“No one alive.”
Still on one knee, Clement turned to Karis. “Madam G’deon, allow my people to serve Shaftal as soldiers. Let us demonstrate what we are capable of.”
Karis clasped her big hands and rested them on her knees. Everyone there waited as if they were of one mind, although the elemental contradictions in this group should have made agreement impossible.
Karis shifted her weight. “Maxew could be going to Shimasal or anywhere else. But unless he flies in the air again, or floats upon water, he can’t escape me. So let him go where he likes for now. I will follow Zanja. Keep up with me if you can.”
Clement said, “Prepare to abandon your belongings. Everything—everything—must be left behind.”
The group dispersed. The Truthken began emptying her pockets of clever devices. One by one, she lay them on the map, where the story of her life was inscribed upon the land. Chaen would carry spare socks, of course, as was only sensible, but she needed to think about what else she needed to jam into her pockets. Medric had not let go of her, though, and when she glanced at him, his expression terrified her. If this ridiculous young man was seeing the future, it was a future of devastating sorrow.
A Paladin approached. “Madame Truthken.” For a fleeting moment, Chaen saw how tired Norina was. “What has happened?”
“Emil. He says coming, and children. Then he taps his head and says air.”
“Air children are coming?” said a Paladin. “Did you send for them, Norina?”
“I did the exact opposite!” The Truthken’s face had become the color of sun-bleached linen.
Medric let go of Chaen’s arm and walked away.
Chapter 39
After three days of walking, Anders thought it was pleasant to ride. By the next morning, he could hardly endure it. The Two complained about their discomfort, until Braight said that she would kill them if they didn’t shut up. The soldier, even though his vocabulary of verbs was limited to eat and piss, remonstrated with her—not knowing what a waste of words that was in any language—and then, more effectually, reorganized their order of travel, so Serrain and Anders separated Braight from the Two.
Somewhat past sunrise, the shadow on the western horizon had resolved into forest. The soldier, who was walking beside Anders, tapped his foot and pointed. On the straggling edge of the trees, four people stood. Beyond them, a pile of gear and some smoking ashes marked a recently abandoned camp.
Minga shadowed her eyes with her hand. “That’s Karis. Norina to her right.”
“Karis!” said the soldier, sounding relieved. He certainly had not enjoyed being their escort.
Norina walked ahead of the others to meet them. Norina would not punish him for his disobedience to any greater degree than she punished the others—for she certainly had made it clear that they all were responsible for anything any of them did. Still, it had been his idea to leave Watfield, and it seemed right that he bear the brunt of the blame. “I’ll tell her what has happened,” he said.
Braight, squinting into the distance, said, “The rest of their party are gone, but those four waited for us. You see how worried they are.”
“She’s furious,” Anders said. “And she’s worn out.”
“Look deeper,” said Serrain.
Anders looked deeper. Norina Truthken was terrified.
Anders’s left leg had gone numb, and the soldier had to help him dismount. As he limped to Norina, he saw that all four of them were in terrible condition: Karis was gaunt; Garland’s shirttail was ripped; and Medric, sunburned and ragged, normally inscrutable, had become unfathomable.
Anders said, “Madam Truthken, we felt that we had no choice but to disobey your instructions, because we discovered that something awful happened at Travesty, and no one would—” He stopped, for a Truthken’s decisions should be so reasonable and principled that they require no justification. He began again. “We realized that Bran, the housekeeper, is the rogue air witch. And we think Maxew is working with him.”
“Yes,” she said without surprise. “What else?”
He said, “I’m sorry, Norina . . . J’han has been killed.”
Norina shut her eyes, then opened them. “How do you know this?”
Anders explained how they had found J’han’s body.
“What about Leeba?” she eventually asked.
“All we found was the tail of her toy lizard.”
Norina turned away and walked toward Karis. Anders hesitated, then followed.
Norina always told Karis the truth, directly and bluntly, with no attempt to manage or manipulate her. Anders’s own struggle to always be forthright with his demanding teacher and fellow students had taught him that this was an accomplishment of excruciating difficulty. But now, as Norina said to Karis, “Bran—Saugus—has kidnapped Leeba,” her steady, quiet voice was a kind of lie. Even more unsettling, she did not say the rest.
Anders saw that Garland, who stood beside Karis, was thinking Norina’s statement could not be true because she said it so calmly. The comforting nature of that conclusion made it easy for him to embrace it, even though his thinking was flawed.
The seer’s thoughts were not perceivable, but he was already weeping.
Karis said, “Leeba is safe.”
“She’s not stating a belief,” muttered Serrain.
Anders turned and found her and the others close behind him.
“She’s stating a fact,” said Braight.
“It can’t be a fact!” said Serrain.
They observed the adults with great interest.
Norina said, “Karis, Saugus also has killed my husband. The air children are certain.”
“J’han and Leeba both are safe in our old house in the Midlands!” Karis was so sure of this fact that Anders actually found himself wondering whether he and the others were mistaken.
Minga said in a low voice, “Something is wrong with her.”
Norina, rigid, said to Karis, “Can your raven see them right now?”
The G’deon’s gaze veered away. “They’re indoors.”
There certainly was something not right about Karis, something unclear, but dangerous, and Norina seemed unaware of it. Anders said, worriedly, “Norina? Excuse me?”
Norina said, “Karis, I think Saugus has tricked you. I think he manipulated your memories, so something that happened a long time ago seems like it was just a few days ago. I know you don’t want to believe me. Tell me, how many of your ravens are in Watfield right now?”
“Three,” said Karis impatiently.
Before this year, the G’deon’s ravens had numbered seven, but in recent months, three had been killed—two Karis had deliberately sacrificed to save people’s lives, and one had been murdered.
Norina said, “One raven is in Hanishport with Gilly. If one went to the Midlands with J’han and Leeba, as you say, then only two can be in Watfield.”
Anders uttered a cry—too late.
Karis lifted Norina off her feet and flung her down. The Truthken fell heavily and badly, and Karis threw herself on top of her. Somehow, Anders reached them—it almost seemed like he darted through the air like a bird—and clutched the G’deon’s upraised arm, trying to prevent her fist, big and hard as a smithy’s hammer, from smashing into Norina’s face.
He truly was flying then, until a tree smashed into him and made him very stupid. The air would not come into his lungs. He saw Norina, sprawled, helpless, pressed down by the weight of the knee in her chest, and in Karis’s face was her death.
The seer was shouting and had been shouting, “Norina, stop her. Norina. Stop. Her.”
Now Garland grabbed Karis, and dangled from her arm.
“Stop her!” Medric cried as Garland landed at a distance.
Anders flailed desperately. An excruciating pain. His ears rang with a dreadful
sound. He could no longer move. Karis also was still as a statue. A murderous statue. What had Norina done? Something horrible—something amazing!
Medric approached Karis. “Is this how an air witch can launch an ambush?” he said.
“Yes,” gasped Norina.
“Saugus was alone with her long enough to damage her but didn’t kill her? Or walk away with her, like Maxew walked away with Emil? I thought air logic was more logical!”
With some effort Medric pulled down the G’deon’s upraised fist. He pushed at her sideways, grunting with effort. “I can’t move her. You have to fix what’s wrong with her.”
“It’s not permitted,” Norina gasped.
“And you think my logic is nonsense? Well! As the G’deon’s seer, I predict that after you allow Karis to beat you to death, she will blame you for it!”
Dark spots crawled like beetles across Anders’s vision. Norina began to speak. Anders wanted to listen closely, to understand what she was doing. But instead, he blacked out.
Karis was looking down at him with sweat dribbling through the dust on her face. “I broke your collarbone.” She helped him sit up. “Can you breathe now?”
“Yes, Karis.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you.”
“It was not you who did it. Your will was manipulated by another.”
“I’m sorry, nonetheless.” She got stiffly to her feet and stood swaying. “Anders, are you certain J’han is dead?”
If there was a way to answer that would not cause pain, Anders had not yet learned that trick. “I know J’han is dead. I saw his body. We cut a piece of his hair to bring with us.”
Norina lay on the ground, huddled into a knot, her arms clenched over her face like the visor of a helmet. Medric was speaking distractedly in Sainnese to the confused soldier. Garland hovered near Karis, dazed and stricken. The other air children stood in an awkward, fascinated huddle. Anders said weakly, “Braight, give Karis the hair.”
He should have worded this statement as a request, but, for once, Braight didn’t take offense. She gave Karis the clump of bloody hair that she had carried from Watfield. “Karis, we found J’han in Medric’s tower. He had been killed the day before.”
Karis said dully, “That must have been the day my raven reached him with the message, which warned him about Bran.”
“We did find a raven in one of the Paladin’s rooms. We let it out.”
Norina stirred. Karis went to her and helped her stand up. The Truthken wiped her face with her shirttail. Again, she had become so calm it seemed a kind of lunacy. They clasped hands and looked into each other’s face as though they were going to dance. Karis said, “Could Saugus have done additional things to me? Without me knowing, and without you noticing?”
“Why not?” said Norina bitterly. “He must have done this to you with Zanja in the room. If you had been alone with him, you would no longer be who you are.”
“When—if—I lose control again, do whatever is necessary to stop me.”
“And negate everything that makes me trustworthy?”
“I am not trustworthy if I can be used as a weapon against my friends!”
They were both right, thought Anders. Norina must not exercise her power upon Karis, not even to mend her. But the G’deon of Shaftal must not be subjugated by another, especially not a hostile air witch. “Excuse me,” said Anders, and rather to his surprise they both turned to him. “If it is necessary for Norina to intervene, could someone else make that decision? Rather than Norina? Perhaps Medric? Since air logic has no effect on him?”
“You’re thinking better than I am,” Norina said.
She glanced at Medric, who wiped his tears and said, “Yes, I’ll just pretend to be Emil.” Karis put the clump of hair into Norina’s hand. “This is J’han’s hair, and his blood. He certainly died defending Leeba.” Her summer-brown face was awful to look at.
Norina said, “This is what Emil would tell us: Zanja is running ahead of us so she can put herself between us and Saugus. She’s doing it to save your life, and mine. For the only way she can stop us from trying to rescue our daughter is by rescuing her first.”
Karis trembled: massive, storm buffeted. The Truthken’s calm surface shivered as a terrible power swam in her depths. Anders felt his fellow air students shift closer to him. He yearned to huddle with them, for both women were dreadful.
“We will get Leeba to safety,” said Karis.
“We will kill Saugus,” Norina replied.
Chapter 40
Written by Anders, a student of the Law of Shaftal. If found, please copy this page into my Book of Everything.
Nearly everything was left behind: food, pots, firewood, blankets, spare socks and shirts, musical instruments, books, lanterns, game pieces.
Karis carried only a baby, a hammer, two large iron bolts, and the Power of Shaftal.
Norina brought Emil’s dagger, and, in her memory, the Law of Shaftal. She left her Map of Everything, and seeing this helped us to abandon our Books of Everything. She carried an awful sorrow; therefore I learned that air logic does not preclude love or grief.
Chaen, who is an artist, brought nothing. The heaviest burdens have no weight, she told me, which is a paradox I have come to understand. Her burden was her love for Maxew, her son, a criminal and traitor.
Those who were strong carried Emil. Those who were not strong told him stories. Some stories are light, and some are heavy.
Seth carried diapers: clean at first, then soiled. She carried bandages and ointments, and dried meat for the dogs.
Clement carried seventy soldiers, each with one weapon. The soldiers carried proud traditions that to them were true. And they carried each other.
Kamren brought a bottle that was very light, which Karis hated to have close to her. He and all the Paladins each carried a dagger, pen and paper, and a lifetime of study.
A soldier carried Medric, who carried his spectacles for close-seeing, a pistol, and many secrets.
Garland left a box of spices but brought a wooden spoon and much worry.
All else we left behind.
Part Four: Water
The way of water is to change and sing
Water needs air for its lightning
Water wants fire for divining
Four elements for balance.
Chapter 41
For three days and nights, through twigs and leaves like walls of basket weave, between branches like the turns in a madman’s maze, across blockades of tree trunks and barricades of limbs, through shredded drifts that pierced with secret thorns, Zanja had followed her lost son. Her guide was a shape, a voice, sometimes a light. She became separated: part flesh that walked, part mind that slept. Finally, she had left the forest and stood on a hilltop. She had climbed into sunrise.
She saw the House of Lilterwess, an accretion of homes, schools, plazas, refectories, and workshops, each shouldering the next, in a massive cluster of shared walls and hallways, covered by a single, crazy roof. Hundreds of years ago, Zanja had climbed across that roof in pouring rain and entered through a dormer because she had been denied shelter everywhere; even here in the vibrant heart of Shaftal. Like a thief she had slipped into the legend, a place of color and chaos, a town within a house, encircled by gardens, meadows, and a woodland park of ancient cedar trees.
Twenty years ago, Karis, Norina, Councilor Mabin, and a handful of others had escaped through that park as the Sainnites murdered Shaftal’s traditions, reduced its government to rubble, and razed the House of Lilterwess to the ground. Now Zanja looked upon a ruin but still saw a place where seers sought both insight and chaos; the Truthkens demanded consistency and honesty; the healers insisted on health and humanity; the Paladins sorted worthy from unworthy, and the G’deon protected and united the whole.
The heat raised a haze over the landscape
, and the distant hill disappeared in a brilliant fog of light. The House of Lilterwess was burning.
The houses of Marlin, of Parsa, of Tarwein—all the clan houses—were burning. The heat of the firestorm stiffened Zanja’s blood-soaked tunic. She had dragged herself out from under the dead war horse and, on hands and knees, too dizzy to rise, had looked for survivors, but found only the dead. Those who had hesitated were scattered across the summer camp. Those who had fled carrying their children were choking the steep, winding pathway out of the valley and into the forest.
Smoke swept across the meadow. It smelled of blood and death; it roared the story of her people’s destruction. And it brought to her the rhythmic cry of a newborn, an infant she had seen in the na’Tarwein clan house, curled like a kernel in a basket lined with carded wool. The firestorm in the village had not reached him.
Her guide, a shadow in the smoke, began to sing in her people’s dead language:
Time is the oak tree
That lays down its acorns
The hazel tree
That throws down its nuts.
Time is the dead who enrich the soil
While the corn fields lie fallow.
Time is the mourning songs that won’t be sung,
The sorrow that won’t be remembered.
Time is the stone river flowing
Past a village of charcoal and ashes.
Time is the summer camp
In which the sleepers do not awaken.
The river will flow,
The nuts will lie uneaten,
The songs of mourning will never be sung,
The sorrow will not be remembered.
You will be a memory of tomorrow.
You will be a ghost of the living.
Air Logic Page 32
