He continued on and met Captain Tharin coming into the hall by another door behind the high table. The lanky blond man had on a rough shirt and tunic like a common soldier’s, and shared the men’s barracks here, even though Ki knew from Iya that he was the son of a rich knight at Atyion. Here was another person he had a good feeling about, and this one from first look last night.
“Good morning, lad. Looking to break your fast? Come on, then, the kitchen’s through here.”
Tharin led him through another door and into a large warm kitchen where the cook was at work over a kettle.
“How does the place suit you so far?” Tharin asked, settling down by the hearth to repair a buckle on his scabbard.
“Very well, sir. I hope I’ll suit the prince and Duke Rhius.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. Mistress Iya wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise.”
Cook brought them some broth and stale bread. Ki sat down on a bench and watched Tharin work with his awl and waxed thread. Tharin had a nobleman’s fine hands, but the skill of a craftsman in them.
“Will the duke be coming here soon?”
“That’s hard to say. The king keeps him busy in the city these days.” He made short work of the buckle and laid his tools aside.
Ki dipped his bread in the broth and took a bite. “How come you’re not with him?”
Tharin raised an eyebrow at him, but looked more amused than annoyed. “Duke Rhius has entrusted me with Tobin’s training at arms. Until we go off to fight again, I’m honored to serve him here. From what I saw last night, you’re going to be quite a help to me. Tobin needs someone matched to him for practice.” He reached for his own cup and took a sip. “That was a fine thing you did last night.”
“What did I do?” asked Ki.
“You stepped in to protect Tobin when the demon was racketing about in the hall.” Tharin said, as nonchalantly as if they were discussing the weather or crops. “I don’t believe you even thought about it. You just did it, even though you’d scarcely met him. I’ve seen a lot of squires—I was with Rhius in the Royal Companions in our youth—and I can tell you there aren’t many, even the best, who’d have thought to do that under such conditions. Well done, Ki.”
Tharin set his cup aside and ruffled Ki’s hair. “Tobin and I will take you up the road later and show you some good hunting. I’ve got a craving for Cook’s good grouse pie.”
Struck speechless by this unexpected praise, Ki could only nod as the man went outside again. As Tharin had said, he’d acted without thinking and so had thought nothing of it. His own father seldom took note when Ki tried to do well, only when he’d failed.
He sat for a moment, then tossed the rest of his bread into the fire with a prayer to Sakor to always be worthy of this man’s regard.
By the time Arkoniel came back to the barracks yard, Iya had reached an uneasy decision.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“Yes, but there’s one last thing we must speak of before I leave.”
Rising, she took his arm and led him inside. “We’re likely to be separated for some time, you know.” Reaching behind the narrow pallet she’d used, she pulled out the leather bag and placed it in his arms. “I think it’s time I passed this on to you.”
Arkoniel stared at her in alarm. “This is passed on when the old Guardian dies!”
“Don’t go scattering my ashes just yet!” She did her best to sound annoyed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said before. The Harriers will be more vigilant in Ero, and perhaps more likely than most to notice something like this. It’s safer here with you for the time being.” When he remained dubious she gripped his arm firmly. “Listen to me, Arkoniel. You know what happened to Agazhar. What do you suppose I’ve been doing all these years but training you for this? You’re as much the Guardian now as I am. You know all the spells to hide and mask it. You know the history, what little there is left. There’s nothing left to teach you. Say you’ll do this for me. I’m ready to be free of it. I must concentrate on Tobin now.”
Arkoniel clasped the bag in both hands. “Of course I will. You know that. But—You are coming back, aren’t you?”
Iya sighed, determined not to make the same mistake with him she had with Tobin just now. “I certainly plan to, my dear, but these are dangerous times. If one of us falls, the other must be ready to carry on with the task Illior has set for us. The bowl is safer here, just as Tobin is.”
She stood to go and he embraced her, something he hadn’t done since he was a child. Her cheek came just to his shoulder now. She hugged him back, thinking, What a fine man you’ve grown into.
Chapter 26
Iya dressed as a merchant to enter the city. She hadn’t worn an amulet since that night in Sylara and wanted no undue attention now. She was soon glad of her decision.
A few miles out from Ero, she came upon a gibbet by the side of the road. The body of a naked man still hung there, swinging gently in the wind that blew in from the sea. The face was too black and swollen to make out, but as she came closer she could see that in life he’d been young and well fed, not a laborer.
She reined in. A large “T” for “traitor” was branded into the center of the dead man’s chest. Uneasy memories of Agnalain stirred in her heart. This road had once been lined with such sights as this. She was about to ride on when the wind caught the body again and swung it around so she caught a glimpse of his palms. The center of each was covered with a circle of black tracery.
This poor fellow had been a novice at the Temple of Illior.
Wizards and priests, she thought bitterly. The Harriers hunt the children of Illior at the gates of the capital itself and hang them out like a farmer would a dead crow.
She made a blessing sign and whispered a prayer for the young priest’s spirit, but as she rode on she was haunted by Brother’s parting words to her.
You will not enter.
She steeled herself as she approached the guards at the gate, waiting for some challenge or outcry, but none came.
She took a room in a modest inn near the upper market and spent the next few days listening in high places and low, trying to gauge the mood of the people. She was careful to avoid anyone who might recognize her, nobles and wizards alike.
Prince Korin and his Companions were a common sight around the city, galloping about with their guards and squires. Korin was a fine, strong lad of thirteen now, the image of his father with his ruddy dark coloring and laughing eyes. Iya felt a pang of regret the first time she watched him ride past; if Tobin was who he appeared to be, and if a better ruler sat upon the throne, he’d have soon been of age to claim his place in this happy band, not hidden away with a landless knight’s unwanted brat as his only companion. With a sigh, she put such thoughts aside and resolved to concentrate on what she’d come here to do.
Years of intermittent drought and sickness had left their mark even here. The warren of tenements that ringed the city was less crowded now. Many doors were still nailed shut and bore the lead circles used to mark plague houses, remnants of the previous summer’s outbreak. One house in Sheepshead Street had been burned; the epithet “Plague Bringer” was still scrawled on one charred wall.
In the wealthier wards up the hill such reminders were usually taken down as soon as the illness passed and the bodies had been burnt, but many fine houses were still boarded up, and shops, too. Weeds growing in the doorways showed that there was no one left inside to clean them away.
A strange, unhealthy gaiety reigned in the wake of death. The clothing of the wealthy was dyed brighter colors, and made gaudier still with patterned borders and jewels. Many mourners had their lost loved ones’ likenesses embroidered on their coats or skirts, with maudlin verses stitched beneath. Sleeves, caps, and mantles were ornate even among the merchant classes, and cut to exaggerated lengths.
The strange hysteria was not limited to fashion. Every masker, mummer, and puppeteer company who plied their trade in the streets now
featured a gaudy new persona in their repertoire—Red and Black Death. Red ribbons fluttered gaily from this character’s mask and tunic, signifying the blood that seeped through the afflicted’s skin like sweat, and poured from their mouth and nose in the final agony. He also sported an exaggerated black codpiece and lumpy armlets, mimicking the dark pustules that swelled in groin and armpits. His fellow maskers delighted in abusing this strutter and donned beaked masks to chase him off.
Nosegays and pomanders of purifying herbs said to fend off the foul humors that caused the plague were worn by folk of every class. In these times, one never knew when the real Red and Black would come for a return engagement.
Another noticeable difference was the scarcity of wizards about on the streets. In the old days conjurers and fortune readers plied their trade in every market. Wizards with noble patrons lived like lords and ladies themselves. Now she saw few except the occasional white-robed Harrier accompanied by patrols of grey-uniformed guards. Iya turned aside quickly when she saw them coming, but watched the faces of those around her.
Many people paid the patrols little mind, but others watched with poorly concealed fear or anger. Grey-backs, the boldest called them, well out of hearing. Grey-back was common parlance for “louse.”
Iya was standing at the booth of an Aurënfaie goldsmith when one such patrol marched past. The goldsmiths’ faces were inscrutable beneath the intricate tattooed patterns of Khatme clan, but there was no mistaking the outrage in their grey eyes, or the implicit curse as the eldest woman spat over her left shoulder at their backs.
“You don’t think much of them,” Iya remarked quietly in their language.
“Wizard killers! They spit in the Lightbearer’s face!” The ’faie were monotheists, worshipping only Illior, whom they called Aura. “We expect such things in Plenimar, but never here! No wonder your land suffers.”
That evening Iya was watching a mummer’s show in the great marketplace near the Palatine when she felt a touch on her sleeve. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with a young Harrier flanked by a dozen or more grey-backs. The red birds on their tunics seemed to circle her like vultures as they closed ranks around her.
“Good day, Mistress Wizard,” the young wizard greeted her. He had a round, cheerful face and innocent blue eyes that she distrusted the moment she looked into them. “I haven’t had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“Nor I yours,” she replied. “I haven’t been in the city for years.”
“Ah, then perhaps you did not know that all wizards entering the capital are required to register with the Grey Guard, and to display their symbols openly?”
“No, young man, I did not. There was no such law when I was last here and no one troubled to inform me.” Iya’s heart was hammering in her chest, but she summoned up the dignity of her years, hoping to overawe him. In truth, however, it had shaken her badly to be discovered by one so young. She had used no magic to mask herself, but he’d still had to make a conscious effort to identify her. “If you’d be so kind as to direct me to the proper officials, I will make myself known to them.”
“In the king’s name, I must ask you to accompany me. Where are you lodged?”
Iya felt his mind brush hers, seeking out her thoughts. He must have mistaken her for a lower order wizard to make so bold. Age and experience were proof against such clumsy attempts, but she suspected he would recognize an outright lie.
“I’m lodged at the Mermaid, in Ivy Lane,” she told him.
The wizard motioned for her to follow him. Several of the soldiers split off from the rest, presumably to search her room.
She suspected she was more than a match for this wizard and his men, but to resist or disappear could only be construed as provocation. She dared not cause any stir, especially now that they knew her face.
They conducted her to a tall stone and timber building not far from the Palatine Gate. She knew the place. It had once been an inn; now it was full of soldiers and wizards.
In the great room she was made to sit in front of another wizard at a table and place her hands on two plaques made of ebony ringed with silver and iron. There were no markings on them that she could make out, but the touch of the combined metals stung her wrists where they brushed it. What the purpose of these might be, she could only guess.
The wizard behind the table had a thick ledger in front of him, open to the middle pages.
“Your name?”
She gave it.
He glanced at her hand. “I see you’ve injured yourself.”
“A mishap with a spell,” she replied, looking chagrined.
With a condescending little smile he returned to his ledger, asking her about her business in the city and noting her responses word for word in his book. Beside it was a covered basket, not unlike the ones traveling performers carried trained snakes and ferrets in.
“I’m simply here to renew old acquaintances,” she assured him. The words held no lie, should anyone here be a truthknower. Perhaps that was the purpose of the plaques, she thought, pressing the polished wood with her fingertips.
“How long have you been in the city?”
“Four days.”
“Why did you not register upon your arrival?”
“As I told the young man who brought me here, I had no idea there was such a law.”
“When was the last time you were in—”
They were interrupted just then by the sound of a scuffle outside.
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” a man cried out. “I wear the symbol. I’ve professed my loyalty! What right have you to lay hands on me? I am a free wizard of the Orëska.”
A pair of grey-backs dragged in a disheveled young wizard, followed by an older man in white. The prisoner’s hands were bound with shining silver bands and there was blood running down his face from a cut over his right eye. As he threw back long, dirty hair from his face, Iya recognized him as a vain but mediocre student of one of Agazhar’s friends. He hadn’t amounted to much, as Iya recalled, but he still wore the silver amulet.
“This fellow spat at the person of a King’s Harrier,” the white-robed wizard told the one behind the ledger.
“Your number, young man?” the recording wizard asked.
“I refute your numbers!” the young prisoner snarled. “My name is Salnar, Salnar of Scop’s Rest.”
“Ah yes. I remember you.” The wizard thumbed back through the ledger and carefully noted something down. When he’d finished he motioned for the prisoner to be taken upstairs. Salnar must have realized the implication of this, for he began to scream and struggle as the guards rushed him through an inner door. His cries continued loudly until they were cut off by the slam of a heavy door somewhere overhead.
Unruffled, the recording wizard returned to Iya. “Now, where were we?” He glanced down at his notes. “Ah, yes. When was the last time you visited the city?”
Iya’s fingers twitched against the dark wood. “I—I can’t think of the exact date. It was around the time the king’s nephew was born. I visited Duke Rhius and his family.” This was dangerous ground, but what choice did she have?
“Duke Rhius?” The name had a better effect than she’d hoped. “You are a friend of the duke’s?”
“Yes, he’s one of my patrons, though I haven’t seen him in some time. I travel and study.”
The wizard noted this information next to her name. “Why do you not wear the symbol of our craft?”
This was more difficult to evade. “I did not wish to draw attention to myself,” she told him, allowing an old woman’s quaver to creep into her voice. “The executions have made people suspicious of our kind.”
This answer seemed to satisfy her interrogator. “There have been outrages, as you say.” He reached into the basket beside him and took out a crudely molded copper brooch inset with the silver crescent of Illior. He turned it over, read the number inscribed there, and jotted this into his ledger. “You must wear this at all times,” he inst
ructed, holding it out for her to take.
Iya removed her hands from the plates to accept it and was not ordered to replace them. She turned the ugly brooch over and her heart skipped a beat. A number was engraved below the crown-and-eagle imprint of the Harriers.
222
The number she’d seen in her vision at Afra, in numerals of fire.
“If you wish to have a more attractive piece fashioned, you may,” he went on. “There are a number of jewelers specializing in such commissions now. But take care that any you have made bear this same number, and that it is sent here to be struck with the king’s mark before it is delivered to you. Is that quite clear?”
Iya nodded as she fastened it to the front of her gown.
“I promise, no harm will come to you because of it,” he told her. “Show it to the gate wardens whenever you leave or enter a city. Do you understand? Any wizard who refuses is subject to further interrogation.”
Iya wondered what “further interrogation” meant to someone like poor Salnar.
It took a moment to realize that she’d been released. She could hardly feel her legs as she stood and walked out into the autumn sunlight. She half expected someone to call out, seize her, drag her back to whatever terrors lay beyond the slamming of a door.
At no time during the interview had anyone openly threatened her, or even been rude. Yet the implications of the encounter left her so shaken that she entered the first tavern she came to and sat for nearly an hour at the table furthest from the door, sipping vile sour wine and fighting back tears. Then, with shaking fingers, she undid the brooch and placed it on the table in front of her, studying it back and front.
Silver was Illior’s metal. Copper and all the other sun-colored metals of weapons and armor belonged to Sakor. These two of the Four had long been the principal patrons of Skala, but since the days of Ghërilain, Illior had been the most highly revered. Now Iya was made to wear the Lightbearer’s symbol like a criminal’s brand, the beautiful silver bow held thrall against the copper disk.
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