by Tim Stead
“If it will help you…”
“Why would you help me?”
“You need help.”
He seemed to study her for a minute, and then he smiled. It was an odd smile, not friendly, but private. He was smiling to himself as though she was not there at all.
“As you wish,” he said. “You find the Ekloi and tell me.”
“So what am I looking for?”
“A man who is not a man. The Ekloi will look the same as any other, but he is not from here.”
“Not from White Rock?”
“Not from this world.”
“All men are from this world.”
“No,” the man said. “No men are. Listen to the Shan and their tales. Most have been born here, though, but not the Ekloi.”
She studied his face again, searching for any sign of humour, of a joke, but he seemed quite serious. She had never heard such an outlandish idea.
“So if I find a man who was not born on this world, who can wield magic, then I come and tell you?”
“Yes,” he said. He smiled again, quickly, and then the smile was gone, like a light turning on and off.
“Just one more thing: what will the Ekloi do if they catch you?”
“They will kill me.”
The thought occurred to her that he was mad. After all, he had attacked her for no reason, other than she had been looking at him in the tavern. He had sensed the knife, of course, but could he really sense magic, or had he just accepted what she had said? She knew of no other who had such a talent, but then she did not move in such circles. Perhaps it would be best to report the whole incident to someone in the castle and let them deal with it.
“I will find you at the tavern?”
“If you come to the town I will find you,” he said.
“And what is your name?” she asked.
He smiled again, as though at a private joke. “Raganesh,” he said, and his eyes were on her as he spoke the word, expecting a reaction, but the name meant nothing to her.
She left him standing in the alleyway. He watched her as far as he could. She glanced back from time to time, but he did not move, and then he was hidden by the walls. She hurried back towards the path that ascended to the castle. He must be mad, and even if he was not, then she did not know which side she should be on, other than he had spared her life when he believed that she was not an Ekloi.
She would report him. Probably.
11. The Healing
The banging on the door went on and on.
“All right, I’m coming,” Keran muttered to himself. He put down the polishing cloth and took off the gloves that he had been wearing to polish the silver, carefully, so that none of the polish would touch his hands. He walked through the kitchen. Netra the cook was stirring something in a great pot set over the range.
“I’m busy,” she said in reply to his unspoken rebuke. “You want to eat tonight, don’t you?”
Keran said nothing. Now was not the time for a discussion about duties and the fair division of labour. He hurried up the stairs and down the long passageway that led to the main door. The child Helena was in the hallway, making her way determinedly towards the sound of the knocking.
“I have the door, mistress,” he said, putting on his best voice. What a place this was when the master’s blind daughter rushed to attend the door and the cook did not. He loved the child as though she was his own. She embodied her dead mother’s gentleness and her father’s imagination and courage, and she had what they called the common touch. She was never rude or inconsiderate, even to the lowliest kitchen boy. He would have done anything for her. The blindness, a curse that she bore with great nobility of spirit, was her only imperfection.
“Thank you, Keran,” she said. “You will let me know who it is? It must be very important for them to make so much noise.”
“I will, mistress.”
He waited, ignoring the door, until she had passed out of sight back towards the courtyard. She sat there in the sun when not otherwise occupied. It was her favourite place.
When the child had gone he went to the great door and drew back the two big iron bolts that held it fast. He lifted the latch and heaved on the iron ring and it swung inwards, allowing sunlight to flood into the hallway, painting the white walls the colour of fresh cream. He peered out into the bright day.
“Mayor Candros,” he said. “How may I serve you?” He was surprised to see the mayor, a respected and popular figure in Pek, standing before the door. Though still a young man, Finn Candros was starting to show grey streaks in his thick, fair hair. He was so conscientious in his duty to the city that it was rare for him to call at any house.
“Is Captain Pelorus at home?”
With a trader of Pelorus’s stamp as his master Keran had picked up a trick or two about reading people, and he could see that they mayor was quite agitated. He was adopting an almost deferential tone with a servant.
“I regret that he is not,” Keran said.
Another voice spoke, from someone that he could not see beyond the frame of the door.
“It does not matter. Is the child at home?”
The mayor raised an eyebrow, passing the question on to Keran.
“Mistress Helena is at home,” he replied. He did not like this much. People coming to see Helena when the master was not in the house was quite irregular. “Who shall I say is asking to speak with her?”
The mayor stepped to one side, and another figure stepped into the bright frame of the doorway.
“I am Borbonil of Ocean’s Gate, and people here have named me Lord Protector of the city of Pek.”
Keran fell to his knees. He was suddenly very afraid. This was a Faer Karani. He had seen Borbonil once before, two years ago when the creature had come to Pek at Serhan’s command. It had healed thousands, repaired buildings, driven out the Saratan invaders, but it was still Faer Karan, and could extinguish a human life as casually as he could snuff out a candle.
“Forgive me, lord,” he said. “I did not know that it was you.”
“Stand,” Borbonil said. “Ask the girl if she will speak with me.”
“At once, Lord,” Keran stood and backed away from the door, still bowing as best he could, then he turned and hurried through to the courtyard. Helena was there, sitting on the edge of the pond that lay at the centre, trailing a hand in the cool water. Golden fish, each twice the length of a man’s hand swam about her fingers. It was a dance that he had watched many times. She was singing in a low voice, and the sound of it was sweet and untroubled. She raised her head at the sound of his footfall.
“Keran? Who was it?”
“Mistress, it is the Faer Karani, Borbonil, Lord Protector of Pek. He wishes to speak with you. Will you see him?” For all his fear Keran knew that he would carry the answer faithfully whatever it was. Part of him wanted her to say no, because he did not like to think of such a creature within these walls, alone with Helena, and partly because it was actually possible to say no.
“Really?” She seemed thrilled at the thought. “Is he very frightening, Keran?”
“Only in what he is, Mistress. He seems polite.”
“Then I will see him. I confess that I am very curious. What does he look like?”
“He has the appearance of a man, Mistress, but that his face is smoother and his eyes have no colour in them. They are plain white. Are you sure that you wish him to enter the house?”
“Of course. Please bring him to me.”
“As you wish.” He walked back to the front door where the Faer Karani waited. He walked slowly, composing himself. When he got there the mayor and Borbonil were waiting with every appearance of patience.
“My mistress is prepared to see you, my lord,” he announced.
The creature turned to the mayor. “Finn,” he said, “I do not think that I need to trouble you more. Thank you again for being my guide.”
“It is an honour,” the mayor replied, executed a shallow bow and s
et off down the road towards the heart of the city.
“Now you will show me to the girl Helena,” Borbonil said.
Keran led the way. He noticed that the creature made no sound at all walking on the stone flags of the hallway, almost as if he were no more than a ghost, drifting along with less substance than a play of light and shadow. They entered the courtyard, and Keran saw that Helena had moved from the pool and now sat in one of two chairs that stood in the sun by the north wall. She looked composed and smiled as she heard him approach.
“Have you brought our guest, Keran?” She looked faintly puzzled. She had expected to hear two sets of footsteps, he realised, and hearing only one, thought that he had returned alone.
“Yes, mistress. He is unusually quiet,” he replied.
“You are Helena Pelorus, daughter of Jem Pelorus?” Borbonil asked.
“Yes, I am,” she said, her face turning like a flower towards the sound. “And you are the mighty Borbonil, Lord Protector of Pek, master of Ocean’s Gate, formerly one of the six, ally of the great mage lord Serhan.”
“You are both generous and knowledgeable in your appellation,” he replied.
“Please sit,” she said. “If you sit in the chair then I will know where you are so that I may give the appearance of attending to you. I am blind, you see.”
“So I have been told.”
Keran retired from the courtyard, but stood just out of sight inside a doorway where he could respond quickly to any need.
“I am honoured by your visit,” Helena said, “but puzzled as to the reason.”
“Do you know the woman Felice Caledon?”
“Yes! Felice stayed with us for a few weeks, not long ago. She was kind to me. She read to me most days. She was quite sick at the time, and left for Samara when she had recovered, though we were both sorry to see her go. You have word of her? I hope that she is well…?”
“As far as I know her health is good. She is at White Rock.”
“Already? That was a quick journey.”
“An eventful one, I believe. Do you wish me to tell you the tale?”
“If you would be so kind!”
Borbonil was not a great raconteur. He tended to speak facts, clipping them together into short, functional sentences, and his tone carried nothing of the mood, the drama of the story that he told. Never the less, Helena sat in silence, attending to every word he spoke, making appreciative noises at all the pivotal points in the tale.
When he finished she was silent for a few moments.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “It is always a delight to received good news of a friend, and it has been a most welcome distraction, but you did not tell me why you had come.”
“I have not,” the Faer Karani confirmed. “In truth I cannot tell you why I am here, other than I was asked to come, and I have learned that the Faer Karan are not gifted with understanding in the ways of men, and so I have come to learn.”
“I am not sure what you are saying.”
“Felice Caledon asked me to come here.”
“To visit me? Why?”
“She said that you were deserving of healing, that you had been cheated by fate through your absence last time I was in the city, when I healed at Serhan’s command.”
“She asked you to heal me?”
“Yes.”
“And will you do this?” Keran could hear tension in the child’s voice, though it did not sound like excitement. He saw at that moment that she was no longer a child. She aped the behaviour that was expected of her, but in her heart there was a seed of bitterness, a lack of expectation in dealing with the world. All her life she had been imprisoned here in an unchanging house, held there by her father’s concern, and only allowed out when guarded, accompanied, protected. Borbonil’s words raised the possibility of the unhoped for release, but she could not believe it.
“She said that it was a favour,” the Faer Karani said. “And that a favour was something that the asked could grant or not grant, and so I have come to see for myself.”
“And what is it that you expect to see, my lord?”
“I expected nothing. I came to learn.”
“You will learn very little here, my lord.”
“I believe that you are right, but I learned much when Serhan sent me to Pek. More was revealed to me in two days than I had gathered in four hundred years on the subject of men and their ways.”
“The mage lord is wise,” she said.
“It is my belief that you are correct, and he has already remarked that there may be some qualities of interest in Felice Caledon.”
“What qualities?”
“He did not say. I have found that he says very little that is direct. He prefers his servants to acquire the habit of judgement.”
“Have you arrived at a judgement then, my lord?”
“Because I understand nothing I have learned to rely on the judgement of others,” Borbonil said. “The difficulty is that people disagree – even those who are deemed wise. Did you see as a child, or have you always been without sight?”
“Always, my lord.”
“Then you may suffer some pain and disorientation when sight returns.”
Keran stepped out from the corridor at these words, and saw that the Faer Karani had leaned across and placed his hand on Helena’s head. He saw the girl jump at the touch, surprised, and then the creature began to speak words, but it was no language that he had ever heard. He expected to see some visible manifestation of power, some glowing light or even lightning striking from the skies, but there was nothing. The words were spoken, and Borbonil removed his hand.
“You should keep your eyes closed for a while,” he said. “The images that you see will be confusing. There will be no sense to it until your mind has learned how to manage what it receives.”
“But I want to see!”
Helena opened her eyes and cried out, immediately closing them again and covering her face with her hands.
“It hurts!” she said. “It is so…”
“Bright,” Borbonil said. “It is bright. The sun is shining, and to look upon the sun would be to lose your sight again.” He looked up and saw Keran. “You, come here.”
Keran hurried over.
“Take her to a darkened room. Remove everything from the room that is not necessary. Do not allow her to leave the room for a day.”
Keran helped Helena to her feet, but she shook his hand off her arm.
“I know the way, Keran,” she said.
“The world will still be there tomorrow,” Borbonil said. “You must get used to seeing by degrees. That is the way of things.”
He turned and began to walk towards the door and the street.
“Wait!” Helena tried to see through her fingers, but it was evident from her expression that she could make out very little. Borbonil paused and half turned back towards them. “Why did you do this? Why really?”
The Faer Karani stood for a moment or two, as though searching for words, and then he shrugged, a bizarre, human gesture.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that I am beginning to understand.”
12. Ekloi
By the time she reached the castle gates Felice was in two minds. There was just the faintest chance that the man was not mad, and some real danger might be present. If the Ekloi, whoever or whatever it was, could wield magic, then there was nobody here that could oppose it but the Faer Karani, Borbonil, and she was not inclined to go running to the creature with such a tale.
She made her way up to the battlements and spent an hour in troubled thought, looking out over the land that stretched away to the south, and at the mountains to the west. They were still lightly decorated with snow even though summer was well on its way in.
It was only after an hour that the idea came to her. She lifted Pathfinder out of its sheath and laid it on her hand, looking around carefully to be sure that there was nobody close by. Assured that she was alone, she spoke to her knife.
The knife did not move. It lay passively on her hand, and she caressed the blade gently with a finger. Every time she unsheathed the blade she felt an urge to touch the feathers etched into the metal. The detail was amazing, and she almost expected the light, warm touch of a wing, but the firm, cool tracery of steel was equally pleasing to her fingers.
“I am looking for a man who was not born in this world. Can you find such a thing?”
The knife was still for a moment, but then rotated slowly until it pointed towards her. That was a yes. She was unsure whether to feel fear or satisfaction. If she found this Ekloi, then what should she do? She should have asked him why the Ekloi wanted him dead, she thought. She should have insisted.
“When I say the words show me, you will point to the man who is not of this world, and if there is none such present, you will point to me. Do you understand this?”
The knife spun lazily through a full circle and pointed back to her again. Yes. Now she was prepared. She walked back down to the courtyard and found it still busy, though not as frantic as it had been that morning. She found a quiet corner, wedging herself behind a stone buttress in a position where most of the open space was visible to her. She drew Pathfinder and laid it on her hand.
“Show me.”
The knife quivered briefly, and then spun to point at her. Nothing. She waited for half an hour, watching people come and go about their business, grooms saddling and unsaddling horses, soldiers practicing various skills, wagons arrived and were unloaded by men and women from the kitchens. It was a vast space, and all around her the rhythm of an ordered life marked time. She repeated the command from time to time, but the response remained the same.
She passed a couple of hours in this way, but her search bore no fruit. She began to feel that she was being foolish. The man was mad after all. Almost every person in the castle must have passed through the courtyard in this time.