She wondered if, when Sendara and Elissan Diar viewed the tapestry, they saw something different. If these convulsions of color made a coherent whole to their eyes. After all they’d learned, and had seen. She wondered what it would be like to have eyes that could view such chaos and see in it some design.
It was sometimes hard to believe she and Sendara were so different; that the other girl stood so far ahead, as at a mountain’s summit. At times like this, or in lessons, it was clear. At other times, friendship seemed to even the balance. Just the night before, they had sneaked out to the woods, suppressing laughter as they evaded the Masters who patrolled the hallways at bedtime. If they were caught? “You know they can’t do anything,” Sendara had said with blissful confidence. The moon was out, and besides, they knew the way. After a time they came to a hillock, bare of trees or knobby roots, where the moss was deep as a featherbed and softer. There they sat and shared cakes stolen from the kitchens, along with a flask of elderberry wine of mysterious provenance. Sendara would say only that such things were an Archmaster’s prerogative.
The wine had warmed Julien against the chill of night. She felt possessed of such exhilaration that it was an effort to remain composed. But she was composed. It was essential not to show feeling.
The emotion is too raw, Sendara had said of Lacarne’s verses.
After they had eaten and drunk their fill, the girls lay on their backs in the downy moss, side by side. Clouds made a tattered film across the moon. “That one,” Julien had said, pointing, “looks like a lady.” She saw a delicate profile, stars like ornaments caught in windblown hair.
Sendara agreed. “A goddess,” she said. “Not Kiara or Estarre. One of the ancient goddesses. Vizia.”
“Vizia,” Julien repeated, the name strange and lovely on her tongue.
Later they returned to the castle. They moved with stealth, but the halls were quiet. Julien accompanied Sendara to her room, for the first time had a chance to see it. It was on another floor from hers, separate, in the wing where the Archmasters slept. Archmaster Diar had clearly wanted his daughter to have every luxury in her new home. The room was hung with lace and velvet draperies; lace swathed even the bed. All of it white. Her gold harp stood at the window. On a shelf were a few books, leatherbound and tooled with gold—treasures. Beside them a carved wood box, perhaps for jewelry. There were other things: A dancer carved of white stone, skirts captured in frenzied motion. A dagger with a jewel in the hilt. And more that Julien did not have a chance to take in, for it would be rude to stare.
“Stay,” Sendara had said, when Julien turned to go. “That way we can talk until we fall asleep.”
So Julien had undressed there, and got into the bed. It was wider than Julien had in her room, enough for two. Sendara wore a lace nightdress and lent Julien a shift that by some miracle fit, though it was long, and snug at the waist. They lay and talked for a time. Sendara was first to drift off, her lips going soft with sleep. When Julien realized, she felt as if, for the first time, she could think about how she felt, now that she was alone with her thoughts; but even still felt suspended in a dream beyond thought. Nothing felt real about that night. Or that was her fear, that it couldn’t be real. So at last, after watching the clouds from Sendara’s window for what may have been a long time, she, too, fell into sleep.
The morning brought a change in mood; Sendara was curt as she ran a brush through her hair, bid Julien dress and go to her own room before they were discovered. Julien had tried not to feel downcast, recalled to herself the confidences they had exchanged in the dark. And of course, later that day, she leaped at the chance to visit Archmaster Diar’s rooms, the first time she had been invited. Various firsts were happening, it seemed to her—all at once.
Now as the Archmaster and his daughter stood together, Julien wondered if they had forgotten she was there. He addressed Sendara as if they were alone. “I wanted you to see this passage,” he said. Though he spoke quietly, Julien thought she heard a repressed intensity. “It proves there was discussion of the idea much earlier than we supposed. See.” He pointed to the scroll on the desk. The parchment wisped up at the ends, pinned in place with his finger. His ring, Julien saw, was a blue stone with an opaline explosion at its heart. A star sapphire. She could not recall what it meant, only that it was rare.
Still standing, Sendara bent to read, loose hair falling forward. She looked up at her father with a new awe. “Is this the original?”
“Of course not.” He laughed. “Look at its condition—only a few hundred years old. It is a copy, though rare.”
Sendara tossed her hair aside to look up at him. “The reign of Seers,” she said. “Can it be?”
He was solemn, but it seemed put on with effort, a mask for rising elation. His fingers interlaced with hers. The window seemed to frame, contain the two of them in sun-filled radiance.
They shine. Julien thought of the note that had been stuck between Sendara’s papers today. The girls had turned around a moment from their desk, talking, and when they looked back again it was there. The only sign Sendara gave that her composure was shaken was the hurried way she pushed back her hair as she opened the parchment. She turned it around so Julien could see. For the gift of your light I would give my life.
A bit clumsy—the rhyme within the phrase—and wholly unoriginal, Julien had thought; but Sendara had turned pink, her mouth pursed in her satisfied half-smile. She seemed unsurprised, even though she had no more idea of the identity of the note-writer than Julien had. That such an admirer would exist, she took for granted.
It was the fourth note in as many days. They were not improving in artistry, but seemed to be scaling up in their desperation. So Julien thought, knowing it was uncharitable. Now when she and Sendara walked together in the halls, passing groups of students, the girls would covertly glance about, but it was impossible to single out who the aspiring swain could be. Most of the students tended to avoid looking at Sendara Diar, much as one avoids looking at the sun. They won’t dare, Sendara had said. Only Maric Antrell, leader of Elissan Diar’s chosen, at times met her gaze with a heated, fearless look that made Sendara glance away with confusion. He was too pale, the skin on his cheekbones drawn tight; he had become painfully thin. It made his gaze appear ravenous. A thrill for her, but an uneasy one.
He might have written the notes, after all. Neither girl spoke of this possibility. Maric Antrell was handsome, and a lord’s son, and moreover in obvious favor with Elissan Diar. But he made both girls uneasy.
Now Elissan said, disengaging his hand from that of his daughter, “So tell me.” His tone turned playful. “What brings the two of you here?”
Sendara stood at attention as if to recite. Drawing a breath, she said, “I’ve been thinking about Manaia. I think I should sing, and I’ll need a partner.”
“Manaia. Of course.” Elissan Diar turned his gaze back on Julien a moment. “I hadn’t given it thought, but you are right. You should sing, and of course Mistress Imara may join you.”
At last Julien spoke. “So I may understand,” she began, feeling their eyes on her, “what shall we be singing?”
Sendara looked askance. “How can you not know about Manaia? Well, every spring it is a festival held here on the Isle. The songs are for the competition.”
“Competition.” Julien swallowed. “With the other students?”
Sendara raised her eyebrows. “Who else? We must write and perform a song together. But Father,” she said, “so far we’ve had no sessions in the Tower of the Winds. How are we to write?”
“The Tower is for advanced students only,” said Elissan Diar, in a tone that settled the matter. He glanced at the window. “Is there something else? I hope to make more headway with this scroll before midday. And now with Valanir Ocune gone, I must meet with Archmaster Lian to decide which of his tasks will fall to me.”
“Valanir Ocune, gone?” Julien squeaked. Her hand went to her mouth. “Sorry. Is he all right?”
> Elissan Diar smiled—she thought, politely. “I expect so,” he said. “He’s left us with a fearsome load of work, and without warning. Sneaked off in the night, apparently. We’ll need a new liaison with Tamryllin.”
Something in Julien plummeted at the words. She recalled the exchange with Valanir Ocune after the death of Archmaster Myre. He had shown a trace of concern for her, albeit preoccupied with more important matters.
“He’s untrustworthy,” said Sendara.
“It was ever thus,” said her father without rancor. “In any case. I must return to my work.”
“Very well,” said Sendara. “I’ll see you later, Julien.”
Julien found herself back in the quiet of the hallway, the door thudding behind her.
After the encompassing light of the room, the stairwell was dark. She felt she had shut the door on something of immense value. Each step down the dim stairway, a step nearer obscurity.
Julien reminded herself that she and Sendara Diar would be competing together at Manaia. She was a part of something; and as she learned more, this would become more true. Not forever would she hover in doorways.
These thoughts felt suspiciously like bluster, but she carried on down the stairs, trailing her fingertips along the cool stones. The noise of the main floor, of boys running and laughing in corridors, a ghost of a sound. It had been a long climb to the top. On the way up, that morning, they had spoken about mothers. She could not remember now how it had begun.
“I haven’t seen mine since I was ten,” Sendara had said. A chill threading the words. It was strange they had gotten on the subject at all, Julien thought now, considering how unwilling Sendara seemed to speak of it. She’d been ahead of Julien on the stairs, skirts an elegant sway to the movement of her hips. “It matters not. She doesn’t understand … things. Father took me away to see the world, to learn all there is to know, and she couldn’t stand it.”
Julien felt kinship with Sendara, whose life was otherwise so different from her own. “I think I know what you mean,” she said, and began to talk of her own mother, though in short, pained sentences. For some reason it was still painful.
Sendara cut her off. “It’s not the same,” she said, the chill in her voice intensified. “My mother is a Haveren of Deere. The most beautiful woman in Eivar, it is said. Noble and beautiful, both. The Deere estates are centuries old. Before my father won her, she had twenty suitors, each more noble than the last. Songs are dedicated to her name.”
“All right,” Julien had said, bewildered at this torrent. Her own mother was of noble blood as well, but it seemed clear that it was different to be a Haveren of Deere. Whatever that was. Sheltered amid olive groves she had been all her life. She knew nothing of power or politics.
It was true Julien’s mother would not be considered beautiful. Neither of her parents was anything extraordinary. The Imaras were sturdy and enduring, it could perhaps be said. No songs had been written of them, nor would ever be.
When Julien arrived on the main floor the clatter of the students had abated—everyone was at their lesson. She was late for a history lesson with Archmaster Lian. It might be better, she considered, not to go in at all. She could instead go out to the wood and lose herself awhile. No one would remark upon it. In the distance, the sound of obedient singing; a class reviewing scales. A melody that lilted up, and up, before plunging all the way down to begin again.
She recalled the light at the top of the stairs, the abstruse art, the books. The books. Instinct had held her back from crossing the threshold of that room. Someone of her origin could hope, at most, for an occasional window to the greater world. Not a door.
* * *
“WHAT do you know about love?” This floated to Dorn Arrin when he was poring over a text on ancient lore in advance of their next lesson. His head made a quick shiver, like a dog swatting a gnat. “Nothing,” he said. “Why?”
Etherell Lyr grinned. He should have been studying as Dorn was, but instead sat at the window in a shaft of morning light, whittling a bit of wood. His long, tapered fingers lent themselves to fine work. “No reason.”
“I know you’ve been leaving notes for Diar’s daughter,” said Dorn. “I can only imagine the banality of the phrases.”
“Yes, I should have asked your help with that,” said Etherell, and laughed. “But I wouldn’t want to set … expectations. She’ll see I have other talents than poetry.”
“You know enough about love for both of us, in that case.” Dorn turned the page. With renewed resolve he tried to read the words of his text, but the letters melted out of focus. The silence between them seemed companionable from Etherell’s side; he hummed as wood dropped in sinuous curls to the floor, like smoke in reverse.
Finally Dorn spoke again. “Are you hoping to become an Archmaster’s son?”
His friend shrugged. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But Dorn, have you ever seen anything more lovely?”
“Anything?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What I know is she is barely sixteen,” said Dorn.
“Where I come from that’s of age to marry,” said Etherell. “Don’t be a stick, Dorn. It’s tiresome.”
“I’ll try not to be tiresome.” Dorn tilted his book upright to shield his face from view.
He heard the chair scrape the floor, just before the book was pulled back. Etherell had his hands on either side of its leaves. “I’m sorry,” he said. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “I didn’t mean that. I rarely do.”
“You say things you don’t mean?” said Dorn, looking away, afraid not to look away. But he had seen his friend’s stricken look and wanted to hold it in his memory, tight like a blanket on a winter’s night.
He heard rather than saw the smile return as Etherell said, “All the time. It’s integral to a gentleman’s upbringing.” He let go of Dorn’s book and stood upright.
“Not surprising,” said Dorn. He cleared his throat. “Well then. As a gentleman—what do you intend to do next?”
“What do I intend?” Etherell flung his arms wide like an actor declaiming. He jumped up to stand on the chair in the beam of sunlight. Captured there an instant in gold. “I intend, Master Arrin, to win the heart of a splendid beauty. To perform beside you at Manaia. And … I suppose earn my ring and graduate while I am at it.”
“Quite a recitation. Shall I applaud?” Dorn said wryly. “You have impressive plans considering this place is tumbling about our ears. I’d be surprised if any of us graduate. What with Archmaster Myre suddenly dead, the chosen running things, and now Valanir Ocune gone—conveniently, if you ask me.”
Etherell shook his head mock-sorrowfully. He dismounted the chair in an agile leap. “The cantankerousness of the bookbinder. I shall write a poem about it.”
“A plague on golden lords,” said Dorn. “Another poem for you.”
“Set that plague against Maric Antrell—my rival for Sendara Diar’s affections,” said Etherell. “He looks to be starving to death, but it’s not happening fast enough.”
“That’s certainly true … on both counts,” said Dorn. But a heaviness had come over him. “Really, though, Etherell … don’t you want to know what happened to Valanir Ocune? It seems unlike him to disappear without so much as a farewell … with not even a dull speech as seems the constant practice here.”
“He’s not an Archmaster,” Etherell pointed out.
“Very well … with a not-dull speech. Or a song. Something.”
Etherell’s eyes were intense on his. “What are you suggesting?”
“You must know,” said Dorn. “I don’t want to even say it. I like Valanir Ocune, as it happens. Most of my life I wanted to be him. Now, with everything that’s happened … I wonder.”
“So many worries.” Etherell was shaking his head. “How do you sleep?”
“I lie to myself.” His turn to say something he didn’t mean. If he had succeeded in lying to himself, Dorn thought, he would probably sleep
better.
But his tone was sufficiently convincing: his friend grinned and went back to carving. More wood curls trailed to the floor. Etherell’s demeanor was entirely relaxed, as if the act took the place of thought. The shape that had begun to emerge from the wood was thin, elongated, but that was all Dorn could see so far.
Now when Dorn Arrin tried again to read, he instead found himself seeing the future, a vista in his mind’s eye. He saw himself and his friend enter the dining hall that evening, and before everyone—student and Archmaster alike—Etherell advancing with purpose down the length of the table to the lovely thing at the end of it, and presenting to her the gift he’d made. And in that moment Sendara Diar would know who had written the little half-poems praising her beauty, and she would be enthralled. She’d have to be. Moments ago when Etherell Lyr had stood on the chair, arms outstretched, he could have been wrought in sunlight. Dorn knew himself for lost, but also knew—just as surely—he would not be the only one.
* * *
HE saw towers that rose from mist. That was the first thing. White they were, gilded in sunrise, with turrets like gold teeth. A whisper within him, a name, muffled as if by the mist. As he drew nearer, swooping from above like a bird, he saw the sweep of mountains beyond, a wall of green. Somewhere deep in there were the fires, he knew. He had seen them. Until the night they had reached him, and he’d burned. Shrieking, lost to agony.
Pain made him remember: the sword he had gripped in a ghostly hand. Slicing as if bones were butter. Too easy. Piles of limbs collapsing at his feet like dolls shattered in a child’s rage. People seen as if through fog, their features indistinct, so they never seemed to him like people at all. Their blood a river that never stained him, left him clean.
It was all a game, until the fires.
A man’s voice grated in his ears. That name again. Now he could hear it. Almyria.
And another voice, this one melodious and a part of him after countless long nights of joining with his. “Be one with the earth. With peace.”
A blinding pain was last he knew. That and a dying murmur in his ear. Almyria. A final image—the towers, ringed in flame.
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