“Doubtless. Strange, as I seldom went to the haithwood, even as a child,” the witch said. “The villagers would not set foot in it for fear of me, but I spent most of my years away from my birthplace. It took them far too long to realize that my home was with the hawthorn.”
“People fear the haithwood because of you. Only one road leads through it, and those who walk on it speak of corpse candles and screams. Remnants of your magic, they say.”
Kalyba smiled faintly.
“Mita Yedanya has called me back to Lasia, but I would sooner pledge my blade to a greater mage.” Ead took a step toward her. “I come to offer myself as your student, Lady. To learn the whole truth of magic.”
Her voice sounded awestruck even to her own ears. If she could fool the Inysh court for almost a decade, she could also fool a witch.
“I am flattered,” Kalyba said, “but surely your Prioress can give you truth.”
“Mita Yedanya is not like her predecessors. She looks inward,” Ead said. “I do not.”
That part, at least, was true.
“A sister who sees beyond her own nose. Rare as silver honey, I should say,” Kalyba said. “Are you not frightened of the stories they tell of me in my native land, Eadaz uq-Nāra? There I am a child-stealer, a hag, a murderess. Monster of the tales of old.”
“Tales to frighten wayward children. I do not fear that which I do not understand.”
“And what makes you think you are worthy of the power I have wielded through the ages?”
“Lady, I am not,” Ead said, “but with your guidance, perhaps I could be. If you will honor me with your knowledge.”
Kalyba considered her for some time, like a wolf considering the lamb.
“Tell me,” she said, “how is Sabran?”
Ead almost shivered at the intimate way the witch said that name, as if she spoke of a close friend.
“The Queen of Inys fares well,” she replied.
“You ask for truth, yet your own lips lie.”
Ead met her gaze. Her face was a carving, its etchings too ancient to translate. “The Queen of Inys is imperiled,” she admitted.
“Better.” Kalyba tilted her head. “If your offer is sincere, you will do me the kindness of surrendering your weapons. When I lived in Inysca, it was considered a grave insult for guests to bring weapons to the threshold of a hall.” Her gaze drifted to the archway of thorns. “Let alone over it.”
“Forgive me. I have no wish to insult you.”
Kalyba watched her without expression. With the sense that she was signing her own death warrant, Ead divested herself of her weapons and set them on the grass.
“There. Now you have put your trust in me,” Kalyba said almost gently, “and in return, I will not harm you.”
“My thanks, Lady.”
They stood facing one another for a time, with half the clearing between them.
There was no reason for Kalyba to tell her anything. Ead knew that, and so would the witch.
“You say you desire truth, but truth is a weave with many threads,” Kalyba said. “You know I am a mage. A sidensmith, like you—or I was, before the old Prioress denied me the fruit of the orange tree. All because Mita Yedanya told her I had poisoned your birthmother.” She smiled. “As if I would ever stoop to poison.”
So Mita was personally responsible for the banishment. The last Prioress had been a kind woman, but easily influenced by those around her, including her munguna.
“I am Firstblood. I was first and last to eat of the hawthorn, and it granted me eternal life. But of course,” Kalyba said, “you have not come out of curiosity about my siden, for siden is familiar to you. You wish to know the source of my other power—the one no sister understands. The power of dream and illusion. The power of Ascalon, my hildistérron.”
War-star. A poetic term for the sword. Ead had seen it before, in prayer books—but now it plucked a string in her, and the realization came forth like a note of music.
Fire ascends from the earth, light descends from the sky.
Light from the sky.
Hildistérron.
And Ascalon. Another name from the ancient tongue of the Isles of Inysca. A corruption of astra—another word for star—and lun, for strength. Loth had told her that.
Strong star.
“When I was in Inys … I remembered the text of the Tablet of Rumelabar. It spoke of a balance between fire and starlight.” Even as Ead spoke, her mind spun out an explanation that seemed sounder by the moment. “The siden trees grant mages fire. I wondered if your power—your other power—comes from the sky. From the Long-Haired Star.”
Kalyba did not possess a face that lent itself to shock, but Ead saw it. A flicker in her gaze.
“Good. Oh, very good.” A little thrum of laughter escaped her. “I had thought its name was lost to time. How ever did a mage hear of the Long-Haired Star?”
“I went to Gulthaga.”
Truyde utt Zeedeur had spoken those words. The girl had acted like a fool, but her instinct had been right.
“Clever and brave, to venture to the Buried City.” Kalyba regarded her. “It would be pleasant to have company in my Bower, since I am denied the sisterhood of the Priory. And since you already have most of the truth … I see no harm in telling you the rest.”
“I would treasure the knowledge.”
“No doubt. Of course,” Kalyba mused, “to understand my power, you would have to know the whole truth of siden, and the two branches of magic, and Mita has so little understanding of such things. She keeps her daughters in the dark, draped in the comfort of well-worn books. All of you are soaked in ignorance. My knowledge—true knowledge—is a valuable thing.”
This was the next move in a game. “One might say it was priceless,” Ead agreed.
“I paid a price for it. As must you.”
At last, Kalyba approached. Water beaded from her hair as she walked around Ead.
“I will take a kiss,” she whispered at her ear. Ead stayed rooted in place. “I have been alone for so many years. A kiss from you, sweet Eadaz, and my knowledge is yours.”
A metallic scent hung on her skin. For a sudden, eldritch moment, Ead felt something in her blood—something vital—sing in answer to that scent. “Lady,” Ead murmured, “how will I know that what you say is the truth?”
“Do you ask the same of Mita Yedanya, or does she receive your unconditional trust?” Receiving no answer, Kalyba said, “I give you my word that I will speak true. When I was young, a word was a sworn oath. It has been many years since then, but I still respect the ancient ways.”
There was no choice but to risk it. Steeling herself, Ead leaned close to her and placed a kiss on her cheek.
“There,” Kalyba said. Her breath was icy. “The price is paid.”
Ead drew back as fast as she dared. She forced down a sudden thought of Sabran.
“There are two branches of magic,” Kalyba began. The sunlight picked out threads of gold in her hair and limned each drop of water. “The sisters of the Priory, as you know, are practitioners of siden—terrene magic. It comes from the core of the world, and is channeled through the tree. Those who eat of its fruit can wield its magic. Once there were at least three siden trees—the orange, the hawthorn, and the mulberry—but now, to my knowledge, only one remains.
“But siden, dear Eadaz, has a natural opposite. Sidereal magic, or sterren—the power of the stars. This kind of magic is cold and elusive, graceful and slippery. It allows the wielder to cast illusions, control water … even to change their shape. It is far harder to master.”
Ead no longer had to feign her look of curiosity.
“When the Long-Haired Star passes, it leaves behind a silver liquid. I named it star rot,” Kalyba said. “It is in star rot that sterren lives, just as it is in the fruit that siden lives.”
“It must be rare.”
“Unspeakably so. There has not been a meteor shower since the end of the Grief of Ages—and understand, Eadaz, that the shower was the end of the Grief of Ages. It was not coincidence that it came when the wyrms fell. The Easterners believe the comet was sent by their dragon god, Kwiriki.” Kalyba smiled. “The shower closed an era when siden was stronger, and forced the wyrms, who are made of it, into their slumber.”
“And then sterren was the stronger,” Ead said.
“For a time,” Kalyba confirmed. “There is a balance between the two branches of magic. They keep one another in check. When one waxes, the other wanes. An Age of Fire will be followed by an Age of Starlight. At present, siden is much stronger, and sterren is a shadow of itself. But when a meteor shower comes … then sterren will burn bright again.”
The world had ridiculed alchemists for their fascination with the Tablet of Rumelabar, but for centuries they had been circling the truth.
And truth it was. Ead felt it in the lining of her belly, in the strings of her heart. She would not have believed it from Kalyba alone, but her explanation formed the thread that held the beads together. The Long-Haired Star. The Tablet of Rumelabar. The fall of the wyrms in the Grief of Ages. The strange gifts of the woman who now stood before her.
All of it connected. All of it stemming to one truth: fire from beneath, light from above. A universe built on this duality.