The Masters, the Lannovians, and the baron and his men shuffled from the hall to a parlor behind it, shutting the doors tight. Cally's heart drooped. He hadn't expected to participate in the negotiations, of course, but he had expected to witness them.
Then again, he hadn't been brought here to make grand decisions, had he? Rather, he was an ornament. If so, he supposed he should be grateful that he was at least a very well-fed ornament.
~
As it turned out, their "private meeting" was a euphemism for a tasting of Tantonnen's many ales and brandies, which along with its wheat were its chief claims to fame. As a result, the Masters were a bit sluggish in getting going the following morning.
For Tantonnen wasn't their final destination after all. Instead, they were to hold their affairs with the Lannovians at a place called the Bowl of Seasons, which rang a distant bell in Cally's mind. They loaded themselves into the wagons and carriages the Tantonneners provided and rattled on to the south.
More of the golden hills ensued and the road made a gradual ascent through them. After some miles, pine trees reappeared as if summoned by magic. At the same time, the terrain grew harsher, with deep ravines separating one rise from the next. The gaps were short enough for a boy to throw a rock across, but the detours would have made the passage four times as long, and so someone had built stone bridges across them. These seemed in good repair, but the winds funneling through the gaps were cold and treacherous—and, somehow, familiar.
Cally was suddenly troubled by the notion that the caravan would press on across these gaps after dark. Yet late that afternoon, they came, at last, to the true end of their journey.
The wagons rocked to a stop. Cally hopped down onto a gentle slope of pines, red rock, and pale green grass. The air smelled like memory. There was some work to be done with the wagons, but he wandered uphill, where he was stopped by the ledge of a cliff. A bowl of land had been scooped out below him, fifty feet deep and two hundred in diameter.
This wasn't particularly odd: it was just a hole in the ground, and the ground, being so widespread across the earth, had many such holes in it. What was odd was the thick plant growth around its rim, which almost resembled leafy planks growing inward toward the bowl's center, as if they intended to form a dome enclosing it.
"What's the matter?"
The voice was Lora's, which surprised Cally enough for him to fear he might tip over the edge. Ever since the deer hunt, she'd spent most of her time chatting with the soldiers, learning woodcraft or something. He didn't think the two of them had exchanged a dozen words over the last three days.
"I know this place," he said. "I've been here before."
"When you were a child?"
"In the spring, they use it as a market. You see these shrubs?" He thumped one of the wide, flat trunks. "It's called thatchwood. In the spring, they cut it back to open the floor to the light, but by winter it grows together until it's tight enough to block out the snows."
It was a memory he didn't know he had until that very moment, and he gave himself some time to relive it: the long trek from Arrolore with their only donkey; the strange-looking men and women gathered in the sunlit Bowl; the sophisticated art of dickering, which began mistrustful, escalated into sharp-tongued cursing, then erupted into good cheer as a deal was forged.
Lora lingered beside him a little longer, but Cally was adrift in lost memories, and wasn't much for conversation, and after a while he found himself alone, thinking of the crispness of the forest nights when he and his father had traveled back from the Bowl to their farm.
"Oh!"
The word was half-gasped, lightly surprised. Cally jumped. From around a clump of thatchwood, a tall woman had appeared, her dark hair drawn behind her head, her neck long and graceful, her skin seemingly lit from within as if by the ether.
"Sorry, I—" He nearly choked. "Lady Minabar!"
He bowed hastily. Hastily enough that he looked quite the fool. But she was the same woman he'd seen at the feast in the baron's hall. Through the tireless hands of gossip, he'd learned her name was Lady Minabar, and that she held the position of First Didas: the successor to the entire Lannovian priesthood.
She looked him up and down, her gray eyes almost seeming to touch him. "You are with the Order. An apprentice?"
"Yes, milady. I just received my Star of Healing Hands on this very trip."
"Very good. An apprentice." She rolled the word around in her mouth like a pebble. "You may be the luckiest of all your people."
"How's that? Ma'am?"
Minabar's eyes sparkled. "You will know firsthand, and forever remember, what it was like for the Order during your time of struggle. But you will grow up in an age when everything has been set back in its proper place."
He tipped back his head, taking in the wisdom of this. Minabar smiled, inclined her head, and moved on.
In time, one of the Masters called for everyone to assemble below. Cally turned away from the ledge and found that Lora was already gone. He hurried down a staircase cut into the stone and joined the others. Long stone tables and benches had been carved into the floor of the Bowl of Seasons, the furniture weathered with age. Seeing them, Cally's memories of the place heightened; there were little alcoves in the cliff walls to observe from, as well as cunning little hallways and chambers scored into the rock surrounding the central chamber, which could be used for servants to prepare feasts and festivities, or for traders and merchants to retire to when they wished to conduct their business in private.
A monk ushered him to a seat at a table three away from Master Tarriman. Everyone settled into their places. The Lannovians were arranged across from them. They wore gray robes of a lightweight fabric; as before, these were stitched and trimmed with crimson and gold. They had piercing gray eyes and looked very wise. They had an honor guard with them as well, clad in steel mail and gray tabards with red complements, their chests emblazoned with the bear's head of their homeland in the low eastern mountains.
A hush rolled across the Bowl as if someone had cast a spell. Tarriman rose to his feet, looking solid and strong. Cally expected a lot more feasting and fussing to mark the event, but evidently they'd gotten that out of their systems the day before, for Tarriman lowered his head, led them in a prayer, then opened his eyes and smiled at the room.
"All my life, I've been afraid I wouldn't live to see this day," he said. "Such anticipation would impregnate the day with the greatest of expectations. On my journey, I worried the reality of it might not live up to my dreams. But now that the day is here, it's no less wondrous than I imagined it would be.
"At this time, it feels right to remind ourselves of the long path that brought us here. So please indulge me in a brief story. It begins seventy years ago, when our city—the fabled city of Narashtovik—found itself in a war with the Barony of Varrovar, a Gaskan territory. It was far from the first war we had weathered over the long grind of these centuries, and our city was diminished by strife even in those days.
"But we held one advantage the viziers of Varrovar had overlooked: Merriwen. One of the fiercest warlords in living memory. Guided by his strength and skill, our army, though outnumbered, pushed the Varrovar back across the forests and plains, until the enemy sued for armistice.
"Merriwen's victory was our greatest in a century. The heavens agreed: as he and his legions rode home, a blue star appeared in the northeastern sky, a gem bestowed from above to commemorate his triumph. Merriwen returned his army safely to Narashtovik, then rode on toward the star to seek its blessings.
"His journey brought him to the White Tree of Barden, our holiest of holies; there the star burned bright above. As Merriwen beheld it, a voice spoke from somewhere within the stark bone branches of the tree.
"The voice congratulated him—but then it gave him a warning. If nothing changed, there would soon be another war, and then another one after that, until the day came that Narashtovik was vanquished forever. The same fate was destined for all pl
aces. For that had been the fate of everything and everyone since the day that Arawn's Mill had fallen from the polestar and cracked open, and afterwards began to grind nether instead of ether, and the people of the world, who had once lived without end, became mortal, doomed to die.
"Merriwen beseeched the voice to tell him how to avert this fate. The presence gave him a simple answer. The only way to undo the breaking of the Mill, and the corruption that followed, was to stop using the nether to kill, and start using it to restore.
"The star grew brighter then, until it rivaled the sun; then as fast as a blown-out candle, its light vanished. Then the tree granted him a gift, which was to be known only to him.
"Shocked by everything he'd seen and heard, Merriwen returned to Narashtovik. He presented to the people the Revelation of the Blue Star. And then founded the Order of the Healing Shadows."
Tarriman tilted back his head, taking in the clear blue sky above the Bowl of Seasons. "The Order's success was immediate. So much so that no one could deny that it had been sent by the heavens. Within scant years, the city healed, and regrew, and prospered.
"But the bride of prosperity is jealousy. Soon enough, the Barony of Varrovar rallied a second army, and broke its armistice, declaring the Order to be heretics against the rightful rule of Arawn. They marched on Narashtovik.
"Perhaps they thought Merriwen wouldn't fight back. If so, they miscalculated, for the Order was still young, and hadn't yet banned all forms of killing by nether, which is the only way to restore Arawn's Mill. The battle that ensued was as vicious as anything seen in the war before it. But with the city's walls, and Merriwen's courage, Narashtovik held fast.
"Until the Varrovar unleashed the wights."
As if Tarriman had been timing it, at that very moment, a cloud slid across the sun, casting the Bowl into shadow. The temperature seemed to drop five degrees.
"The wights weren't human. They didn't seem mortal. No sorcery, be it nether or ether, could kill them. Our dead soon carpeted the streets. But just as defeat seemed assured, the Lannovians arrived."
This drew a lusty cheer from their side of the tables. Tarriman grinned. "You know this part well enough, I'm sure, so I will spare you a long lesson on your own history. Together, our people held the city against the army of Varrovar. But although our combined sorceries were able to hamper and slow the wights, the undead still couldn't be defeated. Merriwen prepared to abandon the city.
"It's said that at that very moment, a blue star twinkled over the heart of Narashtovik. As if possessed by a spirit, Merriwen shouted new orders. With the aid of the Lannovians, he drew the wights into the Sealed Citadel—and locked it fast with mighty wards. These were impenetrable. The wights were trapped without escape—and so was Merriwen. He sacrificed himself so that the Order could live."
Tarriman bowed his head. "That was sixty years ago. The war was won, but from that day, the heart of our city has been lost to us, while an implacable enemy remained within it. Soon after, our people struck the deal that brings us here today: the Order would work to learn how to undo the wards, a secret that had been lost with the death of Merriwen. And the Lannovians would seek the ability to slay the wights.
"For years and years, we could make no progress on the wards. Our endeavor felt hopeless. But if you persevere, life has a funny way of working out. Three years ago, as we attempted what must have been our nine hundredth effort to learn how to unlock the Citadel, one of our Masters made a different discovery.
"He learned how to kill the wights.
"His method was not simple. It took time, both to destroy an individual wight, and to clear them from the entire edifice of the Citadel. But we have done so. The last living wight fell just over a year ago. The Citadel stands empty—and all we have left to do is find a way to open it back up."
5
Cally hadn't known quite what the response ought to be: he himself was shocked by this revelation, giddied by it. Applause? Cheers? Stunned silence? Those might have been his guesses. Yet he wasn't altogether surprised when many of the Lannovians stumbled to their feet, as if Master Tarriman had just beheaded the woman next to him, and yelled out in confusion.
Tarriman raised his eyebrows, waiting for the commotion to subside. "Friends! I know you expected to play a great role in our liberation and receive your just accolades for doing so. But there is still a part for us both to play!"
The room calmed like the proverbial oil poured on turbid waters. Lady Minabar stood, her face drawn with perplexion.
"Forgive our rudeness, Master Tarriman," she said with humorous chagrin. "But it's just as you said, isn't it: we thought we were soon to be heroes. Instead, we are…"
She held up her hand, rubbing her fingers together as if dispersing a pinch of dust into the wind.
"You can still aid us in bringing down the wards, Lady Minabar," Tarriman said. "And you forget that you are already heroes. Without your aid during the war, we would have been snuffed out forever."
This, at last, drew some applause. The Lannovians seated themselves with a rustle of robes.
"Let me congratulate you," Minabar said, "and the Order—and the people of Narashtovik—for your progress and success. But I do have a question."
"How could we have killed the wights when it violates the very center of our faith?"
"Exactly."
The Master chuckled lowly. "That was the subject of a discussion heated enough to melt the snows of the Wodun Mountains. Ultimately, it was decided that since undead of all forms aren't alive, then it isn't truly possible to kill them."
"Then what would you say you do when you bring them to their end?"
"It can be thought of as closing a door that should never have been opened. Or as refuting a foul lie. Or simply as the ending of an abomination and the setting of a body to its proper rest."
Minabar thought about this. "They are your rules, and I suppose you know them better than I. You said you discovered how to destroy the wights three years ago? Had you been working toward this discovery all along? Why keep it secret?"
"We long ago gave up on killing the wights ourselves, trusting that, when the time came, you and your fine sorcerers would rise to the task. But it came to pass that we were working on repairs to Merriwen's old chambers in a manor he liked to retreat to when he wanted to get away from the Citadel. We opened up a wall in his study, meaning to build a new hearth; it gets dreadfully cold in there in winter, I don't know how Merriwen ever stood it. And there, hidden behind the stonework, we found a manuscript.
"Well, this was beyond exciting. Almost everything of Merriwen's had been lost with the warding of the Citadel. We went to work on the manuscript at once and found that, if anything, our hopes had been too small. For it was a treatise theorizing how to create the wights—and how to destroy them. Not that it was half as straightforward as I make it sound!"
This drew guffaws from several of the other Masters.
Tarriman chuckled, shaking his head. "The writing and methods within the book are obscure. Very obscure. We still haven't been able to replicate Merriwen's full theory of how to kill them, which he believed would be swift and efficient. Then again, he was never able to realize his theory, either, was he? But what he gave us was, after a great deal of experimentation on the ward-trapped wights, just enough for our innovative monk to discover a crude method to dispatch them."
This shocked the Lannovians nearly as much as Tarriman's initial announcement had.
Lady Minabar's gray eyes were alight with wonder. "Do you happen to have this manuscript with you? May I see it?"
"I do." Tarriman stood and reached into his robe, producing the book Cally had seen him hide from the norren days before. "And you may."
Minabar took one look at the tome, then laughed and held up one hand. "It's as thick as a ham hock! Let us save it for after the celebration. For I have decided that we will accept your request to honor the spirit of our agreement and come with you to Narashtovik. There, we will hel
p however we can to unlock the heart of your storied city, and return to you its secrets and its glory."
People stood on both sides, shaking their fists and cheering. Cally found that he was among them. Their voices bounced from the walls of the Bowl of Seasons, channeled up into the cloudy sky. People clapped and embraced each other.
The Lannovians' servants must have preceded them to the meet, for people were still returning to their seats as the staff brought forth pitchers of white wine and red ale, along with platters of grilled lamb and smoked trout. Soon everyone was drinking and stuffing themselves silly. Cally found himself wishing they could break a decades-long curse every month.
Being an apprentice, however, meant that he was most meager of the Order's nethermancers, meaning he was too lowly for the priests and monks to wish to speak to in such an audacious moment, but too lofty to be speaking to the soldiers and servants. So he watched the others talk instead, and thus caught the precise moment when Tarriman and Minabar rose together and departed the Bowl in the company of a small escort of advisors and honor guards, presumably to dive down into the details of Merriwen's long-lost manuscript.
It was only another minute after that that Lora arrived bearing a mug of something frothy. It was nearly full.
"How about that!" she said.
"Can you believe this?" Cally had been waiting to talk to someone about what they'd just heard and the words spilled out of him like water from a bucket that's missing its bottom. "The Citadel's already been cleansed! When do you suppose they were going to tell us this?"
"Well, right now, I guess."
"This is incredible. We'll finally be able to move back into our home. Who knows what we'll find inside it? Treasures of all kinds. And tomes. Tomes that will tell us things we'd forgotten all about."
"Which probably just means more lessons and work for us." Lora took a sip from her mug. "Cally, have you noticed the way Rowe's been acting?"
The Sealed Citadel Page 5
