Far down the ranks of aristocrats, Elder Davon, leader of the Dualist minority, sat quietly, ignoring the space that had formed around him as those seated next to him scooted their chairs aside. Like all good followers of the Mother, Gevan despised the Dualists. But privately he considered them less objectionable than the Purifiers. At least they kept to themselves in the sector of the city reserved to them. Their trading ships were among the most profitable, and they never complained about the double taxes the Matriarch demanded in exchange for her tolerance of their presence. Not that they had much choice; Ramunna was one of the few places in Ravanetha they could find refuge. In Marvanna their faith was illegal, and its adherents were subject to imprisonment or execution if they were discovered. Gevan thought that extreme, even if their beliefs did blaspheme the Mother. The Dualist students he’d had in his classes had been hard working and studious, though lacking in the imagination that made for a truly great scholar. Of course, most of the young men who passed through the University’s halls lacked that quality, so most likely their heritage wasn’t at fault.
Gevan called his wandering thoughts back to the present. The Dean of the University was finishing the last flowery phrases of his introduction. “…I assure you, what you are about to witness is so amazing, so revolutionary, that your understanding of the Mother and her world will be changed for all time. And so I wish to present to you all, your majesty, lords and ladies, the finest flower of the University’s scholarship, the greatest mind of our generation, a man history will remember as far ahead of his time—Professor Gevan Navorre!”
Gevan cringed inside, though he kept his face carefully pleasant. Did Ithran want to bring the enmity of every faction in Ramunna down on him? But no, it was just the Dean’s way. He probably thought he was doing Gevan a favor with his effusive praise. Ithran might be brilliant when it came to abstract mathematical formulas, but he had no understanding of politics.
Gevan stepped forward, bowing in response to the polite applause that answered Ithran’s words. He laid the leather case containing the window-glass on the lectern that faced the throne. The rest of the gathered onlookers were nothing. If he could convince the Matriarch of the truth of his claims, he would win the day.
“Your majesty, ladies, gentlemen. I am honored by your kind reception. Despite what my esteemed colleague has told you, I am but a simple scholar. I only desire to understand the truth of the Mother’s creation. I’ve devoted my life to studying the records of the ancient wizards, seeking to learn more about how they accomplished the feats for which they are renowned. We have been taught that their skills were a supernatural gift from the Mother, and that when those skills were used for evil she took them away.”
A quiet murmur sounded in a few places around the chamber. So far he’d recited the orthodox doctrine of the Temple, but his next words would directly contradict it. First Keeper Rothen was able to take a relaxed view of such disputation. He held the view that the ancient texts were cryptic and open to varying interpretations, frequently of a symbolic nature. But Yoran and the Purifiers insisted on a strict literal reading of the texts. What he was about to say would offend them deeply.
Gevan gripped the lectern and chose his words carefully. “In my studies, I have come to form a different theory about the ancient wizards’ abilities. A number of the documents I’ve translated indicate that no supernatural force was responsible for what the wizards did. Instead, they drew upon natural forces. Forces which still exist exactly the way they did in the wizards’ time. Forces which can be manipulated by devices, just as the ancient wizards used. Forces which allow me to duplicate one of the ancient wizards’ feats for you, here, today.”
A gasp of shock went up from the onlookers. Gevan kept his eyes focused on the Matriarch. He had no doubt she’d been forewarned of what he would say. She displayed no surprise. Only a quiet intentness, reserving judgment until she saw what he had to offer. He’d have to prove to her that what he said was true.
Fortunately, he could do just that. He unfastened the leather case and opened the lid. With reverent hands, he lifted the window-glass from the velvet padding where it nestled. “This device can open a window, exactly as described in the ancient records. Through it, things far away appear close at hand.”
Murmurs ran around the room. Gevan ignored them. He stepped around the lectern and approached the dais. Kneeling before the Matriarch’s throne, he held the window-glass up to her. “Your majesty, I invite you to look through the glass and see for yourself.”
The Matriarch gazed down at him. The heavy cosmetics she wore gave her face the appearance of a painted porcelain doll, flawless and ageless in its beauty. No trace of emotion showed. Gevan made bold to meet her eyes for a moment, but quickly bowed his head in deference, raising the window-glass higher in offering.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of motion as the Matriarch gestured. Her steward rose from beside her and took the window-glass from Gevan’s hands. Gevan raised his head and watched the man pass the long metal tube to the Matriarch.
She slid the two pieces apart and together. Gevan had polished and oiled them so the motion would be smooth and easily controlled. She tilted the device one way and then the other, surveying the large lens at one end and the smaller lens opposite. At length she looked down at Gevan. Her voice was low, curt in the way of one accustomed to having every word obeyed as absolute law. “Show me how the device works.”
“Yes, your majesty.” Gevan rose. The Matriarch’s guards permitted him to step onto the dais and come to her side. He bowed low before her. She beckoned him close and handed the window-glass back to him.
He pushed the halves together, to the position he knew from much experimentation was close to where the lenses would focus for people with average vision. “Hold the smaller end up to your eye, your majesty, like this.” He demonstrated. “Point the larger end at what you wish to see. Might I suggest the musician’s gallery?” He gestured far down the long hall, to a balcony holding a small group of string and wind players. “Look through it and adjust the length until the image becomes clear.”
He handed the window-glass back to the Matriarch. She raised it to her eye, careful not to let the lens touch her skin and smudge the paint. She was quick to grasp the mechanism of adjustment. Many of Gevan’s colleagues had fumbled and fussed and demanded he set the focus for them, but the Matriarch slid the pieces in and out for only a moment before she found the correct place.
Her reddened lips parted a tiny slit, and her flagpole-straight spine straightened a further degree. She looked long and hard through the window-glass. She shifted it a bit to the left, then to the right, taking long pauses to absorb what she saw.
Abruptly she rose. Her attendants scrambled to attention. She strode across the dais and down the steps to the main floor of the hall. Gevan trailed behind her, heart pounding, unsure what she intended to do.
The Matriarch headed for one of the high arched windows piercing the long walls of the chamber. Courtiers bustled aside to open a path. She gave an imperious wave of her free hand. “Open this so I can look out.”
Her steward hastened to unfasten the catches and swing the tall panes of leaded glass outward. As soon as he backed out of the way, the Matriarch stepped closer to the window, heedless of the way her wide formal skirts pressed against the stone wall. She raised the window-glass to her eye and swept it across the panoramic view of the city spreading down from the palace hill.
For a long time everyone in the hall waited, hushed, as the Matriarch continued her trial of the device. Finally, she lowered it and turned to Gevan. “Professor Navorre, I congratulate you. You have indeed discovered the secret of the ancient wizards’ windows. It is in all respects just as you have claimed.”
A broad grin spread across Gevan’s face. He struggled to prevent it becoming as wide and silly as feared it might. Instead, he bowed again. “My thanks, your majesty. Please accept it as a gift, to you and to Ramunna.”
“On behalf of Ramunna, I accept.” The Matriarch swept back to her throne and seated herself. Gevan followed, along with her attendants. She held the window-glass in her lap and turned it around and around, hands caressing every contour of the metal. “Does the device—has it a name?—duplicate all the functions of the ancients’ windows?”
“I call it a window-glass, your majesty.” Gevan must tread carefully. He dared not risk making claims his invention couldn’t fulfill, but he didn’t want to dampen the Matriarch’s wonderfully enthusiastic reaction. In his fondest dreams of how this audience might proceed, he’d seldom dared imagine such a positive response. “At present, I have only discovered how to bring the image of distant things close. The further effect, of bringing events of the past to appear in the present, remains to be produced. I am in the midst of ongoing experimentation to determine the precise combination of lenses necessary to achieve it. I’m confident my efforts will bear fruit in the near future. But I felt it my duty to bring my earliest successful efforts to your majesty’s attention. Although they remain incomplete, my hope is that even this poor and limited first step can be of use to you.”
“You were right to do so. I greatly anticipate the marvels your future research will bring.” She turned to a man in a heavily decorated military uniform at her side. “Admiral Nesh, I presume the military applications of this device are as apparent to you as they are to me?”
The admiral nodded stiffly, his eyes focused greedily on the window-glass. “Indeed, your majesty. I request the opportunity to examine the device at your earliest convenience.”
Her hands lingered reluctantly on the metal tube, but she passed it to him. “Professor Navorre, instruct him.”
Gevan stepped to the admiral’s side, but Nesh had no need of further direction. He lifted it to his eye and set about studying every distant corner of the room.
The Matriarch turned to survey the rest of the hall. A hushed murmur had arisen, as everyone whispered with their neighbor in surprise or delight or outrage. They fell silent as her eyes traveled over them. Gevan was close enough to see one corner of her mouth turn up ever so slightly. She fixed her gaze on First Keeper Emirre. “First Keeper, give us your thoughts on this matter. Is it fitting for the Matriarch of Ramunna to wield the Mother’s power as the ancient wizards did?”
He rose and addressed the crowd. “I wish to examine the device for myself. But your majesty’s reaction shows me that it does indeed grant the sight the ancient wizards enjoyed. The ramifications will require a great deal of study, meditation, and prayer before I can render my official opinion on the Mother’s view of this development. But I will venture a few preliminary thoughts. The ancient writings tell us that someday, when the Mother judges us worthy, she will return her power to us. It seems entirely possible that illustrious day may be upon us. And who better to entrust with her power than her chosen representative in this world? Your majesty rules in the Mother’s name and by her grace, and I find it entirely fitting that you should wield whatever power she chooses to grant.”
The Matriarch nodded as he seated himself. She was definitely smiling now, Gevan saw. Tiny lines creased the powder around the corners of her mouth. She turned to where the black-robed Purifier silently fumed. “Keeper Yoran, I see from your expression that you wish to speak. Tell us, what is the view of the Purifiers on this development? Do you dispute the worthiness of the Matriarch to bear the Mother’s power?”
Yoran leapt to his feet and threw his hood back. “Blasphemy! To suggest this, this… thing can in any way contain the Mother’s power—it is a mockery of all that is holy!” At the shocked gasp from the crowd, he shook his head and took a deep breath. “Not that I am accusing you of such, your majesty. You are deceived by the false scholar who claims to have produced by human insight wonders that are reserved for the Mother alone. His device is nothing but a cheap imitation of what the ancient wizards could do. Didn’t he say it cannot look into the past? Nor, I think, can it look within walls or behind doors, as the ancient writings clearly describe windows being able to do. And what of sound? Does this device bring distant voices close, also? I thought not. By all these signs, I know that what he claims as the Mother’s power is nothing of the sort, but rather a wicked attempt to counterfeit her blessings.”
Gevan clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He longed to shout a rebuttal of the Purifier’s accusations, but he dared not speak without the Matriarch’s permission. Besides, she’d deliberately invited Yoran to comment, even though her approval of the window-glass was clear. She must have known what he would say.
Yoran drew a deep breath and continued his diatribe. “When the ancient wizards bore the Mother’s power they used it for evil. She saw the destruction they wrought and repented that she had ever granted them her gifts. She remade the fabric of the universe to eliminate her power from the world. So the holy Yashonna wrote, reporting the words of his father, the prophet Guron. She judged us—all of us, even you, your majesty—unworthy to wield her power. Indeed, the ancient writings suggest that someday she may see fit to return her gifts to us, but only if we prove ourselves her true servants by deep devotion. Would any true servant of the Mother seek to mimic her holy power, pen it up within a metal and glass construction? This is the work, rather, of one who scorns the Mother. Who cares nothing for her wrath because he denies her very existence!” Spittle flew from his lips, so vehement were his words. He glared at Gevan. “Beware, deceiver, lest she strike you down for your sacrilege!”
The Matriarch raised her hand, and Yoran choked off his rant. “Thank you for sharing your insight with us, Keeper,” she said. “I have a better understanding now of the differing viewpoints on the matter. First Keeper Emirre believes this new device is a sign of the Mother’s favor, while you are of the opinion it is an impious insult to her holiness. Very well, we will let the Mother herself judge the dispute.”
She turned and beckoned to Gevan. “Professor Navorre.”
Gevan stepped to her side. She took his hand in hers; her fingers were cool and impersonal against his skin.
“This is my decision. Professor Navorre will continue his research with my full support. If it is the Mother’s will, he will continue to reach greater understanding of her works, and devise new ways of making her powers available for use. Then all will know that First Keeper Rothen is correct, and the day of the return of the Mother’s powers has come. But if Keeper Yoran is right, the Mother will frown on Professor Navorre’s attempts, and he will fail to produce any further inventions.”
Gevan swallowed. Now he understood the game she played. He would be the tool she would use to discredit the Purifiers. As long as he did what he’d claimed was possible and discovered ways to reproduce each of the other powers, Yoran would be shown to be an empty demagogue, and his support among the people would erode until he was no longer a danger.
Nothing would please Gevan more. But still his heart pounded, and his hand in the Matriarch’s grew clammy with sweat. If he failed, he would strengthen the Purifiers’ cause. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t possible to duplicate the rest of the wizard’s powers by natural means. Even if it was, maybe he would prove inadequate to the task of discovering how.
The Matriarch rose from the throne with a smile. “Come, Professor Navorre. I have every faith in you. I anticipate with great pleasure the day you present the next of your devices to be used for Ramunna’s welfare. Whatever you need for your research, ask and it is yours.”
The possibilities of her offer dizzied Gevan. “I—I—If it’s possible, I’d like to set up an account with the spectacle maker who grinds my lenses, so he can obtain more of the fine glass necessary—”
“It shall be done.” The Matriarch inclined her head regally.
Admiral Nesh stepped to Gevan’s side, the window-glass in his hands. “How long will it take you to produce more of these? I want one in the hands of every ship captain and field officer as soon as possible.”
&
nbsp; “It depends on whether Arlen can get enough glass. I suppose other spectacle makers might be able to grind the lenses also, if Arlen gives them the specifications.” Gevan’s head swam with all the factors that must be taken into account.
“I’ll let the two of you work out the details later. Give him whatever he asks for, Admiral.” The Matriarch held out her hands imperiously, and Nesh reluctantly surrendered the window-glass back to her. “Professor Navorre, you may join me for the midday meal. Steward, I wish to be served on the terrace.”
The steward bowed and hurried off. The Matriarch, surrounded by her retinue, swept with purposeful stride down from the dais and out the doorway in the back of the hall. Gevan was carried along in their wake. He brushed surreptitiously at the wine-colored velvet of his doublet. He’d worn his finest clothes for the morning’s audience, but the best he could afford on his modest professor’s salary looked cheap and shabby next to the splendor of the Matriarch’s court.
The group proceeded through the corridors of the palace, up a series of stairs, and emerged through wide oaken doors onto a broad terrace. It commanded a sweeping view of the city and sea. From here the Matriarch could watch all that transpired in her realm. Whenever the Armada set out to meet the latest aggression by Marvanna, tradition dictated that the Matriarch preside over the deployment from this high post, keeping daily vigil from sunrise to sunset until the fleet returned.
She wouldn’t suffer any deprivation during those days, Gevan noted. The terrace was as luxuriously appointed as any of the rooms in the palace. A multitude of great planters held lush greenery and brilliant blooms, transforming the austere stone of the palace walls into a garden. A banquet table stood in their midst, as large as the one in the grand dining hall. Overhead, woven canopies stretched over wooden frameworks, shading the table from the fierce sun.
The Law of Isolation Page 6