"Is something wrong?" the maid asked. Her name was Ecara, Sela realized with a start. She touched the new Object on her arm, and it was cool to the touch. Accursed no more.
"No, Ecara," Sela said, smiling. This was a smile that would win over Ecara, she knew. Ecara felt invisible most of the time. Looking around her, Sela couldn't see any threads stretching out from the girl. It was so sad; she was just like Sela herself.
Seeing the hint of confusion in the girl's returned smile, Sela added, "I asked Lord Everess what the maids' names were last night. I like to get to know people."
Ecara curtseyed, clearly uncertain what to say. "We don't have to be formal with one another," said Sela. "We're just two girls with jobs to do."
Something in Sela's mind slid in to place, and Sela could see a thin blue thread spring into existence between her and Ecara. The maid couldn't see it, of course. It wasn't something you saw with your eyes. Blue felt like trust and friendship.
Ecara was fairly weak-willed. With only a tiny effort, Sela could convince Ecara to fall in love with her, to die for her, or to kill for her. It would be easy. She hoped no one would ask her to do that, though, because she thought that Ecara was a very nice girl.
"I'm sure we'll be great friends," said Sela.
The blue thread wavered; that was the wrong thing to say. Why was it wrong? What had she done?
Awkwardness flowed out of Ecara. She wasn't on a level with Sela; it was impossible for them to be friends.
Sela corrected. "Now then, let's get me washed and dressed. I'm sure Lord Everess has a great deal for me to do."
That did it. Even if she hadn't been able to feel inside Ecara, she could see the relief on her face. Sela was the kind mistress; Ecara was a favored servant. All was well. The blue line snapped into place that much more firmly. This was one of the saddest things that Sela knew about people; sometimes frightening them made them love you more.
She allowed Ecara to dress her without another word. It was a complicated gown with hoops of whalebone and petticoats and all sorts of lace pieces that Sela couldn't even name.
Sela sensed that Ecara thought her beautiful; she moved her eyes over Sela's soft, unblemished skin, her lustrous hair, her curves. This wasn't the sexual attraction that Sela sometimes got from women; it was something more innocent, a kind of adoration. Sometimes tinged with jealousy, but not in this case. It was very sweet.
Yes, Ecara would die for her if it became necessary. Oh, how she hoped it wouldn't!
"So today's the day, then, is it?"
"For what, miss?"
"The day that I'm to be taken out to do ... whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing."
"I don't know about any of that," said Ecara, frowning. "I'm just here to check the fit."
"Oh?"
"Aye. His Lordship says he wants you to look just right for the lads."
Something cold pierced Sela's thoughts. "Does he?" she said.
The blue thread wavered and turned a deep violet. She'd frightened Ecara.
"I'm sure he doesn't mean anything by it, miss." The girl trembled.
"Are we quite finished then?" asked Sela, with as haughty a voice as she could muster, stretching that violet line nearly to its breaking point. But not past it.
"Yes, miss."
Ecara helped her out of the complicated dress and left the room without another word. Sela wanted to call after her and apologize, but on some level knew that there was nothing to be done about it. So she sat.
And waited.
Alpaurle:Who, then, is the trustworthy man?
The High Priest:Why, one who can be trusted, of course.
Alpaurle: And how do we know that a man can be trusted?
The High Priest: Such a man does not engage in deceit. Alpaurle:And how do we know this of him?
The High Priest: Because in all his dealings he is honest.
Alpaurle: But what of a man who is simply never caught in deceit? Would he not appear to be trustworthy? How, then, do we know the trustworthy man?
The High Priest: I see that you are again trying to confuse me.
Alpaurle: Not at all! I am only trying to resolve my own confusion.That is why I ask.
-Alpaurle, from Conversations with the High Priest of Ulet, Conversation VI, edited by Feven IV of the City Emerald
fter the incident with Ilian, Jedron became more surly and combative than ever. Silverdun couldn't tell whether he was angry at himself for allowing himself to be used by Ilian, or whether he was genuinely dismayed at the loss of his only companion. Whatever the reason, he took out his extra aggressions on Silverdun. Not only did he increase the intensity and frequency of their practice sessions, but he also unloaded a great deal of Ilian's chores onto Silverdun. So in addition to his grueling workouts, Silverdun now found himself cooking meals and scrubbing floors.
Nice work for the Faerie lord of Oarsbridge and Connaugh manors. Not that he'd ever been much of a lord. Looking back, Silverdun had to admit that the lordship was only really good for two things: giving him access to women of every station, and providing enough income to keep him off the streets. Being bowed at was all well and good, but Silverdun had discovered over the years that he found commoners and bourgeoisie much more pleasant to be around than his alleged peers.
"Not enough!" shouted Jedron one morning as Silverdun failed to climb the tower by hand in the amount of time that Jedron deemed fitting. "You've got Elements, schoolboy! If there aren't any handholds, then make handholds! Just make them so no one will notice them."
A few evenings later, during one of their map studies, Jedron-com- pletely out of the blue-snapped Silverdun with a cloth map, using it like a whip. It caught Silverdun in the eye, blinding it for a full day.
Jedron refused to discuss Ilian, or the man Than had killed (or indeed whether this was the other recruit), or even mention Ilian's name. After the first day, he had Silverdun take Ilian's meals to him, while Jedron decided what to do with him.
The basement was small, with a cell in one corner. Ilian had been dumped in the cell, beaten and bloodied, wearing only a loincloth.
The bars of the cell were of cold iron. When Silverdun was a boy, he'd thought that cold iron was actually cold. He was disabused of that notion when he touched a bar of it on a dare at boarding school. Upon touching it, the flesh of his fingers leapt away, seemingly on its own, tearing itself in its hurry to avoid the touch of the metal. The amused school physician had explained that re, the magical essence, had a deep disaffinity for cold iron, was intensely repelled by it. Silverdun had developed a huge blister on his finger and hadn't been able to use re for a week.
At first, Ilian simply took the meals, which were mainly bread and water, without speaking, and handed Silverdun his waste bucket in exchange. He looked Silverdun in the eye, questioningly, but said nothing.
Then one morning two weeks later, when Silverdun brought him his breakfast, Ilian spoke.
"How is he?" he asked, taking the small dry loaf through the bars.
"What?" asked Silverdun.
"How is Jedron? His moods. Has he become more withdrawn? Begun drinking to excess, that sort of thing?"
"What is it to you? If I recall correctly, you were attempting to murder all of us a few weeks ago. Your concern seems misplaced."
"I care deeply about Jedron. He is my oldest and truest friend. But you must understand that he is not what he once was. He sometimes becomes irrational, paranoid. As a teacher and a former Shadow himself, he has no peer, but the truth is that his advancing age, the isolation, and the guilt over his actions have taken their toll."
Silverdun let this sink in for a moment. Could Than be telling the truth? His heart began to sink in his chest. If Jedron was truly mad ...
"I saw you kill a man," said Silverdun. "And you tried to poison me."
"Are you sure that's what you saw?" said Ilian. "Did you actually see me kill Ironfoot?"
Ironfoot. The other recruit. Silverdun thought back. He'd s
een torches. He'd heard screaming. The smoking pit, the bones. "I saw enough."
"And how do you know it was I that put the iglithbi in your brandy? Did it ever occur to you that Jedron did himself? One of his little tests?"
Silverdun had to admit that Than was convincing. But wasn't this exactly what a clever liar would say?
"Tell me what happened to this Ironfoot, then. The one I saw. The one whose bones you collected from that pit."
"Why don't you ask Jedron that question?" said Ilian. "If that doesn't convince you of his madness, I don't know what will."
This conversation was beginning to unnerve Silverdun. He liked to know what he was dealing with.
Silverdun looked down and realized he was still holding the tankard containing Ilian's water. "You're a fairly good liar," he told Ilian. "But I've been a nobleman long enough to see through even the best liar."
"Not the best liar," said Ilian. "For Jedron is the best of them all."
Than leaned close. "Soon his paranoia will turn toward you, Silverdun. When the old madman tries to murder you in your sleep, don't say I didn't warn you, you idiot."
Without thinking, Silverdun hurled the tankard between the bars with all his strength, catching Than on the temple. Ilian's knees buckled, and he fell to the floor.
Silverdun stormed out of the room and up the stairs to the top of the tower, where he found Jedron sitting at his desk, with a glass of brandy in his hands.
"Dammit, Jedron," Silverdun barked. "I want you to tell me what the hell is really going on around here."
Jedron made no response. He had fallen asleep at his desk. In all the time he'd been at Whitemount, he'd never seen Jedron unconscious.
"Jedron!" Silverdun called. The old man stirred and sat up, fixing a dark gaze on him.
"Get out," he said. When Silverdun began to protest, Jedron hurled the glass of brandy at him. This time, however, Silverdun managed to duck.
After leaving Jedron's room, Silverdun left the tower and returned to the stone steps he'd discovered on the night Than had drugged and beaten him. It was sunny and breezy out, and in the light of day the stair seemed far less ominous. There was no railing, he saw, and he wondered that he had made it to the bottom that night without killing himself.
The sea was loud at the base of the steps, where the stone expanse overlooked the water. The stone table was still there, as was the pit. Silverdun peered down into the pit. It was about four feet deep, and empty save for a layer of caked ash. It was scorched on the bottom and the sides.
He jumped in, and his boots sank into the muddy ash. He knelt and took some of the stuff in his hands. It was thick, like clay. The inside of the pit smelled damp and somehow cruel, a malevolent acridity.
Something white glinted in the sun, and Silverdun stepped carefully toward it. Half buried in the sodden ash was a tiny white object. Silverdun picked it up and held it up to the light. It was a bone, a small one. A toe or a finger bone, perhaps. Apparently Silverdun had seen exactly what he thought he'd seen.
Silverdun brushed off the bone and slid it into his pocket. The last evidence of Ironfoot's existence. Whoever he was. Something was going on here, something that neither Than nor Jedron would admit, and Silverdun was going to find out what it was.
When he returned to the tower, he found Jedron in the main room, oiling the crossbows. When Silverdun entered, Jedron carefully returned the weapon he'd been cleaning to its peg on the wall and boxed Silverdun's ears. "Where in the queen's hallowed hole have you been?"
"Looking for answers," said Silverdun. "I had a very interesting conversation with Ilian earlier."
"Did you," said Jedron, a statement more than a question. "And what, pray tell, did my erstwhile servant have to say for himself?"
"He told me to ask you what happened on the night I was drugged. The night I saw Ironfoot killed."
Jedron laughed. "Ironfoot killed, eh? Than is trying to confuse you; can't you see that? It's the oldest trick; divide your enemies and have them do your fighting for you."
"Then tell me what happened that night." Silverdun held up the bone he'd discovered earlier. "Tell me why I found this in that pit!"
Jedron slapped the thing out of Silverdun's hands. "That does not concern you!" He shoved Silverdun against the wall, hard.
"There is a conspiracy at hand, boy," said Jedron. "There are dark forces at work throughout Faerie. Mab's Einswrath is only a symptom."
He began breathing quickly. "There are the religious fanatics: the Arcadians and the Chthonics. The rebels in the Western Valley. There are certain actions that must be taken that might seem shocking. Things that will cleanse."
"What are you talking about?" said Silverdun.
"When you're ready, you'll understand," said Jedron. "But don't you dare question me in my home. Do we understand one another?"
He didn't wait for Silverdun to answer, but instead stormed upstairs to his office, and didn't emerge for the rest of the afternoon.
It was dark when Silverdun returned to the dungeon carrying the tray for Ilian's supper. Than stood against the wall of his cell, eyeing Silverdun with a curious expression that Silverdun couldn't fathom.
"That was a nice shot you took earlier," he said, pulling back his hair to show off the crescent-shaped welt where the tankard had struck his forehead. "I didn't see it coming."
"Your master trained me well," said Silverdun.
At this, Than smiled. "You've been an apt pupil," he said.
Silverdun reached through the bars and placed the fresh bread and water on the floor while Than stood against the far wall. "Eat," he said.
Ilian ate, looking at Silverdun all the while.
"Would you like the pisspot now?" Than asked politely.
"No. I want to show you something." Silverdun took the bone from his pocket and held it up in the dim witchlight of the cellar. "What do you make of this?"
Ilian's frustrating smile returned. "I suppose you could make a necklace out of it, or a very small whistle."
Silverdun ignored the witticism. "I found it in the pit, the one in which you claim no one was murdered. And yet this is a bone, is it not?"
Ilian's smile faded. "Let me see it," he said.
"Tell me what it is."
"Give it to me and I'll tell you what it is."
Silverdun sighed and reached carefully through the bars, the bone in his fingers. Than reached for it, then instead grabbed Silverdun's wrist and pulled, hard. Silverdun had no way to brace himself and so plunged face-first into the cold iron bars.
The pain was intense and immediate. Just as he'd remembered, it felt as though a legion of lightning-fast ants were fleeing from the points of contact, down through his body, away, away from the cold iron. This time, however, they didn't stop; the ants continued down his arm and leapt from his wrist into Ilian's hand. Here was a different kind of pain, a pain of rapid depletion, as if something inside him was draining out of him.
It was re. Than was stealing his re, using the cold iron bars to flush the magical essence out of Silverdun's body.
Silverdun felt the way he did after overusing the Gifts in too short a time; physically depleted, yes, but emotionally and spiritually depleted as well.
Before Silverdun could react, Than had taken what re he needed and used it. Silverdun felt a nauseating sway, and the world tilted sideways and backward. Than let go of Silverdun's hand and Silverdun fell back. There was a deep, sickening feeling of vertigo. He looked around and realized that he was inside the cell, not outside it. Than had used re to do this. Than possessed the Gift of Folding.
Silverdun breathed heavily. Than was no mere manservant; that was for certain.
Silverdun backed as far from the bars as he was able, until his back was pressed against the cool stone wall of the cellar. He'd been behind iron bars before, trapped in the wastes of the Contested Lands with Mauritane and his merry band of fools, by humans of all things. If he could get far enough away from the iron, concentrate, he c
ould breathe in enough re to get himself out of the cell.
But it was no use. The bars were too close, and there was no re to be had.
"Dammit!" shouted Silverdun, smashing both fists against the wall behind him. Than was loose in the tower, and perhaps this time Jedron wouldn't be able to best him. And there was another part of Silverdun that knew that Jedron would be furious with him for allowing Than to escape. Maybe it would be better if Jedron didn't make it.
Shut up, Silverdun.
He eyed the bars of the cell glumly; he could almost feel their repulsion, even from here. There was something curious about the way the dim light in the room hit the bars at chest height. They looked as though viewed through a prism, or through a glass of water, the bars seeming to jog slightly to the right for a few feet, then resuming their course above. As sometimes happened to him during times of stress, Silverdun found himself focusing on this odd optical illusion rather than the problem at hand. A trick of the mind, perhaps, to stave off despair.
Silverdun stepped forward to examine the trick of light more closely, his curiosity momentarily dispelling his discomfort. When he looked more closely, he smiled.
This was no trick of the light; the bars had actually been shifted by Ilian's fold. When Than swapped with Silverdun, he'd simply rotated the space around them in a half-circle. But the bars didn't quite line up properly when reversed.
Silverdun's face and shoulders still burned where Than had pulled him against the iron. Wincing, Silverdun ran at the off-kilter section of the bars and kicked out with all his might. The pain was intense, the same crawling sensation, now running up his leg, twisting his scrotum. The bars bent and cracked, but didn't break.
He stepped back for another kick. By the queen's tits, he did not want to do this again. He did it anyway.
The Office of Shadow Page 13
