by Melanie Rawn
Col nodded noncommittally, wondering why they were telling him so much. Lady Agatine’s next comment put the puzzle right out of his head.
“You’ll be up there soon, I suppose,” she said, eyeing him with a smile. “Every lady in seeing distance will want to share feast wine with you.”
Abruptly the impossible gulf between him and everyone else here opened wide at his feet. Plenty of girls would clamor for him to climb the ladder—until he removed his shirt and they saw Scraller’s sigil on his shoulder. Slavery was illegal in Sheve, but all would know him for what he was, and point, and stare, and pity. And then throw him out. For nothing about this place—from the Fair to the feast to the honorable title of domni—was meant for slaves.
Something must have shown in his face. Orlin Renne started to speak, but an upward glance from his Lady silenced him. She said, “But then, it may be that you’re the kind of man who doesn’t enjoy making a spectacle of himself. Unlike my husband,” she added with a wry grin.
“Careful, Aggie,” he warned in that low, gravelly voice. “Or I’ll tell young Collan about the small fortune in rings you tossed before you won me!”
The awkward moment was gone. Collan appreciated their graciousness even while cursing its necessity. The day was ruined for him. He stayed long enough to express his pleasure at meeting them, then excused himself by pretending to spot a friend near a booth fluttering with ribbons. He escaped the Fair with all its reminders of what he could never be, and ran all the way home.
When he got back to the cottage, he was tired and hungry and nursing an emotional bruise that an entire evening of lute and songs couldn’t ease. It was a week before he told Falundir about it, another week before he could think of it without wincing, and yet another before he didn’t think about it every day.
By then it was Maiden Moon. At Sleginhold, Lady Agatine would preside with Orlin Renne over a moonlit feast in honor of St. Maidil, patron of New Lovers. There was a song cycle about it in Carlon’s collection. Remembering the lyrics, Collan pictured the scene in the village meadow: more laughter and wine, more flowers and bright dresses, more pretty girls. But not one of them—not in small Sleginhold or all Sheve or anywhere else in the world—would ever share so much as a smile with him.
6
Gorynel Desse arrived during Last Moon, three days before the Wraithenday. He stayed in the snowbound cottage through St. Lirance’s, first day of the new year of 956—which was made remarkable for being the very first time Col ever had a Birthingday celebration. He was eighteen—more or less—and between them Mage and Bard put together eighteen gifts as was proper to mark the manhood year. New boots, shirt, cloak, trousers, coif; two gleaming steel daggers; two bound books of blank pages, two pens, and a sturdy pot of black ink; a plain blue silk longvest of perfect fit; two sets of strings; and three final gifts that rendered him speechless: a map, an identity disk, and Falundir’s lute.
In brief, everything he needed to make his way as a roving Minstrel.
“My friend who made the knives also does a brisk business in other forgeries,” the Warrior Mage said, grinning blithely at his own pun. “The Rosvenirs really do exist, though there aren’t many of them. They’re Second Tier, rather obscure, and confine themselves to a smallhold twenty miles from the nearest village, so I doubt you’ll ever encounter one.” He warmed his hands at the hearthfire. “But avoid Dindenshir, and if you can’t, try to avoid doing anything appallingly stupid—like getting arrested by the Council Guard.”
It hit him then. They were sending him away.
Collan stared at the flat silver disk in his palm. About the size and shape of an almond, it was etched on the obverse with two crossed daggers, two names, date of birth, and Tier. The only word of it that was not a lie was his given name. The reverse was stamped with an eagle with crest feathers upstanding, an arrow clutched in the left talons. A long, thin silver chain was attached to the disk through holes at either end, the final links separated from the disk by a dark gray bead on one side and a turquoise on the other. Collan assumed these were the Rosvenir colors, and the copper daggers were their sigil.
“I would’ve been here sooner,” Desse went on, settling back to sip mead, “but at Harvest a new design was authorized. The crafters went mad trying to fill the orders. Old disks must be exchanged for new by today.”
Falundir grunted an interrogative. Desse refilled his mug before replying.
“You’ll note that the Council’s Eagle now holds the Anniyas Arrow. Wields it, more like—but I’m prejudiced.” He gulped a huge swallow as if to rid his mouth of bitterness. “At any rate, with so many disks being struck, slipping in a few extra wasn’t difficult—though they’re keeping count of how many are turned in as opposed to how many are issued. Casting the blanks is the exclusive right of the Renne Blood.”
The Bard snorted in amusement. Col glanced up.
“Renne?” he asked. “As in Lady Agatine’s husband?”
“And also as in the mines and foundries of Brogdenguard, and Healer Mage Viko Renne of the cure for Kenroke fever.” Desse shook his head, thick white mane swirling. “The First Councillor seems to think all the Generations since have purged the taint from the Renne Blood. In truth, they haven’t turned out a Mage since the great Healer. Although the First Daughter,” he added as an afterthought, “has a distinct magic of her own. She’s an old friend of mine.”
Again Falundir snorted, and this time the Mage grinned. Collan instantly concluded what sort of friend Desse meant.
“Hadn’t seen the fair Jeymian in years,” he mused. “I must say she’s aged as sweet and spicy as your mead, Falundir.”
The hint was taken. The Bard rose to get another clay pot from the shelf—the third that night. If Collan was any judge, it wouldn’t be the last.
“The disk,” Gorynel Desse resumed, “is genuine enough. So is the map—which I expect you to make good use of, boy. I’ve marked in blue the holds where Minstrels are welcomed with mild extravagance. Reds have pretensions but shallow pockets. Greens will give you a bed and a crust and no more.”
They were giving him everything he would need to survive on his own. They were sending him away.
“As for the ones marked in purple—don’t go anywhere near them.” He put his mug down and sat forward again, elbows on knees, hands clasped before him. “This brings me to the brand on your shoulder. As often as you can from spring to autumn, take off your shirt and bake your skin to its darkest brown. Yellow ink will disappear under a deep tan. In winter, don’t sleep naked. Don’t even bathe naked. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of nowhere, if the door locks triple on the inside, or if you’re absolutely certain you’re alone.”
Collan nodded—mute, numb, not believing that the future was upon him. He should have known. Falundir had brewed no mead this summer. Last week he’d only shrugged when Collan fretted that snow kept him from hunting. The peaceful years in the forest were over. He would be going out into the world now. They’d thought of everything. . . .
“Something else,” Desse said. “Swear off girls as your sunburn fades and until you get it back. Sight of that mark will mean it’s back to Scraller’s for you—and what you escaped years ago will happen with a vengeance.”
The Mage sliced off another wedge of the tangy cheesecake he’d brought with him. They’d feasted tonight before the gifting. Enough food remained for two or three days, no more. Col assumed that what was left would go into journeypacks.
What he didn’t know was where Desse would take the Bard. Obviously, Col would be leaving alone. But Falundir needs me! he wanted to say. And where can he go to be safe? Anniyas marked him as surely as Scraller marked me!
He knew he would not be told where the Mage would take Falundir. What he did not know, he could not tell. So he didn’t ask. He merely sat with Falundir’s lute at his knee and his new disk in his palm, listening to Gorynel Desse explain his new life.
“They’re blue,” he heard himself say.
“Bardic Blue,” the Mage affirmed. “There’s no indication on your disk that you’ve earned it, but that matters less and less now. Bard Hall was lost with Ambrai. The Hall, but not the music,” he murmured. “Nor the medicine, nor the magic. . . .” He paused for a swallow of mead. Suddenly it occurred to Col that Desse was trying very hard to get drunk. “And, by Delilah’s Silver Sword, not the knowledge.” He drained his mug and slammed it on the table. “Look at me, Collan Rosvenir, and speak your thoughts. Could it possibly be an old wreck like me can still teach swordskill to young Warrior Mages?”
The green eyes were fierce and sharp as shards of bottle glass. Col groped for a polite lie.
He never spoke it. Abruptly dizzy, and not due to mead, he felt as if he was falling off the chair, helpless to catch himself. A voice he knew he ought to recognize said, “Don’t fight so hard, boy, you’ll only make it worse. I’m not as young as I was the first time we did this.”
“The first time?” What “first time”? Collan struggled, knowing the old man searched for something—
“Ah. There.”
And for just an instant Col saw a glorious blazing light just out of reach. Something precious, something he couldn’t identify and had never known was there—but now he grabbed for it, crying out. His, this thing was his—and the old man was stealing it from him—
A voice he had never heard before and couldn’t really hear now said, You’re hurting him, Gorsha.
“He’s fighting. After all the preliminary work I did, he still—all right, that’s got it.”
Thick black velvet muffled the light. As it wrapped sleep around it, a voice murmured, Little singer, grown so tall . . . thank you for these years. But it’s time you were on your own. My music is safe in your keeping. We will meet again . . . I promise we will meet again, son of my heart. . . .
7
Collan Rosvenir woke shivering in the grip of a raging headache. The simple act of tugging up covers slammed through his skull. Opening his eyes was an even bigger mistake. Weak winter sunlight stabbed into him, and he sank back with a groan.
After a time the pain became manageable. He cracked one eyelid, then the other, and a cottage came into focus: clothes folded on a chair, lute in its case, journeypack hanging by the door. Between it and him was a table before a cold hearth. By St. Velenne the Bard, no wonder his head hurt: three empty jars lolled on the tabletop. The sticky taste in his mouth meant potent mead.
Groaning again as he slid from the covers, he stuck his legs into trousers and his frozen feet into boots. He’d slept with his shirt on; however much he drank, however alone he seemed, he never slept naked.
Fortified with the last few swallows of mead and the remains of a dry loaf, Collan touched the identity disk at his heart for luck, shrugged into wool longvest and cloak, and strapped on his swordbelt and the twin daggers that were not only weapons but reminders of his Name. Shouldering the lute and pack, he slammed the cottage door shut and set off through snowy Sheve Dark for Sleginhold with his hands fisted deep in his pockets. The Lady wasn’t in residence this time of year, but her steward was said to be musically inclined. If nothing else, Col would get a hot meal and the chance to thaw out fingers and toes. It was snowing again.
About a mile from the cottage he saw a curious thing. A single stone the size of a galazhi fawn lay bare, as if some interior heat had melted the snow. Collan had the sudden thought that he’d left something behind at the cottage. He checked pockets and pack. All present and accounted for, everything he needed to survive. Shaking his head, he resumed walking.
Snow quietly buried the stone behind the young man who no longer remembered the wind.
Glenin
1
“What kind of name is ‘Feiran’?”
Glenin had not yet heard that question often enough to prevent the stiffening in her shoulders that gave away her feelings. “My father’s name,” she replied, almost casually enough to offset the telltale posture.
The other eight-year-old girls in dancing class—newly met that morning, after the teacher’s return from holiday—stared at her in shock. Your father’s? was in their eyes; she gazed back as calmly as she could and ignored the writhing emptiness of loss inside her.
Barely four weeks ago her father brought her to Ryka Court from Ambrai, explaining that her mother and little sister were no longer her family and that she would now use his name. Despite the excitement of the journey, the wonders of Ryka Court, and the proud consciousness that Auvry Feiran was much more important here than he had ever been in Ambrai, she missed her mother. She even missed Sarra, who was outgrowing the annoying age and beginning to be an enjoyable companion.
Elsvet—plump, sallow First Daughter of the formidably wealthy Doyannis Blood—stalked closer and followed up her original question with, “What about your mother?”
“What about her?” Glenin shrugged.
This dismissal confused the other girls; Elsvet narrowed her pallid blue eyes and said, “The only reason to have your father’s name is because your mother rejected you and took her name away.”
“My father and I rejected her,” Glenin replied. “And I discarded her name.”
This scandalous assertion was too much for the rest of the class. They gasped and whispered among themselves, ten proper young Daughters of various Bloods whose court-formed notions of propriety had received a terrible jolt.
Elsvet, however, was made of sterner stuff. “Who was she?”
For the first time, Glenin understood the uses of another’s curiosity. She played on it instinctively, giving another little shrug. “It hardly matters. We don’t speak of her anymore.”
“Tell me who she was!”
Enjoying this newfound power, Glenin allowed the corners of her mouth to curve in a mysterious smile.
“She must’ve been Fourth Tier.” This elicited gasps; Elsvet smiled like a snake. “Fourth Tier,” she repeated. “What are you doing in a class for Bloods?”
Her power and her temper snapped simultaneously. “She was not Fourth Tier!” Glenin cried. “I’m just as much a Blood as you!”
“Fourth, Fourth, Fourth!” Elsvet chanted.
“I’m not! I’m not!”
The teacher hurried over, distracted from giving instructions to three bored musicians who supplemented their wages by playing for classes. He was just in time to keep Glenin’s fingers from Elsvet’s throat.
“Ladies, ladies! What’s all this, then?” he demanded. “Who started it?”
The other girls melted away toward the mirrored walls. Glenin shook off the teacher’s restraining hand, haughtily refusing to answer. Elsvet struggled for a moment with her Blood Honor and her grievance. The fact that the former won was one basis for a truce that eventually developed into a wary association between the girls. That evening at her mother’s table, Elsvet learned that Glenin was First Daughter of none other than Lady Maichen Ambrai; self-interest dictated the establishment of diplomatic relations.
The pair never became real friends. Glenin never forgave the initial insult, and Elsvet never forgot the momentary feel of furious hands that might have crushed her neck. But with the sharp insight of intelligent children, they knew they had two choices: become enemies, or unite and rule. This they did—not only over the girls in dancing class, but the rest of their age group.
At about the same time Elsvet was learning Glenin’s maternal heritage, Glenin was learning why questions about her Name would be common for a while.
Hers was now the privilege of presiding over the evening meal. She was as proudly conscious of her status as she was painfu
lly aware of how many people were missing from her table. It was just Glenin and her father now. Only the two of them. So small a table, and so lonely.
Auvry Feiran waited until the servant departed before indicating that Glenin should light the tall central candle. She did so with trembling hands.
“Someone upset you today.”
His voice was deep and sonorous, tinged these days with sadness. She hadn’t seen him smile since they’d left Ambrai, and his gray-green eyes never sparkled anymore. Though Glenin recalled painfully well the escalating battles with her mother that had preceded divorce and the remove to Ryka Court, she wondered suddenly if he didn’t miss Ambrai as much as she did.
She sneaked a glance at him, then stared resolutely at the table. The candle cast a carefully planned glow over the artistry of plates, goblets, and flowers, touching each element of the design with exquisite regard to reflection and refraction. Silver flatware glistened; clear crystal flung delicate rainbows; the food, arranged just so on each square of white porcelain, looked delicious. But there was something too mannered about the table, too formal for a family meal. And there were so many people missing.
She remembered the great oval table at Ambrai: the formidable Allynis Ambrai at its head, servants hovering behind, waiting for her to light a great turquoise candle in the ugly black iron holder that had been in the family since the Waste War. On Grandmother’s left, First Daughter Maichen and her husband and two daughters. Grandfather at the other end of the table. On his left, Tama Alvassy and her husband Gerrin Desse, who was Grandmother’s nephew, and their little girl, Mai—Sarra’s age and not quite civilized yet, according to Grandmother.
After Lady Allynis lit the candle, they would all listen as she praised or (more often) criticized the evening’s design of plates and flatware and flowers. Then would come talk of the day’s events, politics, the girls’ lessons, art, music. Allynis would scold her husband roundly for repeating gossip even while her black eyes danced with laughter at the antics of her court. If there were plans to be made for an upcoming Saint’s day or a ball—Grandmother adored giving parties—Sarra and Mai would join Glenin in her pleas to be allowed to dress in their best and stay up late, and Grandfather would take their side: “Oh, just this once, Allie?”
