Then she spat in his face.
She watched him carefully. This was the moment. She was willing to risk everything on her guess in this matter.
She had spat in his face once before, on the battlefield, the first time Falthan and Bhrudwan forces had come together. He had forced her to watch the Battle of Skull Rock, stood her beside him as he directed his forces, his Maghdi Dasht, with magical power. She had found power of her own there on the battlefield, and had fought him, distracting him by spitting in his face. He had struck her down, and she had nearly died, but the Falthan army had escaped his wrath.
She remembered every emotion that had flickered across his face that day, and watched them repeat themselves: shock, hurt, anger. She even saw his arm twitch, as his anger sent a message to strike her.
But the arm did not move any further. Instead, his face settled into a wary gaze as her spittle made its way down his cheek like a slowly widening wound.
‘My first question,’ she said.
‘Was the answer what you expected?’
‘No.’
‘I am surprised myself at the answer I gave,’ he confessed as he wiped the fluid away. He looked neither pleased nor angry.
‘Do you have a question for me?’ she asked. ‘In a moment I will have to return to the others. You may accompany me as Heredrew, if you wish. I will not utter your other names here.’
‘You are wise.’
‘Your question, then.’
His words snapped out like the crack of a flag. ‘Would you have come to An—to my keep in search of me?’
‘Not the question you intended asking.’
‘No.’
She smiled. Not a pleasant smile. ‘You know the answer.’
‘Yes.’ He smiled in turn. ‘I do. But I wanted to hear you say it.’
‘I will not give you the satisfaction,’ she said. ‘You have your answer. Now, come with me, or leave this place. The other questions can wait.’
Conal waited in the cubicle with increasing impatience. His anger, always somewhere near the surface these days, was barely under control. He was a priest, after all, a dedicant of the Halites, and ought to be treated with more respect. More significantly, he held the salvation, or at least the rehabilitation, of the Destroyer’s Consort in his hand. A detailed report of his time with her would eventually be given to the Archpriest, which would be enough to complete the as-yet unfinished seventh Mahnumsen Scroll. His name would grace the cover.
He battened down the unworthy thought. There were other, better reasons to be spending his time with the Falthan queen. She genuinely sought to mend her ways, and Conal could well be the agent of her repentance. That was an important thing, irrespective of whether his name was attached to the seventh scroll.
But since she had met that accursed Dhaurian scholar in the desert, Stella Pellwen had forgotten all about Conal of Yosse. She had ceased meeting with him to explain her conduct in the Falthan War. And now she ran off to a place of research—a scriptorium, no less, the one place he longed to immerse himself!—without even inviting him. He was hurt, that was what he was. Hurt.
Did he feel something for her? Another thought to be suppressed. She was not of the Koinobia, she was of dubious morality—and she was ninety years old, by Mahnumsen! Yet he breathed her in whenever she passed. He listened, really listened, to whatever she said. She had been the centre of his studies, and was now the axis of his thoughts.
He watched as she walked towards the cubicle, the girl in tow. He could see nothing apart from a crescent of light caressing her face, but he knew it was she. A hundred things told him: the speed of her walk, the way she cocked her head ever so slightly to the right, the shape of her hair. Who was this accompanying her? The man was tall, extremely tall. He searched his memory. Of course. The man who had journeyed part of the way across the desert with them. Stella said he had healed Phemanderac. What was his name?
‘Let me reintroduce you to an old friend,’ Stella said to those sitting in the cubicle.
‘Heredrew,’ said Conal, cutting across the queen’s introductions, angered she had invited the man here, another person to gather attention rightfully his, pushing him into the background. ‘We have questions for you.’
‘And I have answers,’ the stranger said easily as he folded his frame into the relatively small space afforded by the cubicle. ‘Such as they are.’
‘Where did you go after you healed Phemanderac? You seemed to vanish into the desert!’ Conal said.
‘This is the sorcerer who healed me?’ Phemanderac exclaimed. ‘Sir, I thank you.’ He held out his hand, evidently to shake that of his benefactor.
Heredrew made no move to take it. Instead, he inclined his head, as though embarrassed. What was wrong with the man?
‘I am sorry I did not remain behind to supervise your recovery,’ he said in a low tone. ‘But such healing incapacitates me, and I was embarrassed to have the lady Bandy see my weakness.’ He looked up, shamefaced. ‘You see, I conceived an…er…an affection for the lady during my short sojourn with you all, but said nothing to avoid accusations of taking advantage of your hospitality. I have conquered it now, and tender my apologies to Bandy and to all her companions.’
He turned to Stella, who stared at him with wide eyes—as well she might. An affection? The impudent dog!
‘My lady,’ he said, his voice strong and clear in the darkness, ‘I am truly sorry for the harm I have done you. Will you forgive me?’
The limited light made it difficult for Conal to see Stella’s face, but he could see enough to know there was something wrong. Her face had paled and she was working her mouth, as though trying to speak through some overmastering emotion. What could it be? Had she actually fallen for the stretch-limbed brute?
‘I…I will have to think about that, Heredrew,’ she said finally. ‘You kept so much a secret, when honesty might have effected a better cure. Despite your kind act, I feel you thought only of yourself. I hope to see some evidence that this behaviour has changed. Only such a change will give your apology, which is, after all, merely words, some real meaning. Though I wonder if a man such as yourself can really change his ways.’
By now everyone in the cubicle stared at Stella with identical bemused looks. Conal found himself surprised at the harshness of her response: after all, the man had rescued her friend, clearly at some cost to himself.
That the others felt the same way immediately became obvious.
‘Stella, the man saved my life!’ Phemanderac said. ‘If anyone should offer an apology, sir, it should be us, for failing to make you feel welcome. You ought to have felt at ease remaining with us after my healing. Please accept my thanks, and any aid I can offer you. It is a delight to have someone of such moral fibre amongst we insular Dhaurians.’
The tall man nodded, pleased. Stella’s face had now changed from white to red. She appeared deeply angry. Conal felt more than ever that something irregular was happening. He was missing an important subtext. The back of his head began to itch.
‘Aye, Bandy.’ Conal emphasised her travelling name to cover Phemanderac’s slip, which appeared to have gone unnoticed by Heredrew. ‘I admit to feeling uneasy about our guest at first, but his fair words and kind actions surely have earned him welcome. I would be pleased to call him friend.’
A little stronger than I intended, he thought, but Stella should get the message. He sighed. Sometimes we still get glimpses of the Destroyer’s Consort beneath her beautiful exterior.
‘His face changed,’ little Ena said in her childish voice. ‘He looked like someone else, and that frightened me.’
‘I apologise, my dear,’ Heredrew said to her. ‘Bandy here rejected my first apology, and I was a little upset. With the flickering light it must have seemed as though I was wearing a mask of surprise.’
First apology? Stella had already rejected him? This is more than odd. The little girl kept on talking, insisting that the man’s face changed before the apology, but
Conal paid her little heed.
‘St—Bandy, is there something between you and Heredrew that we ought to know about?’ Conal asked her.
‘Nothing at all, priest,’ she answered, and Conal felt the sting in her words and wondered why he was their target. ‘Put aside all this male posturing: who is sorry for what, and whose dignity and honour have been offended. What I want to know, Heredrew, is what brings you to this supposedly inaccessible place? What are you looking for in the scriptorium?’
Phemanderac murmured his agreement. ‘Such a question crossed my mind also. Though you must have given the doorkeeper a reason—indeed, you would have had to mount a persuasive argument to gain admittance to the city. And you do not have a guide; how is that?’
‘He did not come through the Mist Gate,’ Ena said.
‘You are right. I approached the city from the east. The keepers of the Wind Gate granted me free access to the city because I came in search of ways to develop my healing powers.
‘This is not my first time here, Stella. I have visited Dhauria three other times over the years, seeking knowledge to harness my unpredictable talent.’
He turned to address Phemanderac. ‘The last time I was here I spoke to you, dominie, regarding the efficacy of the Fountain of the Vale.’
A clamour arose at these revelations. Eventually Phemanderac was able to say: ‘You? It was you? I remember—you bore a different name then, I’m sure.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Yes, I spoke to you, at least twenty years ago. We argued, as I recall, though there are those in Dhauria who will tell you that this is not unusual. Friend, there is much to puzzle over regarding this. You looked much different then, not nearly so tall, and somewhat older. How can that be?’
‘Dominie, this is why I am here, in truth,’ came the answer. ‘I discovered my talent many years ago, and since employing it more regularly I have grown markedly taller, and my face has taken on a decidedly youthful aspect. I am not sure whether to be thankful or frightened at this, though it does appear to have had the effect of prolonging my vigour. None of my countrymen had ever heard of such a thing; in fact, normal magical use tends to have the effect of inducing physical and mental decay in the practitioner. So I travelled to Dhauria to read the ancient scrolls. I reasoned that perhaps I would learn something to help me interpret my own condition.’
‘You told us you were searching for Dona Mihst,’ Conal said, trying to keep out of his voice the whine his colleagues in the Koinobia hated so much. ‘If you are telling the truth, you had no need to search.’
‘A traveller’s fiction; I hope you forgive me for it. Eventually,’ he added, turning to Stella. ‘Care with strangers has kept me alive and safe throughout many long journeys. And you should note I never actually lied. I did not say I had not been to Dhauria before.’
Conal leaned forward. ‘You called Bandy “Stella” a moment ago. How did you learn that name?’
There it was: the merest flicker of unease. The man had been far too glib. And, most suspiciously, it appeared he was prepared to answer questions all day. An innocent man, in Conal’s experience, would not be so patient.
‘Her name has been mentioned several times,’ the man said, adopting a puzzled air. ‘Is it supposed to be a secret? I assumed the name she took for herself was your own piece of traveller’s fiction.’
‘So,’ said Stella, ‘you are a self-confessed sorcerer with a talent for healing. You have been here in the past, looking for ways to understand and harness your sorcerous power. You met us on the road, proffered a large amount of fiction mixed with a degree of truth, and healed our desperately ill friend. Now we meet you again. We appreciate your willingness to answer our questions, but I have yet another. Are you willing to help us in our own quest for knowledge?’
Conal frowned. This was too much. Stella had just delivered a speech to rival the dissembling of the Archpriest himself. It was the sort of thing he had heard at the Koinobia every day; perhaps the others would be fooled by it, but Conal was not.
These two know each other. I need to find out how.
As do I, said a voice in his head. As do I.
The doorkeeper approached their cubicle. ‘Once again I apologise, dominie, but another outsider seeks admittance to the scriptorium. Actually, he is searching for the man named Conal. I thought it best to admit him.’
There was no doubt who this was. Conal did not even look up as the insolent, block-headed guardsman sat down heavily on the bench beside him.
‘Can’t keep you away, can we, priest? You always have to be in her shadow.’
‘You wouldn’t be talking about yourself, would you,’ Conal said in an undertone. ‘Of course not; you wouldn’t fit in her shadow, much as you try to.’
‘Enough!’ Stella said. ‘Or I’ll ask the doorkeeper to see you out, and arrange for Ena’s clan to escort you to the gate. Clear?’
Robal apologised, and Conal mumbled some words that might be construed as penitent. But he wasn’t: he meant every word.
‘I remember having a number of discussions with you when last you visited the scriptorium,’ Phemanderac said to Heredrew. ‘Your opinions, as I recall, were lively and unconventional, and I based more than one paper on the conversations we had. I could show you…no, to the point. Heredrew, we have found an unusual scroll. Would you care to cast an eye over it and offer an opinion on the authenticity of its contents?’
‘Dominie, I am no scholar,’ the man said. ‘But if you think I can help, I’ll have a look for you.’
With the arrival of Heredrew and Robal the cubicle had become too small to spread out the scrolls, so Phemanderac sent Moralye to request a large table and more light. There they sat, on small stools that instantly set Robal’s back aching, debating old scrolls.
The guardsman knew why this was important, of course. Stella was an unusual and very concerned woman. She had been cursed with immortality by the Destroyer, and had to live with the knowledge that in all likelihood she would never die. So, as she had explained to her companions many times during their travels, she sought knowledge to understand how to deal with such a life—and, perhaps, to seek a cure. Even if it kills her, the soldier thought, but did not laugh.
Robal, however, knew something the others did not. From comments she had made, the guard had pieced together the realisation that, if she did not find what she was seeking here, she would go further east—to Andratan, if necessary, and the Destroyer’s feet. His arms. If the only solace she was to have in this world was with someone like him, she would choose him.
So he forced himself to listen carefully to the discussion. If they could wring anything out of these old pieces of parchment that could prevent the sickening image in his mind—her and him together—it would be worth all this brain-racking.
The stranger Heredrew looked up from the scroll before him. ‘The man who wrote this was certainly self-obsessed,’ he said. ‘If the author wasn’t the Destroyer himself, it was someone who has spent time imagining what it would be like to be powerful, immortal and hated.’
‘There is no call to have sympathy for the Destroyer,’ Conal said, with exactly the look on his face Robal detested. As though lard wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ‘He deserves any pain he suffers.’
‘I doubt anyone disagrees with you,’ Stella said sharply. Robal thought her reply odd; in fact, she had been behaving queerly all day.
‘Yet I can identify with him,’ Heredrew said quietly. ‘My former Haurnian companions noticed my good fortune and hated me for it, even as they accepted my healing help. Eventually their scandalised talk became so pervasive I had to leave. If someone were to write my story, it might cast me in a very bad light, as does the Domaz Skreud Kannwar.’ He moved slightly on his stool. ‘Sometimes I think I am wandering the world to avoid forming relationships, rather than seeking knowledge as I claim.’
‘If you can identify with him,’ Stella asked, ‘do you think he is telling the truth? Is the Domaz Skreud wrong?’
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t think those are the best questions,’ he answered, and beside him Phemanderac nodded. ‘I’m inclined to think that Kannwar—if he was indeed the author—told the truth as he saw it. I say this with the following provisos. He wrote this over two hundred years after the event. Who knows what excuses and justifications became fact in his tortured mind? Or what events he may have minimised or neglected to mention in his account? Yet if we apply those conditions to his recollections, ought we not to do the same to the Domaz Skreud? It reflects the point of view of one who sought someone to blame for what was undoubtedly a tragic and shocking event. From the Domaz Skreud we can deduce that conditions in Dona Mihst at the time of the Rebellion were far from the idyll many think. Yet the writer lays the blame squarely on Kannwar’s shoulders, attributing nothing to the overcrowding and political agitation of the time. Is that not evidence of partiality? Perhaps a combination of both documents might bring us closer to the truth.’
All through this statement the priest had been huffing and puffing like a bellows, obviously building up to some overinflated pronouncement. As soon as the man finished, Conal jumped to his feet.
‘This is nonsense!’ he said as his stool clattered to the floor behind him. ‘Is anyone seriously arguing for the truth of any of this’—he struck the scroll with the flat of his hand, eliciting a gasp from Moralye—‘specious self-justification? I am a priest. You ought to be coming to me to ask my opinion as to whether this blasphemy regarding the Most High is to be taken seriously. How can it be? How could the One who created the worlds and all within them be defeated and driven out by a pair of jumped-up humans? If he did elevate two humans to be gods, why is no mention made of them in our holy scrolls? And is anyone taking seriously the suggestion that Kannwar might have deceived the omniscient Most High God? Let us waste not one more minute on this absurdity.’
He bent down and righted his stool, then sat back on it.
‘It’s always good to hear from the oracle,’ Robal said, filling the silence. ‘Boy-priest, do you yet have a notion as to why the great and the wise consistently fail to consult you on matters of importance? Because there is no need. To understand what you think, one need read no further than the Koinobia-sanctioned Halite propaganda. We do not ask your opinion because we want to understand, not learn meaningless catechisms.’
Dark Heart (Husk) Page 18
