by Carol Berg
“My name is Seri, madam, and this is my friend, Tennice of Verdillon. I cannot say how honored I am to meet you. Never did I believe I would have that privilege.”
“That’s all very nice, but you haven’t answered my question.”
“My husband was your student. His name was Karon, eldest son of the Baron Mandille, Lord of Avonar.”
Celine showed no fear. No hesitation. But she was listening, surely, awash in stillness. Even her head had stopped its bobbing for the moment. “And what has this to do with me?”
“He told me of his mentor whose name was Celine, and of how she took a frightened and awkward boy and taught him the beauty of his calling. And when he became cocky, as young men do, she taught him the grace to look for the gifts in everyone. He told me of your candlemaker and your sons, and how, whenever he had a problem, he would think first, ‘What would Morin do?’ ”
The old woman extended her hand, her head nodding again as if I had recited my lesson correctly.
“Grandmother!” said Kellea.
But the old woman’s handclasp was firm, and she examined me with unclouded eyes. “Karon. Such talent he had—and the heart to match his skill. Lifegiver, we called him. I didn’t know he lived past the dark day. But I see in you that he has gone the way of the rest of them.”
“Ten years ago. He was discovered.”
“I was old when he came to me. Who would have thought I would outlive him? I suppose I’ve outlived them all.” How familiar was her speech. Not querulous or sad, but only wondering at the mysterious ways of life, rejoicing, even in grief, at the interleaving of joy and sorrow and pain and beauty. “And you were his wife. You were not of Avonar?”
“No. We met several years later.”
“You knew what he was?”
“Yes.”
“It’s no easy thing to love a Healer—to share with a thousand others what should be yours alone.” She touched my cheek with her warm, dry finger. “You laughed with him?”
“Very much.”
“Good.” Celine settled back in her chair, shaking her head solemnly. “No. No easy thing to walk the Way with a Healer.”
Kellea stood watching like a new-honed knife, ready to slice the first thing that came in its path.
“So this is your granddaughter?” I said, wanting to leave the past behind and get to our business.
“Great-granddaughter. Morin’s granddaughter, newborn only a week before the dark day. On the day the Leirans came, I had taken her for a walk in the hills to give her mother a rest. I watched from the hilltop as the soldiers burned Mandille and Christophe and Eduardo and everyone else of the J’Ettanne, and they put my Carlo and Morin and the rest of the people of Avonar to the sword. Now, why are you here? Not to reminisce. Not after so many years.”
“We found you through Professor Ferrante.”
“I’m surprised at that. He was sworn. Why?”
“The story is so long. I hate to tire you with it.”
“I’ve nothing better to do. Kellea runs the shop. I sleep here in the sun or watch the flowers bloom. Soon I’ll be in L’Tiere and have all the sleep I’d ever want. Keep me awake for a while.”
Through the long afternoon I sat at Celine’s feet and told her the story of D’Natheil and Baglos, and the reason I sought a J’Ettanni survivor. Whenever the bell on the shop door rang, Kellea would disappear and tend to her customers, and then she would return to her post at Celine’s doorway. At every half hour, she would tell me that Celine needed to rest.
“Hush, child, and listen,” Celine said to her after the third time Kellea ordered us out. “These are matters of concern to you.” And then to me. “Kellea is greatly gifted, but she has never known any of the J’Ettanne but her old grandmother, has never heard the stories told on Av’Kenat, never had a mentor for her talent. I could not be all things to her.”
“I need none of those things, Grandmother. Just you. I want you left in peace.”
“Did you not hear the story, girl? If we don’t help, then even such peace as we know may be swept away.”
“Why do you believe them? Because they say familiar words and names? You’ve taught me to trust no one, and now you open your door to these people without a question. It could all be lies.”
Celine patted my arm as she spoke to her granddaughter. “If you cannot tell truth from lies when you’re ninety, then you’ve made a great waste of your time and deserve no better than you get.” She gave me a thoughtful glance. “It’s quite a thing you ask, Seri, for me to read this man. It may not turn out as you wish.”
“But you’ll try?”
“I’ve seen my friends slaughtered and my sons and grandsons put to the torch. I’ve held life in my hand as few ever have a chance to do, with the choice to give or take. I’ve listened to the voices of my ancestors for ninety years. If you think I would miss the chance to find out why, then you should bottle me in one of my own glass jars and sell me as a specific for inducing madness.”
“Grandmother, you can’t!” But Kellea’s horrified exhortation was drowned in Celine’s hoarse laugh, and as Tennice and I joined in, the girl stormed out of the room.
“Now the two of you be off,” said Celine, wiping the tears that rolled down her dry cheeks. “Let me soothe the fears of my sulking child and take myself a nap. Bring your silent friend tonight after dark. Then will we investigate the mysteries of the universe.”
When we reclaimed our horses at the hostelry, one of the grooms was saddling a large black horse. The shape of its head, its legs . . . the trim of mane and tail . . . the saddle I had shared with Paulo on the ride from Grenatte to Dunfarrie . . . Rowan’s horse. I urged Tennice to hurry and did not breathe easy until we were lost in the press of traffic heading for the outer gates of the city.
CHAPTER 19
Year 4 in the reign of King Evard—midwinter
For endless hours I sat on the hard bed in the dark and tormented myself with “if only.” I remembered Karon’s birthday, the night when he had explained how he could not use his power for harm, even to protect himself or me. I hadn’t believed him then, sure that if this test ever came, he would strike as would any other man. When I had told him about killing the man in Threadinghall, and he had remained steadfast in his resolve, my confidence that he would do what was necessary had not been vanquished, only shaken. But the apology in his eyes as he was dragged away from me had withered my heart. No matter the horror to come, he would not fight. His last words to me had confirmed it. It is a wonder. All of it. . . . part of a humorous J’Ettanni story that was the very expression of their acceptance of the vagaries of life—the path “laid down” for them. Damn them all! I wanted to shake Karon’s father and his grandfather and every cursed one of the J’Ettanne and scream that it was possible to lay down your own path in this world. No wonder they all were dead and forgotten. And now my Karon would be dead, too, for no one was going to listen to him and learn of the beauty and grace he brought into this horrid world.
I could not allow it. If Karon could not fight, I would have to do it myself. I just needed a little time. Plots and schemes fed one upon the other in the dark, until I fell into a exhausted sleep.
Seri . . . help me . . .
The cry startled me awake in the deepest hours of that dreadful night. It was a time of second memory, as if I had lived the exact event before: Karon calling out to me in the darkness. Surely I would open my eyes to silver moonlight streaming through the library door, my book pages fluttering in a summer breeze scented with balsam and thyme. But this room was cold and barren. No light of any kind shone through the window, a small rectangle of lesser darkness high on the wall above my bed. “Karon?”
Help me. He was on the verge of screaming. I could feel him struggling to hold it back.
“Tell me what to do.”
Talk to me. A tale, a song, an image, anything I can hold on to. Please, love, quickly.
I fumbled about for a moment, trying to think what
might serve, trying not to think why he might need a distraction so desperately. After a few abortive attempts—too short a tale, too abstract a concept, too shallow a subject—I began to speak of Comigor, the ancient keep that had been my childhood home, the windy heath that attracted storms, but had repelled all would-be conquerors for six hundred years. I explored every passage, every cellar, every attic, every map in its library. As he had taught me, I used audible words to force my thoughts into a single pattern, not allowing worry or distraction to muddy what I left for him to find in my head. Every once in a while I would pause, listening. I heard nothing, only felt his desperate presence in my mind, as surely as if I could hear his harsh breathing or feel his sweat. So I continued.
I considered my warrior father, so distant, so strong, bewildered by his children, yet so gentle with my fragile, lovely mother. Her image was hazy, but I remembered her stories and her garden, and I explored those things, too. I described my bedchamber at Comigor, where I had imagined myself an astronomer, unraveling the mysteries of the heavens, or a minstrel, traveling the land singing songs of heroes that would ignite a warrior’s soul. As the high window spilled dead gray light into my room, I told how I had stood on Comigor’s highest tower, pretending I was a captive princess, waiting to be rescued by a handsome knight.
This time the princess has done the rescuing.
“No, no. You rescued me long ago,” I said, crossing my arms on my breast as if to hold him to me. “When you stepped from the shadows in my library with a rose in your hand.”
Seri, you must tell them I misled you, that I ensnared and deceived you with magic.
“I’ll do no such thing.”
You must. They’ve proven to me that they’re quite serious about all this.
“Don’t worry about me. Tomas has sworn to protect me, just as I’ve always said he would.”
Karon’s relief surged through the night. Good . . . oh, gods of night . . . He sounded so hurt. His voice in my head, usually so intense, so vibrant and colorful, was almost unhearable.
“What have they done to you?” I said.
It’s no matter, he told me. When I’m with you this way, it’s easier. But I don’t think you’ll ever call me fine-looking again.
I told him stories until I could no longer speak, and then continued by closing my eyes and thinking of the things I wished to say and see. Yet, deeper still, in a small place yet available for rational thought, I made my plan of battle.
My strategy was simple—political power. Those who wanted Karon convicted would manufacture what evidence was necessary, and, truly, eight people—Tomas, Evard, Sheriff Maceron, Darzid, and four soldiers—had seen Karon heal the stab wound in my back. The only thing that could overrule such testimony was a counterthreat to Evard’s war . . . and ultimately his throne.
I could not use Martin. He was in enough danger. But I could contact ten high-ranking nobles that had been close friends of my father and ten more that owed him life-debts, plus I had friends of my own, men with wealth and status, women with influence over husbands or brothers or fathers. All paid levies to support Evard and his war. All knew of Evard’s frustrated plans for me. They would believe me when I said that jealousy was behind the king’s accusations, and that if Evard could manufacture evidence against me and my husband, then no one in the realm was safe from him. All were honorable Leiran nobles and would come to my defense. I just needed a chance to speak with them.
I could not even begin. They confined me to my room with no paper, no pen, no book, no possible way to send a message. The serving sister who brought my meals and washing water was mute, and the guard who accompanied her forbade me to utter a sound in her presence, his drawn sword indicating that the woman’s life would be the price of my disobedience. The guards might have been deaf for all the notice they took of my pleas for justice or my promises of gold. I was allowed no implement that could conceivably be turned into a weapon. The serving woman was required to comb my hair, and the lamp was taken away whenever I was left alone, so that I spent every hour of the long winter nights in darkness. I was permitted no visitor save priests and royal inquisitors, and they always came in pairs lest I somehow corrupt them.
The priests treated me as an innocent, possessed of evil spirits raised by sorcerers. They deafened me with prayers and exhortation, lectures and sermons, encouraging me to repudiate the sorcerer. Arot, the First God, had laid down the law of the world: His sons Annadis and Jerrat were to hold dominion, and they reserved the powers of earth and sea, sky and storm to themselves. Sorcerers tried to steal that power for their own . . . the ultimate blasphemy.
The inquisitors treated me as if I were myself a sorceress. They threatened me with imprisonment and torture, demanding that I confess my depravity and that of the Earl of Gault and his friends.
Tomas never came to me. Not once. Nor did any other friend or acquaintance. I kept thinking that surely someone would question where Karon and I had been taken. But then I would remember the faces in Sir Geoffrey’s hall when Darzid exposed Karon’s arm . . . and a cold weight would settle heavier in my belly where I should have been feeling only the warmth of our growing child. Who would have courage enough to defend us?
Through all the days and nights of that winter, I felt Karon with me. Some days he could converse with me in our strange way. Some days he could only listen, and I suspected that his captors were interrogating him . . . torturing him. I would force such dreadful speculation out of my mind and talk to him about whatever I could think of: art or music, or philosophical speculation, or the Writer and his coded map that we had never managed to unravel, or my plans to study at the University someday when Connor did not need so much of my time.
That will be the worst, Karon said, in a rare moment of sadness. Never to see him.
I did not take the foolish course of saying that, of course, he would see our son. Neither of us was stupid. We had been imprisoned for over a month, and I had accomplished not one step to help him. I kept a barrier in my mind as Karon had taught me to do, a private place where I would not allow him to go, and there I kept my fear and grief and my guilty hopes that Karon would abandon his convictions and save himself. “There’s still the trial,” I said. “When they transport you to the King’s Bench, there might be some opportunity . . . a distraction . . . and you could change yourself and walk away.”
Ah, Seri, if willing could make it so . . .
He could not break chains with his magic. He could not unlock the doors of his prison. I knew that. The only way for him to be free was to invade a mind . . . to force his will upon another with torment and fear . . . to take a weapon and slay those who would harm him. Exactly the things he could never do.
“And the trial itself. Several of the lords on the Council are intelligent, thoughtful men . . .”
Yes. Well. Don’t get up any wild hopes about the Council.
“Wild hopes are no more unreasonable than wild hopelessness,” I argued. “I can cite many historical references to prove that wild hopes are the only way anything useful ever gets accomplished.”
I should have learned long ago never to make any absolute statement to a woman with flame in her hair.
How strange it was to carry on these dialogues without seeing each other. Though I spoke aloud to help me focus my thoughts—whispering, so that the guards outside my door could not hear—we could have continued without a single audible word. Eventually we found it possible to share jests, as well as our deepest thoughts about life and death. I came to hate sleep. Such a waste of time. Karon rarely slept. He said his captors hadn’t made it easy for him, and that he rested better when he was with me. He told me he could listen to my dreams.
“I wondered why mine have seemed benign, considering our circumstances,” I said.
I can’t change dreams, only drown them with other visions if I worked hard enough at it. I would never do that, though. There are those who say that dreams are how our minds work out their difficulties.
There’s so much I’d like to learn about the mind. Our knowledge is so limited. Perhaps the J’Ettanne could have done better had we understood more about such things.
We talked for a long time that night about the nature of dreams.
The trial would not begin for weeks yet, but as the tally of the new year began to run, I could feel Karon getting weaker. When anyone came to question me, I would ask how my husband was being treated. “He is a son-in-law of one of the oldest families in Leire. The law forbids starvation or maltreatment of any person who has not been convicted of a crime. I can cite the reference in the Westover Codex.”
No one listened to me. Once Karon mentioned that it appeared my good offices had gotten him an extra ration of water. Have you gained a sympathizer as I deeply hope, or have you just bullied someone so long they’ll do anything to quiet you?
“Hold on,” I said. “I’ll find a way.”
But nothing changed. I might as well have been spitting on the palace towers, hoping to wear away the stone.
Year 4 in the reign of King Evard—winter
A week before the trial was to begin, Karon came to me in the middle of the night. I’m sorry to wake you, but I needed to talk.
“I’d much rather be with you,” I said, sitting up on my bed and quieting my jangled thoughts so I could communicate clearly as I spoke.
I think they’ve decided I’ve told them all that I will, so I’ve had little to do but think.
“And what have you been thinking while I so lazily slumbered?”
Why I’m here.
“I don’t understand.”
If I’m really the last, then it’s a matter of some import when I die—beyond the small matter of a J’Ettanni healer of two and thirty years that no one but you will miss. No, I’m not teasing for you to tell me who’ll miss me, though it is a comfort. But it would seem that if I’m the last, and nature has consented to it, then, in some way, something will have been completed. I’d give much to know what it is.