Son of Avonar

by Carol Berg

  “But we can’t risk going back for it.” The disappointment was crushing. To be so close . . .

  Tennice bumped my chin with his bony knuckle. “Have you forgotten so much? Though I never had Karon’s intelligence, Martin’s wisdom, or Julia’s wit, I possessed one skill that was out of the ordinary. These cursed eyes don’t see so well as they did, but the head to which they’re attached is the same.”

  “Your memory!”

  “Four names were still unmarked: Lazari, Bruno, Kellea, Celine.”

  “And was there any clue as to where these people might be found?”

  “Not in the book. Bruno, I never ran across again, nor Celine. But until a year ago, someone named Lazari wrote often from Kallamat. And Kellea”—he looked as though he might burst. “Well, there’s an herb shop near the University—I’m not sure exactly where. But once a year, Ferrante had a little box of a rare herb sent to Verdillon to ease his old cook’s gout. He said he could get it nowhere else, but that Kellea had a gift for finding things.”

  “She’s here in Yurevan!” I jumped to my feet, unable to contain my excitement though cold reason told me we could not set out right away. Even if the shop was easily found, and the woman still there, we dared not leave the forest. Night was falling. The Zhid would be seeking. Even D’Natheil had come indoors at last, settling in a corner, where he was cleaning his knife and his sword with his sodden shirt. “I wonder if this house ever held people who cared for each other in a way that would hold back the Zhid?” I said.

  “I don’t know about all those who’ve lived here,” said Tennice. “But a family stayed here once. This is where Karon healed the family of plague, and where Martin watched from that window and saw what he did.”

  “Here?” I pushed the shutter wide open and leaned on the damp sill of the crudely cut window. Gazing into the darkening forest, I heard Martin tell once more of the strange and poignant sight that met his eyes as he watched the young sorcerer work his magic on the dying family. Karon had been here in this room, worked his magic, given of himself. I looked afresh at the crude walls, the dirt floor, the cold firepit, the timber roof, as if somewhere in their grime and splinters might be scribed a reflection of the past, one glimpse . . . oh gods, one glimpse of his face. Such a dagger of grief pierced my breast at that moment that I almost cried out with it.

  “He stayed with me, you know. In my head, through it all.” Tennice, sitting on the dirt floor and leaning tiredly against the wall, twirled his spectacles in his thin hands. D’Natheil watched us from his corner, where Baglos sat beside him, listening to our talk and murmuring into the Prince’s ear. “I would have lost my mind otherwise. I held onto him like one drowning, though what they did to me was nothing to what they’d done to him. After everything else they decided to finish me off with a sword. I suppose I was boring next to Martin and Julia. I told them everything I knew in the first day, said everything they wanted me to say, and signed whatever they wanted me to sign soon after. At the last I lost consciousness, believing and hoping I’d never wake again.”

  He drew up his knees and rested his long arms on them. “There was a guard—he never told me his name. You know how you could never go anywhere without meeting someone who’d been one of Tanager’s ‘bully comrades.’ That held true even in the foul pits of our foul king. Instead of hauling us out for the gravediggers, this man carried the two of us to an out-of-the-way cell. He cared for us as best he could and sent word to Father—”

  “Tanager! Is he—?”

  Tennice shook his head. “It must have taken a great deal to break him. I believe he was dead already. For certain he died long before Father’s men could retrieve us. I, for whatever reason the mad gods dreamt up, did not.”

  “That’s why your father refused to claim your bodies.” For all these years I had cursed the old baron for abandoning his dead sons.

  “The guard would have had to produce two corpses, and he had only one. It was weeks before I knew anything. Father told me of Karon’s death, and he tried to find out what became of you. Oh, damnation, Seri, we thought you were dead. Father was told that both you and the child were ‘taken care of.’ When I recovered, I came here and never looked back. Ferrante heard that my brother Evan was killed two years ago in the war, so Father is left alone now. I daren’t write him, though. To protect him, I must be dead, too.”

  “Is it your choice or his?”

  “He believes it’s his, and that’s enough.”

  “Be sure, Tennice.”

  He glanced up, his face wrinkled into a rueful smile. “You sound like Karon.’Everyone must choose their own danger.’ I hadn’t thought of it so . . . the Way of the J’Ettanne.”

  My skin grew cold. What was I thinking to speak such drivel? “This has nothing to do with the Way of the J’Ettanne.” The Way of the J’Ettanne brought only death. Wasted, useless death. There was no “following life,” no greater good, and, for those of us left behind, no reprieve from the cost of such wretched, foolish idealism.

  As Baglos shared out bread and apples, I told Tennice of Anne and Jonah and my life in the past ten years. The story didn’t take long. There wasn’t much else to say. We were all exhausted.

  Frightful dreams plagued me that night. Each time I woke, I saw D’Natheil standing in the doorway of the hut, his unshaven face hard and fierce, lit by the traveling moon. I woke again when the sky was just beginning to lighten, and he was no longer there. He must have given in to sleep at last. But as I turned over, hoping to find a more comfortable position and wrest another hour of sleep before the day to come, I glimpsed him sitting in the shadows, his eyes fixed on me.

  CHAPTER 17

  Year 4 in the reign of King Evard

  Evard’s war was going badly. Only a month into the fourth year of his reign, his armies had been repulsed at the very gates of Kallamat and driven into the mountains. Even the weather seemed to side with the pious Keroteans, for a ferocious winter storm had assaulted the already decimated Leiran troops. Five thousand soldiers died of starvation when supply wagons foundered in chest-high snow. Five thousand more froze to death, the injured men abandoned by their comrades in fear of the bloodthirsty pursuit. The remnants of the Leiran army straggled into Montevial on the heels of winter, Evard and his household among them.

  Baron Hesperid, a young noble who had lost his right arm in the spring campaign, publicly accused Evard of mishandling the war, of proceeding too fast and too far. He hinted that the king had promised his friends new lease-holds of Kerotean lands before taxes were due in the spring. Only intervention by the Council of Lords prevented Hesperid’s execution for treason. Instead, Evard stripped him of his lands and title and banished him from Leire for thirty years.

  “Lucky, I think,” Martin said. “Luckier than the rest of us who were less pointed in our criticism of this course of stupidity. I wouldn’t want to be in the way when Evard decides who’ll be the scapegoat for this mess.” But, of course, he was. We all were. . . .

  “Of course, it’s the cursed sorcerers. Kerotea is ruled by barbarian priests. They claim to speak for this vile horse god or frog god, or whatever it is. . . . Come, Seri, you’d know. Your husband studies these barbarian things.”

  “Ilehu is half-man, half-wolf.” Stupid, ignorant woman. I restrained my hand from knocking away the wineglass the countess was waving in my face.

  “Just so,” she said to the three other women who stood gawking at her idiocies. “The savages claim this Ilehu commands them to destroy any of their children born defective or weak. I’ve heard they eat the hearts of the dead babes, just as sorcerers do! It’s a mercy King Evard survived their magics.”

  Yes, Karon had taught me about the Keroteans. They believed that their terrible custom was a mercy for those who had to survive in their harsh mountain kingdom. But Leirans had never understood such ways, and so every unusual behavior was wrapped in the mantle of the evil they’d been taught to abhor above all others—sorcery.

 
“I’ve heard—” The sparrow-like young baroness on my left was twitching, her thin fingers flitting over her mouth and chin. The black dots of her eyes darted about the crowded drawing room, and then she leaned forward, drawing the other women close. “I’ve heard they walk among us again,” she whispered. “Sorcerers—”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I think my husband is ready to leave. A lovely evening, Countess. Karon is thrilled with the addition of your artifacts to the antiquities collection.”

  “Well, I don’t see how such a gentleman as your Karon can enjoy mucking about with such refuse, but I told Fenys that I wouldn’t have them here any longer. What if there were spells on them? My dogs have been acting most strangely of late. . . .”

  Within hours of Hesperid’s banishment, rumors had begun flying that the Keroteans had orchestrated their victory by means of sorcery. In a matter of days one could not walk down a street without hearing some demagogue ranting that the Kerotean priests were devilish wizards. Survivors of the campaign swore that snow monsters had appeared in the Kerotean mountains to steal their supplies and mesmerize their comrades. Frost wraiths had lured Leirans into blind-ended valleys, and spells of paralysis had overwhelmed the soldiers to make them lie down in the snow until they died. Every misfortune of that winter battle was attributed to diabolical influence.

  I was maddened with it. . . . and with Karon, who kept trying to ease my worry. “Come now, I look less like a Kerotean than does Evard himself, and, besides, I hate winter travel.”

  I didn’t laugh.

  “Come here”—he gathered me into his arms—“I will take care. I promise.”

  On one such occasion, as he tried to placate me with more empty assurances, I told him at last of killing the man at Threadinghall. “I would do it again to protect you,” I said. “But now I can’t see who’s creeping up on you, and I’m going to go mad with it. How can you live this way? You need to take responsibility for yourself.”

  He was not angry at what I had done. Not revolted, as I’d feared for all these weeks. Shocked, yes; he had not seen the man fall. Grieved, yes, that I had done so ponderous a deed and felt I could not tell him, bearing the weight of it alone. But my accusation of irresponsibility cut deep. He stood beside the garden door, its panes garlanded with snow, his face as pale as the flakes still falling so softly. “I can’t tell you how to live, Seri,” he said after a long pause. “You are who you are, and I would not change you. Your love, your goodness, and your courage are the joy of my life, and this act tells me nothing about you that I have not known and treasured all these years. But you cannot ask me to make the same choices. My calling, my power, demand different things of me. Stars of night, do you think this is easy?”

  I listened only to my own fear, not his. “Sometimes it’s easier not to fight. To follow the rules, to let your ancestors make your decisions, to let terrible things happen and claim it is for the greater good.”

  “Sometimes fighting destroys the thing you’re fighting for.”

  I hated this discussion. “Then either way I’ll lose you, and I can’t bear the thought of it.” And then I was in his arms, and he was stroking my hair and promising again to take care. But nothing had changed.

  Whether responding to my prompting or his own caution, Karon stayed close to home as the days grew shorter, venturing only to the antiquities workrooms. We no longer practiced mind-speaking. He said such things were better left for easier times.

  After several Valloreans were arrested and executed for spying for the Kerotean sorcerers, Karon said he would neither work any sorcery nor speak of it again, not even to me. “Habits,” he said, as he knelt by the hearth and burned his translation of the Writer’s journal, along with my transcription and all our notes. “They’re the key to safety. If your mouth is trained to say nothing of sorcery, then words cannot betray you. If your mind is trained to forget all you know of it, then you cannot inadvertently slip a reference into a discussion.” He traced a smile on my face with his finger. “I’ve become too comfortable, relaxed my vigilance, but I can build the wall again. I just need to work at it, and so will you. No one need find out.” When the hunger to use his power came on him, he walked and rode and exhausted himself with work, staying out of my way until he could suppress it.

  I wanted to refuse any invitation into society, but Karon reminded me of what I already knew. Such blatant change in one’s habits would draw unwanted attention. We had no reason to think any suspicion should be directed Karon’s way. But he would never have burned the work on the journal if he were not concerned. I wondered if perhaps we should consider leaving Montevial. Going away . . . somewhere.

  Midwinter brought the usual round of Seille entertainments. In lengthy and elaborate temple services held to appease and flatter holy Jerrat, whose storms had so tested our troops, priests had reminded us of the first Long Night, when Arot lay sorely wounded. The gifts of music and food and human companionship had raised the god from his winter of despair and prepared him to resume his battle with the beasts of chaos at the coming of the new year. Thus, Evard commanded his courtiers to celebrate lavishly, reassuring the common folk that the Leiran spirit was not darkened by the unnatural deviltry of our enemies. And so, at night after night of entertainments, noblewomen dressed in elaborate finery and laughed in shrill gaiety at jokes devoid of humor. Men played the buffoon, drank too much, and spoke too loudly of the glories of war.

  A fortnight before Long Night, Karon and I were invited to a musical entertainment at the home of Sir Geoffrey Larreo, the administrator who had engaged Karon to develop the antiquities collection. I saw no way to avoid the occasion. Evard was to make an appearance as a favor to Sir Geoffrey—or rather as flattery to Sir Geoffrey’s relatives—and anyone with a court posting would be expected to attend.

  Sir Geoffrey was a distant cousin of the late King Gevron, but had no landed titles of his own. He was a kind man, a bachelor much given to birdwatching and other gentle pursuits. Evard ridiculed him publicly and would have ignored him altogether if Sir Geoffrey were not regarded so fondly by Gevron’s family.

  “Would I had given Sir Geoffrey our regrets,” said Karon as he waited for me at the bottom of the stairs that night.

  I’d had a new gown made for the season, not to follow the frivolous fashion of society, but to accommodate my changing shape—not too noticeable as yet except to me. The gown was dark green silk cut low at the neck, falling loosely to the floor from a high waist. The narrow wedge of underskirt in front showed a darker green brocade. My hair was caught in a loose braid that fell halfway down my back, and my only other adornment was the gold locket engraved with a rose.

  “Am I too awkward to be seen in public already? You’ll want to avert your eyes in a few weeks more!”

  He took my hand as I descended the last steps. “On the contrary. I’m only reluctant to share such loveliness with the rest of society.”

  “I wonder if you’ll still say such charming things when we pass two years married this month, or will flattery run its course as quickly as the time has done?”

  “There is only truth between us.” That, at least, was one good thing that had come from our argument. The killing at Threadinghall had burdened me more than I had been willing to admit.

  “Not only truth,” I said, wrapping my arms about him. “Young Connor Martin Gervaise is rapidly taking up a most prominent position between us.”

  Karon threw back his head and laughed. “I shall begrudge him every moment!”

  “You know, my love, you look quite fine yourself,” I said, as Joubert announced the hired carriage, and Karon helped me with my cloak. He was dressed simply in a loose white shirt of the finest cambric, full-sleeved and buttoned high at the neck in the Vallorean fashion. No puffed satin breeches, fluted neck ruffs, or slashed brocade sleeves, as Evard’s courtiers wore, but simple, well-fitted black breeches and black velvet doublet, embroidered in silver. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, setting off h
is deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. I loved it that he remained adamantly clean-shaven, defying Evard’s fashion of close-trimmed beards and narrow mustaches.

  Joubert opened the door, and Karon threw on his own cloak that buttoned high on one shoulder. “I care for nothing but that it please you, my lady.” After a gallant, sweeping bow, he kissed my hand and led me into the winter darkness.

  Sir Geoffrey often had musical evenings at his townhouse, inviting small groups of selected acquaintances to hear a singer, instrumentalist, or ensemble. He had a good ear, and it was a considerable benefit to an artist’s reputation to be invited to play for him. Music and theatrical performances were a new fashion in Leire—Martin joked that it was all his doing—and few people knew quite how to judge talent for themselves. On that night carriage after carriage emptied its elegant occupants at Sir Geoffrey’s front door.

  “He must have invited half the court,” I said, dreading the heat and the crowd.

  “Everyone’s heard the king is to be here.”

  “I wonder if he’s come to make sure we’re all celebrating joyfully as he’s commanded.”

  When Karon and I were announced and directed into the music room, we found over two hundred guests already seated on red velvet and gold-leaf chairs. Intermingled with the scent of expensive perfumes were traces of the pine, laurel, and balsam boughs that were stuffed into great jars and vases and set in every corner, crack, and crevice. The house blazed with candlelight. While gold-liveried servants scurried about with wine and extra chairs, the ladies’ diamonds and the gentlemen’s swords scattered glittering reflections.