Shadows of Ivory

by T L Greylock

  ***

  “I don’t suppose you know what’s wrong with me.”

  Perrin sat propped up on pillows in the massive bed. He had dark circles under his eyes and Eska thought his cheeks looked thinner, his cheekbones more prominent, but he had awoken in the late hours of the morning and, for the first time in three days, declared he was hungry.

  Eska lifted the tray from his lap, the only remnants of the meal a smattering of breadcrumbs and residue in the bottom of the soup bowl. She set it aside and returned to her perch on the velvet-cushioned bench at the end of the bed.

  She shook her head in response to his question. “It could be any number of things. Perhaps a bad reaction to an insect bite or something you ate. With any luck,” she said, smiling, “it’s behind you now.”

  Perrin nodded but did not look convinced. “I dreamt of,” he hesitated. “Strange things. Troubling things.” He took a deep breath, as though doing so could banish his discomfort. It was Eska’s turn to not be convinced. “Do you think you could help me outside? I would like to feel the sun on my face.”

  Eska nodded her agreement. “I think fresh air sounds like a splendid idea.” With her arm supporting him, Perrin swung his legs off the bed and got to his feet. His face went pale with even that little effort, but Eska kept that to herself, not wanting to worry him. Together, they made a slow trek to the top of the stairs, where Perrin had to halt and steady himself in preparation for the descent. Gabriel, passing by the bottom of the staircase, hurried up to assist, but Perrin bravely waved him away, insisting he could manage. He leaned heavily on the bannister, though, and Eska could feel his arm tremble in her grasp.

  At last they emerged onto the back terrace and Gabriel arranged a chair out of the sun, then fetched a footstool from the kitchen while Eska settled Perrin in the chair and tucked a blanket over his lap. She herself sat at the table the crew had broken bread at the night before, prepared to keep Perrin company should he wish to talk, but the journey from the bedchamber had evidently sapped him of whatever small ember of energy he had. He closed his eyes and Eska took the opportunity to ask Gabriel to bring her writing case.

  Eska wrote two letters.

  She had hardly finished the second before she crumpled the paper in her fist, smearing ink on her palm. Letting the ruined sheet fall to the table, she leaned over the oak table, elbows supporting her upper body, and rubbed the back of her neck with heavy hands, her fingers sliding over the bones at the top of her spine. The ache that had built up in her neck as she wrote did not dispel, nor did the ache in her chest, the one that was both empty and overwhelmingly full of swirling emotions—the one that had prompted her to write a letter to Alexandre de Minos.

  She couldn’t send that letter. She wouldn’t. The words had tumbled onto the page, falling from her mind with such a desperate need to be released that she had nearly spilled her ink in her haste. In the end, the words formed a confused tangle, hardly coherent, slightly hysterical—not to mention barely legible—and Eska could no longer see herself on the page.

  He would come to the Vachon Valley in an instant if she were to ask it of him, she knew. Her pen had hovered over the page in that instant of realization, the one moment of hesitation as she wrote. But she hadn’t asked the question, instead she had signed her name and then promptly mauled the offending piece of paper into submission.

  Sighing, Eska sat upright and read over the letter to her father. That one had been easy. The fears, the concerns, were not present in those pages. It was a simple recitation of facts, of what had transpired in Toridium—though no doubt Maximilian de Caraval had learned the full story from Sorina by then. She had glazed over the decision that had sent her to Cancalo and bolstered up the role Albus’s letter had played, overstating the evidence he had discovered in order to make her choice more justifiable. Her father would, of course, stop to consider why there were so few details about her days in Cancalo, but she did not intend to commit to paper the story of the sunken vault, the creature that had nearly taken her life, or her ambiguous departure from the city. She certainly made no mention of Eden San-Germain. Better to keep the focus of the letter on the Toridium predicament. No need to delve into the revolving carousel of thoughts about the god discs and the strange skeleton or—by no means—the fears she had about being named a murderer. No, those thoughts and fears were not for her father.

  “They aren’t for you, either, Sascha,” Eska murmured to herself. “They are mine alone.”

  Abandoning the ruined letter, Eska folded the one for her father and applied a small amount of the tree sap she used to seal documents while on expeditions. Waving the folded pages gently to dry the sap, Eska thought about her next letter—not a letter, really, but a full account of what had happened in Toridium, a more thorough version of what she had relayed to her father.

  It was a tedious task and Eska had to take several short respites to ease the cramping of her hand. She would stroll down to the river, flex the muscles of her writing hand, idly speculate about the number of seeds in the cheerful faces of the sunflowers growing by the water, and then reluctantly make her way back to the table and her paper—all while Perrin rested silently. Whether he slept through it all, she did not know, but his face looked less pale and he seemed comfortable.

  Once, as Eska looked up from her ink and paper, she caught sight of her uncle through the glass of one of the windows on the upper level and for a moment her mind fled, like a guilty child’s, to the bag of treasures she had stuffed under her bed with only the grey morning light and the rather gloomy face of small clock shaped like a sunburst to witness. Her conviction had not diminished, but she was honest enough with herself to know she would gladly avoid the coming confrontation with Valentin over her actions.

  When at last she finished her account, she wrote it out again—four times in all—and marked the various copies for the intended recipients: her father, the Vismarch of Toridium, the Firenzia Company lawyer, and the fourth to Albus at the Lordican for safe keeping.

  The last letter folded, sealed, and set aside, Eska put her forearms on the table and rested her head on them, her right hand aching terribly. The late afternoon sun was warm on her back, but clouds rolling in from the north told of a storm to come under cover of darkness.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever written so many words in one day in all my life.” Perrin’s quiet voice brought Eska’s head up from the table. He was looking at her through half-closed eyes, his mouth attempting a smile.

  Eska groaned. “If I don’t see a bottle of ink and quill for a year, it won’t be long enough.”

  “That’s a lie,” he murmured, still smiling. “I’ve learned things, you see, and not just how to hold a brush made of adolescent capybara hair. Words are like an exotic perfume to you, intoxicating, a symbol of the known and unknown, of what is possible.” Perrin closed his eyes as he finished speaking, leaving Eska to appreciate the idea on her own. “Eska,” he said, so quietly she wasn’t sure he’d spoken. Frowning, she got to her feet and moved around the table to his chair. His face, peaceful throughout the day, was marred with tension, though his eyes were still closed. Pain, she realized.

  “What is it? What do you need?”

  He took several ragged breaths as his hand searched blindly for hers. She took it and crouched at his side. When at last he managed to speak, his voice was merely a whisper. “If the worst should happen,” he said, the words sending a chill across Eska’s skin despite the warmth of the day, “please find Manon.” Another difficult breath. “Tell her I forgive her.”

  “Don’t say such things, Perrin. You’re going to be all right.”

  He squeezed her hand faintly and a smile curved across his lips, but vanished quickly, chased away by pain.

  Eska shouted for Gabriel, Bastien, anyone who could hear. It was her uncle who came first, and together they carried Perrin inside. Nahia hurried up the stairs after them, listening intently as Eska relayed the extent of his weakness and her susp
icion that he was experiencing more pain than he previously had. Eska and Valentin returned Perrin to the bed as Nahia felt Perrin’s pulse and forehead, then prodded his abdomen gently, frowning all the while. The woman rushed off to confer with Rosina, leaving Eska and her uncle to exchange glances.

  “If it spreads?” Valentin asked, his voice low.

  Eska shook her head. “One of us would have shown symptoms by now. Whatever it is, I don’t think anyone else is going to get it.” Eska watched her uncle watch Perrin. “Uncle.” He looked up at her. “You asked me to rely on you if I needed it. I need to ask something of you, though it will cut short your time here.”

  “Your letters?”

  Eska nodded. “I can trust any member of Firenzia Company, I know, but,” she shrugged helplessly, “they aren’t family, and it’s time I sent them home, to be free of this mess I’ve made for myself.”

  “Of course. I will leave at once.”

  Eska’s heart ached at the words, at his easy willingness to do what she asked, all while a Barca, the son of a man who had caused him endless grief, lay under the same roof and his priceless gifts lay under a bed, shoved there in shame.

  True to his word, Valentin de Caraval rode away from the stone house in the valley mere moments later, a packet of letters tucked in the pocket of his riding coat. Eska watched him go, and for the first time since returning to the valley, she felt the isolation of the place. And where normally it would bring her peace, now it made her feel alone and powerless.

  Interlude 15

  “You can do that?”

  The girl looks up from the notebook in her lap, her brow furrowing against both the bright sun turning her uncle into a silhouette and the words he has just spoken.

  “Do what, my dear?” Valentin de Caraval is gazing over her head, his mind no doubt already fixated on the logistics of how one should disassemble and transport a temple the size of a not insignificant hill. But then, he’s done this before. She knows that.

  Eska closes her notebook and stands, maneuvering herself so she can see her uncle’s face. “Just take it all? Doesn’t the temple belong to the people of Fiera?”

  Her uncle considers her for a moment. Or perhaps he’s considering her words, as though he has not done so before. “I suppose it does. But Eska, you must understand, Fiera doesn’t have the wealth or infrastructure to support this temple. They struggle to feed themselves. They hardly have the time, inclination, or means to maintain such an ancient site.” He shrugs. “Besides, worship of the horse gods faded away in Fiera long ago, just as it did elsewhere across Bellara. We will be offending no one.” He smiles down at her and pats her shoulder.

  “That’s not what the woman said.”

  The smile falters. “What do you mean?”

  Eska feels her cheeks growing warm. “There was a woman here yesterday. Watching just before dusk. From over there.” She points to a copse of trees opposite the dilapidated stone temple’s western door.

  “And you spoke to her?” It is Valentin’s turn to frown.

  “I offered her water. It’s hot, Uncle.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That we are stealing.” Eska is surprised by how calm she is as she speaks the words that the day before set her heart racing. The woman’s voice had been quiet, free from malice, and yet imbued with fierce certainty. And Eska, perhaps a third the woman’s age, had done as she had witnessed her mother do countless times: listen with a carefully diplomatic expression, hands tucked behind her back.

  Valentin’s frown has darkened with irritation and he glances up as though he expects to see the woman. “You need not concern yourself with the angry opinions of a peasant woman from Fiera, Eska.”

  “But she wasn’t angry, Uncle. She was sad.”

  Valentin waves his hand aimlessly. “If they are sad now, they should have done more to keep the temple in good condition. As it is, the mosaics are nearly unsalvageable and the friezes hardly identifiable. Not to mention the state of the statues. Don’t worry, Eska, the temple will be in good hands. The finest scholars and craftsmen will restore it to its former glory. The Archduke will pay for it all.”

  “So it’s his now?”

  Valentin smiles again. “Well, my dear, he did fund this little expedition.”

  Eska looks down at the notebook in her hands. She smooths the cover and picks at a nonexistent flaw in the leather.

  “Just think, Eska,” Valentin continues, “the temple will be reconstructed at his palace at Almiraal and it will be open for the public to enjoy and appreciate, as it should be. Not here in a forgotten valley surrounded by dust and neglect.” He leans down and catches his niece’s gaze. “It will be beautiful. Just imagine it.”

  And Eska smiles a little, because she can imagine it. She knows enough about the horse gods of old to know their temples were home to colorful mosaics and murals, stallions and mares charging the length of the walls, tails streaming, hooves pounding in silent honor of the horse gods who rode the night winds and the sun’s rays.

  Her uncle leans close, pushes strands of Eska’s dark hair behind her ear, and kisses her cheek, his blonde beard tickling her skin. “Your mother and father would be proud. Always considering every angle, always asking questions.” He grins. “Never content with the easy answer.” He stands up straight. “Never change, my dear.”

  Eska returns the smile and watches as her uncle walks away, his voice carrying as he shouts directions to the crew. She opens her notebook to the page her thumb has been holding. She does not draw well, despite the best efforts of a tutor, but there on the page are two shapes, a horse and a woman. The horse is clumsy, the woman inelegant. The spirit and strength Eska had hoped to capture went missing somewhere between her mind’s eye and the page—as usual. And so Eska speaks—quietly, heard only by the grass at her feet and the breeze in her hair—for the nameless woman she will never see again:

  “Why not rebuild it here, where some trace of the horse gods might linger in the earth? Why not give the people of Fiera the tools and means to care for it?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Fine, but we’re not smashing it.”

  “You’re going to open that, right? Or just admire it?”

  Luca looked down at Manon, a bundle of kindling in his arms. The reliquary sat at Manon’s feet, looking far more innocuous than it had any right to look. She had taken to removing it from the wooden box her father had buried it in each night when they stopped riding. But she never did more than look at it.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to hand it over without knowing what’s inside.”

  Luca squatted in front of Manon and set down the kindling, one eyebrow raised as he looked at her.

  Manon met his gaze with as much nonchalance as she could muster, nonchalance she did not feel. Luca continued to look at her, a smile quirking his mouth, and Manon had the distinct impression he knew exactly what she was feeling. “I don’t know how to open it,” she admitted at last, wondering when she had begun to admit such things to anyone.

  Luca’s brow furrowed as he looked down at the box. “May I?”

  Manon waved a hand in his direction. “By all means.”

  The hunter picked up the reliquary in his large hands, the delicate ivory and lustrous gold a far contrast to the callouses on his palms. He turned it this way and that, peering at all sides—but Manon already knew what he was seeing. The box had no locking mechanism, no hinges, no latch, and worst of all, no visible seams, which Manon would have argued to be impossible before examining it.

  “I don’t suppose you have a hammer in that pack of yours.”

  Manon shook her head. “I’m not sure what good that would do.”

  Luca grinned. “I’m sure it’s not the recommended method, but I’d be willing to wager I could break it open.”

  Manon laughed. “That’s a very generous offer, but I was tasked with collecting the box. Nothing was said about what might be inside. I can’t imagine the man seek
ing this would be pleased if I presented it to him in pieces.”

  Luca looked at her as though she were a small child. “Boxes are meant for putting things in. Whoever he is, he wants whatever is inside.”

  Manon rolled her eyes at him. “I know that,” she muttered, but the testiness she expected to hear in her voice did not make an appearance. She and Luca looked at each other for a long moment. “Fine, but we’re not smashing it,” Manon said. “Let me see it.”

  Luca handed the box to her and began splitting some of the kindling in two over his knee, then arranging it in a tent shape over the bare ground he had scraped free of pine needles and dead leaves. Manon examined the reliquary once more, feeling for changes in texture that might indicate a hidden latch.

  “This man, why not come for the box himself? Why did he have to send you?” Luca asked.

  “Because he likes to demonstrate his power over people,” Manon said, before she had truly formed the thought. Luca looked up at her, his blue eyes expectant. “Not in an overt way, but subtly, so you don’t see the ties he is binding you with until it’s too late. Besides, he’s the sort of man who is accustomed to having people do things for him. ”

  Luca stood and brushed dirt from his palms. “Sounds like a bully. Someone ought to teach him respect.”

  Manon let out a harsh laugh. “When you meet him, if you meet him, I wouldn’t advise leading with that. I don’t imagine the Archduke of Arconia would tolerate such a lesson.”

  It was not a slip of the tongue. She could have stopped herself. But she was ashamed to admit to feeling some satisfaction at the look on Luca’s face—and perhaps some relief at obliterating one of the many secrets she carried.

  “You’re serious,” Luca said after a moment of silence in which he appeared to be waiting for Manon to laugh and admit to a joke.