“Oh no, you needn’t be concerned about that. You must understand that Practitioner Albainil has been missing, and presumed dead of course, for quite some time. Fifty years at least, perhaps more. It’s hard to tell with practitioners, isn’t it?” He waited for me to nod again. “Whatever items he left behind would be so out-of-date that they’d only be of historical or academic interest to the White Court. Still, they have their rights.”
“That makes sense.” I picked up my gloves and stood. “I’ll see you at midmorning tomorrow, then? Will we meet at the White Court gate?”
“Best you come here first, Dom. Best for you to appear with your advocate at your side. If you are here just before midmorning, I’ll have a carriage waiting to take us over. It’s not far.”
Meaning you think they’ll try to rob you of your fee if you don’t deliver me yourself.
“Until tomorrow, then.” The clerk showed me out.
* * *
Fenra
The moment Arlyn was out of sight I began to think I should have gone with him after all. I could not know what, or who, was waiting for him at the advocate’s offices. But following him unnoticed would now be difficult. In my own clothing, any passerby would know me for a practitioner, and their interest might alert Arlyn. On the other hand, even if I could persuade the staff of the hotel to lend or sell me ordinary clothing, practitioners were required to wear their colors while in the City, and so my clothing would change, whether I liked it or not. Ordinarily I could see why, and ordinarily I would agree. But ordinary was not a good description of our circumstances.
Rather than sit and worry, I decided to attend the White Court and see my mentor, the Senior Lorist Medlyn Tierell. He would be surprised to see me in the City—usually he came to me—but I felt his knowledge and advice would be more than useful to us.
Much as I would have liked to have Terith with me, he had earned his rest, and I asked the footman who had brought up our baggage to send for a public conveyance. I did not want to walk all the way and arrive dusty and worn out.
As instructed, the carriage driver took me as close as he could get to the West Bridge. The White Court, or the Practitioners’ Court as it’s sometimes called, is made up of a number of interconnecting buildings, towers, laneways, arcades, courtyards, gardens, and patios that stand on a long, narrow promontory cut off from the rest of the City by the rivers Garro and Denil, accessible only by the West and East Bridges. Once or twice in the past there has been animosity between the two Courts, and the White’s location made it easy to cut itself off from the rest of the City. Stories say that once the then-Headmaster had diverted the flow of the Garro to irrigate new gardens and fountains. When the City protested, both bridges were closed, and the City forgot, for a time, that the White Court even existed.
A mild drizzle had started while I was in the carriage, but as I walked across the West Bridge the sky cleared and the rain faded away. Except on very rare occasions, it only rains on the White Court at night.
I passed by dormitories and through study halls, threading my way along the narrow alleys, wider promenades, and open squares that made the White Court into a maze it can take months to learn. Almost everyone I passed wore apprentice gray, and almost all of them peered at me from the corners of their eyes, as if to see a practitioner was a rare thing. I expected at any moment to be approached, as any unrecognized practitioner would have been in my day. It seemed that apprentices were not as curious today as we were then.
Finally I arrived at the bulky five-story red stone tower that held the teaching staff’s offices and, for some, their personal workrooms. I found Medlyn at his desk with a thick book open in front of him, exactly as he had been when I had last seen him in this room. Perhaps because it had been so long since I had seen him in his office, I saw for the first time how old he had become. Not all practitioners can stop their own aging, though most can slow it, and my professor was obviously now in the second category. In the past, many people at the Red Court have approached the White to have their aging stopped, or at least slowed. Official policy was that it wouldn’t be done. Which didn’t mean it hadn’t been done once or twice when the two Courts had been on exceptionally good terms.
Medlyn’s wards flashed as I stepped through them, and he looked up, his face glowing with delight when he recognized me. By the time he pushed himself to his feet, however, the look became troubled. Hands outstretched, he returned my kiss on his cheek with an embrace of his own. He waved me to his visitor’s chair and resumed his own seat, taking his weight on his wrists as he lowered himself.
“You didn’t say you were coming to court when I saw you last—not that I’m not pleased to see you—but this isn’t the best time for visits to the City. Had you sent me a note, I would have been happy to come to you.”
Though he held the position of Senior Lorist, Medlyn’s passion was transportation and movement. I knew that he must have perfected at least one of the forrans he had been working on when I was still his apprentice, but unfortunately etiquette prevented me from asking for specific information. A practitioner’s forrans were private until they were ready to be revealed to the Court and shared.
Behind him the door to his laboratory stood open, and I could see a number of familiar olive wood models of bridges and fountains sitting on the shelves. “Looks like you have even more models now—though they are a bit dusty.”
Medlyn did not so much turn his head as his whole upper body. “Well, they come in handy.”
I wondered if Medlyn was actually ill, rather than just getting old. I would watch for a chance to ask, though again it would go against etiquette.
“The problem that brings me didn’t surface until after you were gone,” I said. He smiled and nodded for me to continue. “I am not sure where to begin, but . . . what do you know of Xandra Albainil?”
He pulled his head back into the deep collar of his blazing white shirt. “Xandra? Xandra Albainil? That’s a name I haven’t heard since my own student days. How on earth did you come across it?” His hands trembled as he shut his book and set it to one side. His smile was exactly the same as it had ever been. “He was a notable scholar.” Medlyn frowned without looking up. “It’s true that when I’ve come across his name before—and that’s rarely—it’s always been in connection with some notable forran that’s either known to be his or at least is attributed to him.”
“Such as?”
“Well, he created the earrings, for one thing, that’s known.”
Which proved Arlyn was older than he claimed to be. I lowered my practitioner’s hand from my earlobe.
“And the forran that makes the vaults possible, that’s always been considered one of his—at least by those who bother to look into these things, which frankly, my dear, generally means me.” Medlyn tapped on the desk top with the index finger of his right hand. “The reason I’d heard of him is that he’d spent quite a bit of time investigating alternative ways to travel, and I had a look at his work for a project of my own.” He tilted his head in the direction of the open workshop door behind him. “I read once that he’d developed a forran that found another world, but I think that was just rumor. More important, for his time at least, Xandra Albainil was probably the White Court’s greatest student of the nature of the world itself, its origins, and how the Modes function. He was one of the early supporters of the theory that it was practitioners who created the Modes—not the other way around—but I couldn’t find that he’d proved it one way or another.”
I remembered Arlyn’s casual reference to a Maker and frowned.
“Now, are you ready to tell me why you’re here, now, asking about a practitioner whose name has crossed no one else’s lips in all of my lifetime?”
“It appears that a friend of mine is a distant relative—very distant, from what you are saying—and he has been named executor of Xandra’s testament, as the practitioner has be
en declared dead.”
Medlyn folded his hands across his stomach. Veins stood out on their backs, and his bony wrists poked out of cuffs that were suddenly too large. How had I not seen this before? “I’ve heard nothing of this,” he said finally. “Though I must tell you that I’ve been neglecting my chair on the council lately, and focusing on my own concerns. I’ll say one thing, however. Having a practitioner declared dead is not something entered into lightly. The mandatory wait from the last known contact is very long.” He frowned. “Very long.” He raised his eyes to me. “Even so, there is usually some highly significant reason prompting such an action.”
“I suppose so,” I said. He knew there was something I was not telling him, but he was honorable enough not to ask. Or he knew me well enough to know that, left to myself, I would tell him freely. Eventually. “But as I said, my friend, Arlyn Albainil, is summoned to attend to his relative’s affairs.”
“I would have given odds against their finding a kinsman, after so long a time.”
“Well, he is not exactly—”
We were interrupted by a young woman in apprentice gray pushing a familiar high-wheeled, rosewood cart carrying two etched glass goblets and a tall crystal pitcher from which the most delicious smell escaped. I noticed, again as if no time had passed, that several leather-bound volumes of what Medlyn had always called the Practical Biographies were stacked on the lower shelf. I had not seen any signal from him, but I did not need to. Once upon a time that apprentice would have been me. I waited until the girl left, trying hard to disguise her interest in me, before taking up the pitcher. I noted with some amusement that what I poured into Medlyn’s glass was different in scent and color from what I poured into mine. Apparently he had perfected another of the forrans he had been working on when I was a student. Medlyn waited until we both had our drinks in front of us before resuming our discussion.
“Of course they’d need a blood relation if they want to open Xandra’s vault. I must warn you, I’ve seen the forran for this procedure, and it’s very dangerous for the person involved. In fact, if that person isn’t a practitioner, it’s not advised.”
I fidgeted in my seat. Suddenly it wasn’t as comfortable as it had been a moment before. “I thought it might be something like that,” I admitted. “How should I advise my friend?”
Medlyn took a careful sip and sat back. His eyes narrowed and I knew he was scanning his brain for all possibilities and consequences before answering my question. Including the consequence of answering the question.
His words when he finally spoke were exactly what I would have expected. “If it appears that something of great value could be in the vault, that would be one thing . . . Let us see what the archives tell us.”
Obedient to his gesture, I set down my glass and fetched out the top book from the shelf under the cart—as always, it was the one needed at the moment. For years Medlyn had kept an archive of all practitioners, researching and adding new information whenever any was found. Though the lists were alphabetical, the size of each individual volume never changed, a feat maintained by a forran designed by Medlyn himself. He always said he would pass along the knowledge before he died.
I wondered if he had recently done so.
Medlyn held the book up between his two hands and let it fall open, as it always did, to the page he wanted. “Albainil’s dates are given in the usual way,” Medlyn said after reading for a while. “That is, in relation to other events of note. Without looking up the events themselves, all I can tell you quickly is that we are speaking of many generations of mundanes. Hmmm. Forrans of location.” Medlyn looked up. “That would be the earrings.”
As the movement of his finger reached the end of the entry, Medlyn grew even paler, and his hands trembled again. “There is a different hand here,” he said, tapping the page with his index finger. “And yet it isn’t different.” He drew in his brows. “More as though it were added after many years.”
“What does it say?” I asked, though I had a feeling I knew already.
“Apparently that he planned to locate a Godstone.” I heard the capital letter in his tone. “In those days the White Court was more democratic than we are at present. If he’d wanted to do such a search now, he would have to ask permission of the High Council. In his time, the council was really just an informal group sharing news of their individual projects.”
“Why? I mean, does he say why he wanted to find one?”
“His stated purpose was to take control of the Modes.”
My entire body felt numb, and his next words seemed to come from far away.
“Unfortunately, it isn’t clear whether he succeeded. This last entry indicates that he entered his vault one day and was never heard from again.” He sat back and pressed the palms of his hands together, his frown creating a pattern of wrinkles around his eyes.
“Would it be dangerous?”
“My dear. An artifact that could control the Modes? Anything could be possible. He could have changed or even destroyed the world itself.”
And the thing was still in his vault, I thought.
“There could be no good reason for anyone to want such a thing,” I said aloud.
“If it exists,” Medlyn said with a pointed change in tone. “If this is more than theory and Xandra Albainil was experimenting with the Modes, and if he decided of his own free will to seal the thing away and disappear, it isn’t because the thing is harmless.”
My old mentor’s words hung between us as if suspended in the suddenly cold air. I folded my arms and tucked my frozen fingers into my armpits. “And my friend?” I said. “What should we do?”
“If he is indeed a friend,” he said finally, still with that odd tone. “Tell him to go to the Red Court now. Immediately.”
Strange advice from a practitioner. “Why the Red Court?”
“As things are between the Courts at the moment, the Red may be his best friend. In the event of a hearing, they would insist that the White Court be required to state exactly why they needed your friend—what they hoped to gain. If the White refused to cooperate, your friend would be excused outright. If they reveal their purpose, they would need to convince the Red Court that the technology—as they call it now—hidden away is worth the risk to your friend’s life. In effect, they must agree to force him to take part. And that, given the current political climate, is extremely unlikely to happen.”
Moving automatically, I took the archive back from Medlyn and returned it to the cart. I picked up my half-empty glass and found my drink still cold. “I wish I did not know any of this,” I said.
“The first time you said that was the last time you sat where you’re sitting now. When you told me you were going to leave before your exams for second class.” For a moment Medlyn’s smile took away all his years.
“You did not argue with me, as I recall.”
“No,” he said, his smile fading. “But the Court was becoming an unpleasant place, even then—fewer scholars, more politicians. You wouldn’t have wanted to use your strength in the way you would have had to, to survive. And I wouldn’t have wanted to watch you doing it. Better that you, and the others like you, should ride things out in safer, saner places.”
“I’m not sure I have the strength to face what might be coming now.”
“You have it, trust me.” Medlyn took a small sip from his own glass.
* * *
Arlyn
When I stepped into our suite and found the rooms empty, I realized I’d expected Fenra to be waiting for me. Suddenly I felt like just leaving, walking out and never coming back. Fenra, for one, would be safer without me. But the reasons I couldn’t do that hadn’t changed. Even setting aside the lowness, I’d had to bring her. I needed her for more than keeping me level. I was almost certain that if I’d explained she would have agreed to help me anyway—she was a better person than I had e
ver been—but almost wasn’t good enough.
I heard what were unmistakably her feet on the stairs. I stood to one side of the windows so as not to have the light behind me. She would have no trouble seeing my face. As the door swung open we both spoke at once.
“What’s happened?”
“You first,” she said, closing the door behind her and tossing her gloves and hat onto the table. Her face had a look I didn’t remember seeing before, not even when the Ullios had brought her their mostly dead child. She turned the second chair at the dining table around and sat down facing me. She began to work off her left boot with the toe of her right, face squinching with the effort. Once it was off, Fenra held still, boot in hand, eyes lowered, listening to my summary of what I’d learned at the advocate’s, finally nodding. Obviously something besides our present difficulties worried her. She sat up straighter and focused her eyes on me.
“Just what is the procedure to open another’s vault? Why might it kill you if you were not a practitioner?”
“You don’t have a vault of your own.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but I waited for her to respond nonetheless.
“Never saw the need for one,” she agreed. “My work has always been healing, and there isn’t much secrecy or danger to that. Except for classwork, I have created no artifacts, accumulated no potions other than what I make or carry with me as needed. A vault would have been an unnecessary use of power.” She pulled off her right boot, set it down next to the left, stretched her toes, flexed her feet. In the village she’d worn mostly sandals, like everyone else.
“You know the theory, however?”
“A little more than that. For our exams we had to create a vault, even if it was just a small one. Whether we could make one or not had some bearing on what class of practitioner we would join. Of course, it was a long time ago. I am not sure I could make one now.”
The Godstone Page 5
