Faris stared at him.
“To answer your second question, I am Hilarion, warden of the west. Your Dean sent you here to learn what the world requires of you.”
Faris continued to stare at him for another long moment, then she sprang to her feet and turned fiercely to Tyrian. “Pick up this candlestick.”
Tyrian looked apologetic. “I don’t think I can.”
“Try.”
Tyrian put his hand through the candlestick. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed his hands together after the attempt as if his fingers had gone numb with cold.
Faris clenched her teeth and picked up the candlestick again. Hilarion laughed. She put the candlestick down with a bang and turned on him. “Laugh if you like. But hear me. I know what the world requires of me. I was born to rule Galazon and that is precisely what I am going to do. You can’t stop me.”
“Certainly not. Your love for Galazon does you credit. Yet Galazon is not the world. Let me remind you, if the world is neglected, Galazon must surely be neglected, too.” Hilarion studied Faris for a moment, then continued thoughtfully. “You may have observed that the world is a dreadful place. You are very young. If you haven’t yet had the opportunity to study the matter, allow me to assure you that it is. That is one of the least satisfactory aspects of the balance of the world. Nothing in it, be it never so fair, can ever be wholly good. Fortunately, the other side of the coin is that things cannot be wholly bad, either. Unless the balance fails.”
Faris turned to Tyrian again. “You honestly can’t see him?”
He regarded her with concern. “I can’t. If you don’t care to listen, we will go whenever you wish.”
Faris hesitated, then took her chair again. “No. I’ll listen.” Reluctantly, she met Hilarion’s gaze. “Unless the balance fails. That sounds so portentous. Does it fail?”
“I am proof that it does.” Hilarion looked at his hands. “I am old, and such is my situation that I cannot die. Nor can the warden of the east or of the south. We must remain at our posts, with what patience we can muster, until the warden of the north comes again.”
“Tell me why.”
“The last warden of the north attempted to gratify a whim. She tried to create something wholly good. A vain endeavor, perhaps, yet not as deplorable as the alternative. Still, her efforts destroyed her and tore a rift between this world and the next. Ever since, we three have worked to slow the progress of the rift. While we maintain what we can of this world’s essence, we are stranded here. Daily, we grow closer to the next world, until we become invisible to those we defend.”
Faris thought of the bubbles rising in Jane’s champagne. Was Hilarion one of the bubbles lurking in the bottom of the glass? “Then stop. What would happen if you let the rift do its work?”
“Ignorant child, were you never taught the structure of the world?”
“Every morning for the past year and more. If the soap bubble that we live in mingles with the next soap bubble outward, what matter? If you speak of being stranded in this world, that implies you want to go onward to the next. Well, we’ll all go.”
“Mingles,” repeated Hilarion, as though the word had a taste and he didn’t care for it. “Mingles. If this world mingles with the next, what befalls? From the point of the rift outward, the balance of the world distorts. From the rest of the world toward the rift, what magic we have worked so hard to balance drifts into the rift and away. As the magic departs, the balance alters, and the ordinary chaos and unpleasantness of the world outdoes itself. When the rift is wide enough, when disorder encompasses all, what life is left will slip away. In its place will be order at last. But it will be the order of emptiness. All magic, all growth, all life will be gone. And the next world will receive it, like a blow to the balance it struggles to achieve. And so outward.”
There was a long silence. Into it, at last, Faris spoke. “Mend the rift.”
“We have tried and failed. The warden of the north made it and the warden of the north must mend it. And until now, we have had to do without a warden of the north.”
“Tell me how to mend it.”
Hilarion shook his head. “I cannot.”
“How was it made?”
“The last warden of the north tried to combine her wardship of the world with dominion over her realm. In her pursuit of mere political power, she ignored the demands of the wardship. Then, to protect her wardency, she attempted to extend her power outward until it met itself where it began. Instead, it created the rift. She was consumed, her faction deposed, and her heir eventually exiled to die at sea.”
Faris parted her lips but did not speak.
“There might have been a kind of justice in it, if she who caused the rift had been doomed to haunt the world. Instead, those she left behind must haunt it, working to mend her mistake.”
“Her name—” Faris scarcely formed the words but Hilarion caught the whisper.
“Oh, you know her name.”
Faris regarded him in silence for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was a husk of itself. “My grandmother was called Prosperian.”
Hilarion nodded.
“My father died at sea.”
“I know.”
Faris closed her eyes and felt the silence of the house fold around her. A curious sense of peace made it easy to consider her father and her grandmother as abstractions. Even Hilarion’s insubstantiality made sense in the calmness of the place. “I can’t do it,” she said finally, sorrowfully. “I’ll try, of course, but I can’t do magic.”
Hilarion made a scornful sound. “So much for modern methods of education. You have done magic on three occasions. Nothing ostentatious, yet all three bode well for your ability.”
Faris stared at Hilarion. “When? And how do you know about it?”
“I am the warden of the west, am I not? Greenlaw is in the west, is it not? I may dwell here where it is quiet, but I am not utterly out of the world.”
“Greenlaw maintains its own wards.”
“So it does. And those wards may cloud your vision for years. In time, however, you should find it otherwise.” He glanced at Tyrian. “Yesterday you perceived Tyrian within a different form. You exerted your will to change him back to his proper guise. That was the third time you displayed your aptitude for magic.”
“My third? What did I do? How did I set Menary’s hair on fire?”
“Ah, now, the witch’s hair. That wasn’t you, that was the witch. She intended to set your hair afire. You balanced her magic. The force she used turned back to consume her.” He frowned. “Indeed, the force she used was sufficient to burn you to a cinder. It puzzles me that she took no greater harm than she did. She must have formidable powers.”
“The Dean said Menary did not use the magic of Greenlaw.”
“No? Then she must have resources of her own.”
“What are they?”
“I can’t identify them. They are nothing that belongs to my wardency. They do not come from the west.”
“If changing Tyrian back was the third occasion, what were the first two?”
“Weather magic does not usually go unnoticed. A year ago you made it snow in the cloister garden. Perception and will. You perceived that it should snow. Behold. Snow. That was the second occasion.”
Faris thought back carefully. “I was homesick. I was thinking of Galazon.” She frowned at Hilarion. “And the first?”
Hilarion smiled. “It would not surprise me if you refused to acknowledge the first occasion. It was appropriately modest for a beginner. You sneezed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Carelessly, one of your fellow students accepted a gift. Coal, I believe. I suppose it might have been more obvious, though short of a poisoned apple, I don’t see how. The coal caused an accident, as it was intended to. Even such a crude stratagem might have resulted in severe injury. Fortunately, you sneezed.”
“I sneezed. But that’s all I did. How could a sneeze have accomplished any
thing?”
“It wouldn’t accomplish anything, now that both you and the young woman from Aravis have progressed. But you were both beginners. I can only suppose you balanced each other out.”
Faris frowned. “Tell me how you know all this—names, deeds, intentions—”
“No imbalance in my wardship escapes me. The sooner you take up your rightful place as warden of the north, the sooner you will attain such perception.”
Faris looked around her a little desperately. “Must I sit in the dark to do it?”
“Darkness suits me.” Hilarion looked into the shadows. “In direct sunlight, even you couldn’t see me, Faris. This place likes me well. Time runs more restfully here. Outside, the days rush past me like a high wind. But these walls are old enough to keep the wind away. These stones were set down before this city was mere muddy Lutetia. The city has risen around this place, potsherd upon potsherd, through the centuries. Here I can be quiet. And here in the dark, it does not trouble my servants that they cannot see me.”
“But doesn’t it trouble you to be driven into the dark?”
“When my body has worn so thin, what matter where it lies, so long as my spirit still knows my wardship? Would you care how dark it was, if your spirit could range forth and walk in truth through the woods of Galazon?”
“Could I do that?” Faris looked worried.
Hilarion laughed. “No. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. If you mend the rift, you’ll never need to, for when your hour comes, you will pass away as you should, without dwindling to a shadow like smoke in sunlight.”
“When my hour comes to pass away like smoke up a chimney, must I go on to the next world?”
“Has this world been so kind to you, then, that you refuse to leave it?” Kindness subdued Hilarion’s amusement, but merriment lightened the long look he gave her. “Mend me the rift and let me go ahead to see.”
“If I mend the rift, if I take up my wardship, what of Galazon then?”
“Galazon remains Galazon. With you to restore the balance, why should Galazon not flourish as the rest of the world flourishes?”
“Only that much? No more?”
“Go lightly, I caution you. Remember that nothing is wholly good. Such thinking created the rift.” From around his neck he drew a gold chain, long and fine as a strand of hair. Threaded on the chain was a key made of smoky green glass, the color of sunlight in seawater. “Take this.”
Faris hesitated, but put out her hand. When she held it up to the candlelight, the key glowed greenish gold, the few fine imperfections in the glass like the small bubbles of sea foam. “What is that?”
“Prosperian stood at the northern anchor to work her last magic. I know the northern anchor was in the throne room at Aravis Palatine. The rift destroyed the anchor. There may have been more damage, I do not know. I have never seen the place. If anyone there at the time had a shred of sense, the room will be securely sealed. If it is, you must find the warden’s stair. That is the key to the stair—the only key. Guard it well.”
Faris put the chain around her neck and slid the key inside her collar. It was warm against her skin. “Where do I find the warden’s stair?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea. It’s outside my wardency. Tyrian, if she fails, I rely on you to return the key to me.”
Tyrian folded his arms. “I am not in your service any longer.”
“I know. But we must plan for defeat as well as for success. If she doesn’t succeed in mending the rift, someone else will have to try.”
“If I should fail, I promise to send the key back. For now, Tyrian, if you will guard me on the way to Aravis, I will be grateful. And if I fail, I will need you to bring this back. May I count on you?”
Tyrian blushed. “You may count on me until my last hour, and for an hour beyond.”
Hilarion chuckled very softly, a sound like the wind in pines, and stirred in his chair. The tapestry forest shifted as though a silent breeze rustled silent branches. “Though time runs more restfully here, you mustn’t let the world outpace you. I have no more to tell you. Go lightly, child, and remember what the world requires of you.”
Faris rose. The leaves of the tapestry forest shifted again and Hilarion was gone. For a moment she stood staring at the empty chair. Tyrian left the dais. At the foot of the stair he paused, looking back at her.
Faris looked from him to the branch of candles. “I would rather leave it here untouched, but if we need the light, I could bring it.”
“I think we can manage without it. Come.”
Faris followed Tyrian. Silently, they made their way through the shadows to the spiral stair, up and out of Hilarion’s house, into the chill of the wintery night.
8
“Your hat is ticking.”
Outside Hilarion’s house it was windy, dark, and cold. While Paris and Tyrian were indoors, it had rained. The streets were wet, striped with golden light where the puddles reflected the street lamps, and almost empty.
Faris welcomed the wind. After her interview with Hilarion her mind was racing. To be still was impossible. To return at once to the stifling luxury of the hotel was intolerable. The wind pulled at her cloak. It would be good to walk into that wind until she wearied.
As they turned the corner into the boulevard Saint Germain, a horse-drawn cab approached, the only traffic moving in the wide, well-lit street. Tyrian eyed it keenly.
Faris put her hand on his sleeve. “It’s getting late, I know, and cold, but I need time to think. May we walk back to the hotel?”
“Yes, I think perhaps we should.” He lengthened his stride and let the cab pass by. “That same cab was waiting outside Madame Claude’s when we left. I recognized the driver by his moustache.”
Faris looked at him. His usual calm indifference gone, Tyrian was fiercely cheerful, as though he enjoyed swaggering along in the chilly night. “A coincidence, no doubt,” she said dryly, and walked faster.
He matched her gait easily. “No doubt. There are two men following us. They are probably a coincidence, too.” Despite the raw wind, Tyrian opened his overcoat.
They walked on, past the medical school, across the Carrefour de l’Odeon. Every footstep seemed unnaturally loud to Faris. She did not need to look back to know that Tyrian was right about the men following them. She could almost feel their presence, a chill on the nape of her neck that had nothing to do with the wind.
Ahead, another cab turned into the street and came toward them. “I don’t seem able to think, after all.” Faris hoped her voice did not betray her relief. “Shall we take this cab?”
“I think not. What are the odds of two cab horses with the same white stocking? This is Moustache again, back to see if we’re tired yet.”
“Oh.” With an effort, Faris kept her tone light. “I don’t suppose the men behind us are tired yet?”
Tyrian checked. “Far from it. They are starting to move in.” From somewhere inside his coat he produced his pistol and thumbed off the safety. “Stay behind me. Don’t let them get you into the cab if you can help it. I’d hate to have to shoot the horse.”
From the street behind them came the growl of a combustion engine and the angled light of automobile head lamps. The cab horse tossed its head in protest at the oncoming vehicle. Faris turned as a sleek Minerva limousine drew up beside them and paused. The rear door swung open. It was impossible to see inside.
“I don’t suppose you’d care for a lift.” Jane’s clear voice rang out cheerfully.
Tyrian helped Faris in. With one foot on the running board, he hesitated, looking back down the street.
After the windy night, the interior of the limousine seemed warm. The seat was wide and deep and covered with leather. Managing her cloak and skirt as she settled in reminded Faris of packing a suitcase.
“Uncle Ambrose loaned me his limo for the evening,” Jane explained. “Isn’t it lovely? We were parked the wrong way in the rue du Sommerard. You turned right and it took a moment for Charles to
circle the block to catch up with you.”
Reluctantly, Tyrian got in and closed the door. “Now we won’t know who sent them until they try again.”
“Drive on, Charles,” said Jane.
With a refined roar, the Minerva pulled smoothly away. From his seat beside Charles, Reed watched the street they left behind. “Only two on foot and one with the cab? Are you sure they know who we are?”
“We?” Tyrian returned the pistol to its holster and buttoned his overcoat. “More to the point, do we know who they are?”
“Local help, at a guess,” Reed replied. “Do you think they noticed you notice them?”
“Short of shooting one of them, I don’t know how much more obvious I could have been.”
“Are we going back to the hotel?” Reed asked Jane.
“We can if you like, but wouldn’t you rather circle the block, catch one, and hold him at gunpoint until he Tells All?”
“There’s not the smallest chance they’re still there,” said Tyrian.
Reed said, “Probably not, but let’s try anyway.”
Jane peered anxiously at Faris. “Shall we?”
“Whatever you like,” Faris replied. She watched the empty streets pass as Charles obeyed Jane’s orders. Jane, Reed, and Tyrian discussed the incident, but Faris did not listen. Instead she stared abstractedly into the night, and thought about her uncle.
If she had been followed from Madame Claude’s to Hilarion’s, there was no chance that their pursuers were simple robbers. The only real question was whether they had been hired to abduct her or to kill her outright. At a venture, she thought the latter.
At night the streets of Paris were not truly safe for anyone. If she was the victim of a crime there, who would wonder at it? Was that why Brinker had sent for her? Traveling across Europe, even by rail, could be dangerous. If she met with some unfortunate accident en route, who would wonder at that? And if she somehow managed to come safely home to Galazon, what then? A hunting accident, perhaps?
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