“We’ve found paper,” she said. “The Jaldeans had a supply they were willing to sell us—whatever is the matter? You two look as though someone has killed your pony.”
Dhulyn set out her pens, her small bottle of ink, and the paper she’d purchased from the Jaldeans to her right, opened Zania’s book, and placed it to her left. The muscles in her lower back spasmed, but the pains had not yet moved around to her belly. They would come soon, she judged, but perhaps they would not be too bad this time.
“Is there anything you need?” Zania was in the doorway. Her voice sounded thick. Obviously the little Cat had been crying, but Dhulyn judged it was not trouble with Edmir. The two had been upset when she’d come upon them at the caravan, but the way they stood with one another showed the problem did not lie between them. The kind of crying that left those signs on a woman’s face—Dhulyn recognized those feelings, and knew there was nothing to be done. It was hard to be the only one left, to have no one of your blood, kin or Tribe. Hard not to hate yourself for rejoicing in your own life. Good that the girl had cried, finally.
In the meantime, the little Cat needed something else to occupy her thoughts. And to keep her out of Dhulyn’s way.
“I have an idea, little Cat,” Dhulyn said. “Do you remember we spoke of Nor-iRon Tarkina? While I am reading your book, why should Parno not teach you a Shora that you could use in the dueling scene? Slowed well down, it will show very nicely on stage.”
Zania gave a dim but genuine echo of her usual smile. “We’ll make a player of you yet,” she said.
Dhulyn went out with her and caught Parno’s eye. They went through possible Shoras while Edmir helped Zania pull out the stage swords from their storage spot on top of the caravan.
“Rutting Ram Shora it is, then,” Parno said. “Two people, one sword each, a series of strong attacks—perfect for the purpose, if I make them clash enough.”
“Make up a different name for it,” Dhulyn said. “Something grows between these two, and it would embarrass them.”
Parno shrugged. “They’re of an age. Together all day, every day, with similar tastes and goals—for the moment at least. Of course they’re falling in love.”
About to head back to the guesthouse, Dhulyn turned to look at her Partner. “This is just a camp romance, then? It will fade away when the campaign is over?”
“Haven’t you ever fallen in love?” Parno looked at her sideways.
Dhulyn smiled the smile she gave only him. “No.”
“Get to your reading, woman.”
“There, that’s enough for now. We’ll try it again tomorrow, and next day and the next, until I know you won’t forget it.”
Edmir nodded, breathing deeply, his hands on his knees. Even slowed down, the Mountain Ram Shora took strength, concentration, and skill. It had been almost a moon since he’d last held a sword in his hand with any intent, and he was embarrassed to see how out of condition he was. It helped that Zania was also blowing and out of breath, but not much.
“I’m for the bathhouse,” Zania said, handing Edmir her sword. “I’ll see if Dhulyn is ready for a break from her labors.”
Edmir climbed up to the top of the caravan, and Parno passed him up the swords. “Thank you for showing us that.”
“It will be useful to Zania to know how this type of thing is done— and good training for you, once you return to your own station in life.”
Edmir licked his lips as he slid the swords back into the pack they’d come from and began retying the cords.
“How is it that you came to leave your station in life?”
The silence lasted long enough that Edmir became afraid he had somehow stepped over a line. But when he jumped down once more to the ground, he saw that Parno was merely considering his answer.
“You know that the Common Rule holds that we put aside what life we had before the Brotherhood?”
“I know that you’ve already mentioned your House was nobler than mine,” Edmir pointed out a little sourly.
Parno laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “True, so no reason not to answer your question.” Parno continued smiling, but his eyes grew serious. Edmir had a strange feeling that the Mercenary Brother knew exactly what had prompted the question. Which was strange, seeing that Edmir wasn’t sure himself.
“I didn’t leave my House,” Parno said, serious now. “I was Cast Out.”
Edmir felt suddenly cold. The man he’d been trusting all this time, admiring, respecting . . . an outlaw?
“Don’t look at me like that, lad. Are we not even now, ourselves, being looked for by soldiers and guards?”
Edmir felt his face grow hot. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t think.”
“No, well.” Parno shrugged. “A kinsman insulted my sister,” he said. “The Kir of my House—do you understand? Do you use the term here?”
Edmir nodded. The Kir was the heir of a House.
“Good. I struck the Kir of my House, and . . . disfigured him. He insisted on my being Cast Out. My father had to obey, or he would have lost everything, and my sisters as well. As it was, the eldest of my two sisters inherited.”
“And the Kir? Is he now the House?”
“Alas, no.”
Edmir answered Parno’s grin with one of his own.
But the humor faded from the older man’s face, and Parno’s eyes narrowed.
“Edmir, listen to me. I thank the gods every day that I am where I am. I did choose to become a Mercenary Brother, but my House was already behind me. I would no more have chosen to leave my House than I would choose to leave the Brotherhood now, or break my Partnership—supposing such choice were given me. I cannot break these bonds, these oaths. Nor could I have left my House. My oaths and my bonds to them were just as strong. I would never have chosen to break them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Do you? I would not have left my father, my mother, and sisters in danger if I had not been forced to go.”
Edmir’s nod was very slow; his head felt so heavy, and his ears were hot with shame. He did understand. He knew what Parno Lionsmane the Chanter, Mercenary Brother, was telling him, Lord Prince Edmir of Tegrian. He, too, had oaths and bonds, responsibilities and obligations. He could not choose to break them. Lord Prince Edmir could not leave his sister, nor his mother the queen, in the hands of the Blue Mage.
He would think of such things no more.
Dhulyn studied the page in front of her. The ends of the Stone twisted, but according to the notes, they did not stop in any particular place, even though indicator marks suggested they would. She looked more closely. Yes. The indicator symbol on the one end was the concentric circles of the Lens, while the symbol on the other end was a crescent moon. Interesting.
She lifted her hands and mimed holding the Muse Stone.
“Gehde. Gehde. Mones. Aharneh.”
“No, it’s ‘aHARneh,’ ” said Zania’s voice from the doorway.
Dhulyn looked up, and slowly straightened her back. She should know better than to sit so long in one position, but it had been years since she’d studied anything with so much concentration. The feeling that she could not let time slip away was nagging at her.
“That’s the Chant of Opening,” the little Cat said, as she came into the room.
“Then I would take it that ‘Ahar Ahar Mones GeDERneh’ is the Chant of Closing.” Dhulyn frowned down at the book in front of her and made a notation on the paper to her right.
“So we always practiced it.” Zania took a seat at the table, pulled a sheet of paper covered with Dhulyn’s neat handwriting toward her. “You can read the Scholar’s code, then?”
“It’s not a code, exactly, just a way to write things quickly. To take notes at lectures, for example.”
“And does my great-uncle say where he learned such a thing?”
“Not directly. But he does mention a trip to the Library of Ishkanbar. Apparently when he was himself a young man,
his grandfather took the Muse Stone to the Scholars there, to see what they could tell him of it.”
“And what did they say?”
“A relic of the Caids,” Dhulyn thought, thinking of that fair-haired woman with the long-fingered hands she’d Seen in her Vision. Had she been a Caid, then? For what purpose had she made the Stone?
“According to your great-uncle, at the time it took much persuading to get it back out of the hands of the Scholars.” Dhulyn sighed. “If I had time, my little Cat, I would translate the whole of the book for you. There is much here that would be of use and interest, much that has nothing to do with the Stone. It was only when your great-uncle began to feel the first twinges of age—and that was astonishingly recently—that he thought to write down what he knew of the Stone.” A movement made Dhulyn glance over. “I know. Why use the Scholar’s shorthand if he meant this as a record anyone could use?”
“Do you think Uncle Jovan would have known the shorthand, too?”
Dhulyn nodded. “If, as you say, reading and writing were taught to you by your elders. Your great-uncle would have taught his son and heir, never thinking they would both be carried off at once.”
Dhulyn grimaced as the light went out of Zania’s face. That had been entirely the wrong thing to say. A distraction was needed. She put out her hand for the page Zania had taken.
“There appear to be at least three other chants,” she said. “And there are symbols on both ends of the Stone.”
“So you’ve told us, the symbols of the Marked.”
Dhulyn shook her head. “That is just the one end. On the other are symbols I do not recognize, though for some reason I feel I should. See here, I’ve drawn them larger, do you know them?”
Zania drew down her brows, then her face cleared. “There’s a tunic with these symbols embroidered into it, do you think that’s where you’ve seen them?”
“I haven’t seen a tunic such as you describe,” Dhulyn said. Now it was her turn to frown. “In fact, I know that I haven’t seen these particular symbols before, only that they seem familiar.”
“What of the other chants? The opening and the closing are the only ones I’ve ever heard.”
“Your uncle calls the others ‘Null Chants.’ He says that the Stone glows when they are spoken, and the ends turn, but nothing happens.”
“I wonder if Avylos the Blue Mage has found a way to make something happen?”
“That is a most unpleasant thought.” Dhulyn drew her finger down the list of symbols she had drawn. A crescent moon. Three geometric patterns—not unlike a Mercenary badge, she thought—a Healer, a Mender, a Finder, a Seer. And finally a Lens.
This is the boy in the woods again, the red-haired Espadryni boy. Younger, unbruised, unbloodied. But still in the woods. He is drawing in the air, very slowly at first, and then faster and faster. But nothing happens. Something should happen, Dhulyn realizes. Colored light should follow the path of his finger, leaving a symbol drawn upon the air. How does she know this? The boy draws more symbols. Nothing. Nothing. He pounds the ground before him with his fists, grunting in frustration and rage. She takes a step forward and he looks in her direction. But he frowns, chest heaving, tears streaming down his red face, puzzlement coming to replace the rage. . . .
Complete darkness. So dark, so heavy, for a moment Dhulyn imagines she cannot breathe.
Edmir?
“Dhulyn?” There was worry in Zania’s voice.
“I think I’ve read enough,” Dhulyn said. Her own voice sounded hollow in her ears. “Tell the others, we eat, then we ride.”
Fourteen
“YOU ARE SOONER THAN I expected you, Squad Leader Olecz.” Avylos set aside the ancient scroll he had been studying when the squad leader had been announced.
“We completed our first search very quickly, my lord Mage, and were on our way to the second village when we encountered a patrol sent out from Tsarin with the same errand as ourselves. You did not tell me, my lord Mage, that there would be others.”
“No, I did not.” Avylos stared until the other man lowered his eyes.
“Of course, my lord Mage.” Olecz licked at his lips. Good. Let him remember to whom he was speaking. In the sweat beading on Olecz’s forehead was the knowledge of what had been done in Probic.
“Continue,” Avylos said.
“Yes, my lord Mage. We found no signs of the persons we were looking for, nor did the other patrol. The only persons of interest encountered were a team of inglera shearers on their way home after their circuit, a troupe of players, five men hiring out for work in the hay fields, and three bandits living in the forest east of Luk.”
“Players.” A cold grip on his heart. “A large group?”
“No, my lord Mage. One small caravan, with four people. We were told three women and an older man, if memory serves.”
“And the bandits?”
“I saw them myself, my lord Mage. A man and two young boys, one of those a runaway servant. Not the people we were sent to find.”
Avylos leaned back in his chair, let his hands rest along the arms. “Very well,” he said. “Return to your regular duties. Await my future instructions.”
The bow Olecz gave him was fully as deep as the one he would have given to Kedneara the Queen. That almost made Avylos feel a little better. Almost. He tapped the arm of his chair with the side of his right fist. He couldn’t spare any more magic to keep looking for Edmir in this way. If he kept this up, he would have to recharge the pool in the garden, and he did not have enough power left for something like that. Not unless he could find someone else to tap, someone who had the same level of power as that dice boy.
He would have to follow the trail in a more ordinary way.
He realized that he had placed his left hand on the casket that held the Stone, and pulled the hand back again. No help there, no help until he unlocked the secret of its stored power.
He reached for his maps of Tegrian.
Valaika Jarlkevo pushed the lists in front of her farther away. She clasped her hands at the back of her neck and pushed her head back against them, trying to loosen the tight muscles of her shoulders.
“That bad, is it?”
Valaika looked up, a smile coming automatically to her lips. Only Sylria would come in without knocking, and only Sylria would ask such a question so bluntly. Valaika released her hands and leaned back in her chair. Any interruption was welcome, but this was better than most.
“Anyone who can read a balance sheet can see we’ve no more people to spare for Kedneara’s armies.”
“You mean to say ‘Kedneara the Queen.’ ”
“I mean Kedneara my blooded sister-in-law the Queen, yes.” Valaika pulled one of the sheets of paper closer. “As if farming isn’t hard enough in these mountain valleys, I sent her every able body last season, and we were promised no more would be needed this season.”
Sylria crossed the room from the door, her house slippers noiseless on the rugs, and seated herself in the wide, padded chair on the other side of the table. Like Valaika, the other woman was dressed entirely in dark blue, the queen’s colors, to remind all who saw them that they were directly related to the Royal House, and in mourning. Instead of the usual badge in the Jarlkevo House colors of orange and black, both women followed the custom of Hellik, Valaika’s homeland, and wore an embroidered crest, in the shape of a bear’s head, on the left side of their tunics.
“I would have thought, after Probic, that Nisvea would have been the last of our worries, but no, Kedneara wants another levy of soldiers.”
“What possessed poor Edmir to break the treaty? That war should have been at least two years away.” Sylria took up the jug of watered wine that sat on the table and poured herself a cup. “And what possessed him to take so few with him. And what, for that matter, possessed the poor child to get himself killed?”
“I should have stayed in Hellik.” Valaika addressed her inkpot. “Failing that, I should have stayed in Beolind.” She
looked up at Sylria. “All right, so I would have killed somebody out of sheer boredom, or been killed myself. How bad could that have been?”
“You’ve said that many times, and let me remind you of what I’ve told you, each and every time. If you’d done any of that you wouldn’t be House Jarlkevo, important in your own right and not just as the consort’s sister. You wouldn’t have the land, and the people, and yes, the responsibility. And you wouldn’t have Janek to become the House after you, and take the responsibility from you, and, not least I think, you wouldn’t have me.”
With a grunt, Valaika rubbed her face vigorously in both hands. “You’re right, of course.”
Sylria leaned forward again and pulled a large sheet of parchment toward her, studying the figures, crossed out and rewritten, and the notation on the bottom of the page. Her brows raised.
“Here I’d been thanking the Caids that spring was early and mild this year, but if your figures are correct, we won’t have enough ice in the cellars to keep the stored meat from thawing.”
“Of course my figures are correct.” Valaika poured a glass of wine for herself. “The question is, should we let it thaw, and salt what we can to send to Kedneara in place of the soldiers we don’t have? Or should we cook it all, give the Valley a feast, and tell Kedneara’s Steward of War that we have nothing to give?”
Sylria twisted a lock of hair around her finger as she considered. “That would work. So long as the Blue Mage doesn’t take occasion to look in this direction. He has uncanny ways of finding things out.”
“He’s no reason to look this way,” Valaika said.
“True.” Sylria put the sheet of parchment down. “Don’t we have stewards for this work?”
“They’re out bringing me more information.”
Which Sylria well knew, Valaika thought, eyeing her consort with a frown. Valaika liked to go her own way in more than just the crests they wore on their clothing. Here in Jarlkevo she’d insisted on breaking that ridiculous custom that had spread from the Letanian Peninsula which kept the Steward of Keys confined to the House proper for life, and the Steward of Walls confined within the fortified walls of the town. Hard enough to do in a large House such as was found in the capital. Barbarous to impose here, where winter weather was often bad enough, for long enough, to set the occupants of a House gritting their teeth at each other.
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