Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris)

by A. C. Smyth

  Jesely took in a deep breath. He had known that, of course. One changer several years ago had become so disturbed in her mind soon after the birth of her first child that she tried to throw herself off one of the towers. Ayriene had given her sedatives of the sort she mentioned, but had been unable to heal her with the talent. The woman recovered several months later, but was so shaken by it all that she had not dared to have another child, blaming the birth for her sudden instability.

  Ayriene continued. “There may be repercussions from the past few days, but he shows little sign of trauma. In fact, he has proved remarkably resilient. He is sitting up when he is able, talking with visitors. Casian spends a lot of time with him.”

  “Yet there is another way to make the boy safe if he cannot control the change,” said Donmar, “and it is one to which we must give serious consideration.”

  “I know where this is leading, and I would oppose such a move,” said Jesely. “If he cannot change with the pipe then he is in no danger of changing to a call not intended for him. To make doubly certain, he can continue to mark as he has done between flights up to now.”

  “If the boy were an exceptional student, then maybe that would have been a possibility, Jesely,” said Donmar. “But he shows no particular aptitudes. In fact Master Gwysias has come to me several times complaining of his lack of application. Personally, I know what I would do, although it is an extreme step to take.”

  Several of the council shuffled uneasily. Burning the ability from a changer was indeed an extreme step. The process involved all the aiea-bar a changer could hold being channelled through that part of another changer’s mind that accessed the kye. Even the changers did not understand fully how it worked, and as such it held many risks. It would keep Sylas safe from involuntary changing, or from answering any calls that he might hear from the Aerie or elsewhere, but it would be an admission of failure. Their failure, not his. Failure to teach him to use his skills safely.

  Jesely thumped the table with his fist. “We cannot do that! It was always a solution of last resort, even when there were changers who knew how to do it safely. How can we justify doing it to a boy whose only crime is learning more slowly than we would like?”

  Donmar leaned forward. “The only other changer who could hear many kye died suddenly, as you yourself pointed out to me. What if burning him would save him from this fate?”

  Jesely read Donmar as the leader spoke. Not his thoughts—no empath could do that—but his emotions, his reactions. He was frightened. Of Sylas?

  “And what then? Send him home to a father who beat him so badly he could have died on the journey home?” Jesely did not want to be the one to tell the boy that he had to return to Namopaia.

  “We could keep him on here. Hire him as a stable hand or a kitchen boy or something. Something that suits his abilities,” suggested Fennoc.

  At least he was sympathetic to the boy in his own way, Jesely thought. But while others who could change laboured at the Aerie—Ayriene’s own son Garyth worked in the gardens—turning a potential changer into a kitchen boy struck Jesely as little more than scandalous. Still, rumbles of agreement circled the table, several masters turning to discuss this suggestion with their neighbours.

  Ayriene’s voice broke through the discussions. “You said that the boy had no aptitude, Master Donmar. I believe you are wrong. Jesely, do you have the parchment?”

  He did. He had it tucked in his belt pouch, entirely forgotten. He pulled it out, waving it toward Ayriene.

  “Yes! It was him. It was Sylas did this. You say he has no aptitude for anything, but look at how the boy can draw!”

  Donmar protested that drawing was of no use to the Aerie. Maybe they could find someone in need of a draughtsman in Banunis or Adamantara, but first the boy must be burned. Jesely found himself in the grips of a wild optimism. Ayriene had not volunteered to apprentice Sylas, but had prompted Jesely to show the pictures. Would she take him? Use him for this herbal of hers? Jesely prayed so.

  Cowin slipped away after the meeting before Jesely could confront him. Something was going on that Jesely didn’t understand: something that affected Sylas. People were keeping secrets, and Jesely didn’t like secrets.

  “Are you meant to be up?” Casian rushed to Sylas’s side, grasping his forearm. Sylas was still wobbly after days spent confined to bed, but he shook off Casian’s support.

  “I can do it. I just got up too fast and my head started spinning.”

  “But what are you doing up at all? Did Mistress Ayriene say it was all right?”

  Casian guided him back to the bed and Sylas sat. He just needed to take it a little slower, that was all. He’d be fine. “Of course. You don’t think I’d be disobeying my mistress this soon after she took me on, do you? I’ll wait till I’m outside the gates at least.” He grinned.

  My mistress. Sylas said the words over in his head. My mistress. True, when he had thought about it, he had always imagined he would be saying “my master,” but to be apprenticed to Mistress Ayriene was better than he had ever dreamed. The only healer talent in the whole of Chandris had apprenticed him. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  “So it’s true then? I heard it in the refectory just now, but I told myself not to listen to idle chatter. That my good friend Sylas wouldn’t have me find out from gossip. That he’d want to tell me himself.”

  Casian’s hurt tone was a punch to the stomach. “I was going to tell you myself. That’s why I’m up—to come and find you. They’d taken my old clothes away, and no one had thought to leave any fresh. It took them a while to fetch some from my room and—”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Casian waved a dismissive hand. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t jumping to any stupid decisions.”

  Sylas wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from Casian. He had hoped that his friend would be pleased for him. Supportive would have been even better. He would be learning a trade, seeing parts of the island he had never visited—maybe going to the mainland, if Mistress Ayriene wanted it. But he would come back. He hoped Mistress Ayriene would continue trying to teach him to fly. Master Olendis might have given up on him, but Sylas was convinced he could learn, if only those voices in his head would quieten. Then maybe he could fly back to see Casian from time to time.

  He hadn’t expected Casian to call his decision to accept her offer ‘stupid.’

  “But you know it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “To traipse around the island drawing plants? Since when? You never mentioned that as your ambition before.”

  Casian was so much smarter than him, so much quicker. If they got into an argument Sylas would likely end up agreeing that black was white before he knew what had hit him.

  “To be apprenticed to a master. To be taught to manage the transformation. To be with someone with enough patience to actually help me to transform. The Lady knows Master Olendis won’t, but I think Mistress Ayriene might.”

  “Ayriene.” Casian’s lip curled. “You know she lost a son about your age not so long ago? You’ll find yourself with a mother, not a teacher, if you go along with her.”

  “That’s rubbish. There’s not one person in the Aerie who would believe she was trying to use me to replace her son.” The look on Ayriene’s face when she had spoken of Adwen had resembled the one his mother had worn after Lynto. He thought Ayriene brave to take him on, and was determined to do his best to deserve her trust in him.

  “Do you really think this is the right thing to do?”

  “Yes!” Sylas took Casian’s hand and stared intently into his face. “I think it’s exactly the right thing to do. I will learn a trade. I won’t have to go back to Namopaia, and I can learn to be a changer without Aerie tutors on my back. Maybe I’m just slow. Maybe it will all come if I can give it time. It’s per
fect for me, can’t you see that?”

  “But what about me?”

  “I’ll miss you, but I won’t be gone forever. We’ll come back to the Aerie every now and then—I asked Mistress Ayriene about that—and I’ll be safe, don’t you see? I worried they would send me away. Now my future is secured.” The threat of dismissal had always hung over Sylas. But Casian looked so lost at the prospect of him leaving that Sylas wondered for the first time if he had done the right thing in accepting.

  “I made those arrangements for you, and you ignored them. You would be safe at my mother’s house and we could see each other whenever we wanted.” Sylas hesitated at the slight note of petulance in Casian’s voice. He was used to getting his own way, Sylas reminded himself. He answered more softly, tried to sound as persuasive as he could.

  “And I’d be a servant all my life. I’d never learn to change or make anything of myself. Just learn how to carry a tray and serve wine. If it doesn’t work out then I can go to your mother’s, but this way I have the chance to be someone on my own account, without always relying on you and your family’s favour.”

  Casian stood. “Fine. But when you come back the offer might not still be open.”

  “What?”

  “If you can go off with Ayriene so bloody easily then maybe I don’t mean as much to you as I thought I did.”

  “Don’t say that.” Sylas stood also. He tried to embrace Casian, kiss him to show him how much he cared, but Casian pushed him away.

  “You won’t get around me that way.”

  “You’re being unfair—thinking only of yourself.”

  “I’m thinking only of myself. When it’s you saying you want to ‘be someone’ and ‘make something of yourself.’” Casian sneered his words back at him. “You’re a Chesammos. There’s only so much can be made of a Chesammos.” And he turned on his heels and stalked out.

  The words hit Sylas like a face full of cold water. He knew Casian used words to wound, make people change their minds and agree to what he wanted. There had been something else, too. When Casian stared him down, it had been like fingers squeezing his skull and a voice whispering inside him that he should do as Casian said. That he wanted to. That it would be best for him.

  Was he being selfish? He hadn’t thought of it that way, but maybe he was. Deep inside he held the conviction that he would not be content as Casian’s mother’s servant unless he had no other options. His only route to self-respect was to have some measure of status on his own account. He would never have Casian’s titles, but he wanted to be more than just a whore, kept in the household for Casian’s benefit. What would happen to him when Casian married to breed heirs for his house? How would a wife react to Sylas’s place in her husband’s affections? No, he had to follow this course, whatever the result.

  Even if it meant losing him?

  That thought came close to breaking his heart.

  Chapter 12

  Sylas ate his evening meal in the refectory, sitting at one of the long trestle tables with some of the other novices. He hoped he looked more at ease than he felt; he was never entirely comfortable around the other youngsters. Set apart by race or ability, he always had something to be awkward about, slights to be taken whether intended or not. But soon he would be on his way. Mistress Ayriene had been happy with his progress, and they were to leave in two days. His few belongings were packed and ready. He just hoped he could reconcile with Casian before he went.

  The Irenthi had left the Aerie shortly after his conversation with Sylas, and Master Jesely was livid. Rumour had it he had gone home to Lucranne to see his father this time, not the mother in whose service he planned to place Sylas. Once their changing was controlled, apprentices and journeymen were allowed occasional trips home, but leaving without permission was a breach of protocol which Jesely would not readily overlook.

  “Good evening, Sylas. May I join you?”

  A dark-skinned man stood opposite him, across the table. He swung his legs over the long bench, reached for a bread roll, and tore off a chunk. Lifting it to his nose, he sniffed appreciatively.

  “I missed fresh bread on my travels. I lived for so long on waybread and what passes for bread on the mainland that even the overcooked stuff they serve you youngsters seems good. You’ll find the same on your own travels, I daresay. Nothing like fresh-made Aerie bread.”

  Sylas knew who he was; how could he not? There were not so many Chesammos masters that he would not know Master Cowin, if only by name and reputation. He had been in the Aerie briefly when Sylas first joined, then had gone off on one of the journeys so many masters seemed to take to further their knowledge of the world or changer lore. He had returned to marry Mistress Elyta, and the match had set the Aerie buzzing.

  Sylas bowed as best he could sitting at the refectory table. All he could do was incline his head and make the sign of the Lady, forefingers and thumbs pressed together, and hope that Cowin understood what he intended by it. The other novices nudged each other, gathered up the remains of their meals, and left.

  “Forgive me for interrupting your meal,” said Cowin. “I have been hearing a lot about you.”

  Hearing a lot about him? Not much complimentary, he would guess. Around them, people cast covert glances in their direction. Masters ate on the dais or in their rooms, not in the lower refectory. Sylas fidgeted. He didn’t like being the subject of scrutiny.

  “You caused quite a stir, you know, coming back in the state you did.” Cowin popped a piece of bread into his mouth and spoke around it. “And I expect you’re still the talk of your village. Where are you from, boy?”

  He would never have called him ‘boy’ with the bead in his ear, but Mistress Ayriene’s healing had worked so well there was no sign it had never been pierced. Sylas fought down a feeling of mistrust. There was no good reason Sylas could think of for Master Cowin’s interest. He didn’t know what made him lie to the master, but lie he did.

  “Cellondora, Master.” The village Pietrig had mentioned as at the heart of the rebellion.

  “Cellondora, eh?” Cowin’s dark eyes were penetrating and Sylas had the uneasy feeling that Cowin knew he was not telling the truth. “What was your birth name?”

  Few at the Aerie realised that the names used by Chesammos were not their full names. Full Chesammos names were rarely used except on ceremonial occasions. A male child’s name was chosen by his mother, female by her father. All were shortened, the first part of the name typically taken for everyday use.

  Should he give Master Cowin his real name? Casian would urge caution, but the Irenthi smelled deceit on everyone. Surely Master Cowin would mean him no harm.

  “Erden-sylassan, Master.”

  “Erden?” Cowin looked thoughtful. “Interesting that you go by Sylas, then.”

  Sylas hesitated. “My name was picked by my mother, but my father… My father would not have me use it.”

  “And he didn’t like Erden because…?”

  Sylas was not sure, exactly. He had grown up being called Sylas—was used to it. No one queried why he used his secondary name rather than his first. The first was usually in deference to some male relative, or person to whom his parents owed a debt. He had wondered who this Erden might be, but both his mother and his father became tight-lipped when he asked, and soon he learned not to ask.

  “I believe there was someone of that name whom he did not much like, Master.” That was as close as he had ever come to the truth.

  “I can believe that.” Sylas was not sure Cowin was aware he had spoken aloud. Then, more urgently, he asked, “And you are not a talent?”

  “No, Master.” He was scarcely a changer, far less a talent. Cowin’s face showed his disappointment, and Sylas felt his shortcomings keenly. He had let the master down in some way he could not guess. “I am sorry.”

 
“You have brothers and sisters?” With the current Chesammos emphasis on producing many offspring, that was a reasonable assumption.

  “A sister.”

  “Just one?” That disappointment again.

  He nodded slightly. “I had a brother. He died several months ago. There was to have been one between my brother and me, but the baby came too early.” And so didn’t count, by the Chesammos reckoning. Another thing for Craie to hold against Zynoa.

  “Your sister. She is older? Younger?”

  “Older, Master. By two years.”

  Cowin gnawed his lip. “Probably too old to show signs then. She is not a changer? Did not come to the Aerie while I was away?”

  “No, Master.”

  “So there are none in this generation,” Cowin muttered. “But She is quiet, for now. That may not be of consequence. There may be grandchildren yet. They may come in time to save us.” He roused himself, aware of Sylas’s curious gaze on him. “Your mother, is she well?”

  Sylas’s mother was always a mystery to him. Clearly not from Namopaia originally, she had no family nearby. While his friends had cousins by the armful, Sylas had only those on his father’s side. He knew nothing of his grandparents on her side: nothing at all. Now, looking at Cowin, he wondered.