Stone of Inheritance

by Melissa McShane

  If her tone disturbed him, Alaric didn’t comment on it. “And it’s not something you can really experiment with.”

  “It hurt so much. It still hurts. Maybe that’s on purpose. Maybe whoever made it didn’t want people using it frivolously.” She leaned into him. He was warm and solid and comforting, and she felt her numbness fade.

  “That would certainly guarantee it.” He patted her knee. “You’re not evil, Sienne. An evil person would be working out how to use that thing without getting her arm torn up, or plotting who to threaten or kill to advance her personal desires. I can’t tell you this doesn’t change you, because you’d know that was a lie. But it’s not a change for the worse. If I know you, it will make you more compassionate and more sensitive, now that you know how fragile life really is.”

  She sighed. “Thank you.”

  “For telling you the truth? Always.”

  “No, for reminding me that I’m not special.”

  “Did I say that? Are you sure that’s a good thing?”

  She put her right arm around his waist. It was such a comfortable position. “I’m not the only person in the world who’s taken a life in self-defense. I don’t have any right to carry on as if killing is somehow worse just because it’s me doing it. As if I’m too… perfect, maybe, to sin.”

  “I don’t think it’s sinful.”

  “But you know what I mean.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  She gently ran her fingers over his chest. “So… thank you.”

  “You would do the same for me. Did, actually.” He squeezed her knee again. “If it helps, Dianthe was right—you using that artifact saved all our lives. So you were defending five people, not just one.”

  “I guess you’re not the only one willing to bleed for the rest of us,” Sienne said. Alaric laughed.

  “We could all use a joke right now,” Dianthe said.

  “Not a joke, just… it’s not important,” Alaric said. “We survived. We learned how the artifact works. We should be celebrating, not moping about.”

  “I find myself surprisingly unable to celebrate, given that I cannot restore us to full health,” Perrin said. Sienne’s heart ached at how bitter he sounded.

  “You don’t think we’re upset about that?” Dianthe said.

  Kalanath said, “No one thinks worse of you, Perrin.”

  “I think worse of myself enough for all of you,” Perrin said. “But I realize those thoughts will not restore me to my Lord’s good graces. So I will attempt to find the good in this situation.”

  “What’s that?” Sienne said, then felt embarrassed, because she’d made it sound like there wasn’t any good to be found.

  “It is good to trust in Averran’s protections. It is not good to be so dependent on them that we cannot fend for ourselves. We survived that fight despite our lack of protective shields, proving that we see Averran as a partner in our endeavors rather than a paternal figure to run to when danger approaches. And while they are no substitute for divine healing, my increasing skills in medical treatment allowed me to tend to Sienne’s wounds rather than simply bemoaning my lack of blessings. That is something Averran smiles on, an increase in wisdom and knowledge. In truth, if I berate myself for falling into chastisement, it is because this poor horse is suffering and need not do so if I were a priest in full fellowship with Averran.”

  Sienne craned her head to look at Spark, walking just behind her and Alaric. The animal plodded along without a trace of the liveliness she usually exhibited. Patches where the skin was burned down to the subcutaneous layers showed an unnatural glistening white surrounding large areas of black. Sienne couldn’t see the side of Spark’s face where she’d been struck full-force by scorch, but she remembered the raw look of her flesh and the sunken lid where the eye was gone, and she wanted to cry for Spark, who couldn’t cry for herself. For one moment, she wondered if she was doing the right thing in forcing Spark to walk all these miles when she had to be in such pain. But she imagined them killing Spark, even kindly, and could not bring herself to agree to it.

  “Just a few more miles,” Alaric said. “By Sisyletus, I hope none of our attackers fled this way. I don’t think I’m up to another fight.”

  “Most of them went north, away from Sienne—sorry,” Dianthe said.

  “It’s all right. Ash is terrifying.” Sienne shook her head. “It never occurred to me that the artifact might be a lost spell. Everything I imagined is so much smaller by comparison.”

  “It is a kind of devouring,” Kalanath said, his voice sounding distant. Sienne remembered his dream and said nothing.

  “Why would anyone create an artifact that injures its user?” Perrin said. “Such a thing violates all common sense.”

  “The ancients did all sorts of things that don’t make sense to us,” Sienne said. “They made artifacts to do the most mundane tasks. Like sweeping floors. They had one of those in the school at Stravanus.”

  “Did it save time sweeping?” Dianthe asked.

  “No. It was terrible at sweeping in corners and it left piles of dirt everywhere. Not that the housekeeping staff used it—it’s too old and precious. They would bring it out to show the new students every year, sort of a reminder that the ancients’ ways were inscrutable, and that magic can’t and shouldn’t solve every problem.”

  “You must have failed that class,” Alaric muttered. Sienne curled up a fist to punch him, but it hurt too badly, so she scowled at his back instead.

  “There will always be things humans do better on their own,” she said. “Crafting things, inventing things. Sweeping floors, apparently. Even sculpt can only produce rudimentary shapes, not fine statues.” She looked back at Spark again. Was it her imagination that the horse’s head drooped lower now?

  “We’ll get there in time, Sienne,” Alaric said. Sienne nodded, but he sounded too certain, and she wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. She looked over his shoulder, focused on a spot between Paladin’s ears where the road disappeared into the distance, and willed Spark to keep going. The alternative was too dreadful to imagine.

  21

  They passed through Muskey without stopping. Dianthe was right; it was small, without even an inn, just a collection of houses for the woodcutters who lived there and an unusually large smithy. It was Sienne’s imagination that Spark looked hopeful when she smelled the hot, crisp scent of the smithy, and dejected when they didn’t stop there.

  Sienne hurt all over. Her burned skin felt as if it wanted to peel away from the bone, and her left arm throbbed with a hot, wet pain. She avoided looking at the blood spreading across the makeshift bandages. Her head ached, her stomach was sore from vomiting, and gripping Paladin’s sides with her calves was harder than riding Spark because he was a good deal bigger. As the miles passed, the pain in her head increased until she had to close her eyes and rest her head on Alaric’s shoulders with her arms around his waist. It was a somewhat intimate gesture, but she didn’t care what the others thought so long as she didn’t fall off the horse.

  With her eyes closed, sounds became, not louder, but more intelligible. The horses’ hooves on the mushy ground thumped in a rhythm like rain falling, if rain were made of stone and not water. Wind rustled the leaves, occasionally showering Sienne with water. Twittering songs filled the air as birds emerged from shelter and picked up where they’d left off singing when the rain began. Sienne didn’t know much about birds and had always had trouble identifying them by their songs, but now she could tell there were at least four different types of bird in the trees surrounding them. She still didn’t know what birds they were, but she felt it was a step in the right direction. What did the songs mean? The birds could be reporting on the battle they’d witnessed, telling their friends about the excitement. Maybe they were sharing gossip about other birds. Maybe they ranked each other on brilliance of plumage and flight acrobatics.

  Just as she realized this was a slightly mad line of thought, and that she was growing
light-headed despite her closed eyes, the sounds changed. The sounds of the horses’ hooves became louder and sharper. The rustling of the leaves in the wind became a hollow whistling sound, echoing through canyons. The birds flew away, possibly for warmer climes. A murmur like the sound of a hundred ducks quacking filled her ears.

  Sienne opened her eyes to tall brick and wood buildings lining a cobblestone street thronged with people all pressing in around their horses. She sat up and looked around. It was a market, with improvised stalls filled with household goods and a few brave early vegetables. She slewed around to check on Spark. The horse’s head hung low and her knees trembled, but she was still upright. “Is there a temple in Manetto?” she said.

  “No temple. A few chapels. A sanctuary to Averran, I think,” Alaric said. “We want a priest of Lisiel.”

  “Lisiel? But—surely Kitane, or Sisyletus—”

  “The priests of Lisiel believe there is a solution for everything, even if it’s a sideways one,” Dianthe said. “If anyone’s willing to spend a healing blessing on a horse, it will be a priest of that avatar.”

  “The only chapel I know about is down this way.” Alaric turned into a narrow alley, taking them away from the noise and bustle of the market. “It’s to Sisyletus, but all the divines know each other, and they’ll be able to tell us where to go.”

  The alley smelled of the recent rainstorm, with only the faintest hint of refuse reaching Sienne’s nostrils. It was narrow enough that they had to go single file, with Alaric and Sienne in the lead. Sienne sat up further and looked over Alaric’s shoulder. She caught glimpses of broken boxes and a flash of movement that might have been a cat or a very large rat. She hoped it was the former.

  Paladin splashed through puddles with no sign of discomfort. He wasn’t as big as Alaric was in unicorn shape, but he was still very large for a gelding, tawny like a cat and placid-tempered. Sienne wondered if Alaric ever looked at horses and saw similarities to people he knew.

  The alley opened on a much quieter street, one with small houses whose slate-shingled roofs gleamed wetly after the storm. At the far end, a larger building stood, its plain red bricks giving it the appearance of a toolshed despite its size. It had no door, just a gaping dark opening, rectangular and as plain as the bricks. The unglazed windows, small and equally dark, gave no hint as to the place’s interior.

  Alaric halted before the door and dismounted, then swung Sienne off the horse as easily as lifting a kitten. She swayed when her feet touched the cobbles, and he put a steadying hand on her elbow. “You need healing, too,” he said.

  “I can wait. We have to save Spark.”

  “You’re almost as injured as the horse. Your hands are blistered badly and your hair is singed, and your arm is still bleeding. It’s pure luck your face didn’t get burned with your hands.”

  “Spark is worse off than me.”

  “That doesn’t lessen your need.” Alaric released her, and she found she could stand on her own. “Wait here, I’ll go speak to the divine.”

  “We can’t come in?” Sienne said.

  “You can, but it’s small and dark and cramped in there, and we’d just crowd Dorcas.” Alaric ducked under the low lintel and vanished into the darkness.

  “This is the strangest chapel I have ever seen,” Perrin said. “I know little of the worship of Sisyletus, but surely they do not insist on their divines living in poverty?”

  “Sisyletus was a bond servant all his adult life,” Sienne said. “His priests, and the divines who maintain the chapels and temples, value simplicity and plain living. I was taught the chapels are made in the image of the house Sisyletus lived in during his indentured servitude.”

  “Alaric worships Sisyletus,” Kalanath said. “He does not live in poverty.”

  “The Sassaven worship God differently,” Dianthe said. “They were created before the avatars came to earth, and they’re so isolated their form of worship hasn’t changed for five hundred years. Alaric was drawn to the worship of Sisyletus when we were living in Concord. I think the idea of endurance through the greatest of trials appeals to him. But there’s no requirement to give up worldly comforts. One of our clients, years ago, was a very wealthy woman who supported the temple of Sisyletus in Marisse almost single-handedly. She had some kind of disorder, something healing couldn’t fix, and she always said it was given to her to endure the trials life gives us, and that Sisyletus understood that better than anyone.”

  Footsteps approached, and Alaric appeared in the doorway behind a short, skinny woman with gray hair and a wrinkled face. “Dorcas, this is my team,” he said. “Everyone, this is Dorcas, a divine of Sisyletus.”

  “I wanted to see these people Alaric speaks so highly of,” Dorcas said, her voice creaky with age. Her smile was pleasant, and she stood straight, unbent by the years. “And this horse you care so much for.”

  “We couldn’t abandon her,” Sienne protested, feeling defensive.

  “Of course not.” Dorcas stepped forward and walked around Spark, examining her. “She’s come a long way. Endured much. I think… wait a moment.” Dorcas laid her hand on the horse’s nose, careful not to press too hard. Spark jerked her head away, making Dorcas smile.

  “I won’t hurt you,” she said, and clasped her hands together. Closing her eyes, she said, “O Lord whose strength is of the mountains, rooted deep, manifest your greatness and take pity on this creature.”

  A powerful wind whipped down the street, chill and penetrating Sienne’s cloak. Green light, deeper and more vivid than the falcon artifact’s disintegration, surrounded Spark. The horse took a couple of involuntary steps back, bumping into Sienne, who put her hand on Spark’s back to steady herself. The green light, by contrast to the wind, was warm and smelled sweet like melted honey, and was so thick Sienne thought it would stick to her hand and arm. The light poured over her, up to her shoulder and across her chest to her other arm. She heard Dianthe gasp, but the light filled her eyes and she saw nothing but dim green shapes, unrecognizable as human or horse or anything else.

  Then the light faded, and she flexed her unburned hands and let out a deep breath. Spark’s coat was glossy and undamaged, her face free of blisters, and she held her head high. Sienne unwrapped the bloody bandages and ran her hand across smooth, unwounded skin. The pain was entirely gone.

  Tears came to Sienne’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Thank the avatar,” Dorcas said. “He was most generous to include you in the healing.”

  “Generous to heal the horse at all,” Perrin said. “I have never seen anyone invoke a healing blessing without prepared papers.”

  Dorcas eyed him speculatively. “You serve… Averran?”

  Perrin’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  “There is a look his followers have, a certain recklessness in the eye. I attribute it to the effects of liquor. You must be new to his service.” Dorcas smiled again. “If you grow in your faith, you will see many things that are now impossible to you.”

  “We are grateful to Sisyletus,” Alaric said. “It’s not what I asked of you. Of him.”

  “Which is no doubt why he granted it.” Dorcas took hold of Spark’s chin and gently turned the horse’s head. “I can do nothing for her eye. You will need restoration for that. There are priests of Kitane and Lisiel in town who might do it. I suggest approaching Kaethe at the chapel of Lisiel. But take care. She is… odd.”

  “How so?” Perrin asked.

  “Oh, the priests of Lisiel are all a superstitious lot. She’ll want to test you before granting any requests, but if she sees something in you—some quality or behavior or even just that you have the right color eyes—she may give you more than you asked for. Or she may kick you out. It’s hard to say with Kaethe.”

  “Thanks again,” Alaric said. “Do you need anything?”

  “A few coins to help fix the roof.”

  Gold passed from Alaric to Dorcas, forestalling Sienne, who’d gone for her purse. Dorcas
’s eyes widened. “This is more than you—”

  “Take it,” Alaric said. “Use it to bless others who come this way.”

  “As you wish,” Dorcas said.

  They had to keep leading Spark because her saddle had been badly damaged in the attack and they’d left it in the woods. Sienne couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder at the horse. Except for the ruined eye, she looked as fresh as if she’d never been wounded. It made Sienne want to hug her, though she was sure Spark wouldn’t appreciate that.

  A few inquiries brought them to the chapel dedicated to Lisiel. It looked much more as Sienne imagined a chapel should: old gray stone, a high, peaked roof, tall, narrow windows of leaded glass, and a door set in a deep archway bearing a metal plaque. Alaric dismounted and peered at the plaque. “Closed,” he said. “We can come back this evening.”

  “Let’s find a place to stay,” Dianthe suggested. “We need to rest before moving on.”

  “Is that safe?” Sienne asked. “Won’t our enemy be able to find us?”

  “Eventually, yes,” Alaric said, “but we can’t go on indefinitely or we won’t be able to defend ourselves. And we need to take some time to form a new plan.”

  “I saw an inn at the last turning,” Kalanath said. “It is large enough that our enemy cannot attack it without being challenged. I think he does not want notice.”

  The inn was large, and new, its roof gleaming with more than the remnants of the rainstorm, its walls freshly whitewashed and its yard clear of refuse. While Alaric negotiated for rooms, Sienne helped settle Spark in her stall. “I hope you forgive me for getting you hurt,” she whispered, laying her cheek against the horse’s hairy one. “Soon your eye will be fixed, and everything will be all right.” She was careful to stand where Spark could see her, not wanting to distress the horse further.

  Their rooms were on a corner on the second floor, three rooms with two beds each, small but well-appointed. Sienne sniffed the flowers in the vase on the dresser and felt herself relax. Yawning, she said, “We should discuss our next move.”