Then he happened to glance at the drawing of the crossbow. "What is this about?"
"Death," was Rianor's first impulse to reply. "Life," was the second one. But in the end he just said, "Science."
Rianor
Day 29 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706
The preliminary Guilds Day ceremony worked as expected. Everyone, with the exception of a Master Cook, Yanna, several guards and a few others who could not be spared from their jobs, gathered in the big Outer Sanctum in the House Proper. Even those with broken legs were brought here.
Mentor Octavian talked, and talked, and talked. As usual, he bored everyone to tears. As was expected, in the end all that people wanted was to get to their food and wine and get away from him. Even the two whippings, unusual as they were for Qynnsent, did not get too much attention.
They got just enough attention, as Desmond had planned. The servants were shown, by the example of punishment, that they should never show disrespect to a lady of the House. They understood; they seemed to even relax because of it. Such a punishment for such a deed was what was usually accepted and even expected of a stable House in the normal world of Mierenthia that people knew.
It was normal, too, that the same lady would ritually open the feast afterwards, that she would smile and cut the first pieces of bread and meat and pour the first cups of wine to the exact servants who had been whipped. Whipping cleansed of such mild aberration, that was what everyone knew, and besides, the lady was showing that she was personally forgiving them. In addition, it was the newest lady of the House who usually opened the feast at Guilds Day; last year it had been Jenelly.
Desmond had been right, after all. By the time everyone started chanting verses of praise for the Master and slurring the words, everything was normal. The memory of the fire-outage night must be there still—at least in the bandages and splints that many wore because of it—and yet, it was not there. Not exactly.
So that was what holidays were for. Like poles in a fence, they were different from the flow of normal days; they stood out from the mundaneness of everyday existence. And like poles in a fence, they ensured that the mundaneness would continue after that. That it was stable.
Rianor made an effort to not stare at the gathering with contempt. It would not do for him to undo the effect.
He looked at Linden, though. She was sitting alone now, even though a moment ago she had been surrounded by servants. The fingers of her left hand were tugging at her immobilized right. Their eyes met—and she could not hide from him.
She was unwell. She could barely keep herself upright—and she was very much aware of the existence of her own splint. She had not drunk any wine at all despite the smiles and words she had given to those who had. She was not a fool—but perhaps Rianor was, for he had used her to the point of abuse for the sake of those who certainly were.
He cursed under his breath and strode towards her, shoving his way through a group of servants who were not quick enough to make way for him. The group included Mentor Octavian, who was laughing loudly, his forehead sweaty, his cheeks glossy and red. The servants were laughing as well. They seemed to greatly enjoy it that even their small, hunch-shouldered Mentor would today shed his quietness and drabness and make himself as drunk as a pig with them.
"As drunk as a pig"? Why would that phrase of all possible phrases come to Rianor now? People used it all the time, and yet most of them, unlike him, had never seen drinking pigs.
"Linde, let's go out."
She looked at him with a forced unreadable expression. "If you want."
He gritted his teeth but did not reply to her before they were out of the crowded Outer Sanctum that stank of wine mixed with human breaths. He only took her hand and led her.
She complied.
She needed to comply. She was at her strength's end. While others had been weak, she had been strong for both her sake and theirs. Now she needed someone to be strong for her, someone to take care of her. Why had he not noticed before? Why, damn him, had he not recalled that, even though she could bear shock well, she took the toll of it later? She had been with him in the Healers' Passage and she had not fought him in the Inner Sanctum—but she had been sick for days after that.
Rianor nodded to Desmond and Nan as he passed them. "We are going to Riverview Point. No, don't look at me like this. If it is fine for Linde to leave Qynnsent for two whole days tomorrow, it is fine for her to leave for two or three hours now. The same goes for me. We have done all that we needed to do here today. We'll be back for anything that might happen during the night."
"Feast is over," Rianor continued in a raised voice, his face now turned towards the room, Linden's hand gripped firmly in his. "As you all know, the rest of today is free from duties but it is not for leaving the House's grounds." According to Guilds Day tradition, all would sleep here tonight, even Octavian. Even commoners who invited guests to their houses today needed to put them up for the night. Rianor understood. The Bers would avoid drunkards wandering the streets.
* * *
Parr was on duty in the stables and was only too happy to prepare Star, Beauty, and the carriage. Then, his boyish enthusiasm almost turned into tears when he realized that the lord himself would be driving, and that he and the lady would take only Blake. Parr was too young to be an Apprentice Stabler and would still be for some years, but he had already learned all animal rites accessible to a stable servant. He could harness horses if the Master Stabler had performed his rites over the harness in advance, and he could drive for short distances.
Rianor spared a smile for the boy. Parr was eager to serve him. All the servants supposedly were, but Parr, like Brendan, held Rianor in a certain kind of awe that transcended the normal respect, wonder, attraction, or apprehension that Rianor inspired in those beneath him.
The Stable Master arrived two minutes later, properly distressed. Unlike commoners, nobles were allowed to hold the reins of their own carriages and to drive themselves after Master Stablers or Wagoners had said the appropriate rites for the day. (Interestingly enough, some Balkaene peasants held the reins of their donkey or ox carts, too, and those carts did not necessarily have rites said over them every day.) Yet, few nobles would drive themselves, and the Qynnsent Stable Master was worried every time. Rianor spared another smile for both the man and the boy, for they served him well, but still he would not take any stableperson on the carriage.
And next time he might even not take the carriage itself. The Bers, of course, did not allow nobles to ride on horses' backs, like Master Riders could. That was an activity way too perilous, they said; it was way too close to various "edges" for mere nobles to be allowed to tamper with it. Master Riders were not numerous at all and were highly trained, and were only tolerated because of the need for sending fast messages to remote places throughout Mierenthia. Rianor knew that other commoners regarded Master Riders with a mixture of respect and suspicion, which was similar to the way they regarded Master Butchers, Cleansers, or Millers. He had hired as many Master Riders as he could in the last thirty days. Perhaps it was high time for him to learn from them and to become a "Master Rider" himself.
"Out of Qynnsent? Why?" Linden asked just as the carriage passed the Qynnsent boundary. He saw her shudder and look around herself, her face pale but her eyes livelier than they had been a moment ago. So, she had known where exactly the boundary was, even though it was not marked in any way. His mother had always known, too, even with her eyes closed.
"Because Qynnsent has been weighing too heavily on you."
She jerked her head up; his voice had been harsher than he had intended.
"You can't build elevators, and be everyone's overseer and everyone's nursemaid, and feel a House's Magical boundaries, all at the same time," he added softly. "I should have known." I should have remembered. "I am sorry, Linde. I let you—I made you—take too much upon yourself."
"But who else could have!" Some pinkness had returned to her cheeks, some color amidst the gray
and white of the road and the snow that had started to fall. Spring was in the air, the Bers said. But it did not look like spring. "Only you, Rianor, and you are taking too much upon yourself!"
"But I am the High Lord. Most of this is my own burden—and not all of it should be anyone's burden, at that. The servants should not need a nursemaid! How much effort we put today only to make them forget something that should not be forgotten! People are so stupid!"
Blake whimpered behind them; he must have felt his Master's anger. Linden pet the dog, then reached out and placed her gloved hand on the master's elbow.
"People, my lord," she whispered, "have their own, limited perceptions of what the world should be—and these perceptions are not easily updated. The servants' world simply does not include fire outage. The cook's did not include me turning the light on and then turning it off again. Last quarter, at the firewell, people's world did not include me standing up for myself against a Ber." She was trembling again. "Does that make people stupid? Does that make people bad? I used to think so, but now I have seen them so weak, so helpless, and I don't know any more."
"It needs not be you to nurse fools in their helplessness and to haul them on elevators. I will have you build only small mechanisms from now on."
"But the elevator—"
He reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to himself, silencing her. She stiffened, then let him. He would not leech her now. He knew it, even though he could not even start to know how. It was knowledge that his own limited world did not yet include—like it had not included House Qynnsent so devoid of fire and so helpless, and like it had not included how much she would come to matter to him.
He held her and after a long time felt her relax. Blake inserted his nose between them, demanding their attention, and she smiled. Rianor had not seen a genuine smile on her face for many days.
"You will like Riverview Point," he said. "There has been too much fire around you these days, be it the substance itself, or the lack of it. I know you need something else." His mother had always relaxed at that place. His father had brought her there during her worst moments, when she could not bear the Qynnsent walls and could not touch a stove or look into a mirror.
They could not stay for long lest Beauty and Star became too cold. Rianor tied them to a pole by the path and led Linden forward.
She gasped when she saw it. They were high on a cliff, and far down beneath them were the city's walls—and beyond them, the Mierber river. The cliff was so high that they could see the river despite the walls' height. She would not have seen the river before, for it only ran by Mierber's eastern edge, and what bridges existed by the city's eastern gates were controlled and inside stone tunnels. No one was allowed close to the river outside the city, on the eastern banks—and here, in this place of sweeping view and edges, only nobles came, and only some.
Then Blake shoved himself before them, growling—and then there was a young woman sitting in the snow, with a wolf beside her. In a moment there was a dagger in one of Rianor's hands, his other arm wrapped tightly around Linden.
The wolf growled, and Blake growled again, and the Ber woman raised her head and stared at them. Her. She had a book in her slim, gloved fingers—a book with metal carvings on the cover. It seemed presently unopened. There were tears in her eyes.
Why would a Ber be crying? What emotions did they retain after they became Bers? So little was known about them. Right now something in Waltraud's daughter's eyes hinted of her power, and yet she was crying like no more than a sad, lonely girl.
Blake growled again, more softly, stepping forward towards the wolf. Rianor's hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger. He would not call Blake back, for turning Blake's back to the wolf would put the dog in more danger, but Rianor would protect him if he could. Then the dog and the wolf both sniffed the air, no longer growling, and then silently sniffed each other's muzzles.
"Oh, Rianor, he is hurt." Linden's words were but a whisper, but he heard her, for he was holding her close; in the cold of the late afternoon her breath turned into steam, but not before he felt its warmth against his throat.
The snow was red where the wolf had walked. Linden looked at Rianor, and he looked at her, and they seemed to understand each other without words.
"There is an emergency kit in the carriage," Rianor said, looking at the Ber girl now. "My lady and I are going to get it. If you can keep the wolf here long enough, we will help."
The Ber's eyes widened, then she nodded. When, a few minutes later, they came back, she was sitting in the snow again, the wolf's head on her lap.
"I cannot heal," she whispered. "What use is fire if it cannot do what is most important? If it does not help at all?"
Linden knelt in the snow, and Rianor knelt beside her, both of them running their hands (one hand in Linden's case) along the wolf's body, talking soothingly to him. Blake was sniffing the wolf's muzzle, and Merlevine of Waltraud—no, Merlevine of the Bers—stood slightly aside and watched them.
Rianor and Linden did not get in each other's way. When he had first started working with her, it had been difficult to work at the same time on the same thing. Either her hands would not be where he wanted them, or she would be standing where he wanted to stand himself, or there could be various other little things that made it so difficult and irritating to work with someone else. But it had been much different when they had tested the elevator—and it was different now. It gave him a peculiar feeling that he had never felt before—as if something was opening inside him and was making him lighter, as if doing this with her could almost make him fly.
"There is a belly wound, but it should be fine if he keeps the bandage on." Linden leaned further over the wolf and tried to wash the wound with alcohol. The wolf snarled at her, and before Rianor could even think about it, he grabbed her and hauled her behind himself. The wolf snarled at him, too, then stopped and simply watched him. The animal seemed to know that the lady was Rianor's and thus out of bounds. His eyes were yellow and wild—alien eyes, so different from humans'—and yet he bore himself with human-like pride and understanding.
"No! Dreadful! Please do not bite." Merlevine, grabbing the wolf's head in her hands as if there were no danger to her, pressing her cheek to his. Then, towards Rianor, "Dreadful is his name."
A Ber who said "please," to an animal at that, and a woman who was not afraid of a wolf's teeth. Rianor had not known her well when she had still been Emery of Waltraud's daughter, for she had spent too long a time in Balkaene. The one he knew was Donald, but she seemed quite different from him.
"I will wash the wound. Linde, will you please prepare a new bandage? Lady Merlevine, you be careful with touching him. He might not want to keep his teeth in his mouth." Rianor washed it, the Ber girl still holding the wolf's head, while Linden finished the bandage and started kneading the wolf's limp leg with her fingers.
"Poor puppy. It is not us you need to bite, but whoever did this to you." Linden's eyes were shiny, her voice rougher than before. She did not cry often, and Rianor did not want her to have a cause to cry, but the shine in her eyes was beautiful. She raised them towards him and then towards the Ber girl. "The leg is broken. It needs adjustment and a splint to heal properly."
Silently, Merlevine rose, her fingers clenched together, her own eyes focused and intense. She walked towards the fence on the edge of the cliff, where a single metal bench was installed by the City Councilors for those nobles brave enough to sit there. She stared at the bench, unmoving. Then, suddenly, Linden started shaking beside Rianor, fighting for air until one of his hands dashed and tore the coat button at her throat.
"It is so hot ..." She sagged in his arms, her breaths short and ragged. "I need to make it cooler ... Rianor ... The river ... The snow ..." She closed her eyes while, his thoughts racing, he grabbed a handful of snow and rubbed her forehead. Her eyes jolted back open just as both Blake and the wolf started howling, her hot skin growing colder under Rianor's
caress. Then it was Merlevine's turn to sag. She had come back to them, a piece of metal in her hands that a moment ago had been the upper part of the bench's leg. It was glowing red at the end where it had been attached to the bench. It now jangled as it slipped from her fingers and met the frozen ground.
She had detached a piece of metal from the bench. She had done it in just a moment, while Rianor himself could never do it with his measly dagger. But there was no time to think about it now. He extended a hand and gripped her arm before she would meet the ground. His other arm still around Linden, he had Merlevine lean against him, throwing the emergency kit blanket over her slender shoulders. The wolf, no longer howling, pressed himself to her other side, warming her better than any blanket, while Blake licked Linden's face.
A dog per woman, but only one man. It was strange, having two women in his arms. Not apt to use his High Lord status to take advantage of serving girls and such, Rianor did not have extensive experience with such arrangements. He could feel them both now, and in a slight way he could feel the Magic tingling between the two of them. Very interesting, and yet ... They were both beautiful to his taste, and half a quarter ago he would have been interested in either one. Not so today.
And what was he doing, thinking about such things now of all times? The Magic might be doing something to him, too. How stupid exactly was it of him to put Linden into such a situation? He should have taken her home at the very first sign of danger, no matter how much he—or she—wanted to help the wounded wolf. He should indeed take her home now, no matter what happened to the wolf and the other girl. Perhaps he should even kill the other girl. She was dangerous in many ways—as a Waltraud, as a Ber, as a murderess. It did not matter how kind and vulnerable she looked now.
Of course, other Bers might know where she was, and someone might have seen him and Linden coming. Killing a Ber would not be forgiven even of a High Lord. It would be even more dangerous for Linden, for a lady she might be, but she was just a lady. Besides, he did not want to kill the girl. She opened her eyes just as he was lowering her to the ground, his arm still around her.
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