Land of the Burning Sands: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Two

by Neumeier, Rachel

  An extra place was set at the table. Amnachudran gestured an invitation that was not merely kindness, Gereint understood. It was kindness; he didn’t doubt the man’s natural sympathy. But it was also a test, of sorts. Of whether he could use tableware like a civilized man? Or, no. More of whether he could put off a slave’s manner and behave not merely like a civilized man but like a free man. He did not even know the answer to that question himself.

  Gereint nodded to Emre Tanshan and again to the son, walked forward and took the offered chair. Lady Emre passed him a platter of beef; the son shifted a bowl of carrots to make room for it.

  “Your day was pleasant?” Amnachudran asked politely.

  “Very restful, honored sir,” said Gereint. He took a slice of the beef and a few carrots.

  “Take more beef,” Lady Emre urged him. “One needs food after hard healing.”

  Gereint took another slice of beef, nodding polite thanks when Lady Emre handed him the bowl of beans, and said courteously, “You are yourself, like your husband, a healing mage, lady?” Yes, he remembered Amnachudran saying something like that…

  Emre Tanshan waved a casual hand. “Oh, well… more or less.”

  “My lady wife is a true healing mage,” Amnachudran explained. “She is the one who healed us both. Not like me at all; I couldn’t have managed anything as difficult as your knee. I am, ah. More of a scholar than a practitioner, you understand? My skill lies with, hmm. With injuries that are… symbolic or… one might say, those that have a philosophical element.”

  Like scars from a geas brand, evidently. Gereint couldn’t remember ever having heard of any such surgical specialty, but he nodded.

  Amnachudran made a small, disparaging gesture. “Philosophically, I have some skill, I think. My practical ability… I removed the scar, but I didn’t guess the procedure would cause you such terrible pain. And then it was too late to stop. I’m very sorry—”

  Without even thinking about it, Gereint set his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. “Eben Amnachudran. I beg you will not apologize to me for anything.”

  The scholar stopped, reddening.

  His son said earnestly, “But after you rescued my father from the river and dragged him all the way to our doorstep, I’d think it would be my father in your debt, honored sir, and not the other way ’round, whatever old and symbolic injury he eased for you.”

  The son wasn’t much younger than Gereint himself. Standing, he would likely be taller than his father, broader in the shoulder, a good deal less plump. The shape of his face was his mother’s, but his cheekbones were more prominent and his jaw more angular. His black hair was cropped very short, short enough to suggest he had recently shaved his head in the common soldier’s style. His beard was also like a soldier’s; maybe he had recently been with the army. Either way, his honest curiosity was hard to answer. Gereint said after a moment, “I suppose it’s a debt that cuts both ways,” and took some parsnips.

  “Not from the account I heard,” the young man declared enthusiastically. “Though I suppose we always feel our own debts most keenly. Still, it’s a great service you did our household, honored sir; never doubt it.”

  Gereint felt his own face heat. He muttered, “You’re kind to say so.” He dipped a piece of bread in gravy and ate the bread to give himself an excuse to let the conversation go on without him.

  “My eldest son, Sicheir,” Amnachudran said to Gereint. “Sicheir is a more practical man than I. He is an engineer. He will be leaving for Dachsichten in the morning. The Arobern is gathering engineers there, you may know.”

  Gereint had not known, though he was grateful for the change of topic. He nodded. It made sense that the Arobern, King of Casmantium, would command his engineers to gather in Dachsichten, crossroads of the whole country. There, the great east-west road met the river road that ran the whole length of the country from north to south. Everything and everyone passed through Dachsichten.

  “We’re to head west from Dachsichten,” Sicheir explained, as Gereint had already surmised. The young man leaned forward, speaking rapidly in his enthusiasm. “We are to widen and improve that rough little mountain road from Ehre across the mountains into Feierabiand. It’s part of the settlement the Arobern made with the Safiad king. He”—meaning the Arobern, Gereint understood—“wants a road a spear-cast wide, paved with great stones, with bridges running straight across all the chasms. It will be a great undertaking. We’ll have to lay down massive buttresses to support the road through the mountain passes, and devise wholly new bridge designs, and new methods of grading—there’s never been another road so ambitious in Casmantium, probably not anywhere.”

  It surprised Gereint that the Arobern had gotten any concessions at all out of the Feierabianden king, under the circumstances. But that the Arobern would then design a massive, hugely ambitious road—that wasn’t surprising. He nodded.

  Eben Amnachudran cleared his throat. “You might go west with Sicheir. If you wish. It’s the long way ’round, to be sure, going so far south before you head west—I’d understand if you preferred to make your own way through the mountains after all. But in these troubled days a man puts himself at risk traveling alone. A good many brigands have appeared, far more than usual—preying on the refugees heading south from Melentser, you know. Besides, a good road under your feet cuts miles off the journey, as they say.” He offered Gereint a platter. “More bread?”

  Eben Amnachudran came to find Gereint later, long after the household had retired for the night, after even most of the servants were abed. Gereint was still awake. He was standing, fully dressed, in front of the long mirror in his room, studying his unmarked face and thinking about the advice Merrich Berchandren suggested for travelers in his book on customs and courtesy. Among other recommendations, Berchandren suggested that “an uncertain guest might best speak quietly, smile frequently, and depart discreetly.” The line did not make clear whether this advice was meant to apply when the guest or the situation was uncertain. Or, considering Berchandren’s subtlety, both.

  Gereint twitched when the knock came. But it was a quiet knock, the sort of circumspect rap that a man on the edge of sleep might ignore. Nothing aggressive or alarming. Gereint swung the door wide, found—of course—Amnachudran waiting there, and stepped back, inviting the scholar to enter with a gesture.

  Amnachudran came in and stood for a moment, looking around. “This is my daughter’s room,” he commented. “I have four sons, but only one daughter; youngest of the lot. She hasn’t stayed here for several years, but we keep the room for her—unless we have a guest, of course. It may perhaps be,” the older man glanced around doubtfully, “a little feminine.”

  Gereint assured him solemnly that the room was the very essence of perfection, adding, “According to the precepts of Entechsan Terichsekiun, who declares for us that aesthetic perfection lies both in the flawless detail and the eye that appreciates it, and which of us would dare argue with the greatest of philosophers?”

  Amnachudran laughed. “Any other philosopher, as I’m sure you know very well! But, you know, that you would quote Terichsekiun makes me wonder… My daughter lives in Breidechboden. Tehre. She’s a maker, like you. Or, maybe not quite like you. She works on these, ah”—he gestured broadly—“these abstruse philosophical things. Nothing as practical as waterproof saddlebags. I may be something of a philosopher myself, if hardly in Terichsekiun’s class, but I can’t say I understand my daughter’s work.”

  Gereint, wondering where Amnachudran was going with this digression, made a polite sound to show he was listening.

  “Well, you see… I know my daughter’s been searching for another maker who might help her do something or other. Someone intelligent and experienced, with a powerful, flexible gift. It’s important to her, but she hasn’t found anyone who suits her.”

  Gereint wanted to say, You want me to go to Breidechboden? You do know there’s no city I want to visit less? Instead, he made another polit
ely attentive sound, Hmm?

  “Yes, well she will tell fools they’re fools. I’ve advised her to keep her tongue behind her teeth, but she can’t seem to. She’s not precisely rude—well, she can be, I suppose. My wife says she would have an easier time of it if she were married, though I don’t know…”

  Gereint said hmm again. He could easily believe that any man a wealthy, well-born woman maker approached would take her unmarried status as an opportunity or a challenge. Especially if she told him he was a fool. Especially if she was pretty. If she followed after her mother, Tehre would be small and pretty and plump—the sort of girl a man might well take too lightly. Until she called him a fool and proved she was more intelligent than he was. Then he would be angry and embarrassed and probably twice a fool. That seemed likely enough.

  He had known Amnachudran wanted something from him. This particular suggestion surprised him. The scholar wanted Gereint to go meet his own cherished daughter in, of all places, Breidechboden? He hesitated, trying to find a polite way to express his hesitation. A point-blank refusal would be churlish. He owed Amnachudran a great deal, not only for removing the brand, but also… In a way, he realized, he also owed the scholar for simply reminding Gereint that true, profound kindness existed, when, in Fellesteden’s house, he’d come to doubt it. It was as though… as though Amnachudran’s act had redeemed all his memories of kindness and compassion and generosity, limned all those memories with brilliance that cast years of horror into shadow.

  That was what he owed Amnachudran. But… Breidechboden?

  “Of course, I know you didn’t intend to go to Breidechboden,” Amnachudran said apologetically. “I’m sure you’d be concerned about meeting someone who might recognize you. But I also have a friend in the capital. A surgeon mage, a true master with the knife.” He made a vague gesture. “There’s—theoretically—a way to remove those, um, rings. They can’t be cut, you know, except by the cold magecraft that made them. But any sufficiently skilled surgeon mage ought to be able to detach the tendon from the bone, do you see? Remove the rings whole, reattach the tendons…” He trailed off, caught by the intensity of Gereint’s stillness.

  Gereint did not speak. He couldn’t have spoken to save his life. He only stared at Amnachudran.

  The scholar dipped his head apologetically. “The difficult part is reattaching the tendons. If the surgeon isn’t sufficiently skilled, the, um, patient would, well. You see.”

  Gereint did, vividly. Fellesteden had driven him to risk death in the desert. But not even to escape Fellesteden had Gereint ever considered crippling himself.

  “I wouldn’t dare attempt it,” Amnachudran explained. “But my friend could manage that sort of surgical magecraft.” He hesitated and then added, “I’m fairly certain.”

  “Would he?” Gereint asked after a moment. “He would do that for me?” His tone had gone husky. He cleared his throat. It didn’t help.

  “Ah, well… I can’t say that my friend has done any such surgery in the past.” Amnachudran’s tone implied that although he couldn’t say it, it was true. “But I think it’s possible he might be willing. As a favor to me, and for, ah, other reasons. I’d write a letter for you to take to him, of course. If you were willing to go to Breidechboden.”

  Gereint said nothing. Interfering with a geas was thoroughly illegal. But Amnachudran had already done it himself, and it seemed clear he knew very well that this friend of his had done the same and would be willing to do it again.

  “You’re a strongly gifted maker. Aren’t you? Modesty aside?”

  “Well,” Gereint managed, still trying to wrap his mind around the possibility of true freedom, “Yes, but—”

  “And if you did go to Breidechboden, you’d need a place to stay and a respectable person to vouch for you. Tehre could provide you with both of those. And,” he gave Gereint a faintly apologetic, faintly defiant look, “Tehre really does seem to require the services of a really good maker, or so I gather from her most recent letter.”

  “Your daughter… you…”

  Amnachudran tilted his head, regarding Gereint shrewdly. “Should I mistrust you? I don’t assume my judgment is infallible. But as the Arobern’s appointed judge for the district north of Tanshen, I’ve had a good deal of experience assessing men’s characters, and so has my wife, and in this case we’re both fairly confident—”

  “You’re a judge?” Gereint was startled, almost shocked. But… at the same time, perhaps that explained why the scholar had felt himself able to interfere with the geas. He didn’t exactly have the right; no one had the right to interfere with a legally set geas. And in fact the king famously held any of his judges to stricter account for breaking any law than an ordinary man. But still… a judge might feel he ought to have that right.

  Amnachudran looked at him, puzzled. “Yes, I petitioned for the position some years past. Having to run down to Tashen every time we wanted a judge was so inconvenient. Everyone seems to prefer to simply come to me. Ah—does it make a difference? I can’t see why it should.”

  It did make a difference, if not to Amnachudran then to Gereint. In some strange way, Amnachudran’s generosity seemed to negate that other, long-ago judge’s harshness. Gereint didn’t know how to put this feeling into words, however.

  After a moment, the scholar shrugged. “Trustworthiness, like soundness of design, can only be proved in the test. If you choose to go to Breidechboden, I think we will both find our best hopes proved out. I’ve a letter of introduction for you.” He took a stiff, leather envelope out of his belt pouch and held it out to Gereint. “The man’s name isn’t on it. I’ll tell you his name. It’s Reichteier Andlauban. Anybody in Breidechboden could direct you to his house.” He hesitated, studying Gereint. “You needn’t decide right away. Or even before leaving this house, whether heading south or west or north.”

  Gereint had heard of Andlauban. Everybody had. If there were two better surgeon mages in all of Casmantium, there were not three. He said, a touch drily, “I think I can decide right away. I’ll take your letter and go to Breidechboden. If your daughter will offer me a place to stay in the city, I’ll take that, too, of course. I’m sure I’ll find her work interesting.”

  Amnachudran gave Gereint a long, searching stare. “I’m not trying to coerce you,” he said earnestly.

  “Save perhaps with generosity.”

  Amnachudran gave a faintly surprised nod, perhaps not having quite realized this himself. “Yes, perhaps.” He hesitated another moment, then merely nodded a good night and went out.

  Gereint stared down at the envelope in his hand.

  Andreikan Warichteier said that the cold magecraft that made the geas should break in Feierabiand, where no cold mages practiced their craft. He claimed that the gentle earth mages of the west forbade geas bonds to be imposed on any man, and laid down a powerful magic of breaking and loosing at the border to see their proscription was carried out. A contemporary and rival philosopher, Entechsan Terichsekiun, agreed that a geas could not be carried into Feierabiand, but argued that the limitation was a natural quality of the other kingdom. Feirlach Fenescheiren, not so widely read in the modern day, but a careful scholar whom Gereint had generally found reliable, disagreed with them both. Instead, he credited the Safiad kings with the proscription of every kind of cold magecraft—and warned that the Safiads would regret that proscription if they ever found themselves opposing the desert of fire and silence, as Casmantium was always required to oppose it.

  Of course, Berentser Gereimarn, writing a hundred years later than any of the three, said that was all nonsense and that nothing whatsoever prevented cold magecraft and all its sorcery from working perfectly in Feierabiand or Linularinum or any country, however far west one went. Gereimarn was not the most reliable of natural philosophers, but Pareirechan Lenfarnan said the same thing, and he had been a more careful scholar.

  But every single philosopher Gereint had ever read agreed that if the geas rings could be removed,
the geas would come off with them. And Reichteier Andlauban, with his skill in surgery and magecraft, could surely detach and reattach tendon from bone if any man could. Eben Amnachudran had clearly implied the man had done so in the past.

  At last, Gereint opened the envelope and slipped out the folded letter within. It seemed to be exactly what it should be: a personal letter, asking—as a personal favor—for an unnamed man to provide an unnamed service to the bearer of the letter. There was a clear indication, reading behind the ink, that both men agreed a favor was owed—and that, in any case, the man asked was not likely to object to the particular service requested. Gereint put the letter back into its envelope. When he finally undressed and lay down on the bed, he kept the envelope under his hand, as though there were some risk it might vanish before dawn if not constantly guarded.

  * * *

  In the morning, an hour after dawn, Gereint found Lady Emre in the breakfast room before her husband. It was a small room, very feminine, with delicately carved furnishings all in pale colors. Emre Tanshan, at the head of the graceful breakfast table, looked very much at home in it. Gereint said, “Ah—you were aware—that is, your husband did tell you—”

  Lady Emre smiled with uncomplicated satisfaction. “Oh, yes. My daughter will be so pleased if you can help her make sense of whatever it is she’s trying to work out,” she assured Gereint. She nodded graciously toward the chair across from hers. “Have some eggs. You’re too thin, you know. I suggested, in fact, that Eben should ask you to go meet Tehre.”