River of Souls

by Beth Bernobich

  The guards at the gate eyed Asa with suspicion. He no longer had the air of someone who belonged to a wealthy house. His horse was a sturdy plain beast. His belongings were few. The months of travel had stained his remaining clothes. He resisted the urge to rub his gloved hands on his trousers.

  “Name?” they asked.

  He gave it.

  The guard glanced at Asa’s gloves, but all he said next was, “From Ysterien Province?”

  Asa nodded, seeing no reason to argue that Ysterien had never submitted to the Empire. Then, before they could ask the next obvious question, he said, “My family wished me to visit the important cities of Erythandra. So I came here.”

  His answer provoked a startled laugh from the guards, but after a few more questions and answers, which they recorded, they let him pass.

  It was late afternoon as he rode through Duenne’s crowded dusty streets—too late to accomplish the purpose of his visit. Besides, he had not forgotten how the guards stared at him. He decided to find a room for the night so he could take a proper bath.

  Asa chose the next inn he passed. It was small but clean, and the cost of a bath and private room far less than he expected. No doubt he would hate the cooking. It was possible, too, the inn was not as safe as he hoped. Well, he had his sword and knives, and the spells from his cousin.

  The bondsmaid took away his clothes for brushing. After a soaking bath, Asa dressed and ate his dinner of bread and cheese, which the girl brought to his rooms. Then he sat on his lumpy bed and opened the saddlebag he had guarded through bandits and storms and the endless ride over the plains.

  A dozen silver draqirii remained, along with an almost equal number of denieri. His tinderbox, the ball of yeast, the salt container he had replenished several times over. An old ring from his grandmother, which his mother had insisted he bring. The ring was a plain circle of gold, with an onyx stone. Running along the interior was the family motto in old Ysterien script: Gold is our guardian and we are the guardians of gold.

  Asa set these aside, and took out his mother’s third and last gift.

  It was a leather pouch, deceptively plain and yet well-made. Within was a letter from his uncle to his mother, and another envelope sealed with wax and magic. The wax carried the insignia and motto of his mother’s household. The magic ensured that no one except the letter’s recipient could break the seal. It was not a complicated spell—Asa himself had often used it when sending letters he wished to keep secret from his inquisitive relatives—but this particular variation would turn the letter to dust if someone even attempted to tamper with the magic.

  His mother had summoned him to her private sitting room to present it. He remembered her stiff manner, the way she lifted her chin as she spoke the words, “The letter of introduction you requested, Asa.”

  No other indication of what the letter contained. He had not dared to ask who sealed it, whether his uncle or his mother. It hadn’t mattered. He only cared that he had obtained this almost impossible gift.

  The letter to his mother, however, was not sealed. He read it through once more.

  To my sister Benaw,

  The favor is what you wish. As always. Its worth is another matter. As you know, I have not attended Duenne’s Court these past thirty-seven years. Even so, if my name and my word serve our household, I shall not withhold it. To that end, I enclose a letter of introduction for your son, Asa, along with directions to the household in question, which her chief servant passed to me at my inquiry. Please understand that her position has altered in the past few years, and that she no longer admits many visitors….

  What followed were the usual disclaimers of this or that. Asa could hardly picture his uncle—a crabbed, cautious old man who loved nothing more than a hot fire and a soft bondsmaid—living in Duenne’s famous Court, but his mother had assured him it was so. Not only had he lived there six years as an emissary from Ysterien and the banking guilds, but Duenne’s most famous poet had admitted him into her private circle.

  Tanja Duhr.

  Asa had bought all the books of her published poetry before he turned twelve. There were more poems, he knew—private writings she shared only with friends. His uncle had one such volume, which he refused to allow anyone to copy. Asa touched the seal enclosing his uncle’s letter. The magic was not embedded in the wax itself, but in the edges between. Between air and paper, between breath and breath.

  Asa’s pulse beat faster with anticipation. Once he had lived as a woman, a soldier of the Empire. Once, he and Tanja Duhr had been lovers. For so long, he had not allowed himself to believe it. Poets and scholars both talked of souls meeting again and again throughout time, but it was a rare thing, almost impossible that the one who died and was reborn rediscovered the still-living heart-mate.

  Tomorrow, I will see you again.

  * * *

  No life dreams awaited him that night, though he expected them. Instead, he dreamed of his father, a quiet man who had died almost nineteen years ago. Asa’s mother had remarried at once, both for her own pleasure and to produce more sons and daughters. She never spoke the name of that first husband, but at times her gaze turned westward toward the seas, as if searching for his presence. When Asa woke in the early dawn, he wondered how much of his self, his body came from her, and how much from that half-remembered man.

  * * *

  “How old are you?”

  Asa shifted on his feet. He stood in what passed for an entry hall in this narrow household. It was scarcely midmorning. From the kitchen came a fragrant tide: the scent of newly baked bread, along with other, enticing aromas. Breakfast at the inn had proved just as awful as he expected. After a protracted negotiation, Asa had sold his horse to the landlord, then hired a carriage to take him into the northern hills overlooking the main city. The final segment of his journey had required two hours. To sit here meekly while this pock-faced young woman questioned him was more than he could bear.

  “My age does not matter,” he said. “Give the letter to your mistress.”

  The woman smirked. “I will. But not until you answer me.”

  Her tone was impertinent. He wanted to smack her. She was nothing more than a serving woman. A bondsmaid. “Twenty-three.”

  Now she met his gaze directly, clearly laughing at him. “And you want what? A recommendation to Court? A letter of introduction to the University?”

  “None of those. I—“He checked himself and drew a breath. “I want,” he said with exaggerated patience, “a few moments with Mistress Tanja Duhr. My uncle is her friend. Or was, once. His name is Hêja Dilawer. Say yes or no. I do not pretend the matter is important to anyone but me. But do not tell me any lies.”

  She stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You are the nephew of Hêja Dilawer?”

  He nodded.

  “One moment, then.”

  She vanished through a doorway.

  Asa waited, overcome by a sudden rush of panic. It was possible Tanja Duhr would refuse to see him, even with a letter from his uncle.

  And what if she agrees? What will you say to her?

  Before he could decide on an answer, the young woman returned. “She said yes.”

  His pulse beating faster, Asa slid the letter inside his shirt and followed her through a narrow corridor and up winding stairs. The scent of sweet oil hung in the air. No lamps were lit, but sun poured through the narrow windows lining the stairwell, so that some steps were splashed in sunlight, while others remained in shadow.

  They passed numerous landings, each with several doors, but the woman did not pause until they reached the top. She opened a wooden door and gestured for him to pass through. Asa touched the letter inside his shirt, felt the ripple of magic against his skin. He was aware of the bondsmaid and her mocking smile, but he no longer cared.

  One quick breath. One moment to collect himself. Then he stepped over the threshold.

  Sunlight blinded him. He stopped in midstep and blinked. A breeze washed over his face, carr
ying the scent of blooming roses, lilies, goldenflower, and others he could not identify. When he took a hesitant step to one side, his feet crunched on gravel, then soft dirt. The breeze veered and he caught the unmistakable tang of pine forests. Where was he?

  Behind him the door clicked to. Asa blinked again, and his vision cleared.

  He stood on the rooftop, in a miniature garden open to the skies. Far below, the vast expanse that was Duenne swept over the plains—south and west and east. He could see the several rings of walls, each one overrun by the populace throughout the centuries, the highway and gates where he entered, the several market squares he’d passed through that morning. To the southeast stood the enormous Imperial palace with its golden towers and crimson roofs. Through the city wound the Gallenz River, like a great blue vein, finally uncurling toward the eastern coast.

  “I find it easier to see here,” said a voice.

  Asa turned. A woman sat on a bench underneath a trellis crowded with roses. Next to her was a small box with a slanted top, and a sheet of paper weighted down with a few stones. Several crumpled balls of paper littered the ground underneath. She was barefoot.

  Tanja Duhr rose and held out her hand. Asa handed over the letter of introduction and withdrew a step. Duhr touched her fingers to the seal. The air glittered with magic released and the paper fell open.

  As she read, Asa allowed himself the luxury of studying her features.

  She was old. That struck him at once. Nothing like his dreams. Nor like the portrait his uncle kept in his study, a gift she presented him when he left Court. Irrationally, Asa had expected her to remain immutable, like her words, but no. Her skin was an almost transparent brown, and etched with innumerable faint lines. Her hair was white and thin, drawn back with a ribbon and falling loose down her back. Only her eyes were the same, wide and dark, so dark a brown that they appeared black.

  She read swiftly, her expression grave except once, when she smiled, and once again, when her brows drew together. “Your name is Asa,” she said at a last. Her voice was husky, like a dove’s throaty murmur.

  He nodded, remembering that voice from his dreams.

  “From House Dilawer,” she went on, “presently governed by your mother. Your uncle was my friend in Court, as you must know. Would you like to hear what he tells me?”

  “I—No. That is not necessary.”

  Her mouth twitched in a smile. “I shall tell you nevertheless. You are young, he says. Your mother indulges you with dozens of masters and tutors, more than your brothers and sisters, who are already ably assisting her in the family business of money. To be brief, which your uncle was not, you are quite spoiled.”

  Asa closed his eyes. He had not expected such scathing candor. Why had the man given him the letter of introduction then? Dimly, he heard Tanja Duhr saying something about Asa being a stubborn boy.

  “Excuse me,” he said softly. “I—I did not quite understand that last.”

  If she noticed his confusion, she said nothing of it. “He tells me you were always a stubborn boy. In many ways that is a good thing. For all that you’ve had a dozen masters for a dozen different pursuits, you do not flit from one to the other. Rather, you work hard until you conquer your ignorance and your inability. Your uncle believes you will make a fine councilor of the House some day.”

  “I do not wish to be a councilor or a banker.”

  “No? Is that why you came to me? To be a poet?”

  “No. I—“

  She flicked her hand, silencing him. “You are young. You do not know what you want. Hêja asks me to consider receiving you as a guest here. He calls it giving you a position, but guest is what he means. Though I treasure his friendship, I see no reason to indulge you as your family does.”

  A clear dismissal, so abrupt he stood frozen a moment, too shocked to reply. She was like the mountains, he thought. Exactly so, they had stood in snow and indifferent silence as he lay dying. Asa stiffly bowed his head. “Thank you for the grace of this interview, my lady. I shall not trouble you longer.”

  He made no move to retrieve the letter. Let her keep it. He turned away and headed toward the wooden door.

  “Does your uncle lie?” she called out.

  He paused. “What do you mean?”

  “He said you were stubborn.”

  “You dismissed me.”

  “Hardly. I said I would not indulge you. But if you are as stubborn as your uncle claims, I do have one task for you.”

  He waited, still unwilling to face her.

  Her response was low chuckle. “Indeed,” she said softly. “He did not lie. You are stubborn.” Then louder, “Come to me tomorrow morning for instructions. Minne will provide you with a room and whatever else you require.”

  * * *

  It was the first time they met, she and Tanja Duhr. Adele had come to Duenne to serve in the Emperor’s guards. She was twenty-four, a soldier from the provinces, unaccustomed to palaces and anxious about her duties. When her captain assigned her to the midnight watch on the palace rooftop, she told herself she would stare the night away. No intruder—and there had been dozens since the new Emperor took his throne—could take her unawares.

  So when she encountered a woman flitting along the outer walkway, Adele hefted her sword and called challenge.

  The woman spun to face Adele, her dark hair swirling like clouds around a storm. Her eyes were wide and bright. Her gown was a shapeless mass of blue cloth. As it floated to rest, silvery threads glinted in the moonlight. She was barefoot.

  “The Emperor’s chief guard,” the woman said in a low voice.

  Adele could hear the laughter running underneath. “I do my duty,” she said stiffly, not lowering the sword.

  The woman regarded her for a moment, all signs of mirth erased from her expression. “You do,” she said. “For which I thank you. I was wrong to tease.” She held out her hand. “My name is Tanja.”

  Her hand was slim, her clasp firm and warm.

  “Mine is Adele.”

  * * *

  Minne was the young, pockmarked woman from before, and she had accurately predicted her mistress’s decision. When Asa reappeared in the main parlor, still bemused by his interview, she told him she had a bedchamber ready. It was smaller than many of the closets in his mother’s household, but he was grateful for the soft clean mattress and the window overlooking the city below. He also met Yvonne the cook and the two maids who did the cleaning and laundry.

  At Minne’s urging he took a second breakfast, then spent the afternoon exploring the neighboring streets. All the houses here were built of red and brown brick, some tall and narrow, others irregular in shape. The streets wound and turned as they wished. Following them, Asa came across numerous tiny courtyards, small gardens, and once a square planted with flowering trees. Standing in their shade, he breathed in the rich scents and wondered what had brought Duhr here, to a place that seemed a hundred miles from Duenne’s Court.

  The next morning, Minne woke him at sunrise.

  “She wants you,” was all she said.

  He struggled into his clothes, splashed water on his face, and gulped down a scalding cup of tea. Then he was jogging up the stairs to the garden, with only a hand against the wall to steady himself. As he stepped over the threshold this second time, a breeze washed his face, carrying the last echoes of the bells from the city below. It had rained overnight, and the air was damp with expectation.

  She sat on the same bench as the previous day. This time her writing desk rested on her lap, and she held a pen in her left hand. A fresh sheet lay on top. He could not tell, but he thought there were more crumpled pages surrounding her than the previous day.

  “Tell me what you dreamed last night,” Duhr said.

  Asa stopped. “What?”

  “You heard me, young man. What did you dream last night?”

  She was mocking him. No, she meant it. He could tell by the deepening crease between her white brows.

  I drea
med of you in the Emperor’s Court. I dreamed we loved each other.

  He kept his gaze carefully averted from hers. Throughout the long journey, he had told himself he only wished to see Tanja Duhr face to face. Then perhaps his past would not haunt him so doggedly. Then, perhaps, he might find his own purpose in this life.

  You hoped she would recognize you.

  If I did, I knew that for a folly.

  Just as it would be folly to declare himself. Too many years had passed since Adele had died.

  He shook his head. “I had no dreams.”

  “None?”

  His mouth went dry under her scrutiny. “None worth telling, my lady.”

  She regarded him steadily. “Well, perhaps it is too soon. You may go.”

  And with that her attention vanished. Asa waited a moment. When she did not acknowledge him any longer, he silently retreated down the stairs and to the main parlor where Minne sat, writing notes in what appeared to be a ledger.

  “You will want your breakfast,” was all she said. “I’ll send word to Yvonne.”

  Over the next three weeks, Asa learned every turning in that stairwell. The walls were brick, dark red and fitted together without any mortar, a smooth facade that spiraled around and around in patterns of sunlight and shadow. There were six landings in all. The steps were massive slabs of blue-gray stone, the lips worn into curls, and the center sunken, as if a giant had pressed its thumb into the surface. Each time he came into her presence, he hoped she would ask him to linger, that she would speak of her poems, her life in Court, those years with Adele. Each time, he was disappointed.

  “What did you dream?”

  Within, I dreamed of you. I dreamed of twelve years together.

  Out loud, “This and that. Nothing interesting. Just a dream about my old sword master.”

  His words seemed to pique her interest, but instead of questioning him further, she merely shook her head. “Thank you, Asa. That is all.”