by A. C. Smyth
Sylas risked a glance at King Deygan. He and Ayriene had been talking in hushed voices and he wasn’t sure how much Deygan had overheard, but he looked older, his face drawn with worry. He stood to lose two of his three children if Ayriene and Sylas failed. As a Chesammos, Sylas should probably be supporting the rebels and refusing to help save the boys, but he saw a father anxious for his sons, not a ruler—not an Irenthi. And Jaevan was his friend, whatever the gulf between them.
“I’ll try.”
She took her pipe from her pouch and blew it, the strong pure note subtly different from Olendis’s, but causing the same stirring of the kye in his head. He heard the same familiar insistent clamour but now he knew which voice he was listening for. It came through clearly.
We fly, changer?
No, not yet. But don’t go. What do I need to do?
His voice sounded breathless in his own head. He must not lose contact.
I will wait for you in the Outlands.
Sylas loosened the collar of his shirt and untied his breeches.
“You hear it?”
“I hear it.” She blew again, and Sylas felt the twisting shock of transformation. He picked up the pouch in his beak and hopped towards the window.
“You’ll need to change back to fill the pouch,” said Ayriene. How did he understand her, as a crow? This was all so new and strange to him. “I’ll call regularly. If you are in bird form it won’t affect you, but if you are in human form it will prompt your change so you can fly back. I don’t dare give you long. Fly hard, Sylas.”
And she threw open the window shutters to let him out. His first flight, alone, and on a desperate mission. A part of him wished Master Olendis could see him now. A part of him wished Casian were here.
He was too late to save Rannon. The frail six-year-old’s condition had deteriorated too far by the time Sylas returned with the leaves and boiled them to make the antidote. Although Ayriene dribbled the liquid past his lips, hoping against hope that he would rally, the child died in his father’s arms less than an hour later.
Jaevan was stronger, and managed to drink a cup of the potion. Soon after his little brother gave up the fight, Jaevan’s fever broke and the bruises stopped spreading. By evening, Ayriene declared him out of danger. If the antidote had come but a few minutes later they would have lost him, but he lived, though weak as a newborn. Sylas sat by Jaevan’s bed, determined not to move despite Deygan’s disapproval. Just after nightfall, he opened his eyes, and reached one hand out to his father and one to Sylas. A tearful Sylas dropped to one knee by his bedside and swore that as long as Jaevan needed him, he would be there. Deygan pursed his lips in annoyance, but Jaevan smiled and squeezed Sylas’s hand, touching the back of Sylas’s bent neck in the Irenthi manner of accepting an oath.
Lucranne held some of Sylas’s heart, but Banunis held the rest. As he swore his loyalty to Jaevan, he was aware of how the Chesammos would perceive his actions. He was a traitor to them now. A loyal Chesammos would have held his tongue, let the Irenthi brats die, and gone to the gallows proud of his race and his heritage. If he had not been an Irenthi’s pet before, that was certainly how they would see him now. But his choice was made. He was changer and healer first, Chesammos second. He would serve Jaevan, if Jaevan wanted him. He would serve Jaevan for as long as they both lived.
King Deygan attended the hanging of the three Chesammos in person. Neffan was long dead of the esteia, and the man who had been injured seemed barely conscious when they put the noose around his neck.
Prince Jaevan attended the king at the executions, to show the crowd that he lived. Rumours had run wild after the assassination attempt, and Deygan knew the importance of quashing them. Jaevan had to force himself to keep watching, but he stared resolutely at the gallows until his father allowed him to leave the balcony overlooking the courtyard where the scaffold had been erected.
To Deygan’s mind, there should have been another man hanging beside them. When it became obvious that they had failed to kill the king, the conspirators had Sylas send word to Ayriene of what ailed his sons. How better to grant a Chesammos traitor access to the king and his family—to put him in a position where he could strike again? How convenient that the apprentice knew the poison used and where to find the plant to save Jaevan, where the master healer did not. It stank of conspiracy to Deygan. The healer’s boy was implicated and up to his neck in it.
Jaevan still looked as if a gust of wind would carry him away. He had taken to his bed after his brother’s funeral two days before, saying he felt unwell, but each day he grew a little stronger, and Ayriene pronounced herself content with his recovery. The bruises had faded, and his appetite had somewhat returned. As he grew stronger, so did he grow more persistent in asking Deygan’s permission to meet with Sylas.
“Just to talk to, Father,” he begged. “After all, he did save my life. It is churlish not to thank him.”
King Deygan did not voice his suspicions to his son. Jaevan had taken such an interest in the Chesammos youngster that he would have denied his father’s fears without a second thought. Ayriene also maintained that he owed a debt to Sylas, but it all seemed a little too convenient. If Sylas were indeed part of the conspiracy to kill the royal family, best he not know that Deygan’s mistrust of him went any deeper than his known dislike of his race. He had ordered Chesammos entering the city searched and still they had killed his son. The guards had not queried a pouch of flints, never thinking that they could be used to kill one prince and bring another to death’s door.
“I have had word from Lord Garvan,” he told Jaevan. “He asks permission for Casian to attend court to learn statecraft. I have agreed; he will be a suitable companion for you. He knows the Chesammos from the Aerie, I believe, so I will agree to you meeting with the healer lad, but only in Casian’s company. He will be your companion and protector. For as long as this so-called rebellion lasts, your safety is of the utmost importance.” If Jaevan persisted in asking for Sylas, let him at least have an Irenthi companion: one in whose loyalty Deygan had no doubt.
Once back in his apartments Deygan received a messenger bearing alarming news.
The killers had been from Cellondora, and the central role of that village in the rebellion was confirmed by Deygan’s own intelligence. Since the village lay in Lucranne’s territory, Deygan had sent a message to Lord Garvan asking for its destruction. The lord holder had complied. In the short term, Garvan would compensate the lord holder for loss of income due to the loss of a linandra team. In the longer term, Garvan could make other villages increase the size of their teams to redress the balance.
A night raid by three companies of soldiers, two of Garvan’s and one of Deygan’s, should have left the villagers dead and the houses razed to the ground. But reports coming back from Cellondora spoke of people escaping—trained changers taking to the air to elude the soldiers. The messenger estimated up to fifteen escaped that way, and possible unpunished rebels among them.
Deygan sent back a message. The escaped Chesammos must be hunted down. There must be no survivors.
“And where is Master Donmar now?” Jesely rubbed sleep from his eyes as he followed a novice along corridors towards the council chamber.
“He is in the chamber, Master,” said the young girl brightly. “I think he has sent for the other councillors.”
“In that case, you do not need to accompany me,” he said. “I can find my own way to the council chamber, and you must have tasks to be about.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed her face. The council being called at this time in the morning was an unusual occurrence. Jesely guessed she would have been hoping for some snippet of gossip to carry back to the other novices. “You have done well, Kote. Go back to your work now.”
Other masters arrived at the chamber, most bleary-eyed or arranging their tun
ics. Only the earliest risers looked as if the summons had not caught them unawares.
Master Donmar sat at the head of the table, eating chunks of fruit with a fork and taking sips of tea. The centre of the table held fruit and cold meat and bread fresh from the kitchens. Donmar was uncommonly good at remembering the comfort of those called to council, and Jesely’s stomach growled. It would have been a long meeting indeed with no breakfast. Jesely picked up a roll, breaking it open with his thumbs and pushing a slice of cold beef inside.
“No sense asking what this is about, Donmar?”
The council leader looked less composed than Jesely had first thought. He was unshaven—unusual in itself for a man so careful about his appearance—and his eyes were bleak.
“I’ll wait for the others,” he said. “That way I only have to tell you once. There will be questions, and I’m not sure I have the answers.”
Each councillor took his or her usual place at the table. No places were allocated, beyond that of the leader, yet changers were creatures of habit. Donmar waited until all were settled with food and drink before speaking. An expectant hush fell across the room.
“Just after daybreak, changers whom I have not seen for a long time arrived at the Aerie. Some of the names may be familiar to you: Artem, Nyniss, Pabori, Grygg, Sabelan, a few others. Eleven in all.”
Donmar paused, waiting to see who would work it out. Pabori had only left the Aerie two or three years before. For Artem, Nyniss, and Sabelan somewhere between three and ten years had passed since they were changers. Few around the table would remember Grygg. He had trained at about the same time as Jesely himself—going on twenty years before.
Jesely frowned. “All Chesammos?”
“Not only that, but all from the same village—Cellondora, one of the linandra-digging villages under Garvan of Lucranne.”
“How did they get here?” Fennoc the herbalist asked.
Donmar’s gaze swept the table. All the council members were present except Ayriene, who was in Banunis, and Narais, who at eighty-six years of age still clung to life, but only barely.
“They flew. They represent a large proportion of the changers Cellondora has produced for the last two generations. Most of them had not transformed since they went home, but they were desperate enough to try.”
“Desperate?” Yinaede prompted.
“Their village was destroyed in the night. Everyone was slaughtered; their homes burned out. They report seeing the liveries of Lucranne and Banunis among the soldiers.”
Jesely’s mouth was as dry as ash. “Do we know why?”
Donmar wet his lips. “Three days ago in Banunis, there was an attempt on the lives of King Deygan and his sons. His youngest boy died. Prince Jaevan was only saved by Ayriene’s skill. The perpetrators were from Cellondora. This seems to have been in retribution for the assassination attempt.”
“A whole village?” Yinaede pressed her hand to her mouth. All the colour had drained from her face and Jesely thought she might faint. He poured her a drink and passed it to her. She gulped a few mouthfuls but it hardly seemed to help. Jesely stared at his hands. They were shaking.
“Deygan cannot be allowed to get away with this,” said Cowin. “His hatred for the Chesammos is clouding his judgement. A whole village for an act of rebellion by a few men? That’s outrageous.”
“Were the assassins caught?” Jesely asked.
“Yes. They were caught and hanged. I heard…” Donmar glanced at Jesely, “I heard Sylas was involved.”
“Sylas? But he wasn’t from Cellondora.”
“He told me he was, a few months ago,” said Cowin. “At the time I thought he wasn’t telling the truth, but…”
“Was he—” Jesely’s words caught in his throat. “Did they hang Sylas?”
Donmar looked troubled, but shook his head. “I did not hear that he was among those executed. I have sent to Ayriene for clarification, but I do not believe Sylas to be dead.”
Jesely could not believe it. Would not. Sylas was a peaceful man. He wouldn’t get caught up in rebellion, whatever the provocation. “So Deygan cannot even claim that his son’s killers had fled back to their village. This is wanton destruction, not justice at all.”
“Indeed,” Donmar sounded tired, and Jesely understood the pained look in his eyes. “But these changers have put us in a difficult position. The soldiers saw them go. They shot at them as they took flight. Several were killed as they tried to escape, I’m told. In fact, Nyniss took an injury and it escapes me how he managed to fly all the way here. By now, Deygan knows that some eluded him and has probably guessed where they fled to. The question is, what do we do with them?”
“You can’t be thinking of handing them over?” Yinaede looked aghast. “Donmar, if he would kill a village to get revenge for his son, being changers won’t save them.”
“Quite the opposite,” Donmar agreed. “In fact, I had some news from Ayriene a day or two ago that makes me wonder if Deygan may not become even less fond of changing. She reports that Prince Jaevan himself is showing signs of the change. Not only that, she believes him to be a talent, although she has not yet established its nature.”
Stunned silence settled, then all the councillors seemed to speak at once—shock and excitement in their voices. Donmar held up his hand.
“First we must decide about the Cellondorans. They left years ago, not wanting to commit to the years of study it would take to become masters. Yet we clearly cannot send them away. They have no homes to return to, and even if another village would take them in, it would put that village at risk of similar treatment. I daresay Deygan would claim that they were sympathisers or collaborators or some such. But I will not allow them to stay without the agreement of the council. Do we keep them here and give them shelter from Deygan, or not?”
It was unanimous. They were changers; they could not be turned away in their need.
Before they left, Donmar told them that he had asked Ayriene to come to a special meeting of the council to discuss Jaevan. The crown prince would need training, for his own safety if nothing else, but Jesely had a feeling that dealings with Deygan over the matter would be anything but straightforward. Deygan and Donmar had worked together to thwart the Lorandans years before, around the time that Shamella died, but relations had been strained between them ever since. Something had happened over that time that had left the two forever estranged.
Jesely looked forward to seeing Ayriene. They had been friends a long while, and he was keen to see her and to quiz her about this wild rumour of Sylas’s involvement with the rebels. But he could not decide whether, with the Chesammos situation blowing out of control, Banunis was the safest place for the lad, or the worst. One thing he was certain of: the Aerie was no longer safe. Not while they harboured the Chesammos from Cellondora.
All the councillors were silent as they left the chamber, some deep foreboding haunting them all. Jesely at least had the feeling that this might give Deygan his excuse to move against them. Forces were shifting on Chandris, and he could not tell how they might play out.
Chapter 24
“Now I want to see you do it alone,” said Ayriene, leaning back in a horsehair-stuffed leather chair in her room. One end of the room looked like the Aerie workshop, equipped with pans and burners, mortar and pestle, jars and pots in all shapes and sizes, and a selection of roots, leaves, and berries that would not have looked out of place in the palace kitchens. “Make up another bottle of the infusion of leaves, so you will have plenty to mark with while I am away. Creator willing I will only be two days or maybe three, but this is the sort of discussion that could rumble on longer. And a batch of Jaevan’s potion, so I know I can leave that in your hands, too.”
“Will you take him on, Mistress?” Sylas bit back the begging ‘please’ that he longed to put on the end.
> “I told you,” she said, “the life of a healer is not appropriate for the heir to the island. Would you have him walk with us the length and breadth of Chandris?” Her tone softened as she saw the disappointment he knew was etched into his features. “I know you would enjoy company, Sylas, and I’m sure Jaevan would love it, getting to travel about and meet all the common people he is so interested in. But think of the danger. He never leaves the castle without two bodyguards, sometimes more. We would turn into a wagon train if we took enough guards to satisfy Deygan. No, he must study at the Aerie, or here, and that rules me out, I’m afraid.”
At the Aerie. Safe behind the high brick walls. He might as well be a thousand miles away for all the times Sylas would get to see him. He and Ayriene had visited the Aerie once in eight months of travelling. He would have to learn control before he could fly to visit him, and Sylas still could not transform without the aid of a pipe or linandra. He had not admitted to Ayriene the role linandra had played in his changing, nor that he no longer owned the bead she had given him.
Casian had arrived the previous day and had lost no time in taking up his position as Sylas’s caretaker. While Sylas remained in Banunis, he had to be under the direct charge of either Mistress Ayriene or Casian, on pain of imprisonment. Already he chafed under the restrictions. Casian intended to make himself indispensible at court, one way or another, and seemed determined to resume his role as Jaevan’s mentor. Deygan would place no barriers between Casian and Jaevan, as he had between Jaevan and Sylas. It did not take much thought to work out what would happen. Casian would attach himself to Jaevan like a leech to a swimmer, and Sylas would lose them both. That it was entirely appropriate for Casian to be Jaevan’s mentor only made the potion more bitter for Sylas to swallow.