23rd Misteral, 1st Corvil, 410 A.A.
Essalieyan
ONCE THEY WERE OUT of the mountain passes and beyond the foothills, their journey finally became pleasant and even enjoyable. The dogs had not taken well to the pass, and therefore neither had Espere and Gilliam; when Gilliam was miserable or ill at ease, it affected Stephen. Zareth Kahn was the only cheerful member of the expedition, and at that, it was a forced cheer that did more harm than good until he, too, lapsed into the near sullen silence that was only alleviated by the appearances of Evayne.
She came from around odd corners in the pass, from behind cliffs or rocks, from little outcroppings above or small crevices below. She ignored the prevalent mood of the party, and if no one else was happy to see her, the wild girl was. When she was not so young and not so powerful, she would snort something about men under her breath, just out of Stephen’s hearing. Gilliam’s more acute hearing, unfortunately, picked out the sentiment and the words that framed it.
But the Hunter Lord’s mood broke as soon as the paths through the foothills were well underway, and not even the chilly rain could dampen Stephen’s spirit thereafter. He knew that the mountain ranges were past the halfway mark.
They had traveled hard for three weeks and more; the snow was gone from the grounds as the Northern lands gave way to the flatter, warmer South.
Evayne, old or young, wise or naive, happy or grim, often joined them in the morning and led them along the roads, although those roads were very hard to miss. They were stone, or so it seemed, but wide and flat and smooth. A wagon could traverse them easily with little stress to the wheels or the horses that pulled it.
Zareth Kahn explained that the roads had been constructed hundreds of years previous, by the edict of the Kings, at the direction and with the intervention of the maker-born, in return for which the merchants followed certain rules and paid a tithe in a timely fashion for use and upkeep of the route.
That Stephen was impressed didn’t say very much—but Gilliam was, too, and it was hard to attract Gilliam’s attention to anything that didn’t involve the hunt. “It won’t take nearly as long as we thought,” Stephen said to Evayne. “Which means that Gilliam might still be Lord Elseth at the end of the journey.”
“You don’t know,” she replied gravely, for she was older and more somber on that day, “how long your search in the city itself will be.”
“But didn’t you say you knew houses of healing there?”
“Yes, and I even said that you had the money for it, if I recall correctly; it was years ago from my perspective.”
He nodded, used to this.
“I did not, however, say that the houses of healing were necessarily the cure that you seek for the wild one.”
• • •
“Averalaan is the heart of the Empire,” Evayne said quietly as she looked to the east. The sun was high, and the air warm; had they been in Breodanir, the snow would have barely broken. It was midday, and they had stopped to rest at a way station. Stephen marveled at it; it was designed for just such a stop, and not more, although in an emergency some shelter might be taken from it. He wondered at its upkeep, for it was obviously repaired on a semiregular basis, but Evayne seemed to take its existence as a given—and as she was familiar with the Empire of Essalieyan, and he was not, he did not question.
There was a pit for a fire, with benches beside it, and there was a lean-to made of wood in case of rain. There was a feeding box for the horses, although no oats or barley had been provided, and the river that ran twenty feet to the south moved quickly enough that not many insects gathered. The water was clear, and Gilliam and the dogs were at its bank sniffing around and testing their legs with the same ready impatience that the wild girl showed. She was covered—drenched—in clear water, and was mostly out of her shift. In the warm weather it was impossible to keep her clothed for a full day.
Zareth Kahn ate quietly and paid little attention to the food; he was absorbed by Evayne. Not her words, but rather her voice, her gestures, the way she carried herself when she walked, and even the way she sat.
Stephen was not so concerned. He knew that this woman was not the same woman who had led them on the Winter road; nor was she the girl who had come to him while he lay abed, recovering from that dark journey. She was in between; more confident and more powerful than he, but less grandiose, and therefore less mysterious, than Evayne the elder. She was also more friendly, and more at peace with herself. He found himself liking her very much.
“Do you know the history of Averalaan?”
Stephen shook his head. He had barely finished his lunch, and sat back against the rough-hewn wood to listen to her words.
“I know of it,” Zareth Kahn replied quietly. “But I would hear it again; the teller of the tale often puts more into it than mere history.”
She raised a brow into the shadow cast by the edge of her hood, and then nodded. “You know that unlike Breodanir, the Kingdom of Kallantir, or the Dominion of Annagar, Essalieyan is governed not by a single monarch, but by two kings?”
Stephen nodded; that much, and a little more, he did know. “They’re the god-born kings, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “They make their home on the Holy Isle in the High City. The Isle is sometimes called Aramarelas. An old Kallantir word that means ‘heart’ or ‘spirit.’ Averalaan Aramarelas: The heart and spirit born of Veralaan. It is from Queen Veralaan that the empire as we know it was born; because of her sacrifice, the blood wars and dominion of the eastern wizards was finally brought to an end.”
“Did you know Veralaan?”
“You mean, have I met her?” She smiled, and if the smile was a little grim, it was still genuine. She did not answer the question, however.
“The city is called Averalaan after the convention of the noble houses, but it is more than that; everyone in the city pays homage to her by living within it and abiding by the laws of the Twin Kings, for they are laws that wars were fought to uphold.
“I cannot tell you all of our history, but in these lands, long before they were the Empire of Essalieyan—which means Brightness in Kallantir—there was the Dark League, a consortium of priests and wizards who sought, and gained, control of these lands, and half of the lands to the south. You can imagine what ensued in the years to follow, but in the end, the Dark League fell.”
“Vexusa,” Stephen said softly to himself.
“You have studied,” she replied. “Yes. In the end, the dominion of the League was so profound, the god-born joined forces across the breadth of these lands, and came to Vexusa. There, with the power of their birthright, they leveled the city. But it cost them dearly. Do you know the Priests’ price?”
“They perished,” Stephen said, “because they became conduits for power no more; when the power was gone, there was nothing but the body left. Or so the stories said.”
“There was less left than even that,” Evayne said, staring into the fire. She shook herself a moment, and continued. “But these lands, as well as much of the lands we will enter, were still held by the splinter groups that had once formed the backbone of the League. From out of this period came the Baronial Wars, in which wizards associated with the remnants of the older organization fought each other for supremacy. The Wars lasted centuries,” she added, and again her gaze was distant.
“One man—Haloran ABreton—stood out in the slaughter, and he managed to cobble the Baronial states together into a kingdom. His was a long reach, given the time in which he lived, and his rule was not a kind one. But he did not trust the priests, and did not have the power of their support; rather, he played the churches against one another, and allowed the church of the Mother to flourish so long as the priests did not interfere with his soldiers or their work. Therefore, he did not have the power of the Dark League as it had once been.
“He had three sons and one daughter, by three wives. The first wife died in childbirth, and the second died at the hands of assassins, although whose, history still does not tell us. The third wife died in childbirth with a daughter. He had no use for a daughter at the time, and gave her over to the keeping of the Mother while he continued to consolidate his realm; at a later point in time, he would probably have used her to make alliance with political allies.
“But the sons who were to succeed him fell upon one another, and in the end, he had no heirs. He married again to preserve his dynasty, but that wife died childless, and the wife after her, in her pregnancy—both by the hands of assassins. It was, as I said, a bloody time. He held onto power until his death, and then the court which was left, rather than fall into a war which no Lord could easily afford, agreed that the crown should go to Veralaan, the daughter. They felt that, raised by the Mother, she would be a malleable child, and that the Lord who called her wife would rule. Each House with any hope of ruling set about her courtship, content that they might force her choice and win the lands that they had already struggled so long for.
“They were wrong, but not in the way that they envisioned. She was, indeed, almost a child—but she had traveled as a Priestess of the Mother, and she had seen the death dealt by her father and his minions. She had done what she could to heal the hurt to both land and spirit that he had caused, and she knew that should she choose any of the lords who offered her their allegiance, nothing would change.
“But she also knew that they would not accept her rule, for she did not have the power necessary to be anything more than a puppet. Puppets, unfortunately, did not live long enough to become anything else, and it was her guess that she would die shortly after her first child was born.
“Abdication was not an option, for she knew, as the Lords did, that a civil war would destroy the very fragile peace that existed throughout the land. So she did what she could to stall.
“Now at the time, the healer-born flocked to the banner of the Mother, and although the Priests and Priestesses of the Mother had agreed that they would not intervene in affairs of the state, no matter how unjust or brutal, they had their own rules to offer in return: that anyone of any House that raised hand against a Priest or Priestess of the Mother would never again be healed by her.
“So Veralaan was able to stall for some time, but she knew that the dictate of the Mother’s church would not protect her—or her people—forever. A year passed, and then another half-year; at the end of this time, the council displayed an unusual cooperation and gave her this message: that the time for games was over, and she must choose should she wish to survive. In desperation, she prayed to the Mother, and the Mother answered, calling her into the half-world, the place between the lands of the Gods and mortals.
“‘Dearest of daughters,’ the Mother said softly, ‘why have you called me?’
“‘I need your aid,’ was Veralaan’s stark reply. ‘For I am rightful monarch of the kingdom that my father gained by war’s art, but I shall not be so for long without help.’
“The Mother was angry, but in the way that mothers are.
“‘I cannot leave the throne without starting a war that will never end. And I cannot rule among these vultures, for if I did I would have to grow cold and warlike to earn their respect, or to plot their deaths. There must be another choice.’
“‘Stay thus,’ was the Mother’s reply. ‘Stay, and wait for my return.’”
“And the Mother left her troubled daughter in the mists of the half-world, and went to seek the aid of her sons, Reymaris and Cormaris. Reymaris and Cormaris conferred long, and at length asked the Mother’s leave to accompany her back to Veralaan.
So did Veralaan first meet the two gods, and she saw in their faces all that she might have judged worthy, although the mists of the half-world obscured much.
“‘Let me leave my kingdom in your hands,’ she said, ‘For you will guard and guide my people in a way that I yet cannot.’
“‘It is not so simple, daughter,’ Cormaris replied, ‘and yet we might be of aid to you if you have the will for it.’
“‘What will is that?’
“‘Stay with us a while in the half-world, and you will come to understand. But you will have no company but ours, and while no time will pass in the world you have left behind, much time will pass here, and you will feel it all in isolation.’ Thus spoke Cormaris, for he was the Lord of Wisdom, and he knew that mortals and immortals are, in the end, alien and unknowable to one another.
“‘So be it,’ Veralaan replied.
“And when the Queen returned at last to the mortal world, she was much aged, and brought with her two young men; youths in seeming in every way but the burnished gold of their eyes. And one was born of Reymaris, the Lord of Justice, and he was Reymalyn the First. His brother, younger, was born of Cormaris, the Lord of Wisdom, and he was Cormalyn the First.
“Then the Queen went to the Holy Sister and bowed low, speaking as if she had been silent for decades. ‘Holiest one, I come to present these, my sons, to you.’
“The Priestess looked long at the two who stood proudly before her. ‘Ah, Veralaan, what have you done? For I see that these two are of the god-born.’
“‘Yes. God-born indeed, but they are of my blood as well. They will rule what I cannot, and hold it in strength and justice. This is Reymalyn, justice-born, and this is Cormalyn, wisdom-born. Both are of the royal blood. They are the kings that will set this land aflame with all that it has sought to bury and defile.’”
Evayne fell silent as the last of the words died away.
“And?” Stephen said.
“And,” she replied, gaining her feet slowly, “I believe that it’s time that we were on our way.”
“But what happened?”
Zareth Kahn grinned, for he knew the story well. “It’s obvious that it worked out well, Stephen,” he said as Evayne smiled. “Because there are still the Twin Kings, and they rule from the city of Averalaan.” He pulled his pack up and tied it shut. “You, Lady, have a touch of the bard in you.”
“I?” Her smile faltered, and then she regained it again, holding it tight to her lips. “No, it’s just the influence of a friend in Senniel.”
“Senniel? A talented friend indeed.”
Kallandras, Stephen thought, remembering his first Sacred Hunt. But he did not mention the name aloud. Instead he wondered whether or not their sojourn into the city at the heart of the Empire would bring them together again.
• • •
“But I don’t understand how it works. I mean, there are two kings and there are two queens—how does anything get decided?”
“Stephen,” Evayne said, as the fire began to die in the grate, “it’s a pity that you don’t have a spark of the mage-born in you. You’d have made a wonderful mage. You could,” she said, standing, “still join the Order of Knowledge. It exists for those who can’t stop asking questions when the time for questions has long passed.”
“Which means you don’t know.”
“Which means,” she said, laughing, “that I don’t understand it either, no. The god-born have spines of steel when it comes to the traits of their parents—I can’t imagine either of the Kings being willing to compromise when it comes to those areas that most concern him. But I know there are situations in which wisdom and justice are not easy allies. I’m just happy I’m not either of the Queens.”
He lifted his glass and drank the remnants of the oddly flavored drink that she had brought for him. He was happy for her company, although he could feel that Gilliam was not. This eve she was the same woman that she had been this morning, which was rare. “We’re almost there, aren’t we?”
“Yes. A few days and we’ll be in the outer fields that surround the city; a full day more, and we’ll be at the city itself. It’s not walled in any real way, but there is the half-wall to mark its boundaries. You’ll understand the lack of the wall when you see it.” She smiled. “And you’ll see the ocean for the first time, Stephen. I just hope that I’m here to see it with you. It has a feel and a call that is quite unique.”
2nd Corvil, 410 A.A.
Averalaan
It was huge. It lay across the horizon like the scattered manors of giants, or the halls of the Gods beyond the half-world. At first, before the rising sun burned the misty gauze from the morning air, Stephen thought that he was looking at an unexpected mountain chain; he knew a moment of panic—what if they had taken a wrong turn? Followed the wrong road?—and then he realized that he was seeing the towers of Averalaan and the hills upon which they were built.
As they followed the wide road, wagons joined them in a longer train than Stephen or Gilliam had ever seen. Gilliam said nothing, but Stephen turned to Evayne. She was not quite the same woman as yesterday. He knew she was almost the same age, but whether younger or older, it was hard to tell.
“Is it festival season in Essalieyan?”
“No. Why?”
He looked over his shoulder, to his side, and then to the road that stretched, crowded as a market street, ahead of them. The wagons were of a different variety than those that were common in Breodanir—the wheels seemed thinner and the bases higher. They carried all manner of things—in fact, he thought he saw one that carried horses, and he could not understand why they were not made to walk.
Evayne tried not to laugh. “It’s—this is normal for the time of morning, Stephen. Averalaan is the capital of trade along the seacoast; no city in Annagar can boast such a market, or such a selection, as Averalaan does. The merchants arrive by wagon and by ship. There.” She lifted a hand and pointed. “Do you see the light flashing? Beside it, there are sails.”
But her eyes were better than his, a fact which did not surprise him at all. His steps were quick and light. A situation of gravity and urgency had brought them to the heart of Essalieyan—but all wisdom and all knowledge could be found in Averalaan, or so the tales often said, and he could not help but be excited. Very few indeed were the Hunter Lords who could afford the time away from their demesnes that would have allowed them to travel to the city. Fewer still were those who would have any such inclination. And a huntbrother rarely left the side of his Lord.
Gilliam looked back and mouthed the word “Cynthia” and Stephen frowned. He took better care, thereafter, to conceal his enthusiasm.
• • •
The demiwalls that Evayne spoke of came into view, and as they did it became clear that they weren’t walls at all; they were like the stone work fence that surrounded a few of the more pretentious manors in the King’s City in Breodanir—but they stretched out to the horizon on either side, a thin, pale line whose division of the landscape faded quickly from view.
“We approach the city of Averalaan,” Evayne said. “It is the city of the Kings, and the laws here are complex and more strictly enforced than anywhere else in the empire.” She smiled wryly. “Of course that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t keep an eye on your purses in at least half the hundred.”
“Half the hundred?”
“The hundred holdings.” Her eyes widened slightly. “The city is divided into a hundred holdings of theoretically equal size. No, they aren’t visible divisions. In the King’s City, there are different circles, and within those circles there are areas like the warrens.”
“What do you mean by complex?”
She shrugged. “Actually, what I mean is be polite, don’t steal, don’t kill anyone who isn’t trying to kill you first, don’t run a horse to death and leave it in the road, and keep a tight grip on your dogs.”
“Doesn’t sound that complicated.”
“Well, with luck you won’t have to run into the complicated parts.”
“Are there no guards and no gate?”
“No; they aren’t deemed necessary. It’s hundreds of miles to the border of Annagar, and hundreds to the free townships that buffer us from the kingdoms to the west. There are guards, but they watch the three bridges that lead to the Isle, and they man the ports to which the ferries travel with their goods. If Kalliaris smiles, we won’t have to deal with them either.”
“You don’t think Luck is going to smile, do you?”
“This is what I think she’ll do.” She turned to him and made the most extraordinary face that he had yet seen her make. Then she laughed at his expression, sobering slowly. “No, Stephen, I don’t think she’ll smile, but if she doesn’t frown, I’ll make offerings to Reymaris for the rest of my life.”
A horn sounded at their backs, low and loud, the captured voice of a cow. Evayne pulled them hurriedly off the road as four horses galloped down the stretch of road to the farthest south. There were no wagons along it, and the people that were there did not tarry either.
But the dogs barked angrily at the passing intruders and stopped only when Stephen made it clear to Gilliam that their anger was not acceptable. Gilliam’s reply was subvocal, which was just as well. He was ill at ease on the road and the closer they got to the city itself, the more uncomfortable he became. Stephen had never felt such a lack of ease from Gilliam—not even when the most marriage-minded of ladies were attempting to ally their houses with his through their daughters and he was forced, by Elsabet or Stephen, to sit, smile, and endure. He could also tell that Gilliam was doing his best to subdue what traveled between them, but subdued or no, it grew strong, and stronger still, until the half-walls were at their backs and the heights of the city buildings began to cast shadows upon them.
It was hard to ignore it, but ignore it he did, although it took much of his concentration. Perhaps that was why he did not notice the shadows that crossed their path and stopped, weapons raised in swiftness and silence. Or why he did not notice, until he felt Zareth Kahn’s sharp shove, the tall, pale stranger with eyes of fire behind four men in a foreign uniform.
But whatever it was that had webbed his mind and turned his thoughts so much inward that he did not notice his surroundings well was removed in that instant. As was Gilliam’s unease—replaced by something akin to excitement. Excitement.
Zareth Kahn stepped forward. “May we help you, gentleman?”
“I believe you can. The young men you are with are wanted in connection with a murder that occurred yesterday.”
Zareth Kahn’s dark brows rose a fraction, and then he smiled. “Well, I can assure you that they could not possibly be involved in the commission of any such crime; they’ve never been to the city before they crossed the demiwalls today.”
The man sneered; there was no other word for the expression. “I’m afraid that we’re going to have to go to the magisterial holding courts, where the magisterial truthseekers involved in the rest of the investigation will decide that for themselves.”
“Very well,” Zareth Kahn said, with a snort that easily matched the sneer for contempt. “If you will insist on wasting our time in such a petty fashion, we’ll follow.”
“We will do no such—”
“Lord Elseth.” Zareth Kahn touched his shoulder with the appearance of gentleness. It was only appearance; his grip was solid. “The customs of Averalaan dictate a certain amount of cooperation with the magisterial guards. We will, unfortunately, be brought to a hearing in which these charges will be summarily dismissed. At that point, we are well within our rights to question the competence of the truthseeker involved in our arrest.”
Gilliam brought the dogs to bear and then stopped. “Stephen?”
Stephen was staring at the man that Zareth Kahn had called truthseeker. The man’s uniform was not completely unlike those of the guards who surrounded him, but he did not wear the chain and plate that they did, and his insignia, that of two crowns above a crossed rod and sword, covered a white field, not a gray one.
“Stephen, what is wrong?” Evayne’s voice was strained but oddly pitched; her words were a tickle in his ear.
“His eyes,” Stephen whispered back. “Can’t you see his eyes?”
The truthseeker leveled his gaze at Stephen, and then he smiled, and the smile was that of an executioner who revels in his work. “These men are attempting to escape. Kill them.” His voice had the echo of a power that Stephen had only heard once before, upon his first Sacred Hunt.
The guards stiffened, and then their expressions changed. “Halt! Halt in the name of the Kings!” Even under the power of suggestion, the magisterial guards resisted the order to kill. “Halt!”
Zareth Kahn looked confused, but Evayne’s features were harder and grimmer. She raised her arms and spoke three words; light flared from her hands. Stephen saw her limned with it, as if she were the Goddess at the birth of creation, offering the sun to the world.
The truthseeker screamed in agony.
The magisterial guards stopped as the fleeing suspects suddenly appeared, standing before them as if they had never left. “KILL THEM NOW!”
Evayne sent light in a fan of sparks, and the guards cried out, blinded even as their former leader. “Follow!” Evayne cried. No one gainsaid her.
• • •
She was afraid.
She was not the older Evayne; power such as her enemies possessed was still just outside of her grasp. But she recognized those enemies—that much was obvious to Stephen.
“Where do we go?” Zareth Kahn asked, looking over his shoulder, as he’d done every time they’d slowed their pace. He did not seek to accuse Evayne of causing trouble or breaking the much-loved laws of Averalaan; he knew her well enough by now to know that her reasons for it were unimpeachable—and more important, were not reasons that could be explained at leisure without some loss of life.
She looked around the streets, gazing at buildings and moving crowds as if to wrest some answer from them.
“There!” came a cry at their backs. “The men with the dogs! Stop them—they’ve murdered a magisterial ’seeker!”
Zareth Kahn swore.
Evayne paled.
And pale, she made the only decision that it was safe to make. She lifted her arms and cast a web of violet light across her group.
The people immediately around them gave a collective gasp and drew back, staring intently.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing my best to keep us hidden,” she replied, speaking slowly and with some difficulty. “But I can’t keep it up for long.”
Zareth Kahn stepped forward quietly. “No, you can’t. But I can. Let me, Lady.”
She was not used to accepting help; not accustomed, judging from her expression, to hearing it offered. But she swallowed once and nodded.
“You will,” the mage said softly, as his web seemed to settle over hers, dissolving and replacing the strands, “have to lead us.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Where are we going?” Stephen hissed.
“Do you see the circle on the ground?”
He nodded.
“Don’t step outside it. Tell Gilliam to keep his dogs, and Espere, well within its confines. We go to less traveled streets.”
“Should we avoid going beyond the net?”
“The what?”
“The net. The one that Zareth Kahn has cast.”
Her brows went up. “You can see it?” And then she shook her head. “Never mind. If you see me later, remind me. You are not a mage, and not mage-born, and only the mage-born have the sight. Or the seer-born.” As an afterthought, she added, “And yes, avoid at all costs going beyond the net; if you pass your arm through it, it will appear, without the usual body attached, in midair in front of passersby.”
• • •
Zareth Kahn knew that the invisibility that his magics afforded them would not be a blessing forever. Truthseekers were often also mages, trained in very specific and very narrow ways. Call a few, with the right guards to back them, and such a spell would prove not only useless, but actively harmful. Few were the people who dared to use magic openly in the city streets; the laws that governed magic’s use—and the mages who enforced them—were the strictest of the laws in Essalieyan.
He was, of course, breaking at least one; Evayne, with the use of her light spell—a light that he had never seen before—had broken three. The truthseeker who had originally apprehended them had broken two, and if the guards had been quick and fast off the mark, would have broken three.
He was not a man who was readily accustomed to breaking the laws of Averalaan, although it had been many, many years since he had seen the city of his birth. He was, luckily, not a man who was inexperienced at the breaking of those laws, either. What had hunted them on the night of High Winter obviously had eyes here, and the niceties of royal law could be set aside for the niceties of survival.
• • •
It was not until they reached the bridge to the Holy Isle that Zareth Kahn realized where Evayne was leading them. He dispensed with a portion of his spell, freeing her to speak with the guards on duty while hiding the rest of his companions. It was difficult, this breaking and unfraying, but he was a past master at it, and if he had not used it recently, he was pleased to note that the old skills did not fade with disuse. She walked toward the guards, and then returned, nodding with obvious relief.
They had arrived before word from the magisterial forces—if the magisterial forces had considered the Holy Isle a likely goal—and were safe to pass. He let the last of his illusory protection fade from sight, sorry to let it go, but pleased that the strain had been lifted. He was not close to the fevers yet, but he would sleep well that night.
“We’re going to the Order,” Evayne said, and each word sounded grudging and slightly apprehensive.
“I haven’t been there in years,” was the older mage’s reply.
“I—I want you to talk with Meralonne APhaniel.”
“Member APhaniel? Why?”
“Because I think he’s the only mage in the city who might be able to help us.”
“You know him?”
She nodded into her hood, and then turned abruptly to face Zareth Kahn. Her dark hair hung in loose strands about her unblinking violet eyes. “I was his student for a number of years. We—we haven’t spoken in months. Tell him—no, ask him—to aid these men; if he is reluctant, tell him that Evayne says they are part of her mystery.” She smiled, and the smile had the feel of ash and shadow to it; Zareth Kahn had the absurd desire to reach over and wipe it gently clean. She was far too much the adult to deserve that gesture.
“I have my own friends in the Order,” he began, but she shook her head.
“I cannot stay, Zareth Kahn. Already, I am being called away.” She left him then, walking quickly to where Stephen stood. “I will only be with you for a few more blocks, and then my work is done for the moment. I was sent here because I—I was supposed to flee. And there is only one person that I dare flee to in this crisis, one person that I have relied on, and at Kalliaris’ whim, will rely on again.
“Look carefully at him, Stephen—but never speak of what you see if you see anything unusual.”
“At who?”
“Meralonne.” She hesitated, and as she did, he reached out and caught her hand. Clasped it tightly between his own, and then, on impulse, kissed it.
“Good-bye, Stephen of Elseth. We will speak, I think, but not soon.”
• • •
The manors that lined the roads of the Isle were not overly large, although they were all exceptionally tall. There was good masonry here, and very little wood or thatch to mar the sense of history and timelessness. Stephen had had little time to take in the view of Averalaan, and the High City was perhaps not the best place to start. It made him feel at once poor and ignorant, although the riches that were here were those that time had laid the foundations for, and that a generation alone would never dissipate. The roads were wide, the streets cobbled very prettily in places; there were gilded gates that sat no more than fifty feet from the mansions they enclosed. He was surprised by the number of columns that he saw; they seemed to adorn the fronts of most of the buildings that they passed. As he approached them, he could see engraved along their length, in a pattern that spiraled upward, runes in the Kallantir style. He could not read them all.
Zareth Kahn silently urged him on, and he went, trying to remember the flare of fire in the city beyond the bridge. But there was a hush on the Isle, a silence and a peace, that made him understand why it was called holy; he thought that whatever threatened them would not dare to come so openly here.
“What are those?”
Zareth Kahn sighed in resignation. “Those are the spires of the Lords Cormaris and Reymaris. They are the rulers of these lands, and their towers are the grandest buildings on the Isle. Not even the towers of the Kings’ palace can match them; nor would either of the Kings try.”
“But—but how can they stand?”
At that, the mage smiled. “More money than Breodanir sees in a year went into each day of work on those towers, and they were a long time in the building. This is Averalaan, Stephen. The guild of the maker-born flourishes here, and in some ways, even rules.”
“Can we go to see the temples?”
“We may have no choice,” was the cryptic reply. “But we will not see them today.”
• • •
The Order of Knowledge in Breodanir was small and humble compared to the Order of the High City, and the building that housed the scholarly mages was rough and very common in comparison. There were pillars here that supported a roof four stories high; there was a courtyard of size and simplicity in which water ran from a fountain that looked like a suspended waterfall; there was a ceiling taller than any temple that Breodanir’s finest city boasted. Light came down like spears, sharp and perfect through the glass above.
Zareth Kahn even stopped for a moment, almost as if to marvel. Then he shook his head and smiled. “I’ve been too long away, I fear. Come.”
They walked between the columns and the arch, and into the grand foyer. At the far end, beyond a mosaic pattern of brilliantly colored marble and gold, was a large desk. The man behind it looked almost as pleased to see them as Gilliam was to see court balls.
“What,” he said, in a voice sharp enough to cut, “are you doing with those dogs?” He lifted the metallic rims that adorned his face as if to see more clearly the outrage that was being perpetrated within the Order’s sedate walls.
“Jacova, is that you?”
“What, is that little Zareth?”
“It is you.” Zareth Kahn looked slightly uncomfortable, but very resigned. “I see that you’re holding the desk.”
“And I see that you’ve let this Breodanir nonsense infect your brain—bringing dogs into the building!”
Gilliam bristled.
“A matter of urgency, Jacova.” He turned to Stephen. “This is Stephen of Elseth, and this is Lord Elseth. I’m afraid that we did not have time to kennel his animals before we crossed the bridge.”
“Yes, well. Highly irregular, and I should have you thrown out on principle. I will if the dogs make a mess.”
“I have control of my dogs,” Gilliam said, from between clenched teeth.
Jacova gave him a severe look but declined to respond. “What brings you here?”
“I’m afraid it’s not entirely social. You see, we’d like to make an appointment, if at all possible, to speak with member APhaniel.”
“Member APhaniel?” He frowned. “Member APhaniel is currently involved in an investigation,” and here he looked over his shoulder, scanned the foyer, and then lowered his voice and leaned over the desk, “with House Terafin. Under the direction of The Terafin herself.”
“It’s—it’s very urgent that we speak to him.”
“Impossible. As I said, he’s—”
“Is he in the building?”
“He’s making his third report of findings, and he’s in a foul mood.”
Zareth Kahn turned to Stephen. “I think we should delay, if at all possible,” he said in a very hushed voice.
“What?”
“Master APhaniel is always rather, ah, temperamental. At least, he was known for it before I left for Breodanir. To say that he’s in a foul mood . . .”
“We’ll chance it. I think that the truthseeker was one of the kin.”
Zareth Kahn smiled weakly and turned back to Jacova ADarphan. “We must see member APhaniel; we’ve important information that is part of the investigation that he’s conducting.”
“You have? Why didn’t you say so? And why haven’t I seen you around until today?” Jacova hated desk duty with the passion of any proper scholar, but he was not a stupid man. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion.
“Because I could not reasonably travel without being noted or remarked upon—everyone who knows me knows I’m in Breodanir,” was the apologetic reply. “Do you think you might tell member APhaniel that we are here, along with a message from one of his former pupils?”
“That being?”
“Evayne.”
Jacova snorted, but he rose and started his long climb up the stairs twenty feet from the desk. Zareth Kahn counted to fifteen—slowly and distinctly—and then turned to Stephen. “We follow.”
“Shouldn’t we wait?”
But the answer was obvious; Zareth Kahn started up the wide, marble stairs, taking them two at a time, but slowly enough that he never saw more than the black-edged hem of Jacova’s robe. Gilliam and Espere were next, followed by the dogs that Jacova found so offensive. Stephen brought up the rear, as any good huntbrother usually did.
• • •
“I don’t care if they carry a message from the Goddess herself—GET OUT!” Light flared into the hall from the open doorway in the tower room that member APhaniel occupied. The air had a prickly feel to it; Stephen thought, as he breathed it, that it should crackle.
Zareth Kahn cringed. “He is in a foul mood. Magics of that nature are strictly prohibited in the collegium. I really wish this could wait. He’s a member of the Council of the Magi, and he’s also an initiate of the first circle mysteries.” Yet even as he spoke, he led them the rest of the way across the landing. Jacova, looking both harried and frightened, bumped into him.
“He—he doesn’t want to see you,” he said, but without any of the annoyed or irritated edge that usually accompanied these words.
“I can see that,” Zareth Kahn replied mildly, “but unfortunately it’s a matter of enough urgency that I will have to insist. Thank you for your diligence, but I believe I can handle things from here.”
“And you believe incorrectly.”
Stephen felt, hearing those words, that he truly heard the voice of Meralonne APhaniel for the first time. It hung in the air like a fog, discordant and yet somehow melodic. He looked up, and a man dressed in emerald silk bed-robes strode onto the overcrowded landing. His hair was white and long and wild, and his eyes, gray and pale, looked like steel embedded in a thin, fey face.
The robes that he wore looked wrong, so out of place that they were almost an obscenity. He has to sleep sometime, Stephen told himself, but he almost didn’t believe it. He shied back as the mage’s glare swept across them all. It was familiar, somehow; there was something about it that he had seen or felt before.
But those eyes did not dwell for long on him; they swept with anger and not a little contempt past Jacova and Zareth Kahn, past Gilliam, Stephen, and the dogs. It was the wild girl that caught and held them.
“And are you back again, strange one?” he said, and his tone of voice was altered.
Zareth Kahn cleared his throat. “She is,” he said. “We brought her here because we hoped that we could find a cure for the condition that ails her.”
“And that?”
“We do not know,” he replied. “But Zoraban ATelvise bespoke his father before his death, and his father identified her as one of the god-born.”
“Which God?” And then, before Zareth Kahn could answer, he added, “His death?”
“Word was sent,” Zareth Kahn replied mildly. Jacova nodded at his back but chose, perhaps wisely, to remain silent.
“I’ve been otherwise occupied.” Member APhaniel shoved his hands roughly into the wide, baggy pockets of his robe. “Very well, if you will interrupt me, interrupt me with intelligence. Come.” He pulled out a pipe, and Jacova took the opportunity to return to desk duty; he had a great hatred of pipe smoke, especially of the variety that Meralonne preferred. “But I warn you, gentlemen—I am not in the mood to be bored.”