Ead looked to Lievelyn. He avoided her eyes.
Her counsel had not been strong enough. She should have done more to hammer the danger into that copper saucepan of a head.
He was a fool, and so was Sabran. Fools in crowns.
“That is all.” The queen returned to her seat. “Now, I believe there is one more course.”
Cheers erupted across the Banqueting House. At once, the servants came with yet more platters, and all concern was lost to feasting.
Ead touched nothing else. She was no diviner, but anyone with half a wit could see that this would end in blood.
25
East
Following his inglorious arrival in Ginura, Niclays Roos was an honored guest in the Moyaka household. Until the Warlord deigned to see him, he was free to do as he pleased, so long as he had his Seiikinese chaperons. Happily, Eizaru and Purumé were pleased to fulfill that role.
The three of them joined a great throng in the streets for the festival of Summerfall, which celebrated the beginning of autumn. Many Seiikinese citizens traveled to Ginura for what was commonly agreed to be the most spectacular of the four tree festivals. Peddlers grilled bladefish over their stoves, simmered bites of sweet pumpkin in broth, and handed out hot wine and tea to keep the chill at bay. People took their meals outside, crowned with the golden leaves that whiffled like maple seeds from the branches, and when the final leaf had fallen, they watched new ones bud and spring forth, red as dawn, throughout the night.
For Niclays, every day was a new lease of life. His friends took him for strolls across the beach. They pointed out the Grieving Orphan, the largest volcanic stack in the East, which formed a sole tooth in the mouth of the bay. They used a spyglass to watch mereswine in the sea.
And slowly, perilously, Niclays allowed himself to dream of a future in this city. Perhaps the Seiikinese authorities would forget he existed. Perhaps, since he had been so well behaved, they would decide to let him live out the rest of his exile beyond Orisima. It was a sliver of hope, and he clung to it like a drowning sailor to flotsam.
Panaya sent his books from Orisima with a note from Muste, who told him that his friends at the trading post gave him their warmest regards and hoped he would return soon. Niclays might have been touched had he considered any of them friends, or been interested in their regards, warm or otherwise. Now he had tasted freedom, the thought of returning to Orisima, to the same twenty faces and the same grid of streets, was intolerable.
The Mentish ship Gadeltha docked at the landing gate, bringing with it a stack of letters from home. Niclays had received two.
The first letter was closed with the seal of the House of Lievelyn. He fumbled it open and read the lines of neat handwriting.
From Brygstad, Free State of Mentendon,
by way of Ostendeur Port Authority
Late Spring, 1005 CE
Sir,
I gather from my late grand-uncle’s records that you remain in a state of exile in our trading post of Orisima, and that you have petitioned for clemency from the House of Lievelyn. Having reviewed your case, I regret to conclude that I cannot give you permission to return to Mentendon. Your conduct caused some great affront to Queen Sabran of Inys, and to invite you back to court presently may serve to foster her rancor.
If you can devise some way to appease Queen Sabran, I will be delighted to reconsider this unhappy conclusion.
Your servant,
Aubrecht II, High Prince of the Free State of
Mentendon, Archduke of Brygstad, Defender of the Virtues,
Protector of the Sovereignty of Mentendon, &c.
Niclays crushed the letter into his hand. There must be some political reason that the new High Prince was wary of provoking Sabran. At least he was courteous, and willing to return to the matter if Niclays could find some way of pacifying Her Acrimony. Or Lievelyn himself. Even he might be tempted by the elixir of life.
He opened the second letter, heart thumping. This one had been written over a year ago.
From Ascalon, Queendom of Inys,
by way of Zeedeur Custom House
Early Summer, 1004 CE
Dearest Uncle Niclays,
Forgive me for not writing for some time. Duties in Upper Household keep me occupied & seldom allowed to go anywhere without a chaperon. Inysh court concerns itself most deeply with the private time of its young ladies! I pray this reaches Ostendeur before the next shipment eastward.
I do bid you send me word how that you do in Orisima. Have been occupying myself in the meantime with remembering the books you left to me, which are presently held in the Silk Hall. I believe I have a theory & am certain the significance of a certain object has been overlooked. Will you write with all you know of the Tablet of Rumelabar? Have you an answer to its riddle?
All my love, Truyde
(Note to Zeedeur Custom House: I would appreciate your due haste in conferring this to Ostendeur Port Authority. Regards, your Marchioness.)
Niclays read the words again, half-smiling, eyes hot.
He was supposed to have received this letter long before Sulyard arrived. She might have warned him to expect the boy, but Lord Seyton Combe, the spymaster of Inys, would have seen through any code.
He had sent replies to her earlier letters, but he suspected they had been destroyed. Exiles were not permitted to write home. Even if he had been able to reach her, he had no good tidings.
That evening, Purumé and Eizaru took him to the river to spot night-flying herons. The day after, Niclays elected to keep to his room and ice his ankle. While he nursed an excitement-induced headache, he found himself thinking of Sulyard.
He ought to feel shame for enjoying himself while the boy rotted in jail, especially when he believed that Niclays was finishing his quest for him. A quest based on an unsolved riddle and the dangerous passion Truyde had inherited from Jannart.
A passion for truth. A riddle that now refused to leave Niclays alone. At midday, he asked the servants for a writing box and painted out the words, just so he could see them on the page.
What is below must be balanced by what is above,
and in this is the precision of the universe.
Fire ascends from the earth, light descends from the sky.
Too much of one doth inflame the other,
and in this is the extinction of the universe.
Niclays thought back to what he had learned about the riddle at university. It was from the Tablet of Rumelabar, found many centuries ago in the Sarras Mountains.
Ersyri miners had discovered a subterranean temple in those mountains. Stars had been carved on its ceiling, flaming trees onto its floor. A block of skystone had stood at its heart, and the words scored into it, written in the script of the first Southern civilization, had captivated academic minds the world over.
Niclays underlined one part of the riddle and contemplated its meaning.
Fire ascends from the earth.
Wyrms, perhaps. The Nameless One and his followers were said to have come from the Womb of Fire in the core of the world.
He underlined again.
Light descends from the sky.
The meteor shower. The one that had ended the Grief of Ages, weakened the wyrms, and granted strength to the Eastern dragons.
Too much of one doth inflame the other, and in this is the extinction of the universe.
A warning of disparity. This theory posited the universe as yoked to the balance of fire and starlight, weighed on a set of cosmic scales. Too much of either would tip them.
The extinction of the universe.
The closest the world had ever come to ending was the arrival of the Nameless One and his followers. Had some sort of imbalance in the universe created these beasts of fire?
The sun beat hard on the back of his head. He found himself drowsing. When Eizaru woke him, his cheek was stuck to the parchment, and he felt as heavy as a sack of millet.
“Good afternoon, my friend.” Eizaru chuckled. “Were you working on something?”
“Eizaru.” Clearing his throat, Niclays peeled himself free. “No, no. Merely a trifle.”
“I see. Well,” Eizaru said, “if you are finished, I wondered if you might like to come with me into the city. The fisherfolk have brought a haul of silver crab from the Unending Sea, but it sells out quickly at the market. You must try it before you return to Orisima.”
“I fondly hope that I never will return to Orisima.”
His friend hesitated.
“Eizaru,” Niclays said, wary. “What is it?”
Eizaru reached into his robe, tight-lipped, and pulled out and handed him a scroll. The seal was broken, but Niclays could see it belonged to the Viceroy of Orisima.
“I received this today,” Eizaru said. “After your audience with the all-honored Warlord, you are to return to Orisima. A palanquin will collect you.”
Suddenly the scroll weighed more than a boulder. It might have been his death warrant.