CHAPTER IV
Relics
Winter 80
Torisen Black Lord squinted at the parchment on the desk before him and damned its wriggly lettering. Why couldn’t the Edirr find a scribe who could write? Perhaps, though, it was just his own tired eyes. After all, he had been working at the foot-high stack of correspondence for days on end.
Stop whining, he told himself. This is what you get for letting things pile up.
Other Highborn had scrollsmen to help them. He could too, easily. Unlike the priests at Wilden, the scholars of Mount Alban didn’t have to be Shanir, and there were Knorth among them. As the commander of the Southern Host he had learned how to delegate responsibility. Why, as Highlord, was he finding it so hard?
Perhaps because some things are meant for your eyes alone.
That, no doubt, was true, but still he wished he had the support of his former commander and present war-leader, Harn Grip-hard.
Torisen wondered if Harn had yet reached Kothifir. After the randon’s rough time at Tentir that fall, it had seemed best to post him as far away from the college as possible for the time being, even though the one at fault had been his sister’s Southron servant Graykin, apparently possessed by Greshan in the form of the Lordan’s Coat. How in Perimal’s name did Jame get into such scrapes, much less attract such followers? Of all foul tricks, to drug someone with black forget-me-not . . . Torisen wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, except that the potion had forced Harn to relive his father’s suicide after Greshan’s death . . . or was that because of Greshan’s death? The Commandant had been vague about that, another reminder that Tentir held some secrets which he, never having been a cadet there, would never share.
Unlike your sister, whispered his father’s hoarse, mocking voice at the back of his soul image, behind the locked door. The randon may have raised you, boy, but she is their darling now.
Parchment crumpled in his grip. Only if she passes Tentir.
Ungenerous, unkind, unjust. After all, he had sent her to the college in the first place.
Trinity, look at all the papers left. He had let them pile up in the first place because he had been afraid that one of them would report that Jame had flayed that wretched cadet Vant alive. Of course, she hadn’t. Instead he had fallen into a pit in the fire timber hall, tried to drag Torisen in after him, and then burned to death.
Should he read another petition, or give up for the day?
Torisen rubbed a hand across his face. It felt strange to encounter a beard there; however, he was determined never to be mistaken for his sister again as he had been by both Timmon and Vant during the Winter War. Timmon had wanted to seduce Jame, which made some sort of sense. True, she wasn’t to every man’s taste, but he had glimpsed her in dreams that made him stir uneasily even now. Why, though, had Vant wanted to kill her?
“You think you’re so clever that you can get away with anything.”
Well, so far, she had.
As he hesitated, his mind on other things, his hand reached out as if with a life of its own to pick up the next paper.
Where had this sudden compulsion to finish come from? What was he looking for in this stubborn stack mostly of foolishness? The answer came as soon as the question framed itself: news. Information. A warning meant for him alone. About what? Torisen pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of a headache. He could even date the beginning of this obsession, some ten days ago, after that foul dream.
He had stopped staying awake for days, even weeks, trying to forestall certain nightmares. Even now, he told himself, when they came they meant nothing. He was no Shanir, dammit, to far-see. But the image of fire haunted him, pyre after pyre. Then a charred hand had reached out of the flames. Someone had snapped off one of its beringed fingers. Who, and whose? Ah, it made no sense, like all dreams, no more than did this futile quest for a clue.
It would come as writing on a page.
He should be focusing on reports less than ten days old, not pigheadedly working his way from back to front.
A knock on the door heralded the appearance of his servant Burr, with an armload of fresh logs for the fireplace behind him. The wolver pup Yce, who had been curled up asleep on the hearth, growled at being disturbed. However, it was about time: the tower room was growing chill, and dark. How dark, Torisen hadn’t realized until Burr lit the branched candles at his elbow. The sun had set. Shadows were seeping into the valley below like dark waters rising and cold air flowed over the windowsill.
“You didn’t come down at noon,” said Burr, glowering.
“I was busy. Just look at this.” He held up the document he had been straining to read. “The Edirr suggest that there be a special award at the Lordans’ Presentation for the best dressed heir.”
“For stuff like this you forget meals?”
There, Burr had a point: the petition was clearly just Lords Essien and Essiar teasing the Coman and Caineron, who tended to dress for every occasion as if for their coronation.
He let the paper drop, then grabbed as the entire stack began to slide. “I promise I’ll eat something for dinner. Just stop pestering me.”
Burr grunted and turned to leave. “Oh,” he said on the threshold, “I almost forgot. Steward Rowan says that a messenger from Lord Danior has arrived.”
Torisen scrabbled for falling papers. Dammit, now they would all be out of order. What could Cousin Holly have to say, anyway, that was too important to wait until the High Council meeting?
“Tell Rowan that I’ll meet Holly’s messenger below.”
Burr left.
On the stair down, following him, Torisen paused to watch Marc work at the eastern end of the High Council chamber.
The furnace built into the northeast turret glowed as the big Kendar reached into it and loaded his blowpipe with a gather of molten glass. Then he began to swing it slowly, blowing, careful not to inhale the searing fumes. A lambent cylinder formed. This he detached, cut open with a hot knife, spread out on a pallet, and inserted into the annealing oven in the opposite southeastern tower.
“D’you think this system will work better than your old one?” Torisen asked, descending the rest of the way into the warm hall.
Yce ghosted around his legs and made a dart at the leather apron that Marc was untying. For a moment Kendar and wolver played tug-o’-war with the braided cord that had secured it. Then Marc let the belt go. The pup dragged it under the ebony council table and set about “killing” it with noisy, slobbering glee. Marc removed his smoked glass goggles and wiped a forearm across his sweaty face, smearing it black.
“It’s all an experiment, lad, like everything else I do.”
He had done remarkably well, thought Torisen, given only a handful of clues from a Tai-tastigon glass-master who had made the common mistake of underestimating the big man’s intelligence. Marc had always wanted to be a craftsman, an ambition thwarted by his size and general usefulness as a warrior despite his dislike for bloodshed. Now that late middle age had crept up on him, it seemed only just that he should be free to explore his other talents.
“It looks good,” Torisen said, picking up a palm-sized bit of pale rose glass shot with gold filigree and holding it to the fading light, “if nothing like a map.”
“Yet you can read it, lad.”
“Only because you’ve told me what to look for.”
“Ah.” Marc surveyed the abstract swirl of hues, each determined by the native materials that had gone into its making—carbon and sulfur for amber, nickel for rich purple, copper for deep green and brick red. Fragments of glass from the original, shattered window made up much of each piece but somehow failed to dominate its hue. Most of the glass for the Riverland keeps was also mixed with drops of the Highlord’s own blood, making those portions potential scrying portals, or so Marc believed. The Kendar had convinced Torisen to try, but all the glass had given him so far were bad dreams.
Like the one of the pyres. Where had he been staring then? At Tentir? At Shadow Rock?
“I’ve a strong desire to see how the whole looks against the light,” Marc said. “Ebony as a backing gives a poor feeling for color. Then too, starting at the top wasn’t the brightest idea, even if local materials are the easiest to come by.”
“When you’re ready with a section, we’ll get it into place somehow. As a favor, though, can you start next with Kothifir and as much of the Southern Wastes as you can manage?”
He could have ordered it as the Highlord, but Marc had declined to be bound to him even as Lord Knorth. That still rankled, although it did make conversation easier between them.
Waiting for you, lass.
Where had he heard that? Most likely in one of his accursed dreams, not that he believed any of them.
“I’ve unearthed a report from the randon I sent to guard the priests on their way to Tai-tastigon,” he said, changing the topic. “All arrived safely, but they report that the temple is a mess and the city is in turmoil. It apparently never settled down after the last Thieves’ Guild election. Moreover, some say that the dead are coming back, both divine and human, whatever that means.”
“Ah.” Marc looked thoughtful. “Now, that’s a city full to the rafters with power. Some of it comes from our own temple, but there’s more to it than that. Our god and the native forces of Rathillien have become intertwined. After all, we’ve never been on any world this long before or become more involved with it. As Tai-tastigon goes, so I suspect does Rathillien. Eventually.”
Torisen remembered his brief, nightmarish time there. Ancestors preserve them all if Marc was right. He knew that his sister and the Kendar shared a past in that city, but he hadn’t yet brought himself to ask about it.
Sooner or later you have to.
Then too, the thought of Jame thrust into those dire southern realms continued to haunt him. If only he could scry what she was likely to face . . . !
Weakling, jeered his father’s voice behind the bolted door in his mind. Afraid to look, afraid to ask, and you call yourself Highlord?
Think of something else.
“Have you had time for that other project I requested?” he asked.
“Oh, aye.” Marc picked up a leather sack which he handed to Torisen. “Here they are: the lordans’ tokens for the presentation ceremony.”
Torisen drew out one, a chunky disc of glass with a house emblem embossed on it—by chance, his own. With this, he would acknowledge for all to see that Jame was indeed his chosen heir.
“Have you had any word of the lass?”
“Only that the college hasn’t yet burned up or fallen down.”
Marc chuckled. “Well, yes, she does have an unfortunate effect on architecture, our young lady.”
“She would spit if she heard you call her that, and the Women’s World would have a collective seizure.”
Among the stack of neglected paperwork through which he was laboring was a request from the Ardeth Matriarch Adiraina that he allow the ladies to return to his halls in the spring. How had they ever come to establish their finishing school at Gothregor anyway? Some former highlord must have agreed in a weak moment. Now, when in residence, they and their guards almost outnumbered his garrison. Over the winter, he had enjoyed prowling that part of his fortress normally out of bounds to male visitors. If there was ever a disturbance there again, he wanted to know where, what, and why.
Still, it would be nice to have the Jaran Matriarch Trishien back. She, at least, he could talk to, even if their discussions sometimes left him feeling that more had been said than he had heard.
Jame’s token was still in his hand.
“I keep thinking of her as the wild-haired child whom our father drove out of the Haunted Lands keep where we were both born. We were inseparable before that . . . most of the time.”
He drew a small, wooden figurine out of his pocket—a cat, perhaps an Arrin-ken judging by the power of its head and shoulders, caught in mid-leap. Like most Kendar work, it had astonishing vitality. However, one of its hind legs had been snapped off.
“Our nurse Winter carved this for us, or rather for one of us, I forget which. We were very young at the time. Of course, we fought over it . . .”
Two young savages wrenching the carving back and forth between them, as if it embodied the love that each of them craved.
Mine, mine!
No, mine!
“. . . and it broke.”
“Yet you kept it.”
“Yes, all this time, tucked away in my gear. I only came across it again the other day.” He looked from the damaged carving to the glass token and back, holding one in each hand as if weighing them against each other, the past versus the future. “And now she is to be confirmed as my lordan. Can we share such power without breaking everything?”
“You’ve grown, lad. So has she.”
“True enough.” He returned the token to Marc and dropped the cat back into his pocket.
Marc drained a scooper of water through heat-chapped lips and shot a sideways look at Torisen. “By the way,” he said, carefully offhanded, “I’ve heard a bit of news from my Ardeth friends. Lord Adric’s grandson Dari wants to be made lordan regent. That would effectively make him Lord Ardeth, wouldn’t it?”
“In all but name, yes.”
“And you can do that?”
“Under certain conditions, if the health of his house demands it. As I confirm lords, so I can unseat them. Damned if I want to, though.”
Everyone knew how much he owed to Adric. If the Ardeth lord hadn’t hidden him in the Southern Host, he would never have survived to claim the Highlord’s seat. The current breach between them made things doubly awkward, but what could Torisen do? The Highlord must not be an Ardeth puppet as the commander of the Southern Host had felt himself to be. Still, he had promised to look after his former mentor’s interests.
“I also hear,” said Marc, emboldened, “that Lord Ardeth is on his way north to attend the High Council meeting.”
“Is he, by Trinity?”
He should have known that, Torisen thought, chagrinned. Ironically, it was because Ardeth had used Torisen’s friends to spy on him in those early days that he had such an aversion to spying on anyone now. As a result, the Knorth possessed the poorest intelligence network in the Kencyrath, and Marc knew it. No wonder the Kendar was trying to impart his information so diplomatically. Torisen glanced at the stained glass map. Somehow, the thought of using it didn’t agitate him the way using human agents did. How valuable it could be, if only it worked properly. Instead, he was reduced to allies casually passing on news.
“I thought Adric was going to wander the Wastes forever,” he said.
“Not now that he believes at least one of Pereden’s bones is in the Riverland.”
Torisen stared at him. “Why in Perimal’s name would he think that?”
Harn had put the boy’s body on the common pyre at the Cataracts, he thought. It should be ashes on the wind. He had felt guilty about Ardeth’s futile search of the Wastes and wondered how to end it. Now, however, he remembered his dream and was chilled. This was an ending unlike any he had ever envisioned.
“Well,” Marc was saying, “the thing is that Lord Ardeth found the site where the central column led by Pereden clashed with the Waster Horde. Where else should he look for his son’s bones? But they weren’t there. At the same time, his Shanir sense told him that at least one still existed. Frustration was like to drive him mad, and his people with him. So he took one of his strongest potions to enhance his powers. They thought it was going to kill him. But after spinning around like a mad douser until everyone with him was falling-down dizzy and fit to die, he ended up pointing north toward the Riverland.”
“And now Adric is coming here to find it? Sweet Trinity.”
The mere suspicion that Pereden had joined the Waster Horde had nearly given his father a fatal heart attack. If Adric did find a bone in the Riverland, now, how in Perimal’s name could Torisen explain it when he didn’t know himself?
Somebody cleared his throat near the southwest circular stair. Torisen lowered his hand from the collar of his coat where he had instinctively reached for one of his throwing knives.
Don’t kill the messenger.
It was, of course, Cousin Holly’s courier, whom he had told to meet him here.
The Kendar approached looking uneasy, handed Torisen a pouch, and backed away.
“Highlord, my lord asks that you treat this as urgent, not to go on your to-do pile.”
Trinity, did everyone know that he was behind in his paperwork? Of course they did.
He flicked a knife out of his collar and sliced open the lumpy packet. Something black fell out. Yce snapped it out of midair and retreated with her prize, growling. Marc went after her under the table, like a large bumblebee in a small bottle. The table rocked. Glass slid.
Torisen shook out the rest of the packet’s contents, consisting of a note and a heat-cracked moon opal signet ring in a tarnished silver setting.
For a moment he stared at the paper. It reeked faintly of burning. Writing on a page . . . This was the message that he had been looking for all along, in the wrong place.
Dear Tori, he read. I took this at the Cataracts, just in case we ever had to prove that Pereden actually was there. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. Now I don’t know what to do with it, so here it is. Sorry. Love, Holly.
Marc emerged from under the table with something in his big hand. He held it out to Torisen—a finger shriveled by the pyre, half its flesh seared away.
“Your family does make a practice of carrying around bones, I’ve noticed. First your sister with your father’s finger and then you with my sister Willow’s remains. So what’s this?”
Torisen slid the ring over the bone and stared at the resulting combination. The former bore the Ardeth crest.
“Now my head really hurts.”