  “You do so. There was that trip to Glorenze, five years ago—”

  “I had food poisoning.”

  “I ate everything you did, and I didn’t get sick.”

  “Just bad luck.” Alaric scowled at her.

  “And then there was—”

  “Could we talk about something else? Perrin, when do you want to stop for prayers?”

  “In half an hour.” Perrin didn’t sound enthusiastic. He also didn’t sound even a little bit drunk. Sienne, who was riding beside him, didn’t see his flask at his waist or anywhere else. Should she mention it? Surely he knew what he was doing better than she did. She was seized with an irrational anger that she had to step so lightly around people she considered friends—couldn’t ask Kalanath about his dreams, couldn’t ask Perrin about his flask. It was stupid.

  “Perrin, why does Averran want his priests to be a little drunk when they approach him?” she asked.

  Her sudden aggressive inquiry startled him. “Ah—well, it is to lower our inhibitions and to give him greater access to our minds, for better communication. It is not necessary, as Averran can speak to his followers whatever their state of sobriety, but Averran himself was fond of liquor. He claimed it unlatched the gate of his soul, though he might have spoken that in jest. He rarely spoke so poetically unless he meant it as humor, or as rebuke to those who thought too well of themselves.”

  “But you’ve said before it’s hard for a priest of Averran to become truly drunk.”

  “Is there a point to this inquisition?”

  “I just want to understand why, if he wants you to be drunk, he’d make it hard.”

  “Sienne,” Dianthe began.

  “He allows his priests the dubious gift of consuming liquor while remaining in only a slightly inebriated state,” Perrin said stiffly. “Do you intend to criticize me for my overindulgence, too?”

  “Perrin, what makes you think we’re critical of you? You’re our friend. We’re concerned. If Averran thinks—”

  “I don’t—” Perrin said loudly, then squinched his eyes tight shut and let out a deep breath. “My relationship with my avatar is my business and mine alone. I do not expect an outsider to understand it. Particularly one with no religious affiliation of her own.”

  “Well, maybe it takes an outsider to see things clearly. If you don’t—”

  “Sienne, that’s unnecessary,” Alaric said. He glared at Sienne over his shoulder. She glared back at him. Somebody needed to brace Perrin with his prob
lem, and sooner was better than later.

  “I have changed my mind. This field, now, is as good a time and place as any,” Perrin said, steering his horse over the verge and into a grassy meadow to the left of the road. Sienne dismounted and led Spark to one side of the road, following Alaric.

  Perrin handed his reins to Dianthe and rummaged in one of his saddlebags, finally coming up with the missing flask. He took a long drink and made a face as if it were medicine rather than fine brandy, which Sienne had seen him filling the flask with that morning.

  “Please excuse me,” he said, hooking the flask to his belt.

  The field’s fine new grass was the brightest yellow-green Sienne had ever seen, dotted with white flowers the size of her pinky nail. Perrin strode across it, crushing grass and flowers alike under his boots. There were millions of tiny flowers, and it would be impossible to cross the meadow without destroying some of them, but to Sienne’s eyes Perrin walked as if he wanted to crush as many as possible.

  She tried not to feel guilty at haranguing him. He had a problem, and he needed to face up to it. So what makes you responsible for that? she asked herself, and felt even guiltier. She needed to apologize, but he was already yards away and settling down cross-legged on the grass.

  The rest of them stopped at a distance and watched Perrin take another drink from his flask, then place a handful of white rice paper squares in his lap and settle his hands loosely on his knees. “O Lord of crotchets, it is I,” he said, his voice carrying clearly to them on the breeze. “Please hear my petition, and grant me your blessings according to your will.”

  He fell silent. Sienne shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of a blackbird singing to an unseen neighbor, twit-a-twit, twooo. The breeze returned, carrying with it the scent of a distant river. Still Perrin said nothing. His face was still, his eyes closed, and he did not appear to be under the strain he sometimes was when making an extraordinary request of Averran.

  Perrin took in a deep breath. “O Lord, I ask again, please grant my request.” Again he fell silent. Then his face contorted in pain, and he let out a breath as if he’d been punched.

  Kalanath took a step toward him and was restrained by Dianthe’s hand on his arm. Perrin’s hands closed into fists so tight the tendons stood out. His breathing went ragged, the sound of someone exerting himself to the utmost. Sienne found herself leaning forward, willing him to speak or cry out, anything to release the pressure he must surely be under.

  Perrin let out another deep breath, sagging forward. His hair spilled across his face, concealing it, and his hands relaxed. When he didn’t immediately stand, Alaric crossed the distance to him, followed by the others. Alaric knelt by his side. “Are you all right?”

  Perrin shook his head without looking up. “I am not dead, which I suppose is cause for rejoicing.”

  “You could have died?” Dianthe exclaimed.

  “Unlikely. I meant, rather, that so long as I live, there is hope.” He raised his head and looked at Sienne. “Was it so obvious, the path I was treading?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sienne said, though a horrible suspicion grew inside her.

  “It seems Averran has finally lost patience with me. He was… rather vocal about my flaws. Apparently my justifications, while satisfactory to myself, are not good enough for an avatar. And since I knew this and pretended not to, he was even testier than the situation warranted.”

  Silence fell again, this one heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Alaric said, “Does this mean you’re no longer a priest?”

  “More accurate to say I am a priest under chastisement. Averran’s displeasure does not extend to casting out his erring worshippers, as that is contrary to his belief in humanity’s capacity for increasing in wisdom and faith. But I will not receive any more blessings until Averran forgives me.” Perrin smiled a crooked half-smile. “I realize this makes me useless to you.”

  “You are not useless,” Sienne retorted. “You’re one of us no matter what you can or can’t do. You wouldn’t kick me out if I lost my spellbook, would you?”

  “Sienne’s right,” Alaric said. “Now, what will it take for you to gain forgiveness? And how can we help?”

  Perrin blinked at him. Then he laughed. “Oh, my friends,” he said when he finally regained control of himself, “I had forgotten what true fidelity looks like, having seen so little of it in my own family. It will take time, but I know not how much. Give me another moment, and I will humble myself to inquire.”

  “We’ll wait for you with the horses,” Alaric said. “Take your time.”

  Sienne tried to avoid stepping on the flowers as they trudged back across the field. It was impossible. She wanted to march into Perrin’s father’s house and shake him until he saw sense. What kind of person disinherited and banished his son just because he found a different path to God? Sienne’s father worshipped Gavant as Perrin once had, so she knew a little of that avatar’s worship, and Gavant would never demand that of his followers. He didn’t seem to care that Sienne’s mother worshipped Kitane, and that only three of the eight Verannus offspring had followed in their father’s footsteps. If Perrin drank too much, it was all down to Lysander Delucco being arrogant, or narrow-minded, or both. Though according to Averran, it didn’t really matter why Perrin was a drunk, just that he was. And that he was capable of changing.

  She petted Spark’s mane for a while, trying to ignore Kalanath’s intent gaze. He wasn’t looking at her, just at the artifact, but since she was in the way, it was she who got the full brunt of his stare. Alaric said, “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re in the middle of civilization, so it hardly matters whether he has healing or protection blessings,” Dianthe said. “And we’re well enough off that we can afford not to take any jobs for a while.”

  “It’s the guidance about the artifact I’m worried about. I was hoping we could get Averran’s advice about a solution.” Alaric scratched his head. “I don’t think it’s safe to sell it to a collector when we don’t know what it does. And we aren’t capable of destroying it.”

  “We shouldn’t worry about that until we’ve found out what it does,” Sienne said. “Maybe it’s not as bad as Perrin thought. Maybe it can only be activated under certain conditions. That would make it less powerful.”

  “Still optimistic today, eh?” Alaric said. “Do you want to see if you can make it work?”

  “Not right now, but when we stop for the night, yes.” She sounded more certain than she felt. The idea of experimenting with the emerald falcon filled her with dread. But they needed to know more about it, and with Perrin unable to get answers from Averran, she might be the only one who could.

  “Take care,” Kalanath said. “It is a dark thing, and dangerous.”

  “I won’t take chances,” Sienne said.

  The sound of footsteps in the grass alerted them to Perrin’s approach. He looked more cheerful than he had, though his eyes were reddened as if he’d been crying. “All is not lost,” he said, taking out his flask and unscrewing the top. “Though the depth of the regret I feel at doing this suggests that I am rather farther gone down the wrong path than I thought.”

  He tipped the flask over, and a thin stream of amber liquid poured out. Sienne sucked in an audible breath, and Perrin looked at her and smiled.

  “Have no fear, I will not die from lack of spirits, either alcoholic or natural,” he went on. “I intend to gain control of myself, and this is the first step.”

  Sienne looked at her friends. Nobody seemed to know what to say. Perrin shook out the last few drops and screwed the top back on. “Let us proceed,” he said, mounting and guiding his horse away without waiting for the rest of them.

  Sienne hurried to mount, adjusting the artifact’s position so it wouldn’t dig into her thighs, and urged Spark after Perrin. Anything she might say to him would sound fatuous or insulting—Good for you! You can do thi
s!—and she felt she’d already harassed him enough for one day. Timidly, because she wasn’t sure she had the right, she composed a mental prayer to Averran. He gave up everything to serve you, she silently prayed, and I think he’s in pain. Be generous with him, please.

  A quiet peace settled over her, centered on her chest and radiating outward. She chose to take it as a good sign.

  17

  More carriages, and a couple of horses, passed them going north, but the companions were the only southbound traffic on the highway. They rode in comfortable silence, none of them feeling the need to talk. It was one of the things Sienne liked best about her team, that they could go for miles without a word and still feel as close as if they’d talked and laughed the whole time. The only sour note was Sienne’s sense of Kalanath staring at the artifact and, by extension, her. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know he was doing it. It increased her resolve to figure out how the thing worked, if only to give him some peace of mind.

  Traffic increased whenever they drew near a village, mostly men or women driving ox carts and a couple of youths with switches and dogs herding sheep. One of the latter drove them off the road for a while around noon, the young shepherd chewing on a blade of grass and ignoring everything but his woolly charges. The dogs kept a tight hurdle on the sheep as if they were constrained by ropes. Sienne had been allowed to watch a sheep shearing when she was nine and it had been both fascinating and utterly boring. Sheep really weren’t very interesting, maybe not even to their owners. But the dogs—they were interesting, how they appeared to know what to do without instruction from the shepherd. Sienne liked cats better than dogs, even though it was a cliché, wizards and their cats, but she respected working dogs like these.

  Kalanath edged forward until he was next to her. “It is beautiful,” he said, gesturing at the flock. “God’s beloved, all in one place.”

  “You said before that sheep are sacred to God. Why is that?”