by Carol Berg
Fix blew a long exhale. “They’ve certainly not confided in me.”
“It’s all conjecture, of course,” I said. “I didn’t see him invoke the medallion’s magic or learn what evidence they might possess that would authenticate it.”
“Could you affirm it?”
That gave me pause. I wasn’t in the habit of considering myself a historian. “In theory, yes. But who would believe me? Registry records say my bent for history was excised by my own Head of Family. The Three Hundred believe me a murderer. And Damon has never admitted that I have any bent beyond portraiture. Makes me doubt he plans for me to use it. Publicly, at least.”
Recalling the curators’ coercion in the Registry cellars gnawed my gut.
“If I’m to play this out, I need to be on my way to Cavillor,” I said. “It’s two hundred quellae more or less. I’m to go afoot, and I certainly can’t count on Morgan to speed my steps.”
Every time I recalled Morgan’s stony face and the contempt in her accusations, I tried to be angry with her. But, in truth, it was my own foolishness had led to our break. She had warned me that she answered to her archon as I answered to my commanders. I just hadn’t wanted to consider what that meant.
“Before I go, I need to fetch the silver splinters from the armory, get them to Signé, and come up with a plan to contain the silver-marked Danae before Siever works his magic.”
“Twenty thousand freed prisoners. I doubt you have to worry about a few Danae.” No sooner had Fix said this than he rolled his eyes very much as my sister and Bastien did. “But that’s too simple, isn’t it?”
“Slaughtering Danae is out of the question. According to the coroner, Safia told me that my magic was the answer to a long waiting by my own kind and hers. At that time, at the least, she believed they could be saved . . . healed . . . whatever it takes. Perhaps she’s fallen into despair the way Kyr has . . . and Signé has.”
“That’s so.”
I whipped my head around. I’d almost forgotten Siever was there.
“When their gards began to fade, the long-lived visited the Sanctuary pool repeatedly. To our grief and theirs, it didn’t help them. Many have vanished over the years. We assume they died, or were buried by their own. We rarely see them all together, but estimate there are but thirty or forty of them left.”
“Sanctuary,” I said, feeling an idiot not to have thought of it. “Could they be healed there?”
“They’d drown as a human would,” said Siever. “They cannot release their physical form and exist in the pool as is their true nature.”
“But if you could reverse the Severing . . . Safia said her people could not be walking the land when the Severing was undone, else their sickness would pass to the greater world. But if they were in the pool when it became linked to the greater world—when it becomes Sanctuary again—then maybe they could do as they were made to do.”
“Mayhap. ’Twould be a delicate dance. And whoever is convincing them to try would likely find himself a sapling after all. Thankfully, I can stay this side the void. This magic can be worked from either.”
Fix shook his head. “Madmen. All of us. I’ve long concluded those who come to the Order are already lunatics. And Lord Siever, you most assuredly belong amongst us. As for you, Greenshank”—he jumped up and opened a clothes chest so weathered it might have been constructed when the Order was founded—“you’ve no need to visit the armory. Charge the entire length at once and then shatter it yourself.”
He tossed me a silver disk that gleamed in the firelight—a thick, weighty coil of fine silver wire, the whole about the diameter of my hand. To infuse the wire with a receptor—a simple spell to accept a flow of magic—and shatter it into at least twenty-five thousand magically linked splinters was easy after my day’s sleep. Brushing them into a fist-sized cloth bag took longer.
“I’ll take them to Signé tonight. You know, lord”—I turned to Siever—“we have to make this work. Bringing two hundred souls across near drained me past recovering. It would take years to bring the rest. I can free them from the trees, but they must be able to walk into the greater world on their own.”
Siever studied his pen. “If I fail, everyone I know—my children, my wife, the friend of my youth who is my good lord—will remain locked away forever or starve. I am sufficiently motivated. ’Tis the time—”
“If I could conjure us more time, I would,” I said. “But whatever is to happen in Cavillor between now and the first day of autumn, I have to be there.” And instead of the hospice door, my bent must take me across the void, as it had done from the Tower prison and from Bastien’s necropolis. I’d best speak with Safia to ensure she would allow me past her boundary.
“Lord Siever will get what help he needs,” said Fix.
“So, how am to I know when your spellwork’s ready?” I said.
“Give me my bracelet,” said Fix. “I’ll signal you.”
“Across two hundred quellae?” I could be all the way to Cavillor by that time. The links of the memory-wipe tokens would not work a spell beyond fifty or sixty paces. The declaration spell on the Marshal’s location token required us to be closer than a quellé. Even the simplest beacon signals we used on the rocks in Evanide’s bay could span a few quellae at most.
Fix glared at me in his most condescending manner. Of course he could do what he said. The rubies on his silver bracelet glittered as I pulled the band from my arm and passed it over.
“Understand that this will work for one exchange only,” he said, squinting as he manipulated the band of silver in some way I couldn’t see. “You don’t want to know what it takes to generate a spell over such a distance. Wait for our signal. When you, in turn, are ready to make the passage to Xancheira, infuse the same point on the bracelet, so Lord Siever can judge when to begin his invocation. You can send only one signal. So be sure.”
He returned the bracelet. A tiny embossed star pulsed green, then faded, waiting for magic. I raised my sleeve and crimped the band about my upper arm.
Fix glanced at me sidewise, then touched the star. Some sharp edge of the silver pricked my skin. Before I could interpret the spark in Fix’s eye and the quirk of his mouth, the cottage disintegrated. . . .
Shards of color, fragments of light, stone, flesh, thought whirled into a great smear like spilled paint . . . spinning, condensing, the entirety of the world winding tighter and narrower until it pierced the flesh of my arm like a red-hot nail pounded into the very bone.
Abruptly, the structure of the world reasserted itself, and all was as it had been. The cottage. The fire in the brazier. Siever at the table. Fix’s hand that gripped my other arm prevented dizziness toppling me. “Come, come, it’s not that horrible,” he said.
Siever stared at the two of us. “By the Mother, what was that?”
A good thing he asked. The words would have dribbled from my tongue with no more substance than foam.
“When one is dealing with a critical sequence of events to restore the world’s health,” said Fix, “one does not assume things such as ‘Fix’s bracelet will be with me when the time comes.’ It was a simple threading. Only a tiny splinter of the bracelet, not the whole thing, which is a much more . . . mmm . . . violent experience. But if the bracelet itself is lost, the spell will remain.”
Threading. A tentative finger shifted the bracelet. It moved. But where it had been a pinpoint of green pulsed. The color faded, but not the sensation of the sliver of metal embedded in my flesh or its threaded enchantment that extended from the skin of my arm all the way to the pit of my stomach. When I examined the spot in the firelight, I saw . . . imagined? . . . the glint of silver in my flesh.
Fix continued as if such things happened every day. “Signal us before you cross. Certainly this link won’t reach across a crack in the world. So how long does Lord Siever wait after that signal to begin the undo
ing?”
Blinking, breathing as hard as if I’d just run the mudflats, I wrestled my thoughts into order. To estimate how much time I’d need to prepare for Siever’s attempt to rejoin Xancheira to the greater world was akin to estimating how many invisible apples it would take to fill the maw of the wind. The crossing would depend on Safia. Once in Xancheira, I’d have to feed power to the linked splinters in the trees. Deal with the aftermath of freeing twenty thousand people. Persuade or force thirty or forty or sixty silver Danae into the Sanctuary pool. And then there was the skewed spending of time. “A day, more or less, by Evanide’s reckoning?”
So I’d have three hours to make it work.
“Then I’d best get back to it,” said Siever. “Go with the Goddess, Lucian.”
But as he bent his head to the spindle and the stola, it was my turn to remind a man of his limits. “You need to sleep and eat as well, lord.”
“Yes.” He didn’t look up.
Fix walked me to his door. “The Marshal does not give me orders,” he said, “but I was advised that even though the entirety of the Order, including tyros, squires, parati, and combat-trained adjutants, is to muster elsewhere, the Knight Defender will not be needed. What does that say to you?”
“That despite the harsh tenor of our exercises at Val Cleve, they are not expecting much of a fight. They’re to be a show of force. . . .”
“That is my estimate, as well. Skirmishes, perhaps. Demonstrations of our capabilities, perhaps. Controlled strength. If fortress rumors bear truth, which is usually the case unless I start them myself, the road to Palinur is supplied for a march.”
“I heard that one as well,” I said. “Perhaps an escort for a new king. The Order could put down any small resistance, but there is no plan for siege, no need for your kind of power. Or your judgment?”
“Be ever watchful, Greenshank. Find out what they’re up to and get out again. We can decide how to respond once we know. Will you leave tonight?”
“Be sure of it. This visit to Xancheira should be quick. Then I’ll need to fetch my bow, a few supplies, a map.”
“The boatmaster cannot supply you a boat, since he has no idea of your orders,” said Fix.
I ducked my head in acknowledgement. “I’d thought of caching my blades outside of Cavillor. I hate being without.”
“Leave them here. If Damon commands you travel in this very anonymous and specific way, then he has something up his sleeve. He could join you at any time. He knows you can defend yourself, feed yourself.”
“And using magic to stay alive will leave a trail for him to follow.” Gods, what was the man planning? “I hope to arrive at Cavillor early enough to spy out the place, make sure Bastien is there and—”
“And your sister.” Fix crossed his arms and breathed exasperation. “Do you see how that diverts your attention? We leave families, friends, and lovers behind for very specific reasons.”
“I understand. But I can’t pretend she’s not a part of my life.” I sank to one knee and pressed my fist to my breast. “Dalle cineré, Knight Defender.”
“Dalle cineré, Paratus Greenshank.” He laid his hand on my head and my every hair stood on end, as if he were no man, but rather embodied lightning. “Hold tight to your rage. Let it give you strength, but not control that strength. May Kemen Sky Lord, the Goddess Mother, and Deunor Lightbringer stand with you, as I do, in this hour of our need. May it be an hour of justice and right.”
• • •
All was blackness beyond the Severing void. Yet my feet touched solid ground. I rocked the heel and toe of my boot to assure it and crouched to feel the dusty paving stones of the citadel atrium. The air bore the scents of soil, dry leaves, and herbs, but not a sound creased the silence. No trickling water. No breath. No glimmer of light revealed the layered gardens. Even when my initial panic subsided, dread replaced it.
Goddess Mother, was I too late? Were they all gone to trees?
The impossibilities of altering the rescue plan wreaked havoc in my gut, as I felt my way toward the outer doors.
“Remeni!” Even without the soft glow of a lantern, I would have recognized Signé’s richly layered voice coming from behind me. A very angry Signé. “What are you doing here?”
“Told you I’d come back. But gods’ breath, lady, are you the only one left? And your gardens . . .”
“Kyr stopped at ten new prisoners yesternight; he just wanted to make his point. After the burst of magic when you left, he took five more and said he’d take the rest did we not quench every remnant of magic in the citadel.”
“The Simmonis pipe . . . your garden spellwork . . .” And there were only two-and twenty Xancheirans left free, doomed to starve the sooner without their scraps of magic.
“And now you’ve blundered in and what will I tell him when next he comes to the gates?”
“Tell him you were searching for other things that might offend him. You opened a chest, uncovered a crate of spelled jewels, whatever you can think of. Because very soon, we’re going to open the trees and walk into the greater world. I can set your brother and the rest of them free, Signé. And once we have them out, Siever is going to undo the Severing. Xancheira will exist again.”
She stood only a few steps away, but without the lamp dangling at her side, I wouldn’t have known it, so still and silent she was.
“Lady?”
“We’ll pay a terrible price for this foolery.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? We can save them all. The same magic I use to cross the void can open the trees. And then . . . my grandsire found the cache Siever’s father sent with the Wanderers. All these years I’ve had the key your people needed to undo the Severing and had no idea of it. Siever says his father taught—”
“Siever has practiced no magic in twenty years,” she snapped. “And how do you know that you can open the trees? Safia told you, didn’t she? She is mad, Lucian. She swears she will never bring Benedik out again because of your disrespect. Besides, Kyr can never permit this. Without the trees to consume their energies, unable to make new sianous or enter Sanctuary, his people will suffer horribly until they die. So they’ll imprison you and the rest of us and let the trees start dying one by one until our punishment satisfies Kyr. They’ve done it before.”
A slap to the face could be no colder. But I could not relent.
“Our first plan worked, lady. The Wanderers walk the lands of Navronne right now. My sister, too. I grieve for this dread price you’ve paid, but I believe Safia. She told me that I should follow the Path of the White Hand to prove my fitness—and I did, maturing in magic and strength along the way so that I’m able to do this. She told me I could save the people here by taking them across the boundaries of the world—and she was right. Yes, she is as sick as the others, but she has never guided me ill, and she desperately wants your brother to go free. She accepts that she and her kind will die here, telling me to transport you all, leave the void unrepaired, and seal the portals so they can’t get out. But we can do better. Siever and I can set all of you free—Xancheirans and Danae, too. We just can’t do it alone.”
“What would you have us do?” Though she expressed no optimism, I took this as a step forward.
I pulled out the bag of enchanted splinters and explained about placing them in the trees. “. . . so I can stand here with one of these splinters, infuse it with magic, and open them all at once. And if Siever can do what he believes, then soon after, we shall rejoin Xancheira to the greater world.”
“We dare not,” she said, shaking her head in denial. “Even in madness, Kyr’s nature is to tend the land. He says that if Xancheira is rejoined to the world, this sickness will poison the Everlasting. Your people and the rest of the long-lived will suffer with us. All will starve and beg to go to the trees.”
“Only if the long-lived yet walk the land when the void cl
oses . . .” And so I told her about our hope that if the Danae were in the Sanctuary pool, they would have a chance to heal as well.
“They’ll never go. I wish it. Certain, I desire such a resolution. But they never will.”
“Give them no choice. They’re strong and elusive, but you’ll outnumber them. You know them. Kyr and the others of the long-lived were your friends. You must convince your people to bring them safely to the Sanctuary pool. If your brother asks, Safia will help.”
“You’ve no idea. . . . Benedik can scarce remember how to walk when he comes out of the tree.”
“If the worst comes, you have weapons, and I’ve skills. . . . I know it’s difficult to hope. Truly this plan is risky for all of us, and ill chance could yet see us fail. But this—all of this here—is wrong. You and your people are gifted in so many ways. You should be able to experience your magic’s glory and share it freely with the rest of the world as you tried before. And the long-lived have their own gifts, awful and mysterious as they are, and this mad perversion is not of their own will. My bent allowed me to witness the pact they made with your people, and it was glorious and holy. We have a chance to make things right. We must try.”
I pressed the bag of silver splinters into her hand. “A splinter for every tree. Save one for me. And maybe a few extra. They’re easy to drop.”
“Signé!” The bellowing came from outside the citadel.
“Kyr.” Signé shoved the lantern at me and urged me toward the downward stair. “Go quickly.”
